Free Forest Spirit by David Laing Page A

‘That’s enough. Stop teasing. Now, make yourself useful and get a fire going. It’s past lunchtime. I, for one, am starving. Jars can help you. In the meantime, I’ll set up our camp stretchers.’
    After a short time, the fire glowed with coals. Quenton watched as Snook began to barbeque some sausages.
    â€˜What? Snags? Why can’t we have some steak? I don’t like those.’
    Snook looked up. ‘Bad luck, it’s these or nothing, so stop whinging and go and tell Dad that lunch is ready.’
    After their lunch was finished Snook’s father rubbed his hands together. ‘That was good. You can’t beat a barbecue.’ He pointed towards the lake. ‘Who wants to go fishing? Maybe we can hook a few trout for tea.’
    â€˜That’d be great,’ Snook said. ‘I’ll get the rods. Coming, Jars?’
    She thought for a few seconds. Visions of a live fish fighting for its life on the end of a line filled her head. ‘No, I’ll stay here with Shadow and clean up. Maybe Quenton would like to go.’
    Quenton held up his new camera. ‘No way,’ he said, sniffing and tossing his head in the air. ‘I’ve got better things to do.’ He started walking away.
    Snook’s father overheard.
    â€˜Okay, Quenton, but remember, don’t go wandering too far from camp.’
    After clearing and washing the lunch plates and mugs, Jars collected some firewood, closely followed by Shadow. When she had finished she glanced towards the sun. Snook and his dad had been gone for well over an hour. She scanned the lake’s edges; they were nowhere to be seen.
    And Quenton hadn’t returned.
    She made a quick decision. Better go and look for him, she decided. He’d been in a sulky mood when he’d left. There was no telling what he might get up to in that state of mind. Surely her uncle wouldn’t mind her going, not if she went just a little way into the forest. She was just going to fetch Quenton back.
    Wombat Track turned out to be a narrow, damp path littered with dead leaves and twigs. The branches of the trees hung over the track, and on each side of her, a tangle of thick scrub – trees, bushes, and hanging vines – grew to its edges. Gloom coiled among the trees, where only thin shafts of light could penetrate, creating dark shadows that skipped ahead of her as she picked her way over the rotting leaves and dead branches. She smelt the musty dankness in the air, and all around, tiny fantails and wrens danced from bush to bush, chirping and chattering.
    She shivered. It was cold. Shadow, grinning eagerly, trotted closely behind. Better not go too far, she reminded herself, even though she’d never get lost – not in the bush. But Quenton Quigley, she had come to realise, was another matter; there was no telling what he might do.
    After a while, she came to a grassy clearing. Stopping, she cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a long, shrill ‘Coo-ee!’ Standing perfectly still, she listened. Nothing. She heard only the constant chatter of the birds as they continued to dart among the branches. She kept going, stopping from time to time to call out again. Still there was no reply.
    â€˜He was told,’ she muttered to herself. ‘He was warned against wandering off on his own.’ She stopped once again, hands on hips, thinking. Could he really get himself lost? If he left the track, that was highly likely, she realised, looking at the thick scrub once again. Surely he wouldn’t do that. Slightly irritated, she started to move off. Better keep looking. Can’t give up now.
    It was then that she heard the crashing sounds.
    Sounds that reminded her of the buffalo.
    She slipped behind a large tree-fern, watching. Then, from her left, arms windmilling, eyes wild and staring, Quenton Quigley broke through the undergrowth and onto the track.
    Stepping from her cover, Jars stood in his path.