Albert of Adelaide Read online

  The wombat reached the bush and began beating it into pieces. Albert was too exhausted to chase a snake of his own making. He walked over to the fire and sat down.

  The wombat finished destroying the bush and poked through what was left with the end of his stick. After a careful examination of the debris, the wombat looked over at Albert and said, “Hear anything?”

  Albert shook his head. The wombat looked back into the remains of the saltbush and listened for a few moments, then threw down his stick.

  “Damn, he got away. That’s a snake’s luck for you.”

  The wombat walked back to the fire as if nothing unusual had occurred and lifted the plate off the billycan. He peered inside the can, sniffed it, and put the lid back. “Tea’s done. Want some?”

  Albert nodded vigorously.

  “Got a cup?”

  Albert shook his head.

  “I sort of figured that, you being naked and all.”

  Albert wasn’t wearing any clothes but he was covered in fur, so as far as he was concerned he wasn’t naked. He started to give the wombat a sharp retort, but he remembered what happened the last time he tried to speak. Rather than start the snake business all over again, he kept quiet.

  The wombat went over to the pack lying on the blanket and rummaged through it until he found two dented tin cups. He wiped the cups with the sleeve of his coat and brought them back to the fire. He gave one cup to Albert, then filled both cups from the billy.

  The wombat motioned to Albert, then went over and sat on the blanket behind the canvas windbreak. Albert got up and sat on the blanket next to him. His earlier fear of the creature had been replaced by gratitude for the tea.

  They sat quietly for a while. The heat of the tea passed through the thin sides of the tin cup and burned Albert’s paws. Albert ignored the pain and drank. The tea was mostly soggy tea leaves, sand, and ashes, but it was wet and that was enough.

  The wombat drank his tea in gulps, ignoring the dirt that blew over him from the gap under the canvas, and stopped only to spit out tea leaves. When he finished his tea, he went over, took the billycan down from the tripod, and brought it back to the blanket. He filled Albert’s cup and put the can down next to him, being careful to put the plate back on top to keep some of the dirt out. Then the wombat sat back down on the blanket and pulled out a short-stemmed briar pipe. He proceeded to fill it with tobacco taken from a pouch he pulled from another pocket.

  Albert watched and wondered. He had never seen an animal smoke. Then again, he had never seen an animal with clothes on. Maybe, just maybe, he’d reached the place he was looking for. Albert kept thinking as he drank cup after cup of tea.

  The wombat didn’t say a word. He just smoked his pipe and stared off into the dust storm.

  Albert waited until he was sure his throat was wet enough that he wouldn’t hiss, then he spoke:

  “Is this the place?”

  The wombat looked at the pieces of desert being blown around them and took the pipe out of his mouth. “I hope not.”

  “What I meant was, is this the place where things haven’t changed and Australia is like it used to be?”

  The wombat thought for a long time before he answered. “If you mean somewhere animals run around without any clothes on while being chased by people with spears and boomerangs, the answer is no. It’s not bloody likely that you’d find old Jack in a place like that.”

  2

  Jack the Wombat

  The wind had stopped during the night. The sun was high on the horizon, and the coolness of the desert morning was beginning to disappear. The bush that surrounded the camp was silent. The light woke Albert. He pulled the blanket down from his face and squinted at the sunlit tops of the bushes that circled the clearing.

  The saltbush was light green against a blue sky, and some of the grevillea bushes sported small yellow flowers that were beginning to attract hoverflies.

  The tripod remained standing in the middle of the clearing, a small monument to the fire that had been blown into extinction sometime during the night. The piece of canvas had long since parted company from the saltbush and hung limply from the bloodwood tree. The billycan sat partially covered by a small red sand dune next to where Albert lay.

  If it hadn’t been for the objects surrounding him, Albert would have been convinced that Jack was just another hallucination brought on by too many miles and too little water. His vague recollection of Jack covering him with a blanket was confused with dreams of being naked and poked with spears.

  He couldn’t remember very much of what happened after Jack told him the place he found wasn’t the place he expected. Exhaustion had followed hard on the heels of fading hopes.

  Albert lay under the blanket for a long time, trying to sort out the night, without much success. The sun rose above the bloodwood tree and dangled the possibilities of a new day over the windblown camp. Finally, Albert sat up and watched several pounds of sand slide off his blanket and onto his feet. He was preparing to stand when Jack started talking in a muffled voice:

  “Sardines?”

  Albert looked around. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said sardines.”

  Jack crawled out from beneath a sand-covered blanket. He was still wearing his drover’s coat, and his hat was pulled down firmly over his ears. He poked the sand piles that were scattered around the camp until he found the pack.

  “I don’t know what you eat, but sardines is what we’ve got.”

  “Sardines will be fine.”

  Jack began pulling tins out of his pack. Along with the tinned fish, he pulled out a crushed felt hat and a coat, both articles having seen much wear. Jack tossed the coat and hat to Albert.

  “Best put ’um on. It looks like the sun hasn’t been treating you too well lately.”

  Albert reached up and felt his bill. It was blistered and hurt when he touched it. Albert hadn’t realized how badly sunburned he had become during his walk north. He’d had other things on his mind.

  Albert put on the hat and it fell down over his eyes. He put on the coat, and it felt like a tent had collapsed on him. Albert pushed the hat back on his head so he could see, and rolled up the sleeves, and in a little while he found his front paws.

  Jack looked him up and down. “You aren’t going to win any fashion shows, but those should work until we can get something better.” He opened two cans of sardines, walked over, and handed one to Albert. “Jack is the name.”

  “I’m Albert. Pleased to meet you.”

  Jack sat down next to Albert and began pulling his sardines out of the tin one at a time and eating each one slowly.

  “Around the district they call me Jack the Wombat… don’t know why. It’s not like wombats are thick on the ground. I heard there was a wombat named John east of here… never met him, though.”

  Albert ate his sardines quickly. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “I guess that would make me Albert the Platypus.”

  Jack finished his sardines. After inspecting the tin to make sure he hadn’t missed one, he buried it in the sand.

  “To tell you the truth, just ‘Albert’ will probably work. I’ve never seen or even heard of a platypus, and I’ve been here a lot of years.”

  Albert’s heart dropped. Not only had he ended up in the wrong Australia, he was ending up as the lone platypus.

  “We live in the banks of rivers and don’t come out much,” said Albert.

  “I’ve never even seen a river,” said Jack.

  Albert put down the tin of sardines. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “Are you going to eat the rest of your fish?” Jack asked. Albert shook his head, and Jack picked up the tin.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what brought you out this way?”

  Albert thought quite awhile before he answered the question. “Adelaide.”

  Jack nodded sagely. “I figured that there was a female behind it.”

  “Adelaide is a place.”

  Jack
ate a sardine. “Bet you it was named after a female.” He smiled as he finished the last sardine and buried the can. “Where are you headed to now, Albert?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  Jack started picking up the blankets. “I’ve got business at Ponsby Station. You can come along if you want.”

  Albert hesitated. “I’m not sure I belong here.”

  Jack cocked his head and looked over at Albert. “Maybe not, Albert, but I’ve walked a hundred miles in every direction, and this is all there is.”

  If Jack was right, and Albert had no reason to doubt him, staying alone in this desert would be the start of a short trip to the end of the line.

  “I guess I’ll come with you, Jack… if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. Help me break camp. Get your blanket and grab the tripod.” Jack fished a canteen with a shoulder strap out of the pack and tossed it in Albert’s direction. “You’d best carry your own water in case you get lost again.”

  Albert picked up the canteen and put the strap over a shoulder. The canteen reminded him of the soft drink bottle he’d carried into camp. He poked around the sand piles until he found the bottle. He put it in one of the pockets of his coat. The bottle was the only physical evidence of the reality of his journey from Adelaide, and Albert wasn’t sure that he wasn’t still in the middle of a bad dream.

  He took the tripod to Jack, who tied it to the outside of the pack. After a quick look around the clearing, Jack shouldered the pack and set off. Albert followed, trying not to trip over the bottom of his coat.

  They walked for several hours, heading north by northeast. Jack walked at a steady pace, not talking much but occasionally pointing out a plant and telling Albert if it was good to eat or if it had some medicinal properties. Albert was still exhausted from his trip from Adelaide, and it was all he could do just to keep up with Jack, but he kept walking and didn’t say a word.

  The landscape gradually began to change. The salt and grevillea bushes began to thin, and the red sand gave way to salt pans. The flats were broken only by large rock formations, and in the distance beyond the flats were low hills, and beyond the hills, mountains with gray granite cliffs.

  The midday heat finally forced Jack to stop at one of the sandstone formations. There was a shallow cave at the base of the formation that had been scooped out of the soft rock by windblown sand. The cave was on the shady side of the formation. Jack walked into it and put the pack down. Albert followed Jack and sat down at the back of the cave. The sand was still cool from the chill of the previous night and felt good on Albert’s feet.

  Jack sat for a while, then pulled the tobacco out of his coat and began filling the bowl of his pipe. “I don’t like walking in midday. It’s best to stay here until the sun starts to go down.”

  Albert took a drink from his canteen. Jack lit his pipe with a match he struck on the sole of his foot.

  “How long were you watching me last night before you came into camp?” Jack asked.

  “Not too long,” Albert replied. “It was the singing that led me to you.”

  “I know you saw me singing and talking and making a fool of myself about that snake.” Jack looked embarrassed.

  “I don’t remember much, Jack. I was pretty tired last night.”

  “I think you remember more than you’re saying, and I appreciate it.” Jack lit his pipe before continuing. “I’ve been alone a long time, Albert, and people who live by themselves do silly things because they figure no one else is watching. I try not to make a fool of myself… too proud, I guess… and I hate it when I do.”

  Albert didn’t know quite what to say to Jack, so he didn’t say anything.

  Jack smoked his pipe for a while, lost in his own thoughts. When he was through, Jack knocked the dottle out of the pipe with his heel and put the pipe back in his pocket. He opened the pack and pulled out a large white rock and an old pepperbox pistol. “Excuse me a second.”

  He got up and carried the rock outside. He put the rock on the ground, stepped back, and fired a shot at the rock. The noise of the shot bounced off the back of the cave and nearly deafened Albert.

  A cloud of smoke and the smell of sulfur drifted into the cave. Jack picked up the rock and examined it closely in the sunlight. He put the rock back on the ground and fired another shot at it. Albert had just enough time to put his paws over his ears before the second shot was fired.

  Jack picked up the rock and examined it a second time. He nodded in satisfaction and turned back to the cave. Jack put the pistol in his pocket, and when he did, Albert took his paws off his ears.

  “This is a piece of white quartz I picked up two days ago, a pretty rock, but not worth much, unless…” Jack pointed outside the cave. “Take it out in the light and give it a close look.”

  Albert took the rock into the sunlight outside and examined it closely. “It has gold specks in it.”

  “It sure does, and those specks make that rock worth quite a bit.”

  Albert carried the rock back into the cave and gave it back to Jack. “Is it really gold?”

  Jack shook his head. “A little bit of it is, but it’s mostly iron pyrite, which looks a lot like gold. I take that old pistol and load up two of the barrels with thirty grains of black powder, some wadding, a little gold, and a lot of pyrite, and I shoot it at pieces of quartz. Given a minute or two, I can turn any rock into the mother lode.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I never saw a situation that was made worse by having a little gold.”

  Jack put the rock and the pistol back in the pack, and pushed the pack to the back wall of the cave. Jack lay down on his back with his head resting on the pack and closed his eyes. Albert had been thinking about what Jack had said about being alone.

  “I was only alone once… it was after my mother died.”

  Jack opened one eye. Albert continued:

  “When I was young, I wandered too far from our burrow. A dog attacked me and… my mother did what she could to defend me. She wasn’t very big, but she had a lot of heart… In the end a lot of heart wasn’t enough.”

  Jack opened both eyes. “I would have liked your mum.”

  “I thought she was special, but I guess everyone thinks their mother is special.”

  After a moment, Jack turned his head and looked at Albert. “What happened to the dog?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Albert.

  3

  Stones That Speak

  They started walking again a few hours before sunset. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but it was still hot. Jack continued to walk at a steady pace, and Albert found it easier to keep up with him than he had the day before.

  Albert had managed a short nap in the cave and felt better than he had in days. He still didn’t know where he was going or how he got where he was, but he was moving and that was all that was important. Up until his escape from Adelaide, Albert’s life had been one of confinement and regular habits.

  His life on the Murray had taken on a dreamlike quality after so many years away from it. Albert remembered those days before his mother died as the good times, a time of warmth and freedom. But in reality the time had been very short, and most of it had been spent in a dark burrow next to the river. He had been protected by his mother and by the earth around him, and had been too young to understand how much more of the world there was.

  Albert couldn’t remember much of what happened during the time between his mother’s death and his capture. Occasionally a memory of that time would thrust itself into his consciousness and the memory would keep him awake for days. The memories were just pictures without sound or movement: a dead dog with his lips curled back over bloody teeth, a cold and empty burrow, a net held in a gloved hand.

  In some ways Albert felt his fragmentary recollections of that time, as bad as they were, might be better to have than his memories of the zoo. He remembered every endless
day.

  They fed him every morning at the same time with grubs and freshwater shrimp. Then he’d be harried down a tunnel from the place where he slept to a caged enclosure with a concrete water tank in the center of it. The tunnel door was shut behind him. Then, he had an hour to wait until the gates of the park opened and the visitors arrived. Albert never saw the gates—they were a long way from his cage—but he always imagined them as sickeningly ornate, replete with images of platypuses being tortured by demons.

  There was someone staring at Albert every moment of the fourteen hours a day the zoo was open. He couldn’t escape from sight anywhere in the enclosure. They pointed at him, talked about him, made faces at him, and sometimes would throw things at him to make him scramble into the water tank.

  The water tank was the worst. There was a glass wall on one side of the tank where people could watch him swim. The glass wall was always clouded by algae growing on it, and the water magnified the faces watching him. Large mouths opened and closed and large eyes blinked ciphered messages to each other behind the blue-green scum on the glass. Albert avoided it as much as he could.

  A chill in the air took Albert’s thoughts from the Adelaide zoo and brought them back to the desert. As the sun disappeared below the western horizon, a cool breeze began to drift across the trail from the low hills not more than a mile ahead.

  Jack pointed toward the hills. “Ponsby Station is on the other side. We’ll make camp here tonight… should make the station by noon tomorrow.”

  Jack picked a likely clearing for their camp and put his pack in the middle of it. As Jack took the billycan and some sardines out of his pack, Albert tried to make himself useful by gathering small sticks to use as firewood.

  “Keep an eye out for snakes!” Jack bellowed from where he was putting up the tripod.

  “I’ll do that, Jack.”

  Snakes didn’t bother Albert. Having his own ability to poison other creatures, he had always felt a certain kinship with them. The venomous spurs on Albert’s back legs set him apart from other animals and gave him an understanding of those that used poison to feed or defend themselves.