Forest Spirit. David Laing

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      He was an old buffalo, big and grey, with long black horns stretching along his back. He stood, partly hidden in the thick spear grass, and scattered here and there tall eucalypts, silent and sentinel, dotted the landscape.

      The bush grew quiet.

      Even the cockatoos, who, just moments ago, were flocking and screeching in the sky, had returned to their branches to be still and silent. Now, their black eyes focused on the scene below.

      The buffalo, swaying from side to side, pawed the ground. He shook his head, then choked and rasped as squelching rumbles poured from his throat.

      A stick had pierced his hind leg, burrowing deep into his calf-muscle. He writhed and twisted, trying to escape the pain; he rubbed his leg against the tree trunk. The stick snapped with a soft thunk. The buried end remained.

      Now, if he turned his head as far as his horns would allow, he could see the source of his injury, see the yellow pus that seeped from it, and the tiny black flies that swarmed, then landed to drink their fill.

      His body trembled. It was the poison. It had taken three days to do its work, invading his bloodstream, spreading through his body, causing him to sweat and shiver.

      He knew that soon he would have to seek a place to rest, a place of shade and soft breeze where he could lie down and wait – for whatever fate had decided.

      Suddenly, his muscles tightened and his head jerked up. A wisp of wind had sprung from the east, bringing some coolness to his burning body; it also carried a familiar scent – a foul smell that, in the past, had always caused him to turn and trot away in disgust. Today, for the first time, he stood fast, eyes searching the path that would soon bring the vile creature into his territory with its sickening stink.

      The thing that he despised came into view, roaring and spewing its black breath, and at that very moment a spasm of pain, needle sharp, raced through his leg and up into his body. He shuddered, then pawed the ground once more. White foam formed at his mouth and his breathing grew quicker.

      He waited.

      The intruder drew near. When it was opposite, he didn’t hesitate. Today, he would not flee. It was time to show his anger. Bellowing his rage, he lowered his head and charged. Bushes and saplings flattened as he bolted towards the monster, his black eyes fixed and unblinking. White streams of spittle flew from his mouth. Today, his enemy would die.

      He slammed into the side of the beast. Sudden shock waves rang through the bush. The cockatoos stirred and flapped their wings.

      Shaking his head, he stood and watched as his enemy toppled over onto its side, watched as it hesitated before rolling, almost in slow motion, off the dirt track and down into a deep wash-a-way, where it lay, unmoving, on its back.

      A cloud of red dust swirled above the crumpled heap, the only sound a whup-whup-whupping that came from the round things attached to its belly.

      ‘Whup – Whup – Whup – Whup’.

      The rhythmic beats slowed, then died.

      Content now, the buffalo shook his head once again, then turned and made his way into the scrub.

      He felt the wind strengthen as he struggled to reach the place where he too would die, heard it rustle through the treetops, heard it whimper among the tall grass like a lost animal. Heard the cockatoos as they flew squawking into the sky.