Stephen Irwin - The Dead Path

S he was tired.

From the outside, the woods appeared to gently roll toward the river, but within, the forest floor rose and fell sharply, and the going was hard. Small but sharply cut gullies wound between massive trunks. Rises were steep, made slippery by the dense carpet of wet leaves. Hannah’s footfalls disturbed beetles, uncovered swollen white grubs, and sent crawling things to scatter for new, damp dark.

Her legs were too short to step easily over the big roots of old, old trees that hooked like enormous sly eyebrows on the spongy dark ground. Her eyes probed ahead of each step to avoid rocks that lurked under thick caps of sodden leaves. And so she was most of the way up a steepish slope before she realized that a huge Moreton Bay fig was directly in her path. It was easily four meters wide, and each of its buttressed roots spanned out another six or seven from the trunk and was half a meter thick. The nearest rose high above her head. To move forward, she had either to scramble over one of these tall roots or backtrack. She checked her watch and a sharp twinge of panic raced through her tummy. It was already well after two-she didn’t want to be caught in the woods after dark.

She followed one root away from the tree until it had diminished enough in size for her to get her arms over it. She crooked one elbow over the root. It was as cold and damp as a fish. She hoisted one leg up till she’d straddled it like a hobby horse. She rocked her weight from one hip to the other, and began her slide down the other side when she realized just in time that the ground below fell away sharply. She balanced awkwardly, wondering what to do next.

“Hannah?”

Her head jerked up at the voice. She caught a glimpse of the man from Carmichael Road, the man who had been there when she woke up in the church, then she overbalanced and fell.

One foot hit the steep, slick ground and slid instantly away. She tried to hold on to the root, but it was so slimy and broad that her fingers found no purchase; her shoulder wrenched sharply and she careened down the slope. Shrubs lashed at her as she tumbled, and her knees and elbows struck evil-edged schist hiding under the mulch. She turned twice before she hit a fallen beech trunk. Her head struck it with a thud. Were the log not decades fallen and soggy with rot, she’d have split her skull open. Even so, the pain was sharp and her elbows and knees were badly grazed.

The throbbing in her head and the hurt in her limbs hit her all at once… and she started to cry. She tried not to, but the sobbing wouldn’t stop. She heard the man crunching through the leaves, and a moment later saw him through a fog of tears leaning over her.

“Huh… huh,” she stuttered, snuffling wetly.

“Let me have a look.” He placed the shotgun down beside him and gently took her head in his hands and examined her scalp. A gun! The sight of it arced across Hannah’s flash flood of tears and a thrill of excitement raced through her. He’s hunting, too!

The man seemed hugely relieved that she was whole and largely unhurt. Then he sniffed the air. “What’s that smell? Is it…”

Hannah realized that her knapsack was underneath her. Her back felt wet and cold and she smelled the antiseptic tang.

“Oh no!”

She wrenched around and shrugged off the pack, zipped it open. The bottle of rubbing alcohol had split. Her backpack smelled like the doctor’s surgery.

“Bum!” she swore, and started pulling out the other items. The newspaper was soggy, which wasn’t a bad thing, but the matchbox fell apart in her fingers.

“Yeah, bum,” muttered the man, frowning as he watched her produce the knife and the can of insect spray. She gave it a test squirt-it still worked.

“Well, that’s something,” she said quietly. She looked up at the man. “Are you here for the spiders, too?”

Nicholas’s first instinct was to lie. “What spiders?”

Hannah pursed her lips, annoyed.

“Okay, for whatever sends the spiders then?”

Nicholas felt another gust of unreality. Of all the people he could use beside him, the fates had sent him a ten-year-old girl.

“You should go home, Hannah. You don’t know-”

She stared at him. He hadn’t seen much of her eyes two days ago: she’d been unconscious for most of the time in the car and at the church, and she’d been puking and sobbing for the rest. This was a different girl. Her tears over the fall had dried suddenly, and she was shaking her head, watching him through eyes that were a strange, dark blue as hard as sapphire.

“I’m not going home,” she said flatly.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“So, tell me. Spiders took my sister two nights ago and now she’s dead. Whatever got her wanted to kill me. They said the man on the TV news did it, but I don’t think it was him. Not really.” She seemed to remember something. “I know it tried to get me the other day on the path. And it would have, if you hadn’t…”

Her voice trailed off. She looked at the ground and then stuck out her right hand.

“I’m Hannah Gerlic. Thank you for saving me the other day.”

For the third time in two minutes, Nicholas was amazed by this tiny person. He took her hand.

“I’m Nicholas Close.”

“Were you there by accident or on purpose?” Hannah asked. The civility that had been in her voice was gone. This was short, sharp interrogation. He no longer felt the need to lie.

“You found a bird. A dead bird,” he said.

“I found a unicorn,” she corrected. “But then it turned out to be a bird.”

Nicholas stared away into the gloom of green and brown.

Hannah watched him.

“Mr. Close?”

He nodded to himself. “What a fucking bitch,” he said.

Hannah blushed. “You shouldn’t swear.”

“People swear, Hannah, get over it.” He stood and brushed clean his knees. “I found a bird just like you did when I was a kid. And she nearly got me. She got my best friend instead. You said spiders?”

She nodded. “They came for me, but I wouldn’t let them in the room. They got Miriam though.”

Nicholas stared at the girl. What sort of a kid sees what she’s seen and then comes after it?

“You’re some kind of a freak, are you?” he asked.

She stared at him coolly with those dark eyes. “You’re rude. I don’t think I like you.”

“Yeah, that’s going around.” Nicholas picked up the shotgun. “Go home, Hannah.”

He began climbing back up the slope. Hannah quickly stuffed the pungent wet things back into her pack and hurried after him.

Nicholas looked down at her. This kid was brave.

Like Tristram.

“This old woman. She kills children.”

“I know. It got my sister, remember? ”

“It’s a she. And she’s…” He shrugged. “She’s been around a long time. She’s dangerous, Hannah. You really gotta go home.”

“I have to go home.”

“Yep,” he agreed, relieved to be finally getting through to her.

“Yes.”

But she kept following him. Then the penny dropped.

“Are you correcting me?” he asked.

“Yes. You don’t speak well,” Hannah replied, shouldering her backpack. “I don’t want to go home. But since I don’t have anything to burn her with anymore-”

“Good.”

“I’ll help you.”

She struggled to keep up with him. Trickles of blood ran down her thin legs from cuts on her knees and shins. He checked his watch. It was nearly three. If he took her back, it would be after four by the time he returned, leaving less than ninety minutes of light, if you could call this murky gloom light. He stopped and took her by the shoulders and knelt to look her straight in the eye.

“She cuts their throats, Hannah. I don’t know if I can protect you. She’s probably expecting me. I have a shot, but I don’t honestly like my chances. I can’t be responsible for you, too. You should go home and put your energy into convincing your parents to move somewhere safe and dull. Suggest Canberra.”