Blackheath's Daughters

When the child awoke, the wild dogs were licking the ice from her eyes. Three-Legs, the leader was listening to arguments; should they eat her today or wait until tomorrow when their bloated bellies could no longer resist the hunger. A mottled young Kelpie-cross beggars his mangled left leg. The pup needs food urgently, but is too immature to realise how much he will miss the paw if he gnaws at the inviting flesh. The pack has rules about such behaviour. Instinctively Three-Legs growls the little shaver down.

The child is sitting up now. She wipes the snow from her mouth before trying to pet a lice-ridden terrier. His stumpy tail beats back and forth, but he does not want to talk about it. Putting his nose close to the girl, he smells blood. Not the juicy flow of an open wound but a crimson elixir. Her life's juices will be coming soon; terriers know about these things.

When the child laughs, Three-Legs snarls. He is not happy. After eleven seasons, he remembers other more turbulent times, feels a terrible premonition loosening his bowels. As a pup, he'd been given up to this bitchless desert of snow-driven summer nights and rainless days. The settler's wife drove him and the rest of the unwanted litter over the cliff, their tiny bodies crashing through the dense cover like hail splitting shingles. Two of them landed in a shallow creek. His sisters broke their backs on the sandstone verge while his own leg dangled from the fork of an ancient gum. A passing black crow had laughed, thankful for the feast.

He envied Kelpie his free meal. Three-Legs would attend his own needs later; food could wait. Moving swiftly he rips at Terrier's hindquarters - leave the child alone - there are things you cannot understand. Terrier backs off, too emaciated to argue the toss. There were others in the pack biding their time; he would save his strength until then. There were many things he did not comprehend yet and Three-Legs would be a good teacher. In defeat, he would have to do as he was told. He wants to survive.

Scout, the snappy Blue-Cattle dog whimpers. He is standing on a boulder gawking at the moon. His head starts rocking back and forth, his bloodcurdling song makes the girl jump with fear. She watches the pack prick up its ears, a dozen noses twitching in the wind, danger making the trees shake. Ice falls in spears. A half-blind mongrel yelps. Gangrenous fluid oozes from his head where the ice impales a recent wound.

The girl pulls her bonnet tightly around her. She is alone; the dogs have disappeared into the evil night. If she were to look carefully, she might see their shining eyes piercing the darkness, but she knows nothing of dogs. Her thoughts turn to the cold creeping up her dress; icicles are growing inside her body. Crystalline teardrops tear at her vitals and she can feel her congealing blood warming her body at last. Pulling up her skirt, she puts her hands between her thighs, feels the lovely liquid dripping between her fingers. Her tiny hands bury themselves in the warmth as she spreads the oozing salve over her exposed face.

Soon her body is cocooned in a red blanket of sleep, coming like an angel's whisper. Her mother is talking; telling her everything will be fine. Go to sleep little darling. In dreams, her father is carrying her through the night; ah, she is floating-free falling, gliding like a flying-fox riding the black wings of greedy Currawong. Angel-child is toppling into cold. The dream ends, but the quarter-moon denies midnight answers and she gives up the childish fight. She will sleep inside her heart and wake when summer returns on the morning cycle.