Forest Spirit by David Laing

brown eyes unwavering. ‘Quenton’s wombat’, she mouthed, ‘the one he told me about.’
    She wondered whether it would lead her to the cave – to Quenton Quigley’s ghost.

Back at the house, Evelyn Grimshaw sat hunched over the kitchen table. She frowned, then cradled her head in her hands. Her mind raced. The ranger’s friend and those three kids were a threat. She had warned them not to stray from their camp, but what if they did? Especially those kids. Kids could be unpredictable, likely to do anything. And if they did? It was unthinkable. They could stumble on her set up. Then her careful planning, her dreams, would be shattered.
    She clenched and unclenched her hands and pushed herself up from the table. Still deep in thought, she walked over to the lounge room window where she stood, hands folded behind her back. She gazed absently outside.
    As usual, the street was quiet, almost deserted, except for a couple of tourists who were strolling along the footpath, stopping now and then to gaze into one of the shop windows. Eventually, since it was lunchtime, they stepped into Bob’s Take-a-Way. There were two cars parked on the road outside the Tiger Hotel – she recognised them as regulars – and somewhere, probably in someone’s backyard, a dog was barking. Nothing ever changes in this town, she said to herself. I have to get out.
    She turned away from the window and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I’m tensing up,’ she told herself. ‘It’s getting to me, all these new developments.’ Before, she had been confident that her scheme would work, but now, with that family camped so close to her operation, she was not so sure. She rubbed the back of her neck again, but the tension remained.
    So did her thoughts.
    As though she were watching a movie, pictures scrolled behind her eyes. The three kids, the father, all standing around laughing, the police with their handcuffs, waving them in her face, her brothers being led off to a police van.
    She shuddered and shook her head. ‘Stop it!’ she told herself. ‘Pull yourself together. Get through today and tomorrow it’ll happen.’
    With new resolve, she walked back to the kitchen. She could use a coffee.

Jars and Shadow remained perfectly still, watching the wombat that stood barely an arm’s length in front of them. Without thinking, words escaped from Jars’ mouth. ‘What is it? What do you want?’ At once she felt ridiculous. How could a wild thing understand her?
    The wombat swayed from side to side, then turned and set off. After a few metres, it stopped and swivelled its neck to look back before setting off again.
    â€˜You want me to follow you?’ Jars said, not believing what she was saying. She looked down at the dog. ‘Most dogs would have chased after that wombat long ago, Shadow, but not you. Why? Is it because you know something I don’t? You want me to follow the wombat, do you? Is that it?’
    Shadow woofed and wagged his tail. ‘It looks like you’ve made up your mind,’ Jars said. ‘C’mon then, let’s follow him.’
    This is silly, she told herself. She didn’t even know where she was going, where it was taking her. Was it to the cave, she wondered? The cave where Quenton was scared by a ghost? They came to an area of ferns and bushes that had been flattened recently. Quenton’s work, she told herself. This was where he had run in a blind panic. She wondered whether he had really seen a ghost.
    The cave was almost invisible. Several tree ferns and a large boulder concealed the entrance. The wombat wriggled through. Jars followed, ducking to avoid some spider webs. Shadow came after her. She entered the cave and scrambled to her feet. Despite the dim light, she knew at once. This was her cave; this was the cave in her dreams.
    She fished the pencil flashlight that the ranger had given to her from her