A Changing Land(134)
His headlight picked out the animal near a hollowed tree trunk. The fox stood with his large front paws grasping the trunk, his eyes focused directly at Anthony. He was a big animal, well fed with a glossy pelt of rusty red. They eyed each other off, each waiting for the other to move first. Anthony revved his bike, the noise reverberating through the trees as the fox crouched in anticipation and then sprung away into a clearing. Anthony followed, catching glimpses of the fox in his headlight as if playing cat and mouse. Each time Anthony accelerated, the fox disappeared, and when he stopped, the cunning animal provided a flash of tail or an inquisitive tilt of his head. ‘You little bugger,’ Anthony grinned, spinning dirt up behind him as the fox dived for a narrow gap between two trees. ‘You win,’ he decided as he accelerated out of a sliding turn, only to lose control seconds later.
The bike continued sliding at a rapid pace. Anthony caught sight of an old rusty barbed wire fence and slammed his foot on the ground, trying to find traction. The burn of his thigh muscle as he pushed his boot into the blurring dirt made little difference, and the bike hit the fence at speed, becoming entangled around his ankle, then he was falling, the heat of the bike’s exhaust burning into his leg. There was a loud clash of metal hitting wood and then the stunned pain of being smashed into a tree, the bike on top of him.
It was pitch black when Anthony awoke some time later. His gloved hands touched cold, hard metal and he pushed at the object pinning him down, struggling with a haze of memory. Sweat glazed his face. Why was he so cold? Where was he? There was an insistent ache pulsating up his right leg, into his hip, and his chest hurt. He patted at his heavy work jacket, feeling strangely weak. There was a dim patch of light ahead and he focused on the relief of seeing, but nothing substantial materialised. This new world was a pastiche of unknown forms. Twisting his body to be free of the unknown weight, the grab of pain brought understanding. There was a bike pinning him down and the ancient strength of a tree walled behind his back. Anthony’s pained clarity forced him to twist his body away from the tree trunk. He squirrelled out from beneath the bike as his useless right leg followed in a squeal of pain.
For a time he lay exhausted in the dirt, his teeth biting his bottom lip as if the movement would take his mind from his leg. He guessed it was broken in at least one spot. Reaching down to straighten it out a little, he was bombarded with pain. He could stay beneath the tree where at least he was protected from the coming morning’s frost or attempt to ride the motorbike home. He crawled painfully to the bike, his nerve endings contorting with pain as his broken leg bumped over uneven ground. If he could strap his leg with a couple of branches and some material he might be able to ride, if he didn’t pass out from the pain. Anthony ran his hands over the motorbike’s frame, touched the twisted mess that was once handlebars and collapsed, vomiting into the dirt. The few retches in him were matched with pain and a light-headedness. Great, he mumbled through chattering teeth. This was no good, just no good at all. He began crawling in the direction of the fence as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. The shadowy forms of timber, tufts of grass and trees surrounding him.
Anthony placed one hand after another, dragging himself slowly across the rutted ground. Every movement was agony but he couldn’t just lie there and hope someone would come looking. No one knew where he was. Eventually his search for timber became an odyssey to keep moving, an odyssey spurred by a knowing. He was aware of something deep within him that wasn’t right. It was a sensation that went beyond the excruciating jabs from his leg or the pounding headache that threatened to stop all movement. He was having problems breathing and there was a terrible weakness sucking at his body. At least the pain drew him on, kept him awake and focused. If he could make it to the edge of the cultivation by morning he could rest. Perhaps he could crawl straight across the new cultivation to the bridge. Small steps, he reminded himself, as his face hit dirt for the hundredth time and he spat dry granules from his mouth. Small steps, he repeated, his mind forming the words yet his mouth too tired to speak them.
The dull thud of kangaroos echoed through the trees. There was a slight swish of air through leaves. He sensed open space and relished this slight victory of distance over pain. He grimaced through the final erratic grasps of his hand, his fingers ready to close around newly tilled soil. Instead he reached for loose dirt and looked directly into the eyes of a fox. The animal was very close to him. He sat as if waiting and showed no signs of moving from Anthony’s path when he continued onwards. And continue Anthony did, crawling forward as the animal backed away. Crawling forward in the path of the fox he’d followed so carelessly earlier. Was there a lair ahead, Anthony wondered, some hungry cubs waiting to be fed? He was beginning to expect the worst of the quietly patient carnivore, when the remains of a building rose up from the clearing. He paused breathlessly, his mind scrambling to decipher the unknown structure. His eyes traced the fallen roof and the broken gutters. Most of the house was wrecked. The large verandah was about the only element still intact, although the boards were rumpled like an untidy blanket and saplings grew through the wood like spiky chin hairs. Anthony let out a moan of despair. He had no idea where he was. He was lost.