The Warrior by Jackie French

Author:Jackie French [Jackie French]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780730450436
Publisher: HarperCollins

Up the rocks out of the water. He shook himself to get the drops out of his ears.

Where should he go from here?

Suddenly he smelt something. It was a track. Someone had been this way before. It wasn’t a wombat track but maybe if he followed it…

Yes, it led up from the creek towards the grass. It was a strong smelling track now, used over and over by whatever animal had made it coming to the water every night. He padded along the scent trail, his nose half to the ground.

Would the grass be as good as it was at home?

The grass was short and soft. It smelt of wallabies, echidna, bandicoots, possums, rats, snake and other droppings too. It smelt of soft dark soil.

He ate till his stomach turned firm and round and the fur almost brushed the ground. He ate solidly at first, then took his time, nosing for the best bits. Then he paused. There was something else he had to do.

He had to find a hole before the daylight came.

Of course he could climb back up to the hole among the tussocks. But that would take till daylight or maybe longer, and maybe you couldn’t slide uphill. It wasn’t a good hole anyway. It wasn’t his hole, the one he knew he somehow had to find.

The soil smelt good. It was soft. Perhaps he could dig his own hole.

Where should he dig? Not here. He knew instinctively it was far too near the creek—too rocky, too sandy and much too close to water. Maybe further up the hill.

He padded upwards till he found a smooth soft stretch of grass. He nibbled for a moment, then pawed experimentally at the ground. His sharp claws dug deep and pushed the soil back behind him.

One pawful, two, another and another. The hole grew larger but something was wrong. The sides kept caving in. Soil should stick together to make a hole.

He stopped digging. It was still too near the creek. It was falling soil, not sticking soil. It was the wrong soil for holes.

He padded slightly up the hill and pawed again. This was better. This was sticky soil. It clung together when you dug. You could compress it to make it firm. He dug again, a wild scurrying of paws. He smelt the lovely, rich, strong smell of broken ground.

And then he stopped.

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