Walkabout - James Vance Marshall [3]
Beside the outcrop of rock, her brother stirred. Half-asleep, half-awake, he heard the plash of water. He sat up, yawning and rubbing the sleepiness out of his eyes. For a moment he couldn’t think where he was. Then he caught sight of his sister.
‘Hi, Mary!’ he yelled. ‘I’m coming too.’
He scrambled up. Sandals, shorts and shirt were flung aside as he came charging down to the stream. With a reckless belly-flop he arrived beside the girl in a shower of drenching spray.
Mary wasn’t pleased. Seizing him under the armpits, she plonked him back on the bank.
‘Peter, you ass. It’s too deep. Look, you’re full of water.’
‘I’m not. I spat it out. Besides, I can swim.’
He belly-flopped a second time into the pool. But Mary noticed he kept to the shallows now: to the sandy-bottomed shallows where the rivulet widened and the banks flattened out. Watching him, she suddenly became conscious of her nakedness. Quickly she scrambled out of the pool and struggled into her dress.
Peter surveyed her critically.
‘You’re all wet,’ he said. Tou ought to have dried yourself first.’
‘Stop chattering, Peter. And get dry yoursef.’
She helped him out of the pool, and rubbed him down with his shirt.
‘I’m hungry,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘What can we eat?’
‘There’s barley sugar in your pocket.’
He pulled out the sticky fragment.
‘It’s not much.’
He broke it and dutifully offered her half. But she shook her head.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve had mine.’
She watched him as, cheeks bulging, hands in pockets, he went strolling down by the creek. Thank heavens he didn’t seem to be worried: not yet. Whatever happened he must never realize how worried she was; must never lose faith in her ability to look after him.
She watched him exploring their strange surroundings; watched him drop flat on his stomach, and knew he was Davy Crockett, reconnoitring a new frontier. He wriggled along in the sand, cautiously peering across to the farther bank of the stream. Suddenly he leapt to his feet, clutched the seat of his trousers and gave an almighty yell of anguish. Again and again he yelled, as again and again red-hot needles of pain shot through his squirming body.
Mary tumbled and slithered down the rocks; rushed to his aid. For a second she couldn’t think what had happened; then she too felt the red-hot needle of pain, and looking down saw their assailants. Ants. Jumping ants. Three-quarters of an inch long, forty per cent jaw and forty per cent powerful grass-hop-perish legs. She saw their method of attack at once; saw how they hunched themselves up, then catapulted through the air – often several feet – on to their prey. She half-dragged, half-carried Peter away, at the same time hauling off his trousers.
‘It’s all right,’ she gasped. ‘They’re only ants. Look. Hanging on to your trousers. Biting away as if you’re still inside.’
His wailing stopped; he looked at his discarded shorts. It was true. The ants were still there; their wispy antennae weaving from side to side like the arms of so many punch-drunk boxers; their mandibles were open wide, eager to bite again. But they weren’t given the chance. With a shout of rage Peter elbowed his sister aside and started to jump on the shorts; his feet thudded into the denim, pounding and crushing, pulverizing the ants to death. Or so he thought.
Mary stood aside; relieved; half-amused at the violence of his revenge. She had seen the ants sneaking clear of the shorts. But she said nothing. Not until his pounding feet threatened to damage his trousers. Then she reached for his hand.
‘O.K., Peter. They’re all dead now.’
She helped him on with his shorts.
He started to whimper then; the pain of the bites touching off a host of half-formed fears. Mary’s arms went round him. He felt small and shivery and thin; she could feel his heart thudding between his ribs.
‘It’s all right, Pete,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t let them bite you again.’
His sobs died; but only momentarily. Then they