Perspective: Bindy the Spot-tailed Quoll (Part One)
I never thought I would lose her....
I never thought I would lose her. I can’t make sense out of her disappearance; Shadow and I have been by each other’s side since almost before I can remember. We were joeys together; our mothers taught us to climb at the same time.
It was two nights ago that I heard her last. I’d been looking forward to learning about her adventures on the far side of the catchment, and we’d arranged to meet on the ridge above the eastern shore. We were shouting for each other there, following the sound of each other’s voice, getting closer and closer—when she suddenly went quiet.
It was weird. No change of tone or direction; just abrupt silence. I kept calling and calling, branch-hopping in the direction of where I’d last heard her, but the only sounds were a solitary boobook hooting from the big crooked double gum and the echoes of my own voice.
A mist rolled in, and its presence began to affect the night; some grumpy cockatoos started up in the tall trees down near the creek. I soon reached what I gauged to be Shadow’s last location, and found her scent. It led in a sharp angle down the hill, so I sprinted after it, a strange panic growing in my chest.
At the bottom was a large clearing and one of the two-legged’s dwellings. I scaled a tree, skirted from branch to branch, then dropped to the vertical wood-wall running from the dwelling to the hardpath where the growlers roll. This I tiptoed along quietly; there were monsters in the area—kept by the two-leggeds—and while some I knew I could defeat, the bigger ones I knew I couldn’t. A bright little night-sun illuminated a section of the wood-wall; I hesitated before crossing, wary of being spotted.
“You are looking for your friend.”
The voice startled me so badly I nearly fell off. Rounding on its source, my claws dug into the wood, prepared to defend myself or launch into flight. From the crook of a nearby bottlebrush tree peered the soft brown eyes of a fat little possum. He looked quite elderly. I relaxed, approaching him slowly, nose in the air to show that I was not on the hunt for prey.
“I am. Have you seen her?”
The old possum hopped over to the wood-wall and nosed me in greeting. “I have.”
“Which way did she go? Was she hurt?”
He glanced toward the hardpath. A cold breeze blew, swirling the mist and scattering treebranch shadows across the nearby grass. “I smelled no blood, but she was in danger. She was being chased.”
Chased..? “By what? How many?”
The possum scratched his chin with a back foot. “There were four of them, but I cannot say what they were. In all my years, I have never seen such creatures.”
I drew back on my haunches, sniffing the night. There had indeed been a strange musk to the air, but I’d assumed it was just one of the bizarre otherworldly smells constantly emanating from the two-leggeds and their structures. “Okay, thank you, Uncle. I am grateful.” I turned to go.
“Wait,” the possum said.
I glanced back over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“You will of course embark upon this journey whether I advise it or not, because at your age, the whisperings of the heart feel more urgent than those of the mind. I was once as you are. In any case, you believe your friend’s fate is the most pressing issue, but it is not.”
Everything in me pulled toward Shadow’s scent and the unknown muskiness. I struggled to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Alright. Then, what is?”
His ears went flat. “You must find your niche. Or perish.”
“My niche?”
“Your niche.”
I nodded respectfully, then darted off into the eddying mist.
That was two nights ago. Now the trail has gone cold.
I followed Shadow’s scent all the way northward to the cliff above the waterfall where it is said the two-leggeds used to give birth, generations ago, but then it disappeared. Ever since, I’ve been systematically searching the area, calling out at the top of my lungs, leaving no tree or stone un-nosed. This panic in my chest has become a knot of dread. And I’m hungry, though I dare not waste time hunting.
All the while, I’ve been trying like hell to get that old possum’s voice out of my head. But over and over, I keep hearing him, like an accusation in the night. And so, I continue to wonder: What on earth is my niche?!
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What is your niche? Have you ever struggled with figuring out what yours might be?
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