Toad Heaven (5 page)

“I'll get the boss,” said the dog.

“No, wait,” said Limpy. “I want to ask you something. Are there any national parks around here?”

The dog thought for a moment.

“Yeah. Over to the east. Huge. Can't miss it.”

Limpy felt like doing a cartwheel. Then he remembered his back. Plus he still had to ask the six-million-mudworm question.

“This conservation project,” said Limpy. “Does it involve transporting cane toads to national parks where we can live safely and happily for ever and ever?”

The dog thought for another moment.

“No,” said the dog flatly. “It involves infecting cane toads with a virus that'll kill you all.”

Limpy felt weak with shock. He stared up at the dog, desperately hoping the dog wasn't speaking in an official capacity after all.

“We did it to rabbits,” continued the dog. “Got rid of millions. Once a few were infected, they passed the germs on to the others. We're not sure if the cane toad
virus will work as well as that. Still experimenting. If you want more details, see the boss; he's the scientist. Oh well, nice to talk, but I'd better give him a yell.”

The dog disappeared.

Limpy's head was reeling with fear and panic.

He hung on to one thought.

Must warn the others.

Ignoring the pain in his back, Limpy flung himself up the side of the bucket. It was no good. He couldn't grip. The plastic was too slippery. As he slid down for the hundredth time, a shadow fell over the bucket.

The scientist, still with his beard, peered in.

“Good on you, little fella,” said the scientist. “With us at last.”

Limpy couldn't understand the language, but he was pretty sure he knew what the scientist had said: Now that my dopey assistant has spilled the beans, I'm going to have to kill you.

Limpy lay miserably in the bottom of the bucket while the scientist carried it into the bush. He didn't want to die, but he'd gladly do it ten times over if he could warn the others first.

Limpy felt the bucket tip up, and he rolled out onto soft mud. He thought of hopping for it, but he knew it would be no good.

The spade or the cricket bat would be crashing down onto him any second.

Bye, Charm, he thought sadly. Bye, Goliath. Stay off the highway.

The spade still hadn't come.

Thanks, Mum, he added. Thanks, Dad. I really appreciated all the love and peeled slugs.

Still no spade. Or folding chair.

Limpy, trembling, heard the scientist say something.

“Okay, little fella, now do your job.”

Limpy didn't understand the words, but he knew what they meant.

Prepare to die.

Then he heard an amazing sound. The scientist walking back toward his camp, whistling.

Limpy lay very still, mind racing.

Had the scientist gone to get a gun? Or a large rock? Or was he planning to use the four-wheel drive? Or a bike pump?

Limpy squirmed into the mud. He hoped he'd be harder to see there than hopping in circles.

He listened to the scientist pack up the camp.

He listened to the scientist drive away.

Into the distance.

Onto the highway.

Silence.

Limpy staggered to his feet.

I don't get it, he thought. I'm still alive. The scientist has let me go.

Why?

It didn't matter. The important thing was, he could warn the others.

With a surge of relief, Limpy headed toward the swamp. There was still time. He could get everyone packed up and off to a national park before the scientist started his plan….

Limpy stopped.

He remembered the needle the scientist had injected him with.

He remembered what the dog had said about infecting a few rabbits and their passing the germs on to the others.

Suddenly Limpy felt sicker than he'd ever felt before.

Not just because of the pain in his back where, he realized now, the germ needle must have gone right through him.

And not just because of the millions of germs that even now must be swimming through his veins.

Because of something far worse.

Limpy's glands and warts and throat sac ached with anguish.

Whatever I do, he thought, I mustn't pass the virus germs on to Mum and Dad and Charm and Goliath.

Which means I'll have to stay away from them for ever and ever.

L
impy knew all about crying because he'd seen humans and car windshields do it.

Now, crouched behind the sticky sap tree, gazing sadly across the clearing at his dear family, Limpy felt like doing it too.

He tried to stop himself. Crying blurred your vision, especially when your tears were made of mucus. Limpy didn't want eyes full of slime, not now, not when he was looking at Charm and Goliath and Mum and Dad for what was probably the last time.

But he couldn't help it.

Afterward, when he'd wiped his eyes, Limpy saw the family were all crying too. They were gathered at the edge of the swamp with all the other rellies, and everyone was sniffling and dabbing at their eyes with dry bark or furry caterpillars.

What's happened? wondered Limpy. Have they heard about the germs already?

He wished he could go and give them a goodbye hug and tell them they'd be okay as long as they went straight to the national park and didn't kiss any strange cane toads.

I don't dare, thought Limpy. Even if I stick a big leaf over my nose and mouth, it's too risky. One sneeze or cough and I could infect everyone.

He didn't dare go even a bit closer. If virus germs were anything like wild pig fleas, they could probably jump huge distances even without wild pigs chasing them.

All he could do was stay hidden and watch.

Then Limpy saw something that made him feel even more miserable: Malcolm putting one big arm round Charm and the other round Mum, as if he was taking care of them.

“Get your paws off my family,” muttered Limpy.

He wanted to shout it, but he didn't in case they might hear and come hurrying over. He watched in frustration as Malcolm took one of Mum's hands and started patting it.

“Yuck,” groaned Limpy.

Virus germs or no virus germs, Limpy could barely stop himself from rushing across the clearing and jamming a sharp twig up Malcolm's nose. In fact, he
knew he couldn't stop himself, not unless he did something drastic.

He did something drastic.

He hopped round to the front of the sticky sap tree, then flung himself back against it. The sticky sap gripped him all the way from his neck to his buttocks.

Malcolm was giving Dad's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

Limpy struggled to free himself, to get over there and sort Malcolm out with a large lump of possum poo, but the sticky sap held him tight.

Where's Ancient Eric? thought Limpy furiously. Ancient Eric should be the one helping everyone get over the scare of the four-wheel drive, not smarmy-mucus Malcolm.

Limpy watched as Malcolm went over to a small mound of earth, turned, puffed out his chest, and addressed the gathered rellies.

“Ancient Eric was a fine leader,” he intoned, “and we will always remember him.”

What?

Limpy strained to hear more.

Malcolm bent forward and placed something on the mound of earth. It was flat and white and very smooth.

Limpy gasped.

It was Ancient Eric.

Squashed.

But how? Ancient Eric hadn't been near the highway since cars got power steering.

Then Limpy remembered how Malcolm had changed direction and made the four-wheel drive crash into Ancient Eric's rock. Ancient Eric must have come out of his cave to see what all the racket was about just before the moment of impact and been squashed. Talk about tragic timing.

Unless …

It was a terrible thought, and Limpy's warts burned as he had it.

Unless Malcolm had planned it that way.

“It is with gratitude and humility,” Malcolm was saying solemnly now to the other cane toads, “that I accept your invitation to take his place as your leader.”

Limpy felt like his warts were going to explode. He kicked and wriggled, flailing his arms, trying to tear himself off the tree so he could hop across the clearing in a huge furious semicircle and tell everyone what Malcolm had done.

But all Limpy managed to do was get one of his hands stuck to the tree as well.

Malcolm was still speaking. What Limpy heard next made him jolt with shock so violently that his hand ripped away from the tree.

“Limpy was much loved by us all,” said Malcolm,
“and we will always remember him. He was a close personal friend of mine, even though he was a bit pushy at times.”

Was?

Limpy stared across the clearing.

Malcolm was standing next to another mound of earth.

Mum and Dad and Charm and Goliath were sobbing so hard now, Limpy could see their shoulders shaking even at that distance.

Stack me, thought Limpy, stunned. They think I'm dead too.

“In the absence of Limpy's body,” Malcolm was saying, “which after a thorough search of the area we've failed to locate and which we assume was taken by the human to be made into a handbag or something, Limpy's family would like to commemorate him with some of his things.”

Limpy watched in anguish as Mum and Dad and Charm and Goliath moved unsteadily forward one by one and gently placed familiar objects on his grave.

His collection of soft drink cans.

His newspaper and magazine scraps.

His sun-dried chicken bones.

All the precious things he'd collected that had been chucked from passing vehicles.

Limpy couldn't stand it. His poor dear family,
racked with grief and misery. Suffering all that pain over his death when he wasn't even dead.

Yet.

Desperately, Limpy struggled to free himself from the sticky sap. He had to let them know he was still alive. Then he remembered the virus germs and stopped struggling.

It's better this way, he thought. If they think I'm dead, they won't come looking for me and put themselves at risk.

But it wasn't that much better. They were still in danger from the scientists, and Limpy couldn't even warn them.

“Now that,” said a voice, “is bad luck.”

Limpy looked around.

“You reckon you're unlucky,” said the voice. “Just because your folks think you're dead and you're not. That's not unlucky. This is unlucky.”

Limpy felt something tickling him and looked down and saw that the voice belonged to a flying beetle that had got stuck to the back of his hand.

“One cane toad in fifty million square kilometers with sticky sap on his fist,” said the beetle, “and I fly into it. Okay. That much bad luck you can't beat. I give up. Eat me.”

Limpy stared at the beetle. Suddenly he had an idea that made his warts light up.

“Tell you what,” said Limpy.“If you'll do something for me, I won't eat you.”

“Anything,” said the beetle. “As long as it doesn't involve selling cigarettes to children.”

Limpy pointed across the clearing at Goliath. “See that big cane toad?” he said. “Not the really big one with the smug expression, the fairly big one sobbing and trying to console himself with a mouthful of bog worms. I want you to give him a message.”

The beetle nodded.

“Tell him,” said Limpy, “that all cane toads are in great danger and that he must get everybody away from Malcolm and head east and find the national park as quickly as possible.”

“Right,” said the beetle. “Danger, away from Malcolm, east, national park. Shall I say who the message is from?”

“Tell him it's from Limpy,” said Limpy quietly. “Say I gave you the message just before I died.”

The beetle gave Limpy a strange look.

“Okeydoke,” said the beetle. “You're the one not eating me.”

Limpy carefully unstuck the beetle from his hand. The beetle hovered in front of Limpy's face for a moment, beaming with gratitude.

“Boy,” he said. “This is my lucky day.”

Limpy didn't take his eyes off the beetle as it flew
across the clearing. For a brief moment he thought it was going to Malcolm by mistake, but it veered away and hovered in front of Goliath.

“Give him the message,” whispered Limpy. “Give him the message.”

He saw Goliath spot the beetle and look pleasantly surprised and lean forward close enough to hear what the beetle was about to say.

Limpy sighed with relief.

Then Goliath's tongue shot out and the beetle vanished into his mouth.