Toad Heaven Read online

The four-wheel drive stopped.

  Trembling, Limpy peered out of his hiding place.

  The four-wheel drive was standing only about six wombat-lengths away, growling hungrily, its brake lights red and angry, its exhaust a ghostly vapor in the moonlight.

  A jolt of terror stabbed through Limpy as a light snapped on at the front of the vehicle, even brighter than the headlights. It was a spotlight on the roof. Limpy saw a human arm reach out of the driver's window and swivel the spotlight slowly from side to side.

  A big white circle of light slid across the under-growth.

  Startled centipedes and snails froze, little mouths hanging open.

  Don't worry, thought Limpy grimly. He's not after you.

  Limpy knew what this human was after. This was a human who was prepared to drive his vehicle off the highway and get it all muddy just so he could kill more cane toads.

  Limpy shivered.

  The spotlight was moving slowly across the area between where he was hidden and the swamp in the distance. So far it hadn't lit up any cane toads, but Limpy knew that Charm and Goliath were out there somewhere. And Mum and Dad. And all the rellies.

  If they stayed there, trembling in the undergrowth like him, the spotlight would seek them out sooner or later, and then those big fat tires would hunt them down.

  I've got to do something, thought Limpy desperately.

  The cool mud against his cheek helped him think clearly, and suddenly he had an idea.

  He dragged himself out of the undergrowth, hurried round to the front of the vehicle, and hopped into the dazzle from the spotlight.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Over here!”

  Limpy knew the human couldn't understand what he was saying, so he jumped up and down and waved.

  The four-wheel drive jolted into gear and started moving toward him.

  Limpy turned and hopped toward the swamp.

  “Stay hidden!” he yelled to the others. “I'm going to lure him into the deep part of the swamp. Even a four-wheel drive can't go far when it's up to its axles in swampweed and eel slime.”

  Limpy could hear the engine roar getting louder and feel the lights on his back getting hotter, and he knew the human was gaining on him.

  He hopped faster.

  Then the one thing he hoped wouldn't happen happened.

  His crook leg gave way. Suddenly he wasn't hopping in a straight line anymore. He was curving round toward the residential end of the swamp. Desperately he tried to straighten up, but it was no good. If he didn't stop, he'd be leading a four-wheel drive through Mum's living room. All their homes would be crushed. So would any rellies hiding under the beds.

  Numb with exhaustion and disappointment, Limpy threw himself onto the ground and waited for the human to drive over him.

  But even as the huge thumping tires got closer, Limpy saw a flash of angry red warts out of the corner of his eye and heard a familiar voice yelling.

  “Over here, you mongrel!”

  Goliath.

  “Come on!” roared Goliath, dancing around in a fury and waving a stick at the four-wheel drive. “Catch me if you can, big bum!”

  Limpy held his breath as the four-wheel drive swerved, missing him by less than the width of a non-flattened uncle, and thundered after Goliath.

  Limpy raised his head and watched with shaky relief as Goliath led the vehicle toward the deep part of the swamp.

  He felt like cheering, right up until Goliath tripped on a twig and disappeared headfirst down a wombat hole.

  “Oh no,” croaked Limpy, scrambling to his feet.

  He could see other cane toads peering from their hiding places, anxious faces gleaming in the spotlight.

  “Get back under cover!” yelled Limpy.

  “It's okay, everyone,” said another voice loudly. “I'm here now.”

  Limpy's mouth fell open as the massive figure of Malcolm sprang into the spotlight. Malcolm paused for a moment, flexed his perfectly formed thighs, then headed for the swamp with huge, muscular hops.

  The four-wheel drive charged after him.

  I don't believe it, thought Limpy as he tried to keep up. Malcolm's risking his life for us. Perhaps I've been wrong about him. Perhaps underneath all that handsomeness and ambition, he's a decent bloke after all.

  Ahead, Malcolm suddenly veered to one side.

  Limpy saw that Malcolm wasn't heading for the deep part of the swamp anymore; he was heading for Ancient Eric's cave.

  What had happened? Had one of Malcolm's legs gone crook as well?

  No, Limpy realized. Malcolm was doing this on purpose.

  “Look out!” yelled Limpy, but it was too late.

  As Malcolm leaped over Ancient Eric's rock, the human saw it for the first time and hit his brakes. The four-wheel drive went into a skid and slammed into the rock.

  The sound of the impact echoed across the swamp.

  Then silence, except for the chugging of the engine.

  Limpy wondered if the human was dead. He kept on wondering this as he crept warily toward the still vehicle.

  Until, slowly, the driver's door started to open.

  Limpy looked around in alarm. Rellies and family members were emerging from their hiding places, clearly visible in the moonlight.

  I've got to distract the human, thought Limpy. Stop him from seeing all the others.

  Limpy flung himself forward.

  Then he spotted Malcolm in the shadows near the vehicle.

  Perhaps Malcolm was having the same idea.

  But it wasn't Malcolm who hopped toward the pair of feet that were emerging from the driver's door.

  It was Charm.

  Limpy saw Malcolm give her a little push and Charm look up at him adoringly, then turn and hop bravely toward the feet.

  Limpy couldn't believe it. The wartbag was sacrificing Charm to save his own skin.

  “No!” yelled Limpy.

  He lunged forward and somehow managed to get to the feet first, so it was his body the warm human fingers closed around instead of Charm's.

  Limpy felt himself being lifted high into the air.

  Defiantly he looked at his captor.

  And felt his poison glands go wobbly with relief.

  The human had a beard and was wearing a khaki shirt and shorts.

  It was plumage Limpy recognized. He'd seen photos of similar humans in magazines chucked from passing cars. He'd watched blokes like this one in action on portable tellies in human campsites. He'd heard koalas whisper dreamily about this wonderful plumage after they'd eaten too many gum leaves.

  He's a conservationist, thought Limpy happily. He hasn't come to kill us, he's come to save us.

  Even though Limpy was out of breath, he tried to yell that to the others, and kept trying until he saw the big gleaming needle in the human's other hand and felt it jab into his tummy warts and everything went black.

  “Ouch,” said Limpy.

  Daylight was stinging his eyeballs.

  Something else was stinging his back. Worse than stinging, hurting. He hadn't felt pain like it for years, not since the truck had run over his leg.

  I don't get it, thought Limpy. Why's my back hurting? The needle went into my tummy, not my back.

  A horrible thought hit him. Perhaps it was a fork wound. Perhaps the human had tried to eat him while he was unconscious.

  Would a conservationist do that? Limpy hoped not, for all their sakes. But his back was killing him.

  What had happened?

  Limpy tried to look over his shoulder, but that only made the pain worse.

  I need a mirror, he thought.

  He looked around, but all he could see was blue plastic. No puddles, no shiny metal, no spare lizard eyeballs, no reflective surfaces of any kind.

  Just smooth curved plastic walls.

  Stack me, thought Limpy. I'm in a bucket.

  He knew he should be scared, but his back was hurting too much for that.

  I know, thought Limpy, grimacing. I'll do a wee
and look at my back in that.

  Before he did, he glanced up in case the bucket happened to be standing close to a side-view mirror on the four-wheel drive.

  It wasn't. The bucket was half under what looked to Limpy like a folding table, the kind humans used for picnics and washing toddlers on after they fell into mud holes.

  “Ouch,” said Limpy again. Tilting his head was making his back hurt even more.

  But suddenly he didn't care. Above him he saw, hanging over the edge of the picnic table and clearly visible against the sky and the trees, several large sheets of paper covered in squiggly lines and colored patches.

  Maps.

  Limpy knew what maps were because he'd seen people using them in cars. Maps were what humans used to find places and start arguments.

  Places like, for example, national parks.

  Limpy's warts tingled with excitement.

  Perhaps that's why the conservationist captured me, he thought. Perhaps it's part of a plan to transport all cane toads to the safety of national parks.

  Limpy was wondering how he could arrange for Charm and Goliath and Mum and Dad and the other rellies to go to the same national park as him when a drop of something wet plopped onto his head.

  Rain?

  For a breathless moment, Limpy pictured the bucket filling up with rain and his floating to the top and escaping and rounding up the family so they could all travel together.

  Then he tasted the trickle running down his cheek.

  It wasn't water, it was saliva.

  Limpy looked up.

  A face was staring down at him. A big face with floppy ears and sad eyes and a droopy wet mouth.

  For a second Limpy thought the conservationist had shaved off his beard during the night.

  Then he realized it was a dog.

  “Good,” said the dog, without any enthusiasm that Limpy could hear. “You've woken up at last. We thought you'd carked it.”

  I still might, thought Limpy grimly, if my back's anything to go by.

  “Not much fun, these conservation projects, are they?” said the dog mournfully.

  Limpy wondered how much the dog knew about what was going on. Maybe the dog was the conservationist's assistant. Humans would probably prefer dog assistants because they could kill their own fleas whereas human assistants, so Limpy had heard, needed chemical sprays.

  “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.

  Limpy 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.