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Ashley Wilde—Ash—waved jazz hands from the door, with Cody, her fiancé, behind her.
“Sorry I’m late. Came back from seeing the koala joey.”
I grinned and gave Ash a big hug before everyone else surged forward, cheering and calling out Ash’s name. She had made headlines for saving a koala joey after a bushfire had ripped through a neighbouring property of the national park.
As did my sister, Stacey, for saving an intellectually impaired man who had run away from his parents, who also happened to be her boyfriend’s brother.
But Ash had lost two weeks of her memories and was rebuilding her relationship with her fiancé, although, judging by how they hugged and looked at each other, their relationship looked solid.
“Welcome, Ash and Cody. Now. If you can all resume your seats, once we’ve covered the next bit of the training, Ash and I will discuss lessons learnt from the fire two weeks ago.”
Everyone shuffled back into their plastic seats, Cody pulling Ash down on his lap with a grin.
“Right, wombat burrows.” Uncle Bruce cleared his throat. “In Victoria, during the severe Black Saturday bushfires, someone survived by getting into a wombat burrow. Had their two daughters with them too.”
Immediately crew members interrupted my uncle.
“Get out; that can’t be right,” someone scoffed. I looked up. Brayden, usually quiet at meetings.
“Wombat burrows aren’t big enough for someone to get into. They are pulling someone’s leg,” said Benji.
“Some burrows are,” I found myself saying. “One entrance to a burrow on our place, I can stand in it to my shoulders. And I could totally crawl in.”
“You’d have to be pretty deep in a burrow to escape the heat of a bushfire. And those Victorian fires were bloody hot. I read how the aluminium tray of some utes ‘puddled into silver rivers’.” Dwayne used air quotes to emphasise his point. “Melted the tray off a ute. Saw the photos. I’ll be buggered if you could get deep enough in a burrow to escape the heat of the flames.”
“And what about air quality? Be pretty stale, I reckon,” another muttered.
“Air quality? What do you think the wombats are breathing?” I grinned.
Light laughter rippled around the room.
Uncle Bruce cleared his throat. “The point is, we have wombats, and as much as the common wombat is uncommon around here, they live in the national park and on several properties surrounding it, so you never know if this information could save your life.”
“Don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to take a dive down a burrow and come face to face with a shitty wombat who doesn’t want to share,” Benji said.
Others agreed, with several folding their arms in solidarity.
“Funny you should mention that,” Uncle Bruce said, passing another pile of paper to me to hand out. “Take one and pass it on. National park rangers down south have observed that wombats let other animals share their burrows during bushfires, and there are no territory or space disputes. Their burrows are considered by most wildlife, including ground birds, koalas, wallabies, and lizards, as a bushfire refuge.”
“Jesus, can you imagine being in a burrow and a fuckin’ snake decides to cosy up to you as well?” Ryan shuddered. He didn’t do snakes, but then, most people don’t.
“What Uncle Bruce is saying here is the burrow that Hades was in was huge and had three known exits. Knowing where wombat burrows are on a property could save your life during a fire.”
Benji’s face turned thoughtful, and he shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt, I guess.”
Uncle Bruce cleared his throat. “You can’t relocate a wombat—they are killed by other wombats as it’s seen as an invader of their territory. They often come back anyway. Their range can be five hectares to twenty-five hectares, which is about sixty acres, but several can live close together as a group.
“You aren’t legally allowed to fill in a wombat burrow, but good luck if you did, as wombats are digging machines and re-dig their burrow entrance. And like Tom said, they have several exits for their burrows too, and the burrow system is often extensive, sometimes so big it can be impossible to find all of the entrances and exits.”
“Why didn’t Son of Hades return to his burrow then?”
Our family thought Son of Hades would’ve returned to the underworld of his mother, but he was firmly entrenched under the shearers’ quarters.
I shrugged. “I think Son of Hades grew attached to having humans around after he was cared for by a wildlife carer. But not that Son of Hades is a pet. Not at all. Son of Hades is definitely a wild animal—he just thinks the humans are a part of his group. We live in the above-ground burrow, he in his underworld. I can assure you, he eats my boots, my doormat and socks too. Nothing is safe.”
“So you’re Tombatus upstairs, and you have a vombatus downstairs,” Dwayne laughed.
I’d moved out of the family homestead and into the shearers’ quarters; each room freshly painted by Stacey. The paint and roof insulation had done wonders to the look and feel of the place, and a good rug took the edge off the winter chill on the floorboards.
