The Warrior: The Story of a Wombat

By Jackie French

At first his whole world had been the pouch; the sweet scent of his mother, her warmth, and the steady thud of her pulse. Now, he wants to find another world. the warrior is ready to explore. But finding a world, his world, away from the safety of the creel flat and his mother\'9291s hole, is hard and dangerous. And for the warrior to make a new world his, he has to overcome his fears and the 㟴he Enemy. Ages 8+

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780730450436

Jackie French

Jackie French AM is an award-winning writer, wombat negotiator, the 2014–2015 Australian Children's Laureate and the 2015 Senior Australian of the Year. In 2016 Jackie became a Member of the Order of Australia for her contribution to children's literature and her advocacy for youth literacy. She is regarded as one of Australia's most popular children's authors and writes across all genres — from picture books, history, fantasy, ecology and sci-fi to her much loved historical fiction for a variety of age groups. ‘A book can change a child's life. A book can change the world' was the primary philosophy behind Jackie's two-year term as Laureate. jackiefrench.com facebook.com/authorjackiefrench

Book preview

Beginnings

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He was bald and his eyes were shut, but the pouch was warm and soft. The thud of his mother’s pulse filled the world. He only had to nuzzle in the warmth to drink and sleep.

He grew bigger and the pouch grew smaller. Sometimes he poked his leg out or his nose and smelt the scents of grass and listened to the sounds of wind and grunting in the night.

One night his eyes opened for the first time. He saw the shape of grass outside and the walls inside their hole.

He poked his eyes and nose out of the pouch. His snout was pink and bald, then hairy as his fur grew longer. Then he poked his whole head out, sniffing the world around him.

Finally one night his mother nuzzled him, her nose cold and her teeth hard against his neck. Suddenly he was out of the pouch and on the ground! His mother walked a few paces to one side…

He was almost alone!

The world was strange. The smells were strange. The noises were all around, not blanketed by the gurgling sounds of pouch and pulse. The dirt was cool under his paws.

He stood without moving. Then something coughed in the tunnel beyond them. He darted back into the pouch.

He poked his nose out, smelling, listening.

Something thumped along the tunnel towards them. It coughed again. He recognised the sound now; he’d heard the grunt before. It was another wombat.

The other wombat grunted at his mother. His mother grunted back. She moved backwards into the wider chamber where they slept so the other one could pass. He heard the other wombat brush against the sides of the tunnel, padding deeper into the hill.

After that he stuck his nose out into the world more often, enjoying the scents of dirt and fur, of night and wind from the creek. Sometimes he even scrambled out of the pouch again, but only when they were inside their hole. The world outside was still too strange and fierce.

Finally he even slept outside the pouch, beside his mother in the soft silt of their chamber deep below the ground. At first he cuddled close to the pouch, nuzzling inside to drink. Then, as his mother slept more deeply, he began to explore.

First her back…up…up…up. His mother’s back made a perfect mattress, hard and warm and furry.

Then he tried her face. That was warm and furry too but she wriggled when he lay across her nose. Finally he lay across her neck, back paws dangling down one side and his pink nose hanging down the other. This time he fell asleep and only woke when his mother stretched and sneezed.

He scrambled back into the pouch and took a drink, then nuzzled his nose out of the pouch again.

The world smelt different now. The sweet scents of the hole were gone. His mother must have padded outside.

An owl hooted far away; somewhere a possum screamed.

He poked his nose out further. A blade of grass tickled it. He bit the grass experimentally and chewed it thoughtfully. He wondered what to do next. Should he swallow it like