The Last Firedog

By Ian Boyd and Gary Luck

When a lightning storm starts a deadly fire at his parents' wildlife refuge, Reynold Salim is magically turned into a Tasmanian devil. As the fire spreads, Reynold tries to save a runaway devil who holds the key to the species' survival. His pursuit takes him into the mountains, following a horde of other an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spirit of the Earth Books
• Release date: Nov 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9780648905752

Book preview

1

The School Bus

Reynold Salim stared out the window of the school bus as it wound along the dusty dirt road towards his house. His brow rested against the grimy glass, rattling his head. Beads of sweat stung his eyes. He could smell the air’s heat in his nostrils. Feel it on his skin. Hear it in the buzz of a small fan sitting on a shelf in front of Sachin, the bus driver. The bus air-conditioner had broken down. Reynold wished he had a fan of his own, but all he had to cool himself down was sweat.

Outside the bus, the world looked even hotter. Stands of ghostly white gum trees lined the roadside, guarding the brown stringybark forest behind them. No four-legged creatures darted through the undergrowth. No birds flitted among the high branches. But Reynold knew the animals were out there. Some sheltered from the hot sun inside logs and tree hollows. Others nestled beneath shrubs, cowering from this giant yellow machine rumbling past. And if the bus’s noisy engine wasn’t scary enough, a billowing cloud of sepia dust kicked up from behind its wheels, drifting into the forest to choke every tree, bush, and animal in its path.

Reynold’s legs felt like they were stuck to the seat. He stood up and tugged the bottom of his shorts down when the bus suddenly swerved and threw him sideways. He stomped his foot to stop himself falling face first into the aisle. The bus swerved back. He dropped into his seat and landed in a smear of his own sweat. Through the side window, he saw a wallaby bounding away into the trees. Reynold cringed. The thought of another dead wild animal being left beside the road to rot in the hot sun made him sick. Thankfully, this wallaby had gotten lucky and escaped.

The bus came to a steep hill and chugged up slowly, struggling under the weight of thirty noisy students from St Marys District School. Reynold hated catching the bus with so many kids. They seemed to go crazy after school finished. Talking. Laughing. Throwing things at each other. None of them cared about how dangerous the surrounding forest was. Especially on bone-dry summer days like today.

Reynold was different to the other kids. He always kept a lookout for the first signs of fire. He knew the fibrous bark of the ‘stringies’ could act like a fuse on a stick of dynamite. One spark and boom! the whole forest would explode into flames. That’s why he wanted to be a firefighter as soon as he was old enough. He loved the idea of saving people’s homes and lives, the same way firefighters saved his family five years ago. Reynold would rather ride in a fire truck than a school bus any day.

The bus crawled over the top of the hill and sped up, winding down the other side like a snake slithering through long grass. Reynold slumped back in his seat and sighed. He was nearly home. Nearly off this nightmare of a bus. His shoulders relaxed, until a heavy, wheezing breath whistled into his ear. And the smell of vegemite seeped into his nostrils. Not the sharp, fresh smell of vegemite when you open the lid and spread it on your toast. More like vegemite that has been festering between someone’s teeth since lunch time. Wallowing under their hot tongue. The worst vegemite smell in the world.

Reynold looked over his shoulder. Molly Tucker had moved up into the seat behind him and was glaring at him with her menacing green eyes. Red, spiky hair sprouted from her head like the spines of an echidna. Her hands were covered in cartoon faces, spiderwebs, stars, crescent moons and arrows pointing in every direction. They looked like real tattoos but were only pretend ones drawn with a blue pen.

What’s your problem, Rat Boy? she snarled.

Reynold backed away. The stench of old vegemite made him feel like throwing up. "Can’t you just leave me alone for one day?"

Why should I?

Because I’m sick of you hassling me.

Good! she smiled. I’m sick of your family’s giant rats.

They’re not rats. They’re Tasmanian devils.

What’s the difference?

Nothing you could understand. Reynold turned back to the front, hoping Molly would go away and leave him alone. But the problem with Molly Tucker was that she never went away.

Since Reynold’s family moved from Indonesia to Australia, they had lived at the Devil’s Den Wildlife Refuge near St Marys, on the east coast of Tasmania. His parents worked at the refuge—home to a large number of Tassie devils. The Tucker family lived right next door. And that was a big problem. Molly’s dad hated Tasmanian devils and kept trying to have the refuge shut down. He complained every week to the local council that the devils stank of disease and poo. He called them rats. Molly followed her father’s lead, tagging Reynold with the annoying nickname of ‘Rat Boy’.

Our stop’s next, Rat Boy, so you’d betta get ready to run. Molly stood up and smiled with vegemite-smeared teeth, hovering above Reynold like an eagle waiting to swoop.

Sit down, Molly Tucker, yelled Sachin, glaring into the rear vision mirror. You know the rules.

Yes, Sachin. With a smirk, she flicked the top of Reynold’s head with her finger, then plonked back down into her seat.

Don’t worry, Molly, thought Reynold. I’m ready for you this time.

He reached under the seat, slid out his bulging school bag and undid the zip. Rummaging about inside, he pulled out a cricket pad and wrapped it around his left leg, tugging the three straps nice and tight until they bit into his calf and thigh. The straps had to be tight. If they came off while he was running, he could trip over and fall face first into the dirt. Satisfied that they were tight enough, he fitted another pad snugly around his right leg.

With his legs protected, Reynold began covering the rest of his body. Being a left-handed batter, he cinched an armguard around his right arm. Then he pulled a chest guard from his bag and strapped it over his shirt like a twisted bra. It barely covered his stick-thin torso, but it would have to do.

Next, he had to protect his head. Like squeezing a lemon, he twisted and pushed the hard, round helmet over his crown and double … no … triple-checked the plastic buckles, then tightened the chin strap. Peering out through the wire face grill, he wriggled every finger deep inside his thick padded gloves until they reached all the way to the tips.

Almost done, thought Reynold. One more piece of armour to go. The most important one.

He searched the bottom of his bag and started to panic.

Where is it? I’m sure I packed it this morning.

A thin, black folder had fallen across the bottom. Reynold lifted it up and found what he was looking for hiding underneath. He breathed a sigh of relief and pulled out the hard plastic shell. Cricketers call them boxes. Reynold had no idea why, because they look more like pear-shaped gas masks that cover your willy. But he would never go into bat without a box in case the ball struck him between the legs. Right where it hurts.

Hoping no one could see what he was about to do, Reynold sprang to his feet, unzipped his shorts, shoved the box down inside his undies, and plonked back down on his seat. As his gloved fingers fumbled about, trying to pull his zipper back up, he noticed little Greta Simpkin watching him curiously from her seat across the aisle. Her squinty green eyes had grown so wide, he thought she might turn into an owl.

You wouldn't understand, he thought, glowering back at her.

Normally, Reynold’s cricket gear protected him from rock-hard cricket balls, flying at him like missiles. But today it was like a knight’s armour, protecting him from a fanged monster waiting at the bus stop. A monster who wanted nothing else but to rip his organs out and eat them for afternoon tea.

And like all knights, Reynold had brought a sword to protect himself—willow-forged with a sure rubber grip. He raised his cricket bat in front of his chest and smiled to himself.

Okay, Sir Reynold. You’re ready for battle.

Covered in armour from head to toe, Reynold’s whole body dripped with sweat. The drips grew into streams, trickling down his neck and chest. His thighs felt so warm and damp, he could have boiled an egg down there.

Tenang saja, he muttered under his breath.

Tenang saja was an Indonesian expression Reynold learnt from his parents. It was their way of saying stay calm. He used it whenever a big problem clouded his thoughts. Like the day he was batting for his cricket team at school and needed to score four runs off the last ball to win. As the bowler came running toward him, he was so nervous that his legs wouldn’t stop shaking. The ball came at him like a rocket— bouncing up almost as high as his head—but he stayed calm and hooked it to the legside boundary. His parents’ words had reminded him to stay calm that day, and he needed them to work their magic again as he waited to get off the bus.

Reynold and Molly’s bus stop loomed dead ahead. He stood and slung his school bag over his shoulder, cricket bat out in front. Sachin jerked on the brakes, and Reynold almost toppled over.

Ha ha! Molly Tucker cackled behind him. Good one, Rat Boy! How are you going to run home if you can’t even stand up?

The kids on the bus laughed like a flock of kookaburras as they watched Reynold waddle towards the door, trying not to stumble again.

Rats can’t play cricket, mocked Greta Simpkin. She swiped the blonde fringe away from her green, squinty eyes that had shrunk back to their normal size.

What are you gonna do in footy season? laughed Weedy Magill, the smallest boy on the bus. His pointy, freckled face pursed with an impish grin.

Molly ambled up close behind Reynold and shoved him in the back. He stumbled into the stair well.

I’ll let you get off first, she said. You need a head start."

The spiky redhead’s warm breath crawled down the back of Reynold’s neck. His helmet couldn’t block out the vegemite stench seeping from her mouth. The bus rolled up to their stop. Reynold’s heart pounded. Time stood still as the bi-fold doors opened with aching, creaking slowness.

Get ready to run, he coached himself, imagining he was playing cricket. When the ball gets past the fielder at mid-off, steal a quick single. Sprint! Sprint! Sprint!

The door opened enough for Reynold to squeeze through. With his school bag over one shoulder and willow-forged sword in the other hand, he leapt from the bus and dashed across the gravel. He bounded over the grassy verge onto a dirt path, worn bare from school term after school term of running home. Molly’s clodhopping feet pounded behind him like the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk, only slower than a giant. Reynold knew he could outrun her—even in all his cricket gear—but the real chase