Forest Spirit Read Online Free

roof. Drops of tears? But why? The rest of the message, delivered in a foreign tongue, was also a mystery.
    The rain continued to fall as Jars, fully awake now, lay in her bed. She recalled what she had seen, what she had heard. ‘A man died,’ she murmured in the dark. ‘Or did he? Ghosts don’t die, do they?’

It rained for two days. Jars had hoped the storm would last; that it would flood the track that led to the highway; that it would swell the creeks, making them impassable. Then she would have an excuse. She wouldn’t have to leave, or, at the very least, her departure would be delayed. That would give her hope. Now the sky’s grey wetness had given way to a clear blue.
    â€˜Make sure you’ve got all your things,’ Ms Barnard told her during an early breakfast. ‘Be ready to leave within the hour. We have to be at the airport by noon.’
    Jars went to her room and packed her clothes, then, head lowered and eyes fixed to the floor, she walked into the living room. She stood in front of Mr and Mrs Henderson, case in hand.
    Without saying anything, Mrs Henderson threw her arms around her. ‘We’ll keep in touch,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘It’s not really goodbye.’
    Mr Henderson, hat in hand, shifted from one foot to the other. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘now, off you go and don’t worry too much. Things will work out just fine. You’ll see.’
    Jars lifted her eyes briefly, fighting tears. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘maybe they will.’ As she made for the door, she could not help noticing the smug look on Ms Barnard’s face. She’s won, Jars said to herself. She beat me. And Mr H. is wrong. It’s not going to be fine. I just know it.
    The Hendersons stood on the veranda watching as Jars and Ms Barnard walked to the car. In the distance, Tom, who was standing near the stables with the other station hands, silently tipped his hat. Jars, her face empty of emotion now, raised her hand and waved goodbye.
    Jars opened the car door and climbed into the passenger’s seat. She turned and placed her suitcase on the back seat. Ms Barnard climbed into the driver’s seat. It was time to leave.
    The early sun’s rays were already striking like a hot hammer, quickly burning off any wetness that remained in the soil. A swirling vaporous grey cloud hovered like a blanket over the ground. Ms Barnard started the car and drove out of the yard, past the sheds and the stockyards, and past the enclosures where the wallabies stood and the birds perched, watching Jars leave.
    The homestead disappeared from view as they drew near the thick scrub, and in some distant tree the metallic cry of a cockatoo pierced the air. Jars flinched. A bad omen, her mother would have said.
    As soon as they hit the bush track, the car began to slide and fishtail in the shaded places where water still lay.
    â€˜It will improve further on,’ Ms Barnard said, more to herself than Jars. Jars laughed inwardly. She didn’t think so; they were heading into seriously wet ground where the sun’s rays hardly ever penetrated the trees and scrub that grew to the edges of the bush track.
    They continued on, somehow surviving Ms Barnard’s driving. She accelerated over high rocks instead of slowing, raced through creeks not checking for either depth or a firm bottom, fought the steering when she didn’t have to. No wonder she’s in a sweat, Jars thought. She’s a disaster waiting to happen.
    Jars filled the time gazing out of the passenger side window at the birds and the occasional wallaby, wondering if this would be the last time she saw them. When they came upon some grazing buffaloes, she shuddered. Every nerve and muscle in her body tensed. Would she ever get over it? Would the memories ever leave?
    From the corners of her eyes, she saw that Ms Barnard was hovering on a state of panic. Her eyes held an