Carnivorous Nights Read Online Free PDF

doors to the spirit world. By covering a hand with dark pigment, it seemed to dissolve into and behind the rock, reaching into a realm beyond.
    We returned to the boat and continued down the arm of the bay. The water was becoming extremely shallow, shifting in color from electric blue to muddy green. “The tide's going out,” Les said. To reach the thylacine, he was going to anchor at an uncharted bay that locals called Tiger Shark Hole. “It's not exactly navigable,” he added.
    “Are there really tiger sharks in the water?” we asked. Suddenly running aground didn't seem like such a big deal.
    “Well, I used to put my boat in there, and I would swim and fish. I was telling an old-timer about it—and he said that back in the old days they used to fish for shark there because they loved that deep hole. They used to hang the sharks up from the gum trees, cut their throats, and let the blood run into the pool. Of course that would act as a lure …I never swum there again.”
    Les saw our eyes popping and told us not to worry. There had only been one serious shark attack in Port Hacking's history. “In 1927, ayoung boy dived off a boat and was eaten amongst his friends. By the time they got him ashore, he'd lost an arm and a leg and a large lump out of his side. He died on the way to the hospital.” The attack had inspired a Sydney balladeer to write a verse about it:
    The day was fine, the water clear,
And as smooth as a pond;
But the surfers never thought of
What danger lurked beyond.
It was a shark, some twelve feet long
And in shallow water,
His eyes were bulging from his head,
Anxious for the slaughter.
    Water/slaughter. We had to admit it was a good rhyme. By the time we reached Tiger Shark Hole, the little engine had begun to complain and spew smoke fitfully. “I'm just going to try and get us anchored here,” Les said. The shallow green water was full of jumping fish. We scanned the surface for fins.
    The tide was so low that the exposed part of the sandstone shore was covered with clumps of live oysters. Les jumped out of the boat, pried one loose with his pocketknife, and ate it raw. “This is gorgeous real estate,” he said surveying the scene. “There was so much game here.” Les delighted in the idea of living off the land. “When I was a kid, my family would do that for a month every year.” And when he was working on the rock art survey in Royal, he had spent months camping out beneath the stars, hiking to his heart's content, paddling a canoe, and dining on fish.
    We all walked along the rocky shore, stepping over fallen eucalyptus branches. Though Dorothy was wearing a sarong, she seemed to maneuver over the obstacles with ease. Les turned up a wisp of a path—it was wide enough for a dunnart (the marsupial version of a mouse) to pass through easily—and we climbed two hundred feet up the cliffside through tangy-smelling eucalyptus and red-barked Angophora trees. Near the top, we reached a long sandstone shelf paralleling the ridgeline. It gave us a bird's-eye view of the flat, blue-green waters below. Across the inlet, a mangrove swamp shimmered in the light.
    We followed Les along a sandy track covered with broken shells. The yellowish gray cliffside curled over our heads.
    “Talk about
Picnic at Hanging Rock
,” said Alexis.
    For a natural area, it seemed strangely barren. “Where are all the animals?” we asked.
    Les pointed out tracks in the sand, impressions of little claws and long feet. “Wallaby,” he said. “They're active at night.”
    We walked beneath the hanging cliff for about a quarter of a mile. Then Les stopped and gestured toward the underside of the shelter. The rock was stained pink, brown, and white, and it was covered in dark, swirling lines. “This is it,” he said.
    At first we couldn't see anything. But then the dark lines seemed to shift and reassemble themselves. They formed a picture of three animals: a menagerie à trois.
    We could make out a python with