True North

Chapter one

Welcome to one of my favourite ever tales!  It's been six years since I wrote this tale, but the beautiful redemption here is still just as relevant as when I penned it.

This story has been fortunate enough to have been selected for the Wattpad Paid Stories program - which means you can begin the book for free, then after a few chapters you'll be asked to contribute to read on.  As a Wattpad writer of many years, I'd like to thank all my readers who support me, and I hope that with so much of my work (hundreds of thousands of words!) available for free on this platform, you'll continue to support this story in the paid program.

The place where our story begins is a real-life mountain pass known as the Black Spur, sometimes called Australia's most thrilling drive.  Jump in, let's go for a drive...

The first time I saw him, I thought he was a wombat.

It was dusk as I rounded the corner of the mountain road, the dim light of early evening throwing shadows everywhere, elongating trees and casting movement where there was none. A furry shape crouched by the side of the road, a solid mass that lumbered into the path of my oncoming ute.

"Fuggly duck!" I said, using both feet on the brake to bring my little truck to a shrieking halt. My neck snapped viciously and all the groceries in my tray shot forward, scattering loudly. I groaned, knowing that the bananas would be bruised and the glass jars smashed, but it was still worth it; I'd hit a wombat my first week on the mountain and I never wanted to repeat the experience.

Pissed, I honked my horn at the creature and yelled out my open window. "Oi! Move it along, fatso! Don't you have a hole to crawl into?"

The hairy lump froze. Caught in the glare of my headlights, it began to grow upwards.

My brain struggled to keep up with what I was seeing. I was watching a wombat transform into a humanoid shape. The furry covering fell away, nothing more than a matted blanket, exposing the gaunt man underneath.

He was tall, with a ragged beard and a head of long snarled hair. He wore a filthy long-sleeved flannel shirt and a pair of cargos that might have started off green or grey, but were now stained and blackened. The boots on his feet had seen better days, the laces missing, the soles almost worn through.

He looked like the worst kind of trouble; a crazy homeless person, a vagabond serial killer, a mountain man out for blood. There was no phone reception on the remote road, so calling for help wasn't even an option. All I could do was get out of there. I shifted the ute into gear and prepared to drive around him.

It was his eyes that made me stop. They weren't the eyes of a dangerous man. They were the clear grey eyes of someone who desperately needed help, of someone who was lost, who didn't know who they were anymore. I knew that look; it was the one I saw in my own eyes in the mirror every morning.

He held my gaze through the windscreen, imploring me. Sighing, I made my choice. I shoved the truck in park and climbed out onto the road.

"Hey, you," I began, trying to make my voice sound steady. "Are you okay?"

He tried to speak, but only a twisted grunt escaped his throat. Clearing it, he coughed violently.

"Do you speak English?" I said. "Or anything?" From the look of him, I wasn't sure if he was an idiot backpacker who went for a hike and got hopelessly lost, or an escaped mental patient.

I didn't expect his response. In a voice that rumbled like gravel in a concrete mixer, he said, "Yes. Yes, I speak English. And French and a little Japanese."