Terrence left his group to the sounds of jeers, and he let them wash over him. Once upon a time he might have beaten the lot of them for it, but he'd learnt better. A poke in the ribs could hurt or it could tickle, and only the person poked could decide which. Words were the same. Well, most words.

Some words could hurt a man more than any lashing, as Terrence'd found out when they'd stripped his rank and shipped him off to this shithole. A man could get away with damn near anything when it came to natives, but only so long as his company had his back. So it happened at Terrence's trial regarding his "proclivities" with the Punjabi youth.

"I attest," said three of his lieutenants at the tribunal.

"Not a convict," said the Court, but they'd put him on a boat with the convicts, to a world where only convicts and natives lived.

He'd spent a lifetime punishing men for their jabs and jibes, and out of fear they'd eventually found the words that would hurt him for good. So now he let them talk, so they wouldn't one day say anything worse.

The rainforest up here reminded Terrence of the deep jungle of Gogaira, not at all like the rest of this place. The dense forest built out in layer upon layer of greenery, as if the entire spectrum of that colour might be found out here somewhere. He loved it. The rest of the country could go jump, its endless browns and reds all blending into one another, but in this dense vegetation, Terrence was at home.

Terrence leant back against a large tree and dropped his slacks, his belt falling with them. Years gone he might have tried to keep his belt at his hip, but he was too tired for all of that any more. His knees creaked as he lowered himself down against the tree into a squat. Terrence’s feet slipped ever so slightly on the dew-wet ground beneath, forcing him to take even more care as he hunched.

The good thing about this nightmare country is that there are no tigers, Terrence thought idly as he moved his hand to lower his breeches. Back in India, you'd stare out into the forest and hope not to see a set of eyes staring back. They'd be the last eyes you'd ever see.

Terrence stared out into the rainforest, grateful for the small miracle of his new home. His heart nearly stopped when he found a pair of eyes staring back at him. Terrence wasn't given to panic, but he couldn't fault the timing of this. The eyes disappeared, blinked closed, and they reappeared closer to him.

Terrence shoved himself up out of his squat, his knees screaming as he did. He snatched for his revolver as he stood. He missed. Instead, Terrence found himself pointing out in the direction of the eyes as he awkwardly shuffled away from them. His eyes adjusted some to the melange of greens, light and dark, and finally he was able to make out the body to go with the eyes.

Before him stood a giant, near invisible in the rainforest, an easy six foot four with long knotted hair down to its shoulders. Its silhouette was a series of adjacent circles, a body made of nothing but muscles on muscles, stacked taller than any man Terrence had ever seen. Is this the Yowie John had spoken of? Am I its prey?

"Easy boss," came a deep voice from the beast before him. The old Captain's eyes adjusted further, and he could see that it was a man. A black man, different from the natives of this country, his skin was like a brewed black tea, a rich brown, compared to the coffee black of Terrence's tracker boys.

Terrence had found the blackbird.

The man strode forward a few more steps while Terrence analysed the situation. In the immediate, the Kanaka–Big Joe–had caught him with his pants down. It wouldn't be the first time a black boy had seen Terrence's cock, and he wasn't ashamed of what he had. Big Joe didn't appear to have a weapon, and he didn't seem to be a threat.

But Terrence didn't have a weapon either, and Big Joe might be literally double his size for all it would matter. The hammer pull on his single-action revolver was clean, but Terrence would need to bend, draw and fire the thing. It was unlikely he would get off more than one shot at the man. That meant the heart or the head. Anything less and this Big Joe would crush him like an egg.

"Just stay where you are, old chap, and I won't have to draw on you," Terrence said firmly, hamming up his 'proper' British accent. Big Joe stopped moving, his hands still up, palms facing Terrence. Natives the world over pay more attention when the British speak, such is the grandeur of the Empire, he thought. "Tell me, boy, what are you doing here anyway?"

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Aren't youse from Jimboomba?" the giant of a man asked, confused.

Terrence bent ever so slightly towards his pants and nodded. "We are, yes. I mean, why aren't you still hiding in the bush?"

Big Joe's hands twisted sideways, a gesture of further confusion. "You were looking straight at me, boss, what else was I gonna do? Keep watching you take a shit?"

Terrence was starting to get frustrated, especially at the reminder that he still needed to shit. This islander boy wasn't understanding him. Terrence took a deep breath. "Why are you so close by? Why are you hiding in this bush here? Why aren't you downriver with your… people?"

The heart of the question finally dawned on the fellow, his big eyes widening with the realisation. "Ah, right," Big Joe said. "Yeah, youse caught up quicker than we thought. And when I heard youse coming, I took off into the trees here. But I got stopped up by the Gympie Gympie. Couldn't get past it quietly, so I figured I'd rather take my chances with youse."

"The… what?" Terrence asked. What would a fellow like this be afraid of? "The Gumpygumpy? Is that what made that roar before?"

The confusion returned to the islanders face, his brow furrowing, his big nose lifting. "A roar? How's a plant gonna roar, boss?" Terrence must have looked just as confused, because the islander continued. "It's a plant, boss. Brush against its leaves and it hits you with a million little spines. Like a stonefish, but worse. They call it the suicide plant. Sends men mad with pain. Hurts for months, worst hurt you'll ever have. Even when it stops it leaves a nasty red rash. Pain still flares up sometimes."

The Kanaka took a step forward and waved his left hand into a beam of sunlight as it punched through the canopy above. On the pale skin of the man's palm Terrence could see a red stripe about an inch thick. Terrence nodded thoughtfully and bent a little closer towards his gun belt. His side ached at the strain. "And why didn't you go down the river with the others?"

"Couldn't leave my pop, boss," Big Joe replied. The islander man seemed to be honest. Maybe he could be walked back to the station. Dead is easier, but while he might not be as grand a spectacle as a lady bushranger, a giant islander would still be a headline-grabbing collar. "I promised him I'd see the others off safely. Didn't promise him I'd go with 'em, though, did I?"

The dark-skinned man grinned at the light deception he'd pulled off, and Terrence smiled in reply. Yes, this is a man who will stick to his word, Terrence thought. And then the truth of the situation dawned on him: there was only one Kanaka left at Jimboomba Station, and that old man had been beaten to death. Terrence's smile melted away.

Big Joe noticed the shift. "What's wrong, boss?"

Terrence turned his head to one side, the bones in his neck cracking in a ripple as tension released through his body. He took a deep breath and stared into the giant islander's eyes. "Your father," he said, pausing to give the sentence the appropriate gravity, "is dead."

Terrence watched as the giant's face contorted in anguish, as Big Joe's entire body tensed, the man's already bulging muscles somehow swelling further as pain throttled him. Big Joe's hand's balled into fists, and the islander took a staggered step forward. Terrence bent further, with his knees now, and took a shuffled half-step backwards. He took no pleasure in relaying this information, but the islander had been truthful with him. The least Terrence could do was repay the honesty. Perhaps he should have waited until they'd had him shackled, but the blackbird had noticed Terrence's mood change and forced his hand.

Big Joe fell to his knees, and even knelt down he was eye to eye with Terrence. But he couldn't be much threat now, and Terrence relaxed. Big Joe sobbed, his long knotted hair falling forward over his face as he hunched over and stared at the ground. He'd let the man process his emotions, and then Terrence would take him back to the camp and they could wrap this all up nice and easy.

As Terrence relaxed, however, Big Joe's hair flicked back and showed his face contorted from anguish to rage, his nostrils flaring and his eyes bulging as the anger took hold. "Did youse kill my pop?" he growled. Big Joe sprang to his feet from his knees without seeming to move the rest of his body, and in a heartbeat he was standing tall over Terrence.

The old man was startled by the movement. It was too agile, too quick, and it seemed inhuman again. Terrence snatched his revolver from its holster. He took a step back to aim the thing, wrenching back the hammer as he did. But his trousers caught a stick on the rainforest floor, and they suddenly went taut about his ankles as he stepped. The ground, slick with moisture, slid beneath Terrence's feet as he tried to keep his balance.

As he fell, he saw the rage bleed away from the massive Pacific Islander man, saw his face contort into concern. Time seemed to slow, and Terrence watched as Big Joe reached out to grab him. He watched as those massive fingers swished just short of him and snatched empty air. Terrence fired at the man, his shot impotent and wild as gravity took hold.

He watched as Big Joe disappeared from his sightline, and the canopy above overwhelmed his view, the endless layers of green taking over. The green flashed to a bright, all-encompassing white, and then the white collapsed to a pinprick as a never-ending ocean of black took over.