Matilda's Last Waltz by Tamara McKinley

into his thigh before punching a hole in his hip. The pain would soon be all-consuming and the blood loss much too rapid for him to stay here any longer.
    He eyed the dead soldier. He was small and lightly built. Shouldn’t pose too much of a problem. Coming to a swift decision, Mervyn grabbed him and slung him over his shoulder. Using his rifle as a walking stick, he hobbled to the mouth of the cave. Guns were still going off on the Turkish side, lights still flickered in the hospital tent, and the command centre was alive with scurrying runners and shouted orders.
    Mervyn hitched the man from his shoulder to his back, looping the dead arms around his neck, grasping the lifeless hands to his throat. He would make a perfect shield if a stray bullet came over the hill.
    The steep climb down to the hospital tent had been agonising, but his arrival amongst the chaos had a gratifying effect – just as he’d known it would. He was the returning hero. Wounded, he’d risked his life for a cobber. He’d almost laughed when they solemnly told him his mate was dead, and looked at him with pity.
    Mervyn came back to the present and stared into the sun. They’d given him a medal, and after many months in hospital, his ticket home. Luck and cunning had saved him that night, just as they would now – for there on the horizon was Lady.
    He smiled as the grey mare galloped up to him. Catching the dangling reins, he remounted the brumby and spurred him into a gallop. If Matilda had been thrown, it wouldn’t take long to find her.
    *   *   *
    With the sinking of the sun came the long, cool shadows, and with stumbling relief Matilda thrust her way through the clinging undergrowth and sought shelter beneath the canopy of trees. It hurt to breathe, to move, even to think. She was exhausted.
    The bush sounds were all around her as she leaned against a tree trunk for a moment’s respite, but it was the splash and trickle of water that drew her on again. There was no time to rest but she could wash and refill the water bag before moving on and the thought of that cold clean mountain fall revived her flagging spirits.
    The waterfall began high up in the mountain, gushing down, gathering other springs along the way, until it fell hundreds of feet into the rocky valley below. Yet, as Matilda finally emerged from the dense, green light of the hinterland, she realised it was sadly depleted by the lack of rain. The water that trickled down the worn, glistening rocks was barely enough to fill the pools below. Great tree roots lay in naked arthritic tangles where once they’d been submerged. Forest ferns drooped scorched fronds, and thick ropes of withered ivy hung listlessly from creaking, parched wattle and King Billy pines.
    Matilda climbed down to a broad, flat stone that jutted above one of the rock pools, and pulled off her boots. She didn’t bother to undress, she was filthy and so were the remains of her clothes. As she lowered herself into the icy water, she shivered with pleasure. The blisters on her feet would soon heal, the scorch of the sun on her exposed arms would soon turn brown.
    She closed her eyes and held her nose, then sank below the surface of the water. The dirt and sweat lifted away. The pain between her legs dulled in the icy caress. Her hair floated and her parched skin was replenished.
    Emerging with a gasp, she cupped her hands and drank deeply before refilling the water bag. The birds which had fallen silent on her arrival were now in full song, and she gazed up into the surrounding trees. This had always been a special place. A place where Mary had told her about unicorns and fairies and the little people she’d called leprechauns. As Matilda looked around her, she could almost believe they existed – but harsh reality had a way of making such stories a nonsense.
    She dragged herself reluctantly from the water and pulled on her boots. Wincing as the leather