by Kovacs, Jase
***
We pass through a room holding an enormous artillery cannon. It sits on a slide that would project it though a sealed iron door that fill the far end of the room. Two men work at a table covered with rifle cartridges. The bronze cases are dull with green corrosion which they scrub away with steel wool. When the bullet is clean, they sort it into piles organised by calibre.
"We don't have time to look," my guide says but he doesn't stop me as I examine the big gun. I've seen its type before scattered around the Pacific, rusting in New Ireland and Peliliu. It's a 4" naval gun, taken from a Japanese destroyer and set in a land emplacement. The doors and the slide are more elaborate than most; I imagine the doors shielded it from enemy fire until it slid forward to speak in its own voice. But the years have not been kind; the slide, gun and carriage have long fused into one solid block of rust.
The men look at me with dull, empty eyes. Ammunition tins covered in Japanese writing sit at their feet. The outsides of the tins are muddy and marked from nearly a century spent wrapped inside oil cloths, but the bullets, once they are cleaned of the surface corrosion, look nearly as new as they did when they left the armouries of Imperial Japan.
***
We enter the back of an open cave that faces the setting sun. A long river of gold ridged with ranks of waves advancing like waves of infantry. At least now I know the time of day. Still, I have no idea how long I spent in that cell. Did I leave my friends yesterday? Or have days passed in that fever dream of eternal night?
"Not long until you meet him," says my guide, his tanned leathery skin golden in the dusklight. "Now you eat."
There are others here, two men and a woman eating kau-kau and fish from coconut shells. They are all whites, with filed teeth and skins ridged with old spirals of scar tissue. The Englishman avoids their eyes, and I realise they are a higher rank than he.
A small boy hands me a coconut shell filled with food, and I feel pain like a cold knife as I think of Blong. He will hate me for the way I left him – without explanation or even a simple goodbye. Slipping away while he went to Excelsior like a good crewie. No doubt he screamed blue murder at Roman when the yachts left me behind.
The Englishman scurries away, and I look up from my meal, which I have consumed without tasting, to find the woman approaching. She is tall and thin, with long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail and not one inch of her skin unmarked by a blades edge. She speaks precisely, as if she was dictating a lesson to a class of children. "So. You are the one who took Reuben's hand."
"No. That was my friend. I'm the one who shot him. On two separate occasions." The food must be restoring my strength, as I sound flippant when I ask, "How's he feeling?"
Her smile reveals teeth black from a lifetime chewing betel nut. "He hopes our Lord will give you to him as a reward."
"And what do you hope?"
"Who am I to hope? I who is nothing? Nothing but a whisper. An echo of a dying species. What I want — and what will come to pass — is as inconsequential as the wing beats of a butterfly. But those wing beats may one day raise a storm."
"So that would make them pretty damn consequential."
"What is a storm to the tree that stands a thousand years? Our earth has weathered many storms. She has shrugged off starfalls and great eruptions and the cleaving of the moon. Our passing, our eye blink of existence will be nothing more than thin layer of sediment in the geographical record. Do you think I am beautiful?"
Her stream-of-conscious philosophising leaves me nonplussed. "Is that how you wish to be measured? By your beauty? That sounds pretty narcissistic."
"Beauty is vanity and vanity is nothing but an evolutionary quirk. What I am is nothing." She stretches her arms out, inviting me to examine the white lines that crawl over her skin like snakes. Each one of these scars has been cut over and over, so that the scar tissue lies layers thick. "I want to know if you esteem beauty. If it is something you value."
The answer comes to me naturally, as if it is something I never needed to consider, but instead understood at a deep instinctual level. "I see nothing beautiful here."
The woman drops her arms and nods. She seems deeply satisfied. "Good. Good." Then she turns away, and I can tell I have disappeared from her world as completely as if I had just stepped off a cliff. "The sun is down," she says to the Englishman. "He will want to see her now."
The Englishman leads me out into the open air. Beneath us a green carpet stretches to the shoreline, and I feel a sudden wave of vertigo, not from any instinct to fall but when I realise this is the highest above sea level I have been in my life.
He turns and points up to the peak where the soaring thunderclouds shine with the mountain’s hidden fire. He is leaving me here, I realise. The climb I will do alone.
I search the gloaming and find her; Venus. The evening star, my star, picked out and gifted to me by my mother all those years ago. All of them gone; my father, my mother, Jayden, Katie. Lost to the sea, the plague, the years.
My friends too; somewhere out there. Perhaps alive, perhaps not. How deep is the pain caused by ignorance? And how easy is it to cure? A few words to tell me my loved ones are safe. No wonder we spent centuries girding the world with cables and satellites so that we would never be out of touch. And now, all of it is gone.
My friends are safe. Larry survived. Apo survived. Ken survived. Because I gave myself up. Because I did it so they could escape.
I know this. I believe this.
I have to believe this.
I turn to the fire and climb.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ZAC
There are days that shine like jewels in my memory. Days perfect in their beauty, where everything went right, recollections pure and unblemished, which end with a cool drink on a warm evening watching the sun go down.
Today will not be one of those days.
We ghost along, downwind of East Island, watching the rippling sea as the pewter dawnlight slowly reveals the reefs rimming the dark low island with hidden walls of living coral.
Enzo and I glass the shoreline together. I try to ignore the pain from where Rod hit me last night. But my jaw throbs with each heartbeat.
I ask Enzo, "What do you think?"
The far side – the windward side – of the island is beaten by white surf. The swell rolls around both sides of the island and claps together like a pair of hands. Even I can see that our plan to find calm water in the island's lee is a failure. He sucks air through his clenched teeth before tsking his tongue.
"This reef..." says Enzo finally."I think the tide, she is falling here. We are coming to springs... the full moon."
"So big tides."
"Powerful tides. And this reef – I cannot see an easy way. See here? And over here? The water comes on top. There is no passage."
I follow his outstretched finger as he points to the left and right of the island. Rows of standing waves form as the falling tide rushes over the unseen reef. "One side is too rough. And we can't reach the shore here. This is—" I struggle to find the words to capture the helplessness and frustration that bubbles within me. "If the wind was just from the other direction, everything would be fine."
"Many battles are won or lost on the shift of a wind," say Enzo, the binoculars still at his eyes. "A thousand Frenchmen died at Trafalgar because the English were lucky with the wind."
"Do you have a plan?"
"A little idea. Tell Rod to go to the port cabin. Under the bed are sacks and a shovel and iron bars. We will need them soon."
Jacka's canoes criss-cross the shallow waters ahead, searching for a hidden passage through the fringing reef. I don't realise I am touching my sore cheek until my fingers conjure muffled pain.
"Zac," says Enzo sharply. "Larry and Kev, they do not have time for you to wonder."
Now my cheeks burn with shame as I head down to the rear deck. Abella, Abigail and Auntie crouch around Larry, arguing in vicious whispers while they prepare him for his upcoming ordeal. Hi
s flesh below the tourniquet is as white as a coconut's meat and is laced with ugly blue veins like a lightning fork frozen in time.
"You said so yourself," Abigail is saying. "His leg is full of poisons. As soon as we remove the tourniquet it will flood his body and kill him from toxic shock. If we amputate, we take the poisons, we can suture the artery while the pressure is off and close it up."
"The shock of amputation will kill him!" Abella probes the vicious gash in his leg. "He's too weak already."
"His femoral is hanging on by a thread. There is nothing for you to suture. Best cut the leg and spare the body. Even if you save the leg, it will be crippled."
"I think Abella is right," says Auntie. "It is best to not cut too much."
"He’s stable right now," says Abigail.
"He's critical!" Abella doesn't stop her examination, but we can all hear the incredulity in his voice.
"Yes, but stable! You're going to plunge him into crisis when you remove the tourniquet."
"Amputation will be much worse," says Auntie.
"I forget, where did you get your medical degree from?" asks Abigail acidly.
"Hey!" Abella stops her work and stares at Abigail. I feel an ugly ball form in the pit of my stomach.
Auntie rocks back on her heels, her expression confused by Abigail's sudden turn. "I don't have a degree."
"And neither do you Abigail!" says Abella. "You're a tropical disease health worker. And Auntie—"
"I can speak for myself, Abella," says Auntie. Then, she says to Abigail, "I am a nurse."
"So I am more qualified than you," says Abigail.
"I was a nurse in Kavieng hospital before the sickness came," says Auntie with an icy dignity that overcomes her exhaustion. "I have stitched many bush knife wound. It is always better to leave the limb if you can."
"That's your opinion. And it's wrong."
"ISAAC!" roars Enzo from above. "Where are those sacks!?"
His shout brings Rod from the cabin where he had been tending to Kenzie, Jarrod and the other non-critically wounded. "What do you want?"
"Enzo says we need sacks, iron bars and shovels."
He spreads his hands impatiently. "And where are they?"
"Forward port cabin. Under the bed."
"What's he want them for?"
"I don't know. Just get them."
He swears under his breath. "Logan, come on, man. Give me a hand here."
"I can help," I say.
His lip curls with disdain. "Yeah, you’ve done plenty already, mate."
Abigail now turns to me and says, "You agree, don't you, Zac?"
"With what?"
"With what I'm saying! They're going to kill him with their stupid plan."
"Abigail..."
"Abigail, what?"
"Abella and Auntie are very experienced."
"And they're both wrong!" Her eyes shimmer, and her lips pale. I'm absurdly conscious of the white bandage around her arm and the way her skin flushes pink in her throat. "These idiots will kill him!"
The ugly ball in my stomach bursts, and I find it is filled with fire. "They've looked after our communities for years. We're going to do what they say. Goddamnit, we need to work together on this. We've already lost enough time."
"Zac, you always bend before the wind—"
"Shut up. Just shut up. We don't have time for this." I'm trembling. I don't care if its exhaustion or shock or whatever but I have just had enough. "Abella, Enzo says there is no calm water. I think he's going to beach the boat. Will that be good enough?"
I know somewhere, something in Abella must be registering that Enzo is planning to deliberately run their home of twenty years aground, but there is no catch in her voice as she says, "We'll be steady as a rock."
"If he does it right," I say.
"Will he do it right?" asks Auntie.
"Of course he will," says Abella, not unkindly. "Come on. We need to prep for surgery."
A canoe comes alongside. Jacka reaches up to hold the safety lines. He and Enzo hold a conference about the upcoming reef, shouting above the wind.
"My bags?" Enzo asks when I join him.
"Yes."
"Good. We must work quick. Jacka says there is a shallow flat patch to the right of that rock over there. I am going to put the bow against it. You and the others need to get rocks and sacks of sand under the stern to support the boat. You must protect the rudders, yes? We need to get stable, but not so hard that we cannot get off again. Tell Abella I can give her six, maybe seven hours."
"Enzo, we spent half of last night trying to get a yacht off a reef."
"He ran on at full speed. Me, I am gentle. Now stop talking and go tell Abella."
Abigail is sitting back from the others when I go back down. She looks out to sea as I come up to her.
"Abby," I start.
"Just don’t. Don't worry about me. I'll help them. But you're letting them make a mistake."
"I don't have time to get into this right now. But I love you."
She scoffs and turns further from me. For an instant I feel a helpless weightlessness about me, as if all earthly concerns were shed and I could float away in the sky. Then I remember where I am and what is at stake, and I leave her. I pass on Enzo's message to Abella.
"Good. Thank you. There are jars of vinegar in the pantry – can you get them for me?"
"Vinegar?"
"It’s acetic acid. The best antiseptic we have these days."
"I get that. But where do you get vinegar from?"
She laughs, tired, stressed and bitter, but still a laugh. "We make it from swipe. Turn that fruit wine into vinegar and use it to clean cuts. Didn't you realise?"
"Maybe I did. I pretty tired right now."
"Long day." She looks down at Larry. His lips are blue and his brow as white as the yacht's deck. His breath is barely perceptible, and his eyes flicker rapidly beneath his closed lids.
"How bad is he?" I ask.
"As bad as he can be and still live."
"Abby said he was stable."
"That's wishful thinking at best."
"What are you going to do?"
"When the boat is aground, I'm going to enlarge the wound so I can get around the bullet to repair the artery. Then I'll remove the bullet and close up. We'll gradually reduce the tourniquet pressure to allow blood back into the leg and hopefully dilute the toxic shock. If that sounds like a long shot, that’s because it is."
I nod tightly. "I'm sure you'll do it."
"At least one of us is. Go get me that vinegar."
Rod and Logan come out of the cabin. Rod holds a shovel and an iron rod as long as a man is tall, and Logan carries a double armful of empty twenty kilo rice sacks.
"The plan is—" I say.
"Don’t waste your breath, champ. I'll hear it from Enzo."
I get out of their way and head down to the galley. I put half a dozen jam jars, covered with cheesecloth to let the acid breathe, on a tray and bring them out onto deck. Abella, Auntie and Abigail kneel by Larry as they lay out their instruments. There is no argument as Abigail asks a question of Abella, and she directs her where to place the tools. Abigail gives me a quick glance as I come on deck, then turns back to her task without a reaction.
There is a subtle yet definite scrape as Fidelio touches the bottom. I look out over the side of the boat; her bow presses on a sandbank against the reef. Waves break to the left and right of the island, but we’re sheltered here so long as the wind stays in the south east. The surviving canoes pull up on the bank, and their crews splash over to help.
Rod and Logan hand out the sacks and drop over the side into the waist deep water. Logan smashes big chunks of coral and rock free from the reef with the iron bar. Others help him stack them under Fidelio's port stern. Rod shovels sand into the sacks which Luke and Memafu pile around the ridder and propeller on the starboard stern. Faint wakes form around their legs as the falling tide exposes more of Fidelio's waterline. Her bo
w is hard against the sandbank, and she tips as her stern lowers with the outgoing water.
"Faster!" shouts Rod. "We need to support the stern, or she'll just slide back off the reef."
Abella holds a scalpel like a pen, poised above Larry’s leg as she waits for the boat to settle. Abigail sits to her right with a pair of forceps. Auntie is opposite with a set of spreaders in each hand. Enzo holds Larry's legs by the ankles. There is a slight tremor in the deck as sand slides beneath her bow then Rod yells, "We're hard on starboard!"
"Port, almost!" cries Logan.
"I can't wait any longer," says Abella. "Zac, hold his shoulders. Abigail, remember, if the artery severs, you need to clamp it before it retracts into his groin."
Abigail nods curtly. "Got it."
"Okay." Abella takes a deep breath. She stills the tremor in her exhausted hands with an effort of will. "Okay. Let's begin."
She dips the scalpel into the neat bullet wound. With a firm, sure stroke, she draws it up towards Larry’s groin, lengthening the bullet wound until it is a gash four inches long.
Larry's eyes whip open as she draws the blade through his flesh. His shoulders heave, and I throw my weight on him. Enzo does likewise, pinning him to the deck. Larry screams loud enough to make my ears ring. I fight the instinctive urge to jump away, as if I was the one hurting him. I lean in, so he can see me, so he can focus on me, so he has someone to look at because otherwise he will try to look at what they are doing down there.
Auntie plunges the spreaders into the cut. She opens them to expose muscle that is as pale as a clam's flesh. It is like they are dissecting a corpse that has lain for years in preserving spirits. Except this corpse screams and screams and fights against us, trying to rise and flee.
"We need more men!" shouts Abella. She reaches into the wound with a pair of forceps, tracing the bullet's path to find where it presses against the artery. "The bullet is... not where I thought."
Auntie works the second set of spreaders into the wound. Larry’s scream covers my face with spittle. He stares beseechingly at me before losing his focus, looking at something beyond me, hovering over my head. His brow creases like he is trying to solve a puzzle. Then the fight goes out of him. His eyes close and his body goes limp.