by Anna Romer
‘It seems a long way.’ Orah hoped he hadn’t noticed the wobble in her voice.
‘We’ll stop this afternoon and make camp. Don’t worry, it’s not as far as it looks.’ Warra’s gaze travelled over the landscape. ‘You see that rocky hilltop, up there?’
Orah nodded.
‘When I was a little kid, I learned to hunt in those trees. I know every stone, every gully and fern. Every anthill. The birds, all of it. It’s part of me, this land. When I see myself reflected in the water, or in a glass, I don’t see a face. I see—’ He gestured across the treetops. ‘All this.’
Orah tried to tear her gaze off him, but his words had cast a spell. Curious, magical words that summoned a night sky full of stars, a drift of fire smoke, and a sunny morning filled with birdsong and the strange harsh laughter of kingfishers.
‘How can a person look at their own reflection and not see a face?’ she said at last.
Warra’s mouth twitched. ‘You don’t look with your eyes.’
Orah blinked at him. A million questions rose inside her mind like a froth of bubbles. ‘What do you mean, not look with your eyes?’
The early sunlight illuminated his face, burnishing the proud cheekbones and full mouth, painting shadows around his eyes. Orah liked his face. There was strength in the way his bones sat beneath the skin, but his smile was always changing. Sometimes it was cheeky, teasing. Other times it seemed almost sad.
‘You open up,’ he said, turning to her. ‘Like dancing, feeling free. A good feeling inside. Then you look around with soft eyes, not at any one thing, but all things at once. Forget what your eyes see. See with your heart.’
A tingle flew up her spine. Her froth of questions ebbed away. A strange knowing stillness settled over her. His words – his beautiful, mystifying words – had not made sense. At least, not rational sense. But behind the words, perhaps carried by the solemnity of his voice, she sensed a deeper meaning. It did not yet unfold for her, remaining closed like a dark flower, its petals folded tight, its nucleus hidden from sight. Yet she could almost see it. Almost grasp it.
‘See with your heart,’ she whispered, marvelling over the mystery and beauty of the words. I will learn, she decided. I will remember this moment. Make it a part of me. I will set aside everything I know about the world, and instead learn to see this way.
Goose bumps prickled on the back of her neck and spread over her scalp. She shivered, her determination of a moment ago giving way to a sense of premonition. See with your heart. The words rang in her mind, no longer a mystery . . . but a sign.
Closing her eyes, she thought of Mam, and instantly Mam was there. Then she thought of Pa, but was disappointed when he failed to show. She sighed and opened her eyes.
‘I suppose I need practice.’
Warra’s warm laugh echoed in her ears. His smile was friendly, and Orah found herself looking at him and away, then back again as if she’d never really looked at him before. Yes, she liked his face, with its deep brown eyes and strong features. Most of all she liked his smile; it was wide and forthright and gave her tingles, and it made her want to smile back. Perhaps that was what he meant by seeing with your heart.
‘Come on,’ Warra said, nudging his arm against hers, ‘let’s catch up with Nala. She’ll be wondering where we are.’
Nala was waiting by a fence. It was post and wire, and ran in a straight line alongside a bushy stand of gum trees, travelling parallel to a dirt track for a way, before cutting across it.
‘Old Mister’s land,’ Warra said, as they joined Nala at the fence.
Nala pointed to a distant ridge, dark purple against the shimmering blue horizon. ‘That’s where we want to go. Less than an hour’s walk if we cut through Old Mister’s place. Almost a full day if we go around.’
Orah was dismayed. ‘Another day?’
Nala nodded, but she was smiling. ‘Two, if we dawdle.’
‘What’ll we do?’
Nala’s smile widened. ‘Cut through, of course.’
Orah hesitated. ‘But isn’t it—’
Dangerous, she had been about to say. The last time they had come this way, Warra had woken her in the night, dragging her from her grass bed. They had left behind their camp and fled into the dark, away from gruff men’s voices. And gunfire.
‘Come on,’ Nala said, giving her a mischievous smile. ‘Race you.’ She darted through the wire, and began to run on the other side, dodging saplings and shrubs as she headed for the dirt track. Warra was already ducking between the wires. He beckoned to Orah as he followed his sister.
Orah gazed first one way and then the other along the fence line, as if it were a busy city street she was about to cross. They were miles from civilisation, a long way from any houses or roads. The only sounds were birds and insects and the occasional distant thump as a wallaby pounded unseen through the undergrowth somewhere nearby.
Swallowing her unease, she slipped through the fencing wire as her friends had done and raced after them.
Some time later, the track widened and they rounded a bend. The trees thinned, and the sun climbed the sky. The morning grew hot. Orah dawdled a little way behind her friends, stopping occasionally to inspect a wildflower or fallen cluster of gumnuts. She was removing her cardigan when a deafening shot split the quiet.
Gunfire.
She stumbled, and in the moment it took her to steady herself, a terrible quaking engulfed her. Wide-eyed, she looked at Warra, who had frozen on the path just ahead of her, his shoulders tense, his face set in a frown. Orah could tell he was listening, because he began to swivel his gaze, taking in the open ground around the track and then sweeping across the trees behind them. Only his head moved, while his body remained rigid.
Orah could hear nothing. Her ears still rang from the echo of the shot. Instinct told her to run and hide, but her legs trembled so violently the best she could do was keep herself upright.
Warra lifted his arm and beckoned to her with his fingers. Orah began to move quietly along the track. She had only gone a few steps when another shot shattered the stillness, followed by what sounded like thunder.
Orah whirled around. Through the trees, she glimpsed a horse charging along the fence line. Its hoofs kicked up clods of grass and earth, and the musky animal odour of its sweaty flanks was sharp in the pine-scented bush. The horse was too far away to see the rider clearly but as she watched, the man raised his rifle and took aim. Orah stumbled backwards, knowing she must get to her friends, but when she turned to run she tripped on a clump of grass and crashed to the ground. Pain tore through her ankle and she clenched her jaw to stop herself crying out.
There was another shot, frighteningly close, followed by a scream. Orah flinched, pressing herself as low as possible against the ground, clawing her fingernails into the dirt. Her body trembled so badly she was unable to draw breath. In her head, the scream echoed. She couldn’t be sure whether it had been her own or someone else’s.
The thunder of hooves grew fainter. Orah’s heartbeat hammered in her ears. Powdery dust filled her nostrils and mouth and stuck to the wet patches around her eyes. Moments later, a fourth shattering report echoed across the sky. Orah cringed into herself, weak with relief when she realised that the sound had come from further away.
Then, in the silence, another scream.
Orah sprang up, but her ankle blazed with pain, forcing her to lurch shakily along the track. Ahead, two figures huddled in the shadow of a giant ironbark tree.
Not huddled, she saw now. One lay prone. Warra, on his back, and his shirt, the one Edwin had given him, the shirt he had been so proud to own, was no longer white, but stained with large wet blotches of reddish black.
‘No. Oh please, no.’
Warra lay so still. Nala huddled over him, crying his name. By the time Orah reached them, Nala had slumped onto Warra’s chest, her muffled cries cutting gashes in the brightness of the morning.
‘Warra!’ Orah went to her knees, shaking him.
Nala was weeping more quietly now, a low keening. Orah dragged in a frightened breath. Warra needed help. He needed a doctor. The patches of blood on his shirt were quickly spreading, soaking the fabric, joining into one enormous wet stain over his heart.
Oh no. Please, no—
Orah forced the words through her clamped jaw.
‘Run and get Edwin,’ she instructed Nala. ‘I’ve hurt my ankle. You’ll be faster. Tell him what’s happened. Tell him to come at once.’
Nala stared as if she’d never seen Orah before. Her eyes were blank with terror, wide and dark as those of a trapped possum. Orah wanted to shake her, to make sure she understood, but she didn’t want to release her hold on Warra.
‘Nala,’ she said more slowly, desperate to make her friend understand. ‘Run to Bitterwood. Do you hear me? Run as fast as you can. Tell Edwin to come.’
Finally, Nala nodded. She bent over Warra, pressing her lips to the side of his face. Orah thought she meant to kiss him, but instead she began to murmur, her tears dripping on his cheeks, streaking through the dust like rain. Nala released her brother and got to her feet. Without looking back, she staggered along the track for a way, and then veered into the trees.
It was only when she disappeared behind a dense thicket of scrub that Orah realised the girl was heading the wrong way. Not back towards Bitterwood at all, but westwards towards her home.
‘Nala!’ she yelled, clutching Warra’s motionless arms. ‘Where are you going? Come back, you have to get Edwin. Nala! Please, come back!’
Nala did not return. The sky grew bright, and one by one, the lorikeets and finches, the wrens and butcherbirds began to fill the air with their song. Orah might have slept. An uneasy doze, where shadows pressed in from all sides and the smallest sounds – falling leaves, the shiver of windblown grass, the furtive call of a raven – echoed loudly in her ears, keeping time with the ragged thunder of her pulse. It seemed wrong to shut her eyes, but shock and fear had immobilised her. All she could do was wait – for Nala to return . . . or for the men with guns to circle back along the track.
For Edwin.
She drifted in and out of wakefulness. Warra’s hand was clutched tight in her own, her head rested on his chest. His blood felt sticky against her cheek, mingling with the hot wetness of her tears. Her ankle throbbed, a white-hot ball of pain, but it seemed inconsequential compared to the horrible knotting, writhing thing that had taken up residence in her chest.
Warra stirred. ‘Orah?’
His voice was a dry leaf scratching on sand. At first she thought she’d imagined it. Then his fingers curled ever so gently around hers.
Propping up on an elbow, she looked at him. His eyes were open. She released his hand, and placed her palms on either side of his face, gazing down at him.
‘You’re alive,’ she whispered. ‘Oh Warra, I thought . . . I thought you were—’ Her voice choked off. Leaning over him, she brought her face close to his. Her hair formed a curtain around them, its golden strands clotted with Warra’s blood. Dappled light touched his skin, painting honey-coloured streaks on his jaw and throat. Orah drank in the sight of him, before locking her gaze with his. She could see the small oval of her face reflected in the dark depths of his eyes.
‘Orah,’ he said again.
‘You’ll be all right, Warra.’ She took a breath, praying with all her might that she spoke the truth. ‘Nala has gone for help. She’s gone to your family, Warra. Do you understand? She’ll bring someone to help you. You’ll be all right.’
‘I’m cold, Orah. Will you—’ His lips moved, but no sound left his mouth. It didn’t matter. Orah understood.
Gently, she kissed his cheek and then lay down beside him, her face resting against his. She slid one arm under his neck and draped the other carefully over his ribs, below where the ragged wound continued to bleed its darkness into the fabric of his shirt.
‘I’m here, Warra. I won’t ever leave you. I promise.’
Orah.
He may have whispered her name, or it might have been the wind ruffling the grass, or the leaves in the trees sighing in sorrow. At that moment, it seemed to Orah quite natural that the world around them grieved, just as she grieved.
‘I’m here,’ she said again, her throat thick. ‘I won’t leave you, Warra. I’m here. I’ll always be here. With you, my dear friend. Always with you.’
Somewhere in the canopy above her, a kookaburra alighted in a high branch. The branch creaked as the heavy bird came to rest, and a shower of dry leaves rained down. Throwing back its head, the bird began to laugh . . . the same crazed laughter Orah had heard that first morning after the shipwreck. She huddled protectively over Warra. If only another type of bird had come to serenade them. A magpie or a butcherbird, whose songs were sweet and melodic.
A shiver rippled through her. As if in answer, Warra shivered too. He let out a sigh that sounded like her name. He shivered again, and then stillness settled over him.
Orah clasped his body tight against hers. She shut her eyes.
She’d been wrong. The bird in the branches above them wasn’t laughing. There was no joy in the sound, no gaiety. Rather, it seemed to shriek in distress. As she cringed, trembling over Warra’s body, the bird’s strange call seemed to her the saddest, most desolate noise she had ever heard.
The afternoon was slipping away. Shadows crowded under the trees and the air grew cold. A group of men approached Orah, but did not look at her. They were very dark, and wore dusty faded clothes. Gathering around Warra’s body, they murmured among themselves. Orah watched one of the men kneel by Warra’s head and touch the patch of shirt where blood was seeping. He let out a moan, and covered his eyes with his hand. After a while, he gathered Warra into his arms and staggered away.
Orah followed, crying out, but a strong hand gripped her shoulder, forcing her to stand still. She tried to tear herself away, but the steely fingers, strangely gentle despite the force on her shoulder, held firm. When the man carrying Warra’s body disappeared into the trees ahead of her, she crumpled onto the ground.
A man kneeled beside her. His skin was very dark, a terrain of wrinkled folds dotted with freckles and grey patches of beard. The wiry hair that framed his face was the colour of ash, giving him a strange fierceness that made Orah afraid.
‘Who did this?’ the man asked.
Orah shook her head, struggling to find her voice, but all she could think of was Warra disappearing into the bush ahead of her, and the gap widening between them, and her fear that they would take him far away and she would never see him again.
Please, she wanted to say. I want to go with him. Let me follow, don’t leave me here.
The man shook his head, as though he had heard her silent words. ‘Go home.’
‘I can’t walk.’
Orah pointed to her ankle, which had swollen into a purple lump. The man studied her foot for a long time.
‘Who did this?’ he asked again.
Orah swallowed, a bitter taste filling her mouth.
‘I don’t know,’ she said hoarsely, but then added, ‘Old Mister.’
The man’s face turned hard. He glared around at his companions, and murmurs rippled among them. Yet when he looked back at Orah, his eyes were kind again.
‘You have to go home.’
He stood and strode away into the trees and began to walk in circles, looking down at the ground as if searching for something. Finally, he crouched and plucked something from a small bush. A handful of stems and leaves, Orah thought. These he pushed into his mouth and began to chew.
He hurried back and crouched beside Orah. Spitting the contents of his mouth into his hands, he gently massaged the green pulp into Orah’s ankle. He took a strip of what looked like animal hide from the pouch at his waist, and wrapped it neatly over the poultice, binding it around Orah’s foot.
He spoke in his language to the other men. They seemed disg
runtled, frowning and talking angrily, glancing uneasily at Orah. Then, to Orah’s surprise, the ash-haired man lifted her easily into his arms and, with a nod to his fellows, strode back along the track in the direction of Bitterwood.
Several hours must have passed, Orah could not be sure. She dozed, and when she awoke, the sun had rolled across the sky and settled on the horizon, and they had reached the edge of the orchard.
24
Bitterwood, June 1993
The storm had vanished in the night. The sea was calm, the sky cloudless blue. Driftwood and kelp littered the shore, but they were the only signs that the storm had ever been. As we rode back to Bitterwood, I held tight to Morgan, resting the side of my helmet against his back, watching the ocean appear and disappear between the trees as Morgan manoeuvred the Harley around the sharp bends of the road.
My lips felt bruised, my body strangely heavy. Images of the night before – of Morgan’s face in the firelight, his grey eyes and hesitant smile – flooded my mind’s eye, but I pushed them away. In the flickering darkness of the little cave, held warm through the night in Morgan’s arms, it had been easy to pretend that the rest of the world did not exist. But now, as the sun began to rise into a flawless blue sky, the illusion vanished.
Passion doesn’t last.
On the other side of the globe in London, Adam would be brewing his last coffee of the day, thinking of me as he always did before bed. Gazing out his window at Camden Lock, perhaps remembering the day we had stumbled laughing from the markets and eaten lunch on the canal side, tossing chips to the overfed seagulls. That fragile blue summer day beside the water had been one of our happiest. It seemed forever ago, but was just a few months before Edwin’s letter arrived. Before I had allowed the first doubts to chip away at the solid foundations Adam and I had worked so hard to build.
Friendship is what makes a marriage.