A Different Land

by Paul Jennings

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Christopher.

  Crayfish reached over and opened the passenger door. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and pushed. Christopher was firmly ejected. He landed on his feet, just managing to stay upright.

  There was a crunching of gears and the truck started to move.

  Christopher felt white-hot anger flush through his head. He had to know what Crayfish was up to. Where was he going? And where was Peggy? He began to run after the vehicle. He grabbed the tailgate and was dragged along. The toes of his shoes scraped through the mud. The truck slowed momentarily and he was able to pull himself up and scramble in.

  The enormity of what he was doing suddenly swept over him. He didn’t know where he was going. If he was caught he would be at the mercy of Crayfish’s anger. But it was too late. They were on their way.

  The back of the truck was bare except for an empty backpack. There was no window between the front cabin and the tray so Crayfish wouldn’t be able to catch sight of him in his rear-vision mirror. He was safe. For now.

  But it was no use pretending. He had done something stupid.

  He was soaking wet but the air was warm. So unlike what he was used to – rain falling in the winter the way it should, not in the summer like this weird place.

  The rain outside was a thick curtain, stopping him from seeing more than a few feet away.

  The truck bumped along the narrow track, splashing through puddles and wheel ruts. At times it groaned up winding hills but after about an hour it began to descend. His view was only out of the back of the truck. He longed to see more of where he was. Could he risk it?

  There was a sudden break in the rain. Through the trees he could see that they were moving along the side of a valley. They were slightly above a river, which was wide and flowing strongly. He stuck his head out of the back of the truck and looked towards the front. Far in the distance he could see a grey sea beneath a dark sky.

  Without warning the truck stopped. The engine died and the boy heard the squeal of a handbrake being applied.

  He heard Crayfish speak. ‘Come here, Lonely. Come here, boy.’

  Christopher had to get out before he was discovered. He jumped to the ground, stumbled and fell. He scrambled into the thick, wet rainforest and lay on his stomach, not daring to breathe.

  Finally, he gained the courage to raise himself and peer through the undergrowth. Crayfish was staring at the river. He turned and looked in Christopher’s direction. The boy sank down, not daring to move again.

  After a few more minutes he heard the engine start. The truck began to move. He jumped to his feet but the truck was already gaining speed. He began to run after it. But it was useless.

  ‘Stop,’ he yelled. ‘Stop.’

  The truck did not stop. In just a few seconds everything had changed. He was alone in the middle of a dense forest. With no food. And no one to help. He began walking along the muddy track in the direction taken by the truck. The track ran alongside the river, which was wide and deep. He walked along carefully, trying to avoid the flooded wheel ruts.

  His head began to spin and his legs ached. For a moment the world seemed to take on a dreamlike, impossible reality. He stared at the river. Something was wrong. Something was out of place. Then it clicked.

  It was flowing backwards. Away from the sea.

  At that moment the rain began to fall again. The drenching, warm rain.

  He stumbled on. And on. And on. Several hours passed. His feet were sore inside his sodden shoes. His trousers rubbed his thighs like sheets of sandpaper. He breathed with loud, panting gasps.

  Still no sign of the truck. The river was no longer in view but he could hear its strong, gurgling flow off to his left. To his right the forest rose almost vertically: a rocky, green wall of lush plants cut by tumbling, splashing streams.

  And then, just as he was about to collapse and give up, the track dipped and widened into a small clearing surrounded by large gum trees. And there was the truck. Parked by the river with its front wheels in the rising water. Surely Crayfish had not left it like that?

  A quick glance showed him that Crayfish’s backpack was gone. Instead, hanging up on a rope in the back of the truck were about a dozen dresses. Women’s clothes.

  Now his suspicions were confirmed. There was a woman here. And Crayfish was moving her out.

  Seven

  Christopher turned his attention back to the river, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. Many of the trees were growing out of the water, which was still slowly surging in the wrong direction, carrying logs and tangled root balls upstream.

  He suddenly became aware of something on the edge of his vision. It was so out of place that he hesitated to look directly at it.

  There was something in one of the trees.

  The swollen river lapped high up the trunk. A rough ladder made of planks was nailed to it.

  And there, held aloft by the gnarled fingers of its spreading branches, was … a large fishing boat.

  A boat stuck in a tree. Christopher’s mind reeled. He fought for clarity. Think. Think. Take stock. Don’t panic.

  The same strength that had once led him to dive off a passenger ship to save Anton now clicked into place. Think. And then act.

  The boat was in good shape, considering where it was. The whole of the front half had been freshly painted while the rear section, which was higher off the ground, was peeling and faded. The main damage seemed to be a spot just below the portholes, where a branch had punctured the wooden hull. It resembled an arm punched through a wall by an angry man.

  The rain was still falling steadily and the river seemed to be swirling rather than flowing. The water had now reached halfway up the front wheels of the truck, which was clearly in danger of being swallowed. He hesitated. He could try to start the motor but he had never driven a truck before.

  ‘Crayfish,’ he yelled. ‘Crayfish. Come and move the truck.’ He screamed over and over but there was no reply.

  Christopher ran to the river and began to wade into the water. It was soon up to his waist, then his armpits as he neared the tree. The powerful current was pulling at his legs. He strode forward and just managed to grab one of the nailed planks. He began scrambling and in no time was in the branches. He crawled along an outstretched branch and dropped onto the deck.

  He looked around, now calm. Assessing the situation. Ready for the worst. What if Peggy was really dead? But still here? In this boat?

  Images of mummies and dead bodies floated through his mind. He shook the thoughts away and looked around the deck.

  Apart from a broken mast and the hole in its side, the fishing boat seemed to be well cared for. Everything was in its place, with coils of rope ready for use. Christopher noticed a few steps leading up to a bridge and two more descending to a closed cabin door.

  A wooden hatch cover had been removed from its place over the hold. The opening had a temporary canvas stretched over it.

  Stacked by the railing were a number of household items, all drenched by the rain. There was a small stool. A painting of a vase of flowers. A gilded mirror. And a box of women’s shoes.

  He quickly walked down the two steps to the cabin and stepped inside.

  It was deserted. Off to one side was a small door with the word GALLEY written on it.

  He looked around for any sign of Crayfish but there was none. The floor sloped slightly, making it feel as if the boat had been caught side-on by a giant wave. He noted every feature: a table bolted to the floor, a map pinned on the wall, a brass compass fixed to a bench and one double bed.

  But most obvious was the branch that had punched through the side of the boat. It had been sawn off neatly and the stump filled the hole like a plug.

  On a small bench was a picture of a pretty young woman in a wedding dress. She was holding the hand of her new husband, smiling for the camera. The groom had a beard and a full head of black hair. Two decorative candles stood next to the fra
me.

  Christopher picked up the photograph. He was sure that he had seen the man before. With a flash of insight, he realised. It was Crayfish. Younger, but definitely Crayfish.

  The cabin had many feminine touches. The kitchen table was covered in a gingham cloth set out for two people with fine plates decorated with flowers. A frilly nightdress was draped over a chair. An open cupboard revealed a half-full rack of pretty dresses.

  The whole room reminded him of something but he couldn’t quite bring it to mind. It was more like a tiny chapel than a cabin. A shrine, perhaps?

  He pushed the thought out of his head and peered through the porthole. It was still raining heavily. The forest was dark, even though the day was not yet half over. Some coloured birds were sheltering from the rain in the nearby branches. The tree swayed and the boat moved gently with it.

  Where was Crayfish? He had to tell him that the truck was in danger of being swamped. He pushed open the galley door and gasped. Crayfish was sitting on a small chair wrapping a torn sheet around his left leg. Blood was already seeping through the cloth. He had clearly broken his leg and was splinting it.

  Lonely, who was curled up on the floor, looked up happily as the boy entered.

  Crayfish seemed confused. He shook his head in despair. He held up a warning hand and finished tying off the torn sheet. Then he spoke.

  ‘Help me up on deck,’ he said. He stood and put one arm around the boy’s neck. Together they hobbled through the cabin and out into the rain.

  They both stared over the edge of the boat. The water had risen so high that only the top of the truck could be seen. Below them, on the trunk of the tree, just six or seven rungs of the ladder were showing above the surface.

  ‘It’s too late,’ groaned Crayfish. ‘We’ll never get to the shore.’

  Christopher took a step backwards towards the canvas cover over the hold.

  ‘Don’t step on that,’ ordered Crayfish, ‘or you’ll go straight down.’

  The boat was now bobbing about, held in the air by the branches as if it were at sea in a swell. The treetops surrounded it like a heaving ocean.

  ‘Take me below,’ Crayfish said. ‘There’s nothing we can do up here.’

  They struggled back towards the cabin. At times Crayfish winced in pain.

  Once they were inside, the sound of the storm lessened.

  ‘What do we do now?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  ‘Wait for the tide to peak and then subside.’

  ‘What if—’

  Crayfish cut him off. ‘Don’t go thinking the worst. The last king tide was the highest we’ve ever had. This one won’t be as bad.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing,’ said Crayfish. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea and then we’ll talk.’

  Eight

  Christopher handed Crayfish a cup of tea. The weary man nodded his thanks.

  ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we can do but wait. So now, tell me what’s on your mind. Why have you followed me?’

  ‘You’ve been flirting with my mother,’ said Christopher. ‘And your wife is still alive.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Crayfish.

  ‘You told Mum that your wife drowned and her body was never found.’

  Crayfish nodded. ‘So?’

  ‘So, The Bot said that you visit her every Wednesday. And today is Wednesday.’

  Crayfish released a deep sigh and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘I only wish she was here,’ he said.

  Christopher pointed to the dresses in the cupboard.

  ‘They’re hers, aren’t they?’

  Crayfish nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Where is she, then?’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ said Crayfish. ‘Your mother is a fine person, but I’m no use to anyone yet.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘Getting Peggy’s things off the boat. Before …’ He didn’t seem able to say the words. Instead he waved a hand at the pictures and the candles and the other precious objects.

  ‘I wanted to get her things ashore before …’

  ‘Before the boat goes down,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Don’t think that,’ said Crayfish. His voice began to tremble. ‘Look. Peggy drowned. And it was my fault. She got swept overboard. She came to help me get the boat upstream before the king tide hit. I never should have let her. I’ve been coming here ever since. I just can’t forget her. I can’t move on.’

  Crayfish held his head in his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this. But you’ve got the wrong idea. I miss her so much. She used to sing while she worked.’

  Christopher was no stranger to grief. He had lost a brother and a father. But he didn’t know what to say.

  Tears began to well in the man’s eyes.

  ‘When she died I sort of froze,’ he said. ‘It ripped my guts out. It fried my brains.’

  He pointed to his head. ‘I lost all my hair in one week.’

  Christopher scratched his own bald head. Their eyes met and, in that moment, something changed. Something was shared.

  ‘Sometimes I have a day when I don’t think about my father,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Not me,’ said Crayfish. ‘I’ll never get over Peggy. I never have a day like that.’

  They continued to talk as the river rose and the storm raged. Christopher’s attitude towards Crayfish had changed. But he still felt the need to protect his mother. He didn’t want her to fall for a man who still loved someone else. Even if that person was dead.

  The boat gave a shudder. Crayfish limped over to the porthole and peered out.

  ‘The river is right up,’ he yelled. ‘Almost to the boat.’ He threw a life jacket to Christopher. ‘Put this on,’ he said.

  Rolls of thunder shook the forest. The branches outside began to sway and thrash. Lightning flashes lit up the porthole. The boat rose and fell with the branches. The sound of the river below grew louder.

  ‘Look,’ said Christopher.

  They both stared through the glass. A huge cloud-like wall floated past the porthole.

  ‘Struth,’ said Crayfish. ‘It’s a caravan.’ He looked wildly at Christopher. ‘Can you swim?’

  Christopher smiled proudly. ‘I saved Anton when he was drowning in the Atlantic.’

  Everything began to tremble. The teacups rattled in protest. The whole vessel suddenly lurched to one side and they were both flung across the floor. The boat began to rock and then suddenly, like a released cork, it lurched upwards and settled.

  ‘We’re afloat,’ yelled Crayfish. He grabbed Lonely with one arm and placed the other around Christopher’s shoulder. He winced as he put pressure on his injured leg. But despite this and the desperate situation they were in, he tried to add some humour.

  ‘Quick,’ he said, giving Lonely’s paw a little squeeze. ‘All hands on deck.’

  Together they made their way out of the cabin. The rain was lashing across the boat. The wind screamed in fury. An unimaginable sight revealed itself. The river was now a swirling lake. Fallen trees and logs spun like floating matchsticks. A half-submerged fishing shack slid by.

  The boat was in the middle of it all, rocking from side to side helplessly.

  ‘Can’t you start the motor?’ said Christopher.

  Crayfish shook his head. ‘It’s in pieces,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we can do at the moment. It’s too dangerous to risk leaving the boat. We’ll be okay unless …’ He didn’t finish the sentence. He stared over the side.

  ‘Unless what?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Unless that branch pulls out of the hole.’

  Christopher followed his gaze. The branch sticking through the boat had broken away from the tree and was trailing along behind them.

  ‘What if it does?’ said Christopher.

  ‘We�
��ll be swept downstream when the tide turns and she’ll sink for sure.’

  ‘Can’t you drop anchor?’ said Christopher.

  Crayfish shook his head and said nothing. They both knew it was still sitting on the railway platform.

  And then, as suddenly and quickly as it had started, the rain stopped. The sun broke through grey clouds. Now they could see the size of their problem.

  ‘I can’t swim with a broken leg,’ said Crayfish. ‘But even if I could, I can’t leave you here. Nor Lonely.’

  ‘I can make it,’ said Christopher.

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ said Crayfish.

  Christopher looked around desperately. ‘What about that hatch cover?’ he said. ‘We could use it as a raft.’

  Crayfish nodded. ‘That’s what it’s for,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘But once the tide turns the river will become raging rapids. We’ll either be capsized or washed out to sea.’ He stared at the broken branch, which was still intact.

  But at that very moment there was the sound of a watery explosion.

  ‘The branch has gone,’ yelled Crayfish. ‘We’re sinking.’

  Nine

  Christopher rushed to the cabin door and threw it open. The water inside was already ankle-deep. A powerful jet was shooting across the room.

  He ran back on deck and stared over the edge. The boat was settling.

  ‘Someone might come,’ he said.

  They stared at the empty shore and the treetops, which seemed to be floating on the surface of the swelling water. The situation was hopeless.

  Or was it? What was that? Who was that? He blinked to clear his eyes.

  Yes. There, standing in a small clearing, were three figures. Waving.

  ‘Look,’ shouted Christopher. ‘It’s The Bot. And Mum. And Anton.’

  Crayfish leapt to his feet excitedly and then screamed. He grasped his left leg. Christopher could see blood seeping through his fingers. Crayfish stood, trembling, his face white, his eyes rolling. Suddenly he collapsed onto the deck. He lay unconscious on his back. Lonely started licking his master’s face.