An ocean of stars.
For a long time my head lay on his saddle patch by his top sail like a pillow as I gazed at the abundance of life in the universe. This time I wasn’t afraid of the immenseness. Its energy flowed through us. No words could harm me; no memories could come between us.
Afterward, I found myself standing on the beach, watching his defiant black sail fade into the morning fog. I opened my lips to call out, but there was no need for it.
27.
After I got dressed, I joined Papa at the Gordon Arms Café for breakfast. I picked up the festival edition of the Hook & Harpoon in the lobby on the way.
“Listen to this,” I said, reading from the paper. “‘Famous author visits Paradise…Henry Handel Richardson and his wife, Ethel, will anchor in Reflect Bay this weekend as guests of Lady Alice Hawthorn aboard the SS Galileo.’”
“Who’s that?” Papa asked.
“He wrote The Getting of Wisdom, the book Sam gave me. Maybe he can help us protect the orcas.”
Bad as things were, Papa didn’t like strangers getting involved in local business. The killers would be fine, he said. The more questions I asked, the itchier he got. Finally, he asked me along to deliver six barrels of Sam’s oil to the lighthouse.
I didn’t mind getting out of Paradise so we jumped on the shad. We laughed as we talked about Warrain’s skills of persuasion questioning that poor old salt Noah Brown by hanging him out the hotel window to get the lowdown.
“Wasn’t a full moon last night, but with all that raucousness and hullabaloo, it sure felt like it,” Papa said. “The jail and the annex are full—after a total of seven fights, three fires, and two robberies. Now there’s prosperity for you!”
Lon was one of the fighters who’d been jailed the night before, and the only one defending my honor. Papa rolled his eyes but felt obligated to post bail when we returned. I laughed again. Before long, Kayle was porpoising and breaching off our portside. I told Papa she would come to greet the shad every morning we left for school. Her fat little tongue hung playfully from a half-grinning mouth.
The shad glided up effortlessly to the rickety quay. The Doddspoint Lighthouse tower was seventy-five feet high and made of stone, which is why its lasted so long. It’s white iron turret and lamp top made it look like a wedding cake during the day. At night, it was called the Beacon of Hope.
All the construction and equipment at the base of the tower caught us by surprise. The brick walkway was all dug up where a fat black snake of a cable was laid in a trench that led into the lighthouse. We dodged around the holes and made our way into the tower where a staircase spiraled up inside.
“Putting in a bigger wick, Martin?” Papa asked the lighthouse keeper.
“I wish,” he said, pointing at the new equipment. “They’re bringing the electric in soon. Didn’t Sam tell you?”
“No, he skipped that part,” Papa said, with a worried look.
Mr. Barrett lived alone in a fancy adobe house across from the tower. Papa threw down the rolling planks and slowly backed the barrels off the shad and stored them in the fuel house. I meandered over to the fog-signaling building and stared at the two giant horns attached to the roof.
“Seems the whole area will be getting wired before long, including you if you want,” Barrett added, looking up. “Same fifteen lamps since she was built in 1817. Well, got to change with the times.”
Barrett took us up the tower for a look-see of the new light by switching on a test bulb the size of the globe next to Mr. Davenport’s desk. It gave off a pale illumination, making the room seem smaller and colder. Even our shadows seemed faded in the harsh glare of this phantom light. He paid Papa and shook his hand.
Papa usually liked to stay for a few rounds of draughts and stories. This time he stowed up all his barrel-moving equipment quickly. Before we knew it, we were heading back to the Gordon Arms. We didn’t say much, but I could tell we were both thinking about the Law of the Bay.
If people had no need for whale oil, there was no reason for us to take it. Yet we still had to honor our pact with the orcas and our crew.
As we got closer to the harbor, Papa spotted the SS Galileo. A single-stack steamer, it was smaller than the newspaper had described and likely had room for only twenty or so people. That got me to thinking and took my mind off the bay. Maybe the best way to meet Mr. Richardson was to pop onto the boat. That way, we could keep an eye on those fishermen too.
Papa left for the jail to pay Lon’s bail. I ran into our room and got my things. Figgie wasn’t so sure that boarding another ship was the best way to meet a famous author. I assured him that the element of surprise had its virtues.
We paddled into an endless headwind before the Galileo appeared on the horizon. It looked like a floating wedding cake. As we came closer, Figgie guided us to the open loading doors. He managed to catch a rope knot between two steel hull plates and walked up the side of the ship. Figgie found a rope ladder, and we tied off his canoe as I boarded with my drawings.
The ship was as empty as a bushwhacker’s kick. Figgie heard the cooks talking about how many people went ashore to the festival. He handed me a warm scone.
“Your man’s off shooting billiards in Smithson’s or signing books,” he said, laughing.
“Anyone who wrote that book isn’t playing pool,” I added, looking on the cabin doors.
“Can I help you, miss?”
I turned around and saw a man in a blue naval uniform.
“Oh, I’m looking for my mother, but I’ve lost my way,” I said demurely. “We’re staying next to the Richardsons’ cabin.”
“They’re around the corner on the left,” he said, tipping his cap before walking away.
“Of course, how silly of me,” I said apologetically.
Figgie jumped down from the steel crossbeam as I approached the door by the corner. What had seemed such a great idea just a short while ago suddenly felt nerve-wracking. I knocked on the door.
“Maybe he’s in the loo,” Figgie said, “or taking a bath.”
“Why do you always—”
“If you’re from the tabloids, please go away,” came a stern female voice, “or I shall call the captain and have you removed.”
Figgie backed away from the door and my mouth turned to gravel.
“My name’s Savannah. I’m almost thirteen, and I loved Mr. Richardson’s book and I just had to tell him so,” I blurted out.
We stood motionless for a moment before the door popped open with a rusty creak. I peered into the dimly lighted room. A woman craned her neck from around the door. Her pursed lips looked ready to give us the once over.
“You really are thirteen, aren’t you?” she said from behind the door.
“In just about two months,” I stammered.
“Well then,” she said, opening the door. “My name is Ethel. I handle all of Mr. Richardson’s correspondence. You may enter to explain yourselves.”
She wore her dark auburn hair in a short wavy bob like in the magazines. Her pointy nose seemed to run up into her high-arched eyebrows, over which her dark eyes gleamed with a penetrating stare. Suddenly, a smile broke out across her face like the sun breaking through the clouds.
“Please, tell me about yourselves,” she said.
I was itching to talk so I introduced myself and Figgie as we entered the room. She was interested in Figgie’s real name and could say it better than I could. She didn’t remember seeing us onboard and asked how we got there. That’s when Figgie jumped in and told her about the canoe and the climbing.
“A canoe?” she said, standing up. “You paddled all the way here to see Richardson? What on earth for?”
“Because anyone who can write a book like that knows this place and how people here think,” I blurted out. “We need someone to tell the truth and save the ba
y before it’s all gone…”
Seeing how worked up I was, Ethel asked us to sit down and offered us gooey finger cookies while we talked a long time about the Bittermens, the bay, whaling, school, and Figgie’s village. She made us laugh and feel better about things as she wrote down some notes.
“What was it that made you admire Laura in Richardson’s book so much? Her brashness?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.
“I can’t say that I liked her,” I said. “I wanted to be her but being like that got me in a mess of trouble.”
“So I imagine you weren’t rewarded for your own defiance the way she was.”
“Well, come to think of it, maybe I was,” I said. “But it wasn’t so much my brashness that got rewarded as it was just finding room enough to be me.”
I had scarcely time to say another word before Figgie jumped up to show her my drawings. We spread them out on the floor, and Ethel got down on her knees to look at them with us. Though Ethel is her name she said her friends all called her Ettie. I could tell by the way Ettie examined them that she was interested in my drawings. It wasn’t until I pulled out the sketch of Laura deciding whether she would cheat on an exam that she gasped. Ettie stared at it for a long time until Figgie asked if Mr. Richardson was present.
“You see, dear,” Ettie said, with a smile, “I am Henry Richardson. We are one and the same.”
At first this didn’t make any sense to me, but the more I thought about the orcas and the goings-on in the bay, I understood. Ettie caressed my cheek and asked if the scars were worrisome to me. Most people paid a lot of attention to my scars by ignoring them. I told her they didn’t bother me at all, but then I confessed that I was ashamed of them and of the things people said about me.
“You needn’t let that stop you,” she said, rolling up her sleeve to reveal a dark purple birthmark that covered her entire arm. “Each one of us is scarred in some way or another.”
A butler knocked on the door, announcing that tea was being served in the galley. Ettie invited us to stay, but it was getting late and we still had to patrol the bay. She asked for the name of my art school so she could write the headmaster about what a fine student I was.
“I don’t have one,” I said embarrassed. “Mr. Davenport is trying to get me a scholarship, but I still don’t have enough money.”
I could see Ettie felt bad about bringing up the subject. Figgie looked upset for not knowing about it. To change the topic, I gave her the Laura drawing as a gift for allowing all her readers to feel as if they were her collaborators—just as her dedication said.
Ettie walked us onto the open deck where we took in the panorama of the bay.
“I do love my Australia so,” she said, with her arms around us. “Such innocence waiting to be lost. It must never be allowed to change. Figgie, I know you understand.”
“I do, ma’am,” he said gravely. “I shall always protect her.”
Away from the harbor, the red sky boiled a good omen for tomorrow. We moved faster in the open water, yet not fast enough to outrun ourselves.
“I wanted to tell you about the art school, but it happened so fast,” I yelled, trying to get Figgie’s attention.
“You owe no explanation, nor do I expect one,” he said, pulling his oar harder.
“If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be drawing in the sand,” I said.
“There’s nothing wrong with sand art,” said Figgie, “unless—”
The canoe hit something that pulled it upward like a whale rising underneath. Had Jungay found us? We bounced up and down, toppling onto a metallic surface. Water drained off the flat surface as we rose upward, revealing a sleek hull of riveted steel with a lone turret that jutted into the sky. Water rushed from its sides like some great sea monster surfacing.
Figgie grabbed my arm as we hid behind the canoe turned up on its side. I felt the vibration from a rumbling engine beneath us. A release of air sounded, reminding me of a lance piercing a whale’s lung. We heard two voices.
“Übergeben Sie sofort!” one shouted.
I peeked around the canoe as a third man emerged from the metal box, clearly in command of the other two.
“Identify yourselves and your purpose,” he said in English. “We are the Imperial German Navy. Our vessel has drifted into your waters.”
I’d heard that the Germans were poking around the Australian coast, but I’d never paid the rumors much mind. The waves swelled over the deck and upended our canoe, exposing our crouched forms. Dripping wet, we rose to our feet, looking at the three men in dark uniforms, who laughed heartily at the sight of us. Figgie shoved the canoe off the iron vessel and leapt into the water after it. I followed, sliding down the side of the metal ship.
We clambered into the canoe and took up our oars. As we watched, the strange metal ship sank beneath the waves; it reminded me of Jungay drifting down into the shadows of the bay. I wondered what he would think of this metallic thing invading his realm.
The rest of our patrol was uneventful. While we were out searching for trouble, it was waiting for us in Paradise. Mobs roamed the waterfront looking for any excuse to exert their power. Carefully, we made our way through the chaos of the streets toward the Gordon Arms.
Two blocks from the hotel, we spotted the growling captain as he parked his fancy dark blue carriage behind shrubs. He was holding court in a back-alley square. His smooth words wooed the crowd. All their problems boiled down to two things he said—killer whales and villagers. With a shock I recalled our canoe bouncing against his trawler’s black hull and the chum he had rained down upon our heads.
“For an expert seaman, he nearly hit us like a killer wave,” I whispered to myself. “…a black wave!”
God love the wild mystics.
“It was his black trawler that killed my brothers!” I said to Figgie, pointing at the captain.
“Mind what you say in this crowd,” said Figgie, pulling me to the side of a tree.
“Remember Brennan’s black wave?” I cried. “It was his ship.”
“I believe you,” Figgie said, “but if you shout about the rants of a crazy man, we’ll both end up in the jail.”
“I want a closer look at that carriage. There might be some clues about what he’s up to in it.”
We slipped behind the growing crowd. I jumped up on the first step and leaned inside while Figgie kept the horse quiet. It was as clean as the insides of momma-girl’s kettles.
“Nothing here,” I said, angrily stomping my foot.
The iron step below me broke loose. I stumbled against the carriage. As Figgie held the bucking horse at bay, I righted myself and began fixing the step.
“Look, your hands are blue,” Figgie said.
Sure enough, smudges of wet paint covered my hands and dress. Underneath, the cab was white.
“That step was broken on Arizona’s white gig, too,” I said.
Figgie helped me fix the step and we managed to smooth out the paint without notice.
“I smell a dead fish,” I said, “a big fat Seppo one at that.”
“It may be her carriage but we don’t know how the trawler captain got it.”
“There’s more Bittermens, boats, and bullies here than cats at a fish fry,” I huffed. “First they stole one of our whaleboats so we couldn’t hunt properly. Now they’re trying to separate us from the orcas and break our pact with the bay. They’ll do anything to put us out of business so they can have the bay to themselves.”
Figgie urged temperance toward Arizona until more facts emerged. Under the circumstances, I thought it best if I didn’t meet her at the cannon that night.
When we reached the Gordon Arms, Papa and Abe had already finished loading the shad. I didn’t realize how dangerous things were until the harbormaster waved us out with no inspection or fees. We made our esc
ape with Figgie’s canoe in tow. After things settled down I made my way to Papa at the wheel. He let me steer, but I had other things on my mind.
“Papa,” I said, turning the wheel, “I know what happened to Eli and Asa.”
“Lass, we’ve been through this before,” he said.
“It was a trawler that hit them. Brennan had a vision about a black wave. It all makes sense.”
“We all shook hands with the superintendent of fisheries not to trawl or whale that week. No commercial ships were supposed to be on the bay,” Papa said.
I laid my head on his shoulder.
“That’s why the lads weren’t keeping an eye out for any off the point,” I said.
“I should’ve been smarter and paid more attention to everyday things,” he said. “All that help we got from the harbormaster was just a cover-up.”
“Figgie says the only thing we can change about the past is how we feel about it,” I said, putting my hand on Papa’s shoulder. “We’ll figure out how to deal with Captain Speedwell later.”
Arriving at the village, we dropped off Figgie. The camp elders were worried about the violence and invited Papa and Abe to the Tjungu to gam about it. That left me free to walk about and look for my mates.
“Savannah, we were so afraid when we heard about you being among those wicked people,” Ghera said.
“What do you want us to do now, Savannah?” Corowa asked, balling her hands into fists.
“What do you think we should do?” I asked.
“Are you not our lead cobber?”
“No, Corowa, you are,” I said, hands on her shoulders. “It’s always been you.”
“I know nothing of leading.”
“Caring and understanding is a good start,” I said. “The rest will come.”
“We shall fight for ourselves no matter what,” she added, gathering her group.
As we left for Loch Bultarra, I stuck my hand in the dark water. The serenity I felt with Jungay was gone. Angry blood seemed to course over my fingers.
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