by Jase Kovacs
"Cargo is important," says Auntie with the solemn dignity that she usually reserves for prayers. She is about to say something else when a far-off, tinny ringing reaches us. She cocks her head, listening, as the three thin notes float in from the shoreline.
It's the watchtower alarm bell.
She slaps me on the shoulder. "Go!"
CHAPTER TWO: MATAI
My heart almost seizes when I first pick out Woodlark Island against the stars, the steep hills occluding a million diamond shards and showing me that, impossibly, I have done it.
The boy sleeps curled at my feet, heedless of the two inches of water that swills in the bottom of the canoe. I don't disturb him; he has slept even less than I have in the past four days. Instead, I rub my eyes and peer and rub again, and my heartbeat steadies as the shadow of the mountain doesn't fade away. If anything, the dark, jagged outline of Woodlark's spine grows even more defined, darker than the night, deeper than the void.
My God, I've done it.
Woodlark is under my lee. And beyond is Madau.
My canoe, which I christened Katie, is around four metres long and a half meter wide; I built it out of planks I sewed together with wire and fishing line and cable ties. I caulked the planks with a mix of coconut fibre and grease, but it leaks constantly anyway. Its mast is a metal pole to which I have lashed a sail cut from tarpaulin — I even have a small jib running to the bow to reduce weather helm and the strain on the tiller. PVC pipe outriggers keep her stable. She's hardly the most seaworthy vessel afloat, being low, unbalanced, and needing constant bailing. But she only has to make one voyage: three hundred miles from the bizarre, mary-infested hellship called Black Harvest, where I nearly lost my life, my mind, and my soul, back to our home island of Madau.
It's around midnight; the moon has already set, but the sky is clear of clouds, and the starlight is more than enough to see by. Blong stirs in his sleep and cries out. I caress his close-cropped hair, and the boy shudders like a dog before sighing and slipping deeper into a gentle slumber. The southeasterly trade winds are backing to the north; this is a feature peculiar to Woodlark and Madau, where the trade winds split around an island before eddying back in its lee. Since our course is west by northwest, I let out my paltry mainsail a little, easing the sheet out over a cleat I made from a shipping container handle. I'm hoping that I'll be able to come west as the wind backs, so I won't need to gybe. I don't think the mast could stand the boom suddenly flicking across, as I don't have much in the way of standing rigging. Still. I've done three hundred miles, without instruments, across a featureless blue plain in a boat I made of scrap and salvage.
I think I'm allowed to feel a little proud of myself.
"What is it, lady?" Blong has woken. He hasn't risen from the bottom of the canoe, but something about my posture, my expression that he can faintly see, must have betrayed my excitement.
"We're almost there, Blong. I can see the island."
Blong nods, quite uninterested, rolls over, and goes back to sleep. For the boy, who is not more than ten years old, the crossing of three hundred miles of open sea, with no chart save for my memory and no instruments but for what the heavens provide, was not a desperate gamble of survival, the lesser of two evils, the alternative being a long, slow starvation in exile on a shipwreck infested with mindless killers. For Blong, whose faith in me is disconcertingly absolute, returning to Madau was inevitable, provided he endured a rough, wet, often unpleasant voyage, simply because I said it was possible.
I was wrong about him returning to sleep, though. After a second, he asks if I want some rest.
"Not yet, Blong. We still have many miles to go until we reach safety."
He lifts himself up now and squints, wiping his eyes as he tries to follow my finger to the dark shadow of land. "Wow, we get home soon!"
"No, no, that island is no good. It's called Woodlark."
"Monsters there?"
"Yes. Lots."
"Where we going?"
"Madau is on the far side."
"No monsters?"
"No monsters."
"Okay. Wake me when you tired, lady."
"Sure thing, mate."
I smile fondly as he settles down to sleep despite the water swilling around his ears. He was an incredible help during the construction of Katie, his cheerful, upbeat spirit never letting me settle in the doldrums for long. Because although I tried never to betray a hint of doubt, our return to safety has been far from certain. Even now, there are still so many miles to go, and I know a moment's inattention, a simple mistake, could see us sunk and drowned within view of our destination. Or worse, cast up on Woodlark, where we'll have to cross thirty miles of dense, mary-infested jungle.
I'm even less certain when dawn finally comes. The wind has swung right around to the northwest, meaning that I'm now sailing upwind. This is hard enough to do with my jury rig, but my main problem is a current that is steadily pushing us down to the south. Through the long hours of the night I have watched Woodlark slide across the bow until it's off to starboard.
I can either let the current take me down the southern side of the island or battle my way upwind to pass north of Woodlark, like I originally hoped. This question occupies most of the dark hours. Like all of the worst nighttime conundrums, the pros and cons are pretty evenly matched. The southern route will be easier on my sailing rig but will take me through a maze of shallow reefs. In addition, the high ridges and ranges that dominate Woodlark will channel and funnel the wind, alternately becalming me and overpowering my sail and threatening to blow the whole shooting match away.
The northern route has its own issues. The wind will be true and undisturbed by the shaping of the land, but it will require some tricky sailing to weather the eastern point of the island, which, if memory serves, is surrounded by a treacherous stretch of reef. There will be far greater strain on my rig going upwind, which leads me to my biggest concern: it would put Woodlark under my lee, meaning that if I lost control or my sails blew out, the wind would blow me down onto the island, wreck Katie on the rocks, and leave Blong and I stranded in the red zone.
I go back and forth on the issue for a long time. In the end, I visualise the layout of the islands in my mind and realise that, even if I went the southern route, I would still have to sail upwind at the end to reach Madau. Better to do it first by taking the northern route, when I still have sea room to manoeuvre and time to recover from any breakages, than to do it later, when I would be threading my way through a labyrinth of shallows and reefs.
As always, once the decision is made, the stress evaporates, and I am left wondering why a simple decision was so hard.
The eastern horizon is smudged pink when I nudge Blong awake. "We're going to tack, mate. Keep your head down."
"You wake me up to tell me to lie down?"
"Smartass. I know how you jump when you're surprised."
"Okay, lady, I stay down."
I have the tiller hooked under the crook of my arm. The prevailing swell has come around to the north, and I need to time my tack, where the bow of the boat passes through the wind, so a wave doesn't slap the bow back. My sails are only tarpaulins, my rigging cheap nylon rope, and I don't want to put any more strain on them than I need.
I raise my head and place my hand along the long PVC pipe that I'm using as a boom. It vibrates, a low hum that is the constant song of the rigging, as the wind draws across the ropes and mast like the long bow of a violin. Waiting, waiting. A wave sweeps past, dampening us both with spray, and I say, "Helm over," out of long habit as I push the tiller away from me. Katie hesitates like a horse approaching a worrying jump before sliding smoothly down the back of the wave and spinning like a top. The little jib sail flaps, backs, and fills, bringing my bow around. I duck as the boom comes across.
I'm about to let off the windward jib sheet when suddenly it goes slack. The jib flaps madly, and Katie shivers as her momentum falls. The sail has come loose somehow; the rope tha
t pulls it tight no longer attached. I curse as I lean over Blong, grabbing the leeward sheet, but it has come loose as well and trails in the water. In a flash of inspiration, I realise what has happened. The clew of the sail has torn out; the corner where the sheets attach has torn away. At this moment, the sail is nothing but a big blue flag.
A wave breaks over the canoe, filling it with water. Without prompting, Blong grabs a plastic bucket and starts bailing as fast as he can. Without the jib to pull us through the tack, we're jammed, side onto the waves. These waves are not rough and cut up; if we were with the tide, I think we would be swamped in seconds. But still, they spill into the boat faster than Blong can bail.
I need to get us back under way, as we're in serious danger of floundering. First, I tighten the mainsheet, to bring the sail back into the centre of the canoe. The sail acts as a wind vane, turning the boat into the wind and the waves, in the hope that we will ride over the waves rather than have them break upon us. Then I push past Blong to try and get control of the jib.
The blue tarpaulin sail flaps back and forth in my face as I get up there. The whole clew is gone. I sewed the forward edge of the sail, the luff, straight around the forestay as we had no way of making hanks. I dive into the sail, copping a stinging whack across my face for my trouble, but manage to gather it in my arms and bundle it around the forestay.
My weight up there causes Katie to dip, and the next wave pours into the boat like a spilled dam. "Lady, what the hell?" cries Blong as the water floods into the canoe.
"Keep bailing, kid, I'll sort this in a second!"
"You sinking us!"
No shit, kid. A quick glance at the jib shows that the surviving material around the clew is strained beyond recovery; I had hoped I could rig a cheeky jury jib, but I can't see how.
"Blong, grab the tiller! Push it over to starboard," I say, pointing to make sure he's understood. He's a bright kid, but we need to get this right. The bow is pointing into the wind but, without the jib, there's no way I can sail upwind efficiently enough to clear the island. So thanks for nothing, Fate. I have only one option — downwind around the southern side of Woodlark Island.
First, I need to get the bow out of the wind and Katie under way again. Blong has the tiller right over, sitting against it to hold it down while he bails as fast as he can. I take the remains of the jib in my hands and pull it tight out to the starboard side. The wind catches and fills the backed sail. The blue tarp forms a curve, a parachute that pushes the canoe's bow downwind, around to port. Woodlark crosses our bow again, and we swing around until we're facing the south.
I let go, letting the ruined jib stream away downwind. I push Blong out of the way and tuck the tiller under my arm. The mainsail fills, and we gain way, a gentle wake spilling out under us. Within moments, we're making a decent speed downwind. I let out the main a little, so it can better catch the wind. There is a lot of weather helm now; only having the one sail means Katie keeps wanting to turn into the wind, and I need to steer down quite hard to keep her on any sort of a course. But within seconds, the rising whistle of wind is joined by the hiss of water spilling down Katie's side, and I guess we're making four knots.
The jib is still cracking and shaking like a pennant. "Blong, untie the red rope from the mast and pull down the blue sail."
"Lady, what you do that for?" he asks as crawls forward. Water up to our gunnels, slopping over the side. Thank God I mounted PVC outrigger floats — we would have sunk without them. He slips the jib halyard and yanks down on the sail. He's only a little guy but, with nil pressure on it, the sail comes down without a murmur. He bundles it in a seamanlike manner and tucks it into the bottom of the canoe before going back to bailing the boat. Each scoop of water he throws overboard lightens us. Before long, we are singing along, Woodlark sliding by on the starboard bow.
Another little nautical emergency dealt with, another disaster averted.
For now.
An hour later, I see white water off to port and realise we're in the reefs — shallow bands of coral where waves crash and churn. They stretch some fifteen miles to the south — I'm not sure exactly how far, as I've always given them a wide berth, never daring to try and thread them in a sailboat with no engine.
Sailing in the lee of Woodlark does have one advantage: there's no chop or swell here, and the ride is a lot smoother. The lack of waves means that, should we go aground, at least we won't be dashed to pieces while getting the boat off the rocks.
Hopefully.
The day passes. The noon sun is relentless, hard overhead. We shade ourselves with cloth sheets. I share out a noonday meal of dried fish and seabird meat and a cup of water. The fish is okay, but the seabird tastes disgusting, and we both silently choke down the unpleasant food, washing it down with rainwater that tastes faintly of the detergent its bottle once held. We're running low on water; we collected thirty litres in a variety of bottles and jerries back on Black Harvest, but four days under way has seen us use most of it.
Still, the sailing on this side of the island is easy, almost pleasant. I lose myself in the long moments, the organic connection I feel with the boat and the ocean, the vibrant energy of our journey across the wide, sweeping bay. Blong watches the passing hills and mountains of Woodlark five miles to the north. I'm happy to see him calm and peaceful. I'm still not sure of the exact amount of time Blong spent on Black Harvest; he grows distressed when I ask him about his time before I came. I suspect this is lingering trauma inflected by the Pale King, the self-styled captain of an undead kingdom, a strange evolution of a mary that I discovered on the Black Harvest.
Marys are survivors of the plague who have been corrupted by their infection. The disease burns out their brains and mutates their bodies, turning them into foul, cannibalistic predators — mindless but deadly, especially in packs. But the Pale King was something new; he possessed intellect and a powerful mind with which he could dominate others. I learned this firsthand when he attempted to seduce me into his coven.
In life, he was the ship's first officer. I discovered the captain's log, which unfortunately is written in Chinese. However, one passage is in English: the captain's suicide note, his plea for forgiveness for not stopping his first officer, who he called a mad prophet and a heretic priest. I don't understand how the disease changed him or why he was different from every other mary. I just know that, in one afternoon, he turned me inside out and summoned fears and demons I didn't know I carried.
I have nightmares every time I sleep, revisiting the surreal hallucinations of deep space and slumbering elder gods that I experienced during a single afternoon held in his thrall. I can only imagine the lingering pain Blong must suffer, having been that monster's plaything, bait to lure sailors to their doom, for many long years.
His parents were earlier victims of the Pale King. Blong says he remembers nothing of the time before he came to the ship. His whole life was spent on Black Harvest and the small island where the ship was wrecked. There is something almost magical about the way his world slowly opens as he sees his first true landmass. Woodlark is only thirty miles east to west, but to a boy who knew only eldritch horrors in steel corridors, it must seem like a vast continent of mystery.
I watch him fondly as he studies the shoreline. "Island bad?" he asks.
"Yes. Monsters everywhere."
"So where we go?"
I point away to the northeast, where the low fringe of Madau's palm trees are just cresting the horizon. "There. Madau."
"No monsters?" He follows the Madau coastline and closes one eye. "Monster island is close?"
I nod. "They're separated by a narrow strait. The water there is too deep and fast for the marys to cross."
"Why you call them that?"
This not the first time he's asked me that question. I've found that certain ideas and concepts don't find root in his mind. This could be the result of the Pale King's manipulation. Or it could be just the lingering effects of long-term malnutrition. A
t least he seems better since I cleaned him up. I disinfected his open sores with my personal medkit, an unpleasant job that reduced him to a screaming, sobbing mess. He liked it even less when I chopped off his filthy hair that was matted into ugly ropes of dreadlocks. But I had no choice. He still has the white scars of ringworm all over his legs, but I think I've got rid of the vermin that infested his scalp and clothes.
"Call them what?"
"The monsters… marys. Mary is lady name? God's mummy?"
"No… it's an old story. My mummy told me about this lady who got a disease, a very bad disease. Her name was Mary. She didn't die, but everyone else did. So she was like the monsters; they have the disease, but everyone else dies."
"Okay." He's already lost interest. "So no one goes to island?"
"Nope."
"What about them?"
I follow his pointed finger and see it: a red sail in close to the land, coming out from Kwaipan harbour halfway along Woodlark. The harbour is a deep and sheltered bay, the old port for the mine located inland at Kulumadau. But no one goes in there now — not since four years ago when a rogue trader brought the plague to its shores and the whole island was lost. I almost jump up in surprise. All the traders who come to Madau know Woodlark's sad history, and we mount a guard on Dilkawau passage, the narrow strait separating the two islands, so no greedy or curious person can attempt a crossing.
Clearly these guys didn't get that memo.
The sail is miles away. I watch it intently and, after a quarter of an hour, I'm sure that it's on a beam reach, on a southwesterly course. Our paths will cross in an hour or so. I've never seen a red sail before; usually it's white for yachts and either blue or orange for local boats, those two being the most common colours of the tarpaulins that locals use for sailmaking. We're starting to see traditional sails, made out of woven pandan fibre, as tarpaulin stocks run low.