The Southwind Saga (Book 2): Slack Water

by Jase Kovacs

  There is a shift in the wind; it's veering back to the north, a welcome change. If the wind continues to veer, we'll be able to make it to Madau without a long, cumbersome upwind battle, a tiring and time-consuming effort that will be all the more difficult with our lack of a jib.

  The sun has begun its long, slow afternoon descent. I hold our course; now that we have breached the outer rim, I find there are far fewer reefs inside the bay than I'd thought. I still have to adjust course every half an hour or so to put a churning mess of white water downrange of us, but the reefs are far from the labyrinth I feared.

  The red-sailed canoe is rigged with a big lateen, a triangular sail perfect for this wind, and she streaks across the bay. She's even sped up and, far from our courses meeting, she will cross mine more than a mile to windward. The thought of meeting this unknown vessel, coming as it does from the red zone, had filled me with anxiety. I want to know who the hell they are and what they are doing, but I have to be realistic. Their canoe is bigger than mine — eight or nine crew at a guess — and definitely in better shape.

  I'm far from helpless. I have my M4 assault rifle and three full magazines wrapped carefully in plastic sheeting to keep them dry, along with the captain's pistol, but I'm hardly in a good position for a gunfight. So provided they aren't as curious about me as I am about them, I won't need it.

  And it turns out they aren't. An hour later, they pass in front of us, more than two miles away, their course never deviating a degree as they race away to the southwest. I can see that the hull is dense with men, crouched low to avoid the spray. The helmsman stands at the stern. I think he is looking at us, and he raises his arm at one point — as a greeting, a warning, or just to steady himself? I don't know. But he doesn't want to meet us, even though it would be as easy as steering downwind. They pass through the outer reef without the slightest reduction in speed and by midafternoon have disappeared over the horizon.

  All the while, Madau is growing in size and definition. The wind has worked around to the northeast, perfect for us. However, this side of Madau, which faces to the southeast, is fringed with dense mangrove swamps, and the shoreline is a long, shallow, sandy bay. Even if I could get ashore, I would have to cross a thick, muddy swamp to reach the inhabited western and northern sides. There are two other factors that are influencing my choice of landing: the coming night and that anyone coming from the direction of Woodlark is viewed with understandable hostility. After all I've been through, I'd rather not get a spear in the guts in my own backyard.

  So I decide to make the extra effort to come around the south side of Madau and sail up to First Landing, the expat anchorage where I can be assured of a safe reception. It means that we won't make it today. I tell Blong that we'll be landing on one of the little islands that dot the western fringe of the reef, and he stares at me incredulously. "But it's right there!" he shouts, pointing to Madau.

  "Yeah but nah, this side of the island is no good. We have to go around tomorrow."

  "Why not go tonight?"

  I think, Because the expats have itchy trigger fingers, and I'd rather approach them in daylight. Instead, I say, "Tricky reefs; we'll need to see where we're going."

  He hrumphs for a bit to let me know that he thinks I'm taking the piss. Which is fine. Considering the horror that was his world up until a fortnight ago, I'm glad for any emotion, negative or positive, he can feel. At least he's acting like a kid.

  ***

  There are a couple of larger islands near to Madau that we could reach by sunset. There used to be villages on those islands, but most were evacuated after Woodlark fell and we all withdrew to Madau. I consider stopping at one where I know could find an abandoned hut to sleep in, but that red-sailed canoe has got me spooked. Plus, the long-held belief that marys won't cross open water was violently shattered when the Pale King sent a group across the ocean floor to assault Voodoo by climbing the anchor chain. We've never heard of an intelligent mary like the Pale King before; who knows what lurks on Woodlark?

  Instead, I choose a small island in the middle of the southwestern chain marking the edge of the fringing reef. It is little more than a sand bar crested with coconut palms and populated by seabirds. It doesn't offer much shelter, but at least it won't have any surprises.

  The water is crystal clear as we come into the island; a metre below us is an immeasurably complex underwater jungle of soft and hard corals, a vibrant habitat thronging with fish. Blong watches over the side, entranced by the spectacular reef sliding by. We only draw ten inches, so I'm not worried about going aground. I wait until we are almost on the beach, which has only the mildest surf to complicate my landing, before I let the sheet fly. The sail spills away to windward, the canoe slows before grinding gently onto the sandy shore, and we've done it.

  We made it back — there's still a few miles left to Madau, but we are on land for the first time in four days. Our frail little kit boat has served us well.

  I drop the sail by unshipping the mast, folding the boom up, and laying the whole rig in the canoe. Blong steps out of the canoe and falls straight into the water. I think he's tripped until he jumps up and falls again, splashing again and again in a paroxysm of childish delight. I hide my smile and bark at him, "Stop stuffing about and give me a hand!"

  He sees right through me, and his grin stays wide and happy as he gets under an outrigger and lifts while I haul the boat above the high tide mark. This is easier said than done, but eventually we collapse panting on the sand, the soft powder cool and dry after long days of relentless sun and constant struggle, frequently wet and always exhausted, a desperate flight across an impartial ocean. I roll over and look away to the north, where the sun-kissed palms of Madau Island glow in the golden dusklight.

  Home.

  ***

  A scream wakes me. It's late in the night; we're sleeping amongst the thin tufts of scrub that dot this glorified sandbar. Instantly I think it's Blong, locked in another unending night terror. But he's awake, his face inches from mine. His mouth is clamped tightly shut, and his black eyes glimmer with terror. The scream rises, cutting through the night like a razor, and trails off into a long, mournful howl.

  I roll, get my feet under me, and rise. I unwrapped and loaded my rifle before sleep; the weapon comes naturally to my shoulder as I complete a slow 360 sweep. The half moon hanging above the western horizon tells me it's about an hour before midnight.

  The cry trails off as I realise it's coming from out to sea. I resist the urge to thumb on my weapon's underbarrel torch. I don't want to give away our position. I take a knee to lower my profile and try to work out what that noise is.

  Blong stands close to me, clearly resisting his urge to seek a hug. He murmurs, "What is, lady?"

  "I don't know."

  I rise and he gives in, wrapping his arms around my leg, his voice an urgent whisper. "No no no, don't go!"

  "Blong, I have to check."

  "You don't. It's not on the island."

  "Yeah. Maybe. For now."

  "Please, don't. Just stay. We hide here. They don't know."

  The moan rises to an unholy shriek that raises the hair on my neck. It's coming from the other side of the island.

  "Shh. Stick close. But make no noise. We'll just look."

  I pry his arms from my leg and move forward, carefully and slowly. The sand is covered with dry driftwood, thrown here by storms, and I gently probe with my bare toes before putting my weight on anything that could snap with a loud crack. The scrub rises above my head, its branches thorny and hard. Even with the starlight and the half-coin moon, we can see barely anything, and I feel like I'm walking deep into a cave, from where an agonised beast calls.

  The scream trails off. The rest of the night is silent save for the lap of the waves. The insects and birds that inhabit this island are as terrified as us; they have more sense and hide and nuzzle together with others of their kind. We, however, are fools and cross the thin island, barely twenty metres acros
s its narrow waist, to the seaward side.

  I crouch at the edge of the scrub, just above the high water mark. We wait there for long, tense minutes. Blong crouches with me, both of us straining our eyes to pick out anything in the gloom.

  A chirping feck-feck-feck makes us almost jump from our skins, but it's only a cheeky gecko clearing its throat. Blong grins in relief — we've been here almost ten minutes, and nothing has disturbed the night air.

  As if thinking of something is to call it, the shriek fills the air, all the more horrible for its short absence. It scratches down my nerves and settles deep in my spine, turning my insides to ice. Blong grabs at me in animal terror, and I shrug him away to keep my weapon up.

  I can see something out to sea. A dark shape. Just beyond the faintly glowing foam of the gentle surf. It looks like a large bulge — a hump perhaps. Like a great green turtle's shell. But those gentle beasts could never scream like this.

  "It's a monster," hisses Blong. "It's one of them! Run, lady!"

  I shake my head as I get my eye behind my red dot sight. It doesn't magnify or enhance my faint image of the creature — but I do feel better looking at the mysterious shape through the sight.

  What is it? I've never heard anything like this noise.

  The cry trails off, and then there is a deep sigh, like an old man preparing to stand. The hump submerges, disappearing beneath the water with scarcely a ripple.

  The gecko cautiously tries again, its little voice carrying clearly despite the gentle breeze. Slowly and cautiously, the night's chorus starts to sing once more.

  ***

  This strange incident stays with us the next morning as we sail up the chain of barrier islands towards Madau. Both Blong and I are sullen and withdrawn — as much from the lack of sleep as from the unsettling mystery itself. Neither of us could rest afterwards, both lying together in the sand, aware of the other's wakefulness but unable to think of a way to dispel the tension. In the end, he snuggled up to me for a hug, which worked out just fine. Trust the kid to know what to do.

  The northwester that bothered me so yesterday has come right around to blow gently from the west and southwest. Nothing spectacular, but perfect for our passage today. It's midmorning, as we're approaching the curve in Madau's western shoreline that will bring us to First Landing, when Blong finally pipes up. "It was a whale."

  "Really?" I'm watching the shoreline intently — we are passing the southern arm of Madau, and I expect there to be dozens of eyes in the jungle, watching us pass. Which is exactly as I wanted things. The last thing I want to do is surprise anyone. I know the quarantine procedure, and I intend to follow it to the letter. Still, distracted as I am, I humour Blong. "Whales cry like that?"

  "Yes. When they're sad. Maybe it lost its baby."

  "Where would it have lost it?"

  "In the ocean. It could have seen a monster and run away."

  "I don't think a whale would be scared of a monster."

  "They say they not. But they are. Everyone scared of monsters. They say they no run away. But they do."

  Because I'm an idiot, it takes me this long to realise that maybe Blong isn't really talking about whales.

  I turn to him. He's staring out to the blue, ignoring the shore completely. "I bet it's still looking for its baby," I say. Which is utterly stupid because I know what happened to his father.

  I shot him.

  I mean, I shot the body he once inhabited, that had been consumed by the plague, locked in a hell of undeath that I stilled when I met his attack with gunfire. I had assumed Blong's mother met a similar fate on Black Harvest, but now I'm not so sure.

  "That's why she's sad. She can't find her baby. Perhaps she is waiting somewhere." He turns now, looking to the bay that opens before us as we weather the low, palm-choked headland.

  "I bet she'd never give up looking for her baby," I offer, aware of how thin and worthless my words are.

  "No?" He looks at me with his big dark eyes, and something inside me shifts and turns, like a key twisting a rusty lock. I clamp down on it, though, as I'm not ready for that door to open.

  "No. But maybe her baby has made some friends. Some friends that will keep him safe until they can find his mummy."

  He says nothing. Instead, he plants his chin on the canoe's gunnel and trails his fingers in the water, watching their tiny little bow waves with dull interest.

  This is all a bit much, but thankfully I have sailing to distract me. We come around the headland, and the wide, open bay of First Landing is revealed. I scan the boats moored at the southern end, where the deep water shallows to a nice basin about ten meters deep. I'm relieved to see there's been no change, and I think of the old blessing let no new thing arise. There is Larry's Razzmatazz and Duncan's Excelsior, Enzo and Abella's catamaran Fidelio, and Michael's catamaran Shiloh, as well as the decrepit hulk of Queen Victoria, an old local ferry that brought one of the first waves of survivors to Madau over a decade ago. And, of course, the shoreline is clustered with canoes dragged above the high tide line.

  But there is something very different: a smouldering hull sits on the reef at the north end of the bay. I blink twice when I see it, shocked, ready to convince myself that it is an illusion brought on by too much salt and not enough sleep. But the only thing wavering is the faint shimmering heat haze that rises with the wisps of smoke curling from the wreck. Its rig has melted; its mast droops into the water like a rotting branch. The hull is pink, its red antifoul paint scraped and worn microscopically thin by many years of sailing since its last haul out. But the antifoul is also unblemished by marine growth, meaning someone cared for this boat until recently. Right up until they ran it onto the reef and it burnt to the waterline.

  A hollow chill fills me. I realise that I haven't seen anyone moving on shore. No children are running up and down the sand, excitedly shouting for their parents. No people are gathering near the watchtower, as they always do when a strange boat appears. The watchtower's crow's nest itself is the same height as the palm trees, and I can't make anyone out.

  It's as if Madau Island has been abandoned.

  Or fallen.

  I veer off a little, altering my course so I'm not heading straight towards the shoreline. The reef, which would prevent any yacht from approaching, is covered by a metre of water at high tide, and my canoe should be able to run straight over it onto the beach. But this strange silence bothers me, bothers me almost as much as the smoking shipwreck on the reef, and I want to stand off for a pass.

  Blong has picked this all up and watches me intently as I study the land. Good lad that he is, he holds my rifle, ready to pass it to me. We run parallel to the reef and beach, my lips pursed firm as I strain to pick out any sign of life on shore. What I wouldn't give for my dad's binoculars at this moment. But they're melted slag on Voodoo, my family's boat, which itself was burned to the waterline by the Pale King. If there's danger out there, I'm going to have to rely on the human eyeball to spot it.

  "Matty," murmurs Blong, "where is everyone?"

  Good question, kid.

  A dark patch ahead — the reef comes out farther in the northern arm of the bay, which serves to shelter the anchorage by breaking up the incoming swell.

  All right.

  I can assume that something has gone very wrong on Madau Island and veer off.

  Or I can go in and have a look.

  It's not even a question. I haven't come this far, in this rickety woodworking project, to turn around. Apart from anything else, I've got no other place to go.

  So we're going to go in for a look. I think I'll be positive today and assume that folks on Madau are having a quiet morning. Maybe there was a party last night, and everyone is nursing a hangover. I'm assuming that, despite me not being able to see them, the watch is tracking me with some heavy artillery, ready to kick off a fricassee if I step over the line.

  Just then, a light flashes out from the tower. I have enough time to think HELM OVER! but not enough ti
me to do anything about it before white water bursts into tall columns fifty metres in front of me. And then a second later, almost as an afterthought, the gun's long staccato rattle rolls across the bay, echoing off the far shore and coming back to me.

  I don't think I've ever been so happy to be shot at.

  Blong gasps, looking to me for direction, his eyes shining with fear. This turns to confusion when he sees me break into a laugh, an exhausted, relieved shout that I can tell has a manic edge to it. I control myself as I let fly the sheet, the mainsail streaming downwind, a big showy sign of stopping that won't be missed by the watchers in the tower. "Drop the sail, mate," I say to the boy. "We're home."

  CHAPTER THREE: ISAAC

  First Landing's square is packed. I don't think I've ever seen so many expats in one place at the same time. I scan the crowd — the completely silent, fascinated crowd — listening as Matai recounts her adventure in a voice that is by turns wavering and strident, and I can't think of a single person who is absent.

  I sit with the Council, the nine of us arrayed in a half circle, sitting on wooden stumps or camp chairs or cross legged on the hard-packed earth in front of our town hall, which, like all the houses in First Landing, is built in the local style: raised on stilts, with woven palm walls, thatched roofs, and a split bamboo floor. The rest of the expat community, and quite a few locals from across the creek, squeeze beneath shady palms and overhanging roofs to escape the morning sun.

  The only sign that the sun bothers Matai is the thin sheen of perspiration that glimmers on her high cheekbones. Her short, jet-black hair is held back with a bandanna tied around her brow, and she wears old cotton shorts and a sleeveless polo shirt with a faded dive shop logo on the back. Her body is lean and hard, her palms deeply scored with rope burns, and her skin is flaked and raw from exposure, but her eyes are as dark as the night and glimmer with their own stars.