The Southwind Saga (Book 2): Slack Water

by Jase Kovacs

  There has been considerable debate over the past three days where Matai's first report was to be heard. Everyone in the Council had the bare-bones summary I had brought back from my first debriefing in the quarantine anchorage, where Matai had rode out seventy-two hours of waiting before being allowed to land. Michael, an American who skippers Shiloh and is Councillor for Administration, was particularly vehement that her first accounting be delivered behind closed doors for the Council's ears only.

  But we're well aware that Matai's return had caused a huge amount of rumour and gossip in both communities. As well it might — one of our youngest and most independent sailors departs in her family yacht, disappears for three weeks, and returns in a patchwork canoe with a Filipino child. The sinking of the mysterious yellow-sailed yacht alone would've fuelled campfire gossip for months; Matai's miraculous return is the stuff that legends are made of. If her reporting was done behind closed doors, the speculation about what the public had or hadn't been told would never cease.

  This is what I'm thinking about as Matai brings her account to a close. Duncan, who had some inkling of its contents from what I reported to him (and him only), has insisted on absolute silence during her telling, both as a way of ensuring no interruptions and making sure that Matai finishes with some sort of confidence. For both of us realise that Matai, who would sail into a storm without qualm, views this sort of public address with nothing less than absolute dread.

  Matai deals with the crowd by ignoring it completely; her entire story is directed at the carving mounted above the town hall's door. "Having killed the Captain, the Pale King — and with the aft half of the Black Harvest sunk — because of the cranes breaking the… well, the whole fucking… I mean, the damn ship fell apart — with the Captain gone, the marys were back to their brainless selves, so we could work on the canoe during the day. We hid in a shipping container at night. It took us ten days to build the canoe, I think. Our sail back was a downwind run for most of the way; no dramas, but we shipped a lot of water because my boat was a bit shit. Still, can't complain 'cause I made it out of scrap. The wind veered while approaching Woodlark, the jib blew out — I had to go down the south side. I saw a sailing canoe put off from Woodlark. It crossed our bow about a mile upwind, so I could tell nothing of its crew or origins except that it had a red sail. We came south through the fringing reefs with no dramas — hung on the hook for three days to satisfy quarantine, and here we are. Well, here I am. I don't know where Blong is right now." She breaks off her monologue as if waking from a trance. She glances down, meets Duncan's eyes with a flash of anger that she has been put through this public spectacle, and then sets her jaw, as if daring someone to contradict her.

  Duncan has insisted on silence, but there is no way to enforce it, especially when she reaches the more fantastical elements of her story, such as the intelligent damned directing the others, how she dealt with them and the way she lost her boat, her family's yacht — her home — destroyed by a suicidal run of infected, deliberately exposing themselves to the sun to become flaming missiles.

  But now, everyone is truly, utterly silent. Her story challenges a lot of what we thought we knew about the infected. It also contains bizarre inconsistencies, such as an island where no island is known to be, and no one has ever heard of anything like the Pale King. In short, it has left the majority of people dazed and unsure of how to react. They glance to one another uncertainly, waiting for someone to take the plunge and set the tone of what is to come.

  Despite Duncan's insistence on transparency, on having her accounting take place in public so there can be no doubt as to her own recollection of events, he and I alone know that she has censored herself somewhat. Censored herself under my advice.

  When I first went out to the quarantine anchorage, where she was drifting for want of a mooring, I barely recognised her. Her skin was red and scaly with sunburn, her eyes puffy from exposure, and her lips and the tips of her ears flaking. Her clothes were nothing more than rags, burnt and torn, stained with grease and soot. Her palms and arms were bound in dirty bandages. But more distressing than her appearance were her words: a confused, babbling account that frequently doubled back or lingered on seemingly irrelevant points but seemed wholly unhinged, even demented, with accounts of dark gods, a journey into deepest space, and a being that could reach into your mind and summon your deepest fears.

  Thankfully, she and the boy recovered quickly. Quarantine meant myself and Abella, our doctor, could come no closer than five metres upwind of her, but we passed over fresh meat, fruit, and water, as well as clothing, medicine, and protection against the sun. On the second day, I found her much restored. Having received guidance from Duncan after my first report, I told her that we would have a public meeting after quarantine expired and that she was to compose her thoughts and perhaps keep the more fantastical elements from her telling. I was also keen to avoid unanswered questions, such as the nature of the strange screaming creature she heard just south of Madau, that would encourage speculation and gossip. She responded with an abrupt frankness that left my ears stinging, but thankfully she appears to have heeded my advice.

  For which I am glad, for even the bare facts of her story have left many in the crowd shaking their heads in disbelief. I look across the Council. Duncan is typically implacable. Abella, Martha, and Larry all lean forward, their elbows on their knees, their faces shining with admiration. Michael sits back with predictable reserve, as do Sandra and Big Kev, both of whom generally follow his lead. Only Cynthia, who heads up Planning, seems distracted, even uninterested, in what Matai has to say.

  Now Matai glares at us. The crowd waits in dead silence save for the carefree buzzing of insects and the annoyed squealing of Old Bertha's pigs, calling for their midday meal. The crowd waits to see how we will respond.

  Duncan raises his hands and brings them together in a clap that makes everyone jump. And then he claps again, and he's applauding, and Larry beams and joins in, along with Abella, who's openly crying, and then the whole crowd starts, the tension rushing out of them in a wave of relief, everyone clapping, Enzo calling, "Bravo! Bravo!" from the sidelines, and even Michael smiles as Matai looks around, as if stunned, unsure of what this noise means, before gradually allowing herself a small smile. The applause goes on a long minute that sends the birds of the forest to flight and draws more locals from the gardens across the stream.

  When it finally dies down, Duncan is the first to speak. "What an incredible adventure. I move that Tech produce an in-depth, written record immediately." Sandra, who heads up Records and Tech, nods tersely in agreement. "However, I want my own feelings on this known to you all. Matai's strength of character, integrity, and ingenuity have allowed her to triumph over incredible odds. She has shown remarkable courage and fortitude to bring us back news of this incipient danger. We all, this entire community, owe her a debt that I fear we can never repay."

  Larry starts clapping again, which sets off another round of applause. But already I can see some in the crowd murmuring to each other. Big Kev leans in so Michael can whisper in his ear, the two men nodding as some understanding is met.

  "Matai herself is far from recovered from her ordeal, so I ask that everyone respect her recovery and—"

  Matai cuts off Duncan, waving her bandaged hand at him in dismissal. "I'm fine. We've already wasted enough time talking. Three days in quarantine, and you've done nothing. Black Harvest still has plenty of good salvage, and we should be out there—"

  A few chuckles, more of admiration than anything else, rise from the crowd, and Duncan smiles as he interrupts back. "The wreck is not going anywhere. There'll be plenty of time for future salvage operations."

  Matai is about to argue, but Michael leans in. "Can I join Duncan in offering my congratulations to Matai on her safe return, especially with her most incredible tale. Talking zombies, mysterious islands. It beggars belief." He raises his hand in a conciliatory manner to stave off the sharp intake of breath f
rom most listeners. "I don't mean to suggest that anything Matai has told us isn't true, as far as she recalls. But it is rather amazing. Especially the part about how she had the opportunity to return and warn us all of this almost a month ago, yet stayed."

  "I was rescuing the boy!" bursts out Matai, her cheeks colouring. Larry's and Abella's faces are set in firm disapproval, but Duncan waits, wanting to see how far Michael will commit himself.

  "Of course. A very brave act. Very brave. I wish I had your sense of valour. But, as you say, your rescue mission led to the loss of an irreplaceable yacht and a whole container ship full of salvage — cars and trucks even!"

  Everyone is suddenly talking all at once. Many in the crowd jump to their feet angrily, shouting Michael down. Larry pounds his fist on the table as he shouts, "Salvage? What price? What price would you pay, Michael? Tell me that!"

  Matai has squared her shoulders like she's about to charge as she yells, "I don't have to explain myself—"

  "This Council is to regulate the use of limited supplies—" starts Big Kev angrily, but Michael stops him with a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head.

  Duncan puts an end to the noise by slapping his palm on the table, the meaty impact as sharp as a gunshot. "Michael, this is not the time or the place."

  "I didn't mean to set the cat among pigeons. You all know me; I speak my mind. If I offended, I apologise. But I speak for many people here when I say we have a lot of questions."

  An angry voice shouts, "Not us!" But I see some in the audience nodding in agreement.

  "No one doubts Matty's courage or ability," continues Michael. "She's a very brave woman. I admire that. Very brave. Very good. But we need every boat we have. And we have too many mouths on this island already."

  "Are you suggesting that I should have left Blong?" demands Matai.

  "Of course not. But he is another we have to care for. Our resources are strained already. Plus, I don't think three days of quarantine is enough."

  "That is absolute nonsense," says Abella, who is in charge of Health. She fixes Michael with a look of cold dislike as she continues. "Incubation of the virus is less than twelve hours in the vast majority of cases. Symptoms first appear within minutes."

  "But there are still other diseases out there," says Big Kev, his baritone voice carrying easily to every listener. "Suppose this kid isn't lying, and he was on the ship for years. Although I don't know how a kid could survive around zombs for that long. But whatever, let's give him the benefit of the doubt. Who knows what else he picked up? You've seen him — he's riddled with worms at the very least."

  "You're dangerously close to telling me how to do my job," says Abella, her colour rising.

  "Someone has to," retorts Big Kev.

  "We are not here to debate policy!" says Larry. "This meeting was so we could hear Matty's account firsthand. If you want to change policy, bring it up at the Weekly."

  "Yeah, let's sit with our thumbs up our arses," says Big Kev. "If what Matty says is true, then the disease has mutated again. Who knows what—"

  There are few people who can cut off Big Kev when he gets on a flow, but Matai seems to swell with righteous rage. Spit flecks from her lips as she shouts, "IF? IF WHAT I SAY IS TRUE? I've told my fucking story! If you don't like it, you can get fucked!"

  She spins on her heel and walks straight at the crowd. Despite her injuries and deprivations, she holds her head high, and her glare melts those in her way like ice in the noonday sun. The audience parts, and she stalks angrily through them in the direction of the beach.

  Her walkout signals the end of order. People argue in the crowd. Members of the Council shout at each other; Big Kev and Larry look like they're about to start throwing punches. Duncan glares at Michael, who raises his eyebrows innocently. Then Duncan meets my eyes and, with a flick of his head, sends me after Matai.

  ***

  I find Matai down on the beach. Her deep footprints run down to the shoreline and then turn back, to where she paces up and down, wearing a deep furrow in the sand with her angry strides. She looks up as I come out of the tree line. "That's utter bullshit!" she shouts. "You knew it was going to be a circus, Zac. You put me on show."

  "I know, and I'm sorry. I didn't expect Michael to be so openly disrespectful."

  "That man wants a fucking slap."

  "Matty, listen to me. Things have been getting tense. Some people are arguing that we should stop all trading and voyaging. They say the risk of infection, of the plague getting here, is too great."

  "So what? They've always been babies who are too scared of the outside world. What's changed?"

  Angry shouting still rises from the meeting place. I move closer to her, looking up and down the beach to ensure I can't be overheard. The only other people on the beach are some local children, splashing in the shallows half a mile away, on the other side of the creek that marks the boundary between the expat camp and the local village. "It's not just us. There are plenty of locals who want us gone. All expats off the island. We all know this. But some expats have been fanning the flames. Talking about how we should take over. How we have guns and boats, so we should be running the show."

  "Tell me something I don't know. Christ, sometimes I wish I had just got in Voodoo and sailed away years ago from you people with your bullshit politics."

  "Matty, we're one of the few communities to survive the Fall. One of the only expat communities that we know about. It creates a unique set of tensions and—"

  "Yes, Zac, you can spare me the fact sheet. I get it. What I don't get is why you had to put me on stage like that."

  "What did you think would happen? You could just return, say, 'Hey, folks, no biggie, but the infected have leaders now, and they think they're ambassadors from hell. Anyway, can I get a new yacht, 'cause there's heaps of neat salvage nearby on an island that doesn't exist.'"

  She shakes her head and looks away, out to sea. But she can't hide a sad smile nor the sheen of tears that film her eyes. "I always forget what a sarcastic shit you can be, Zac. You could've warned me that Michael was going to have a go like that."

  "I didn't know. That doesn't excuse it. But I didn't expect him to be so open."

  She wipes her eyes, drying them with the clean bandages on her hands, and looks back at me. There is no trace of her moment of good humour. "You lying to me?"

  "No. I'm not speaking for anyone else. But I didn't know."

  "So Duncan did expect it?"

  "If you want to know what Duncan knew, you can ask him yourself."

  She snorts. "You know, I was going get in my dinghy, row back to Voodoo, and set sail. Get away from all this bullshit. Go back to the open sea where I belong." She looks at the empty spot in the anchorage where Voodoo once moored and sighs. "Guess I'm stuck here now."

  "It's the best thing for you. You need to rest. No, please, don't get pissed at me. We've known each other for years, haven't we?"

  "Just because you're my mate doesn't mean you can order me around."

  "No one is ordering you. I'm just saying. Have a rest. Lie down. Drink some hooch. You deserve it."

  "Christ. I hate having nothing to do." She looks out to sea now, beyond the anchorage, her eyes going far away, to something I can't see.

  Something I don’t think I want to see.

  ***

  When I head back to camp, things have died down. An uneasy tension remains in the air; the square and main street are unusually empty of people, and those who are out cluster in small groups, talking urgently. The only loud noises come from the small group of kids, who, unfettered by adult concerns and politics, are chasing a hoop up and down the thoroughfare.

  Larry sits on his porch, nursing a red, tight cheek. He shrugs at my questioning look and says, "You should see the other guy."

  "Big Kev?"

  He chuckles and then winces at the pain that jets through his face. "That kettle's been brewing for a while. Seemed like a good a time as any to let off some steam."
/>   After I don't reply, he sighs and says, "Duncan's inside. He said to send you straight in."

  Duncan is examining a map of Southeast Asia he and Larry have tacked up on the living room wall. The hut is cool; the shutters are open, letting in a pleasant breeze. He doesn't turn as I enter the house, just lifts his left hand to acknowledge my presence as he runs his right index finger over the map. I know what he is looking at — virtually every city on the map has a red line crossing it out. Only Madau, the Trobriands, and a few islands in the Louisiades, to the south, are circled in green.

  "Absence of proof is not proof of absence," he says, his back still to me. "You know what that means? Every city of the old world has fallen. We've crossed off the ones we know for certain are gone. That we saw dying on the news. But what about those unaccounted for? Truk? Ponopei? Ambon? Dili we know is dead, but what about Arturo Island? There's ten thousand islands in Indonesia alone. Seven thousand in the Philippines. Surely some must have escaped the Fall, like us. But unless they come up on HF or we send a boat or find a bloody message in a bottle, how will we know? For want of news, we think we are alone and exceptional in that regard."

  "That was a dirty trick to pull on Matty," I say. My skin feels tight over my face. I'm not going to be distracted by his rhetoric.

  Duncan hears the anger in my voice and turns, looking surprised. He studies me for a moment, his grey eyes cold, before he says, "I won't pretend to misunderstand you. But I do want you to elaborate before I reply."

  "You knew Michael would attack her. You know Matty hates speaking in public, how she hates anyone looking over her shoulder, and still you put her on display."

  He shrugs. "So what if I did?"

  "It's a shabby trick."

  "So you understand it was a trick. Good. I always knew you were a bright one."