by Jase Kovacs
As Excelsior comes to a gentle rest over the anchor chain and I look up to see the strange pair standing on the dock, looking like some mirage leading pilgrims on through a desert, I don't think about them, or the mystery of the island, or where the hundreds of marys lurk.
Instead, I look to my crew. To Enzo, whose hands unconsciously coil the sheets neatly as he looks over at the man and woman. To Zac, the hapless lubber who seems to fumble the simplest tasks yet now seems to be developing an instinctive understanding of what must be done even if he does not always know how to do it. To Roman, the natural-born sailor, for whom this ramshackle old yacht is perhaps less dangerous than the hand-hewn canoes he is used to sailing across open water. To Piper, who has faced down her paralysing seasickness with a grim determination and who, without orders, has moved out of sight into the saloon, where she now stands in the companionway, the Marlin rifle cradled in her hands, out of sight of the shore, her green eyes shimmering with a hunter's excitement. And to Blong, my dear faithful Blong, always at my side, the boy who was with me at my darkest times and who held me when the fire of my crucible died and I fell back into the world, reborn. They all look to me now, waiting for guidance, for orders, for leadership.
And now, in this instant, it hits me. This is who I am now.
I am the Captain.
***
"Piper, stay out of sight but ready. Enzo, go and wave and make friends. Zac, stand with him. Pleasantries only, no info on where we've come from. Roman, look busy." The words come easily, the instructions clear in my mind, and I am grateful to see how everyone understands my intentions and moves to obey, not too urgently, looking relaxed as if there were nothing peculiar about two expats on an island we had written off with the words: Here Be Monsters.
"Hello!" calls Enzo. He is shirtless, a twist of fabric tied as a sweatband over his brow, his lean skin as dark as a dried coconut's husk. "We come a long way. Is there fresh water here?"
The two on shore are smiling and waving and have been for some time. Their casual manner is disconcerting. It may be the middle of the day, but there are still plenty of deep shadows in the ruined buildings where marys could lurk. The woman calls out something, but the breeze snatches her words away.
"Did you understand her?" I ask.
"Non. But my ears are not so good."
"She said there's a creek at the top of the bay, but we should come ashore here," says Roman.
"Okay." I look over the couple, who still smile and beckon encouragingly to us. "Anyone else find this weird?"
"Uh, yeah," says Zac with carefully pitched sarcasm.
"Here's what we're going to do. Enzo, Zac, Roman, get the dinghy in the water. Piper, you're on overwatch. Stay below but open the portholes and hatches, ready to take up a firing position. Carefully, though. I don't want to spook them." She nods and disappears inside. A moment later, I hear her opening the forepeak hatch, but by then I'm leaning out of the cockpit to look up the mast. Blong straddles the spreaders, halfway up, looking as comfortable up there as a bird in a tree. "Blong, you okay up there?"
"I see so far!"
"Let us know if you see anything funny."
"Houses up the road. Little smoke. More people."
"How many?"
"Three houses. Uh… " A long pause while he counts. He lets go of the shrouds to show ten fingers. Just then, a freak gust of wind pitches the boat, and my heart leaps into my mouth as he wobbles with the sudden movement. He doesn't even notice; his arm loops unconsciously around the shroud to steady himself before he opens both palms again. "This many people!"
Zac and Roman turn the dinghy over, ready to lift it with the spinnaker halyard and drop it in the water. Enzo glances up at Blong and looks back at me, raising his eyebrows. "Twelve at least, eh?"
"We'll just go and talk to these two first," I say. "Get a feeling. Then go from there."
"Okay. But there is many places they can shoot from on shore."
"Yeah, I know. So keep your eyes peeled."
***
Ten minutes later, Roman rows me towards the wharf. There are just the two of us in the aluminium dinghy — Enzo, the only other experienced sailor, has remained on Excelsior in case he has to leave without me. I considered bringing Zac, but he can't row worth a damn. Blong remains in the crosstrees, and Piper is covering us from a concealment belowdecks.
I tell Roman to stop ten metres from the wharf. The woman in her fifties or sixties; her skin is so tanned and leathery that it is difficult to tell her true age. The man is much younger, maybe twenty or twenty-five. Both of them have brilliant white hair, grown long so it cascades over their shoulders like the hood of a cape. Even across ten metres of water, I can see the woman's blue eyes hold a crystalline intensity. "Come in! We're safe," she says. Her voice is deep and strong; the voice of a woman accustomed to issuing commands. "No plague here!"
"How long have you guys been here?" I ask.
"A few months. Where have you come from?"
"We're traders. We heard Woodlark was off limits."
She gestures to the shoreline in a well, obviously not manner. "So did we. But here we are."
"Where did you come from?"
"I asked you the same thing, and you haven't answered." She says this firmly, not seeking an argument but letting me know she doesn't let things slip by. The man at her side distracts me. He is preternaturally still; even the breeze seems unable to ruffle his hair. He stares at me with a disquieting intensity.
Roman is silent, smiling amiably at the two on shore but not forcing himself into the proceedings.
"We live on our boat," I say. "We're sailors, been going for a long time. New Britain, New Ireland. Round the Trobes, down to Aussie occasionally."
"You go to Australia? What's it like?"
"Dead. Plenty of infected. Not much good salvage left." There is a pause now, the unanswered questions hanging in the air. "So I guess you could say we come from all sorts of places."
She inclines her head, as if graciously granting me my small evasion. "My name is Deborah. We came from Misima. You and your crew are welcome at our camp, up at the old mine. We can talk there out of this sun."
I briefly flirt with the idea of denying they're my crew and implying that Enzo is the captain. It seems prudent to not reveal too much about us too soon. But Deborah seems like a sharp one, and I don't want to muddy the waters on our first contact with outsiders. "Let me go back and talk to them."
The man speaks, startling me as much as if a statue suddenly sprang to life. "Tell the redhead to leave the rifle."
I look back at Excelsior but can't see any sign of Piper. "What?"
"The little girl who has had her gun on me this whole time. That's rude. We won't have weapons in our home." The man speaks in tense, clipped tones, as if he is personally offended.
"Quiet, Reuben," says Deborah. "What do you expect them to do?" She smiles apologetically at me. "I understand your prudence. But he's right. We can't allow weapons on shore."
"Last we heard, this island was crawling with marys."
"With what?" She twitches as if my words were a slap.
"With infected. Vamps. Whatever you call the monsters."
"Oh. I thought you meant something else. No. No, you were misinformed. There is no danger here."
***
"You're sure you never came on deck?" I ask. We're all in the cockpit, having a quick council of war. Deborah and Reuben, apparently unconcerned by the oppressive sun, have not moved from the wharf.
"I'm not an idiot," says Piper.
"But you had him in your sights."
"Well, yeah."
"Perhaps the gun barrel came out a porthole?" suggests Enzo. "He could have seen that."
Piper glares at him. "I already said I'm not an idiot. I was careful. There's no way he could have seen me."
Zac waves the matter away, annoyed at the amount of time we've spent on it. "So the guy eats a lot of carrots. We’re getting distracted. What ar
e we going to do?"
"Oh, it is obvious, no?" says Enzo. "We're not go with them with no guns."
"But we have to go in, right?" says Zac. "I mean, that's the whole point of us coming here."
"The point of us coming here was to shakedown as a yacht and a crew," I say.
"Come on, we could have done that anywhere. We came here to find the red-sailed canoe."
"We take one gun?" suggests Blong.
"They didn't seem the types to compromise," I say. "Roman, what do you think?"
He purses his lips and shakes his head. "They remind me of Mr. Arthur."
I don't recognise the name and look to Zac for an explanation. "I think that happened while you were away. Or maybe before you came," he says.
"What happened?"
"There was a cult. Arthur was their prophet." Zac looks briefly at Roman; I can see a phenomenal amount of depth between them in that look. "It ended badly."
"The blondies are super creepy," says Piper. "No question."
"No question, that's right," says Enzo. "We leave."
"No." I'm looking at Zac as I speak, watching his eyes. "The whole point of us coming here was to gather information. We've found an unknown community virtually on our doorstep. Who are they? What are their intentions? And how are they living here at all? The absence of marys alone demands closer investigation."
"Non. Go in unarmed? That is stupid."
"Enzo, don't worry. I've got an idea. Zac, what was the layout of this place, in the old days?" He goes to stand, to point. "Don't be so obvious!"
Zac freezes and then lowers his hand. "Oh. Okay. You see behind me, the ruined warehouses? And the rainforest logs? This was the port and loading station. Only a few administrative buildings and storehouses here. Of course, none of them had been used for that purpose since before the plague. By the time Woodlark fell, this was where most people were living. Blong, you said you saw some houses?"
He nods eagerly. "Up the valley."
"That's Kulumadau, the main mining camp, about five kilometres up the road. That's where the big buildings are. Were, at least. Big sheds for the equipment and demountables for offices and staff accommodation. Some hangars full of diggers and machinery."
"How many people lived here in the Time Before?"
"At the mine?" asks Roman. He casts his mind back through the decades, to when he came here as a boy, to sit beside his father who drove trucks laden with mud and ore. "Oh… hundreds."
My crew look to me, all bright, engaged, expecting. Everyone is happy to discuss the pros and cons of our situation but, at the end of the day, they will look to me for a decision. Should we go in with this strange pair? Or should we catch the next falling tide and sail away from this bay and whatever mysteries or dangers it holds?
The thing is: I don't know.
I don't think they can sense my uncertainty. Enzo still argues with me; he assumes that I want to go in. Piper is all for it, but I'm sure she means to go armed. I can tell that Zac is angling to go in, but Roman seems reluctant. He isn't being obstinate, but then that's not his way. For Roman, as for many locals, you can tell their dislike of a plan not by their opposition but by their lack of enthusiastic support.
This is where I earn my pay, I guess. Skippering at sea is suddenly so easy by comparison: the natural world throws something at you, and you take the appropriate action to rectify the problem or exploit the opportunity. But this human terrain, through which I now navigate, is as treacherous and fraught as any uncharted reef.
As always, I ask myself: What would Mum or Dad do? But, for once, I come up short. If we were on Voodoo, they would never risk their family or our home. But this isn't their family, and this isn't my family either. We are a team, specifically picked and tasked to explore the islands surrounding Madau. Our objectives are far different from my parents' desire to protect their children.
So what are our objectives? I want to give my crew a chance to work together. Duncan's objective is to gain information about our neighbours. He meant in the Trobes and Louisiades, but it's obvious that this community demands further investigation. I feel my confidence grow as the idea develops within. We must explore the island. That much is clear. The question I should be asking myself is not if we are to explore but how we do it without getting anyone hurt.
After I make that breakthrough, my decisions come ever so easily.
"We're going in," I say. Enzo doesn't react beyond a slight veiling of his eyes. Piper glows with excitement, her feet jiggling as if she wants to dance. Zac nods slowly, pleased, and Roman looks away, back up the bay, in the direction of the mine. Only Blong, with his lack of filters, looks alarmed.
"But," I continue, "we're doing it on my terms."
***
Round two.
This time, Zac comes with Roman and I. Enzo stays on Excelsior, Blong is still in the spreaders, but now Piper sits on the rail, her rifle openly cradled in her arms. Zac holds my M4 assault rifle where he sits at the bow, and I wear the captain's pistol on my hip. I don't expect or want Zac to start shooting — and God help us if he does, his drills are so bad — but I have him holding my weapon as a form of misdirection. If it comes to it, I'll do the shooting.
Again, I have Roman hold position ten metres off the wharf. Deborah looks as calm and collected as if she had been waiting on a cool and airy porch rather than standing in the blinding tropical sun for the past half hour. Reuben, on the other hand, looks furious — his mouth tight, jaw clenched, and pale eyes dancing with malice.
"I thought our conditions were clear," says Deborah.
"Clear, yes. But not acceptable. I will not come to your camp, armed or otherwise. However, we can meet here, on the wharf, within sight of my vessel."
"This wharf, this camp, in fact this entire island now is our territory," says Deborah. Her cheek twitches, just once, and she raises her hand to touch it. She catches herself halfway through and instead brushes some hair away from her ear. "We are not a warlike community. But we do not tolerate dissent."
"You came from Misima, yes? That's a hundred miles away. By sailing canoe? A long way to visit a neighbour who may or may not be at home. And if you were visiting, why stay as you have? I don't see any boats here, no canoes either. I think perhaps you didn't have a choice about leaving. That perhaps, you are, like us, wanderers." The way her expression gains a hard edge shows me my speculations are not too far from the truth. "Now, are you telling me there is nothing you could gain from half an hour's conversation?"
She waves us over to the northern end of the wharf. For the first time, I notice a stiffness in her gestures, as if she suffers from an old wound. "Tie up. There's a shelter where we can talk."
Roman holds the dinghy steady as first Zac and then I step onto the thin, bent rungs of a rusted ladder and climb up to the wharf. "Captain," Roman says in the whisper of a hunter not wanting to scare game. "There are people in the trees, watching."
"Armed?"
"I think."
"She has her overwatch as we have ours. Keep an eye on them."
Deborah leads us to a freestanding concrete shelter at the beginning of the wharf. Most of the roof tin has gone, either blown away or scavenged over the years. The mine road, red dirt shimmering in the heat, runs back into the jungle and up the hill. Several large warehouses sit in a row, their doors and windows choked with vines and branches. Some have walls, some are just skeletons.
Deborah gestures to several concrete benches, and I'm struck again by her awkward, careful movements. Her white shawl covers her shoulders, arms, and legs like the folds of a curtain, and I can see no scars to hint at her affliction, if there is one.
"I hope I haven't given offence," she says after we sit. "It's so rare to see a white person. Sometimes we think we're the only ones left. And nationals can be so… unpredictable, don’t you find?"
"No offence was taken," I reply. "These are cautious times. These are my crew — Roman and Isaac."
Her gaze passes over
Roman as if he is a piece of furniture and settles on Isaac. "A blessed name. May you have as many years as your namesake."
Her beatific smile is disconcerting. I look at Reuben, but he has adopted a neutral expression. For a moment, no one says anything. The air trembles with the harsh scream of cicadas.
"Misima Island?" I say to break the spell. "We never made it down that far."
"I am surprised. We are one of the few stable communities, where the nationals have not run rampant."
That's the second time she's used that word: nationals. It's a remnant from the Time Before, when expatriates would refer to Papua New Guineans as "nationals," as if they were the foreign species. On Madau, we've deliberately phased the word out, adopting the term locals as a less… well, it doesn't have the baggage that nationals, or God forbid, natives, carries. I smile to hide my dislike, glancing at Zac, wishing he would step in to carry this conversation. Diplomacy is meant to be his game. "We have come from the northwest. New Ireland, New Britain."
"Are there many communities up there? Or only villages?"
"What's the difference?"
She smiles again, as if explaining something to a child. "White people, of course."
Roman snorts, which brings Reuben's gaze whipping around to him, glaring as if he can't believe what he just heard. I check my immediate response but can't find any word that would moderate the intense jet of anger that fills me.
Zac leans forward in his chair. "There were a few villages. Most given over to vice and degradation. We avoided them; you would not believe what diseases those people have."
Deborah matches his lean, seeming to miss the look of shocked disgust I shoot him. "Believe me, Isaac, I can. Thankfully, the Church remains strong on Misima and has helped prevent those poor souls from falling back into their natural savagery."
"Is that why you have come to Woodlark? As a mission?"
She looks modestly at the ground. "The Lord blessed my son and I. He spoke to us in dreams and brought us to this island. You understand what I mean, don't you, Isaac?" She looks up, and her hand snatches Zac's wrist tightly. She pulls him closer, looking into his eyes, her own pleading for understanding. "You, who Abraham offered up as a sacrifice to the Lord, as the Lord offered up his own son for our sins. You understand, don't you?"