Unseen Messages

by Pepper Winters

  Not even my mother or father.

  Conner was more to me than a kid I shared an island with.

  So much more.

  And now, he’d disappeared, leaving us to deal with the wreckage.

  I hated him for that.

  I hated that he’d checked out and left us here.

  But I hated myself, too.

  While Estelle punished herself for his death, I beat myself up for ever letting Conner take so many risks.

  Fishing was dangerous.

  Fishing alone even more so.

  What was I thinking?

  Why didn’t I go with him? Why didn’t I take over and force the boy to stay on the shore?

  I knew the answers to my questions: because Conner wouldn’t have accepted my ultimatums. If he was forbidden the ocean, he would’ve been in trees and broken his back. If he’d been denied fishing, he would’ve found some other risky pastime.

  It was his destiny.

  Just like ours hadn’t been when we’d crashed.

  Pippa turned eleven but pleaded not to celebrate. She chose to spend the day cuddled in Conner’s flax sleeping bag on her own.

  I worried about her.

  About all of us.

  Grief was a constant entity poking me full of painful holes. I wanted to rope the bastardly emotion into a noose, beat it up, then hack it to pieces with our blunt axe.

  I couldn’t keep feeling so hopeless, so useless, so eternally sad.

  So I threw myself into finding salvation for those of us left behind.

  For a week, we stockpiled and prepared the kayak with food. I built a ballast on the side to keep us upright when navigating the choppy reef, stealing the design from a Balinese long boat.

  Pippa helped prepare, but her heart wasn’t in it. She preferred to spend her time on the beach where Conner and her parents had said farewell.

  I dreaded the day when we finally disembarked.

  Would she come with us or would she be unable to say goodbye? Their bodies were gone, but their souls remained on our island. And I didn’t know if she’d be able to tear herself away from those she adored.

  While Estelle wrapped our belongings in palm fronds and hacked down coconuts, I sailed around the atoll a few times to test how seaworthy the new vessel was. So far, the rickety, flax tied, bamboo crafted outrigger withstood enough. However, the four oars I’d made had dwindled to three.

  Conner wouldn't be there to help me steer or navigate.

  His loss pulverised my heart.

  Our home was slowly less and less important, just a shell to abandon when we left. We were as prepared as we could be.

  However, even for our forward preparation, it was water that delayed us.

  January was the hottest month.

  There was no respite from the humid heat.

  Not one raincloud to top up our stores of drinking water.

  Not one breath of wind to help guide us.

  So even though everything inside said to leave, now, this very moment.

  We couldn’t.

  We had to wait until we had enough to journey.

  We had to wait until death visited one last time.

  .............................

  FEBRUARY

  Coconut turned two.

  We didn’t celebrate.

  Pippa had turned eleven.

  She refused to celebrate.

  The hot weather finally turned to showers.

  We couldn’t celebrate.

  Because although we’d been waiting for the rain to free us, the reality had finally hit home.

  We were leaving.

  Forever.

  However, one of us was going on a much different journey.

  An unplanned journey.

  A cruise up the River Styx rather than the Pacific Ocean.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  ...............................................

  E S T E L L E

  ......

  As humans, we abhor death.

  We’re taught from birth to fear the unknown, cling to the known, and receive our limited time on earth.

  But what if that’s a lie?

  What if we should embrace death?

  Would we be at peace knowing those that’d left us existed in another dimension? That we weren’t nothing the moment we took our final breath?

  Death was my enemy.

  But could it ultimately be my friend?

  Taken from a carving on the umbrella tree.

  ...

  THREE YEARS, SIX months.

  Four deaths.

  One birth.

  Countless triumphs.

  Untold failures.

  Forty-two months.

  One hundred and eighty-two weeks.

  One thousand two hundred and seventy-six days.

  And one terrified woman with the feeling of premonition on her shoulders.

  Our bodies couldn’t take much more but we were almost there...almost free.

  However, everything changed with a splinter and a scream.

  Over the years, Galloway had built many things—a firewood storage shed, rain reservoirs, and even an outhouse to keep us private when human nature called. For years, he’d hacked at branches, woven rope, and built with no complications.

  So why should the morning of our departure be any different?

  I couldn’t explain it.

  I woke with terror.

  And it only grew worse as more hours passed.

  Part of me believed it was because we were leaving today. We were saying goodbye and pushing off into an unknown destiny. But the other part of me believed it was for something else.

  Galloway.

  I’m worried about him.

  I flittered around him while he tightened last-minute strappings and secured extra coconuts into the kayak. I stayed busy (like we all did) to avoid the soul-sucking memories of Conner.

  Pippa helped prepare Coco, dressing her in a fresh nappy and forcing the scrambling child into an old t-shirt of hers (Pippa had outgrown most of her things), and we all stopped for lunch in the noonday heat.

  Once fish and prawns had been devoured, we returned to our tasks.

  Galloway headed into the trees to cut down an extra branch to use as a push-off pole and I went with him to help strip the skinny trunk of twigs and leaves.

  Sweat poured down his forehead as he hacked away with our blunt axe. His hollow stomach and pronounced ribs decorated him with shadows with every swing. Finally, the chosen branch snapped, soaring to the ground.

  Galloway ducked to catch it.

  But yanked his hand away a millisecond later. “Crap.”

  “What? What happened?” A dizzy spell caught me as I shot up from my haunches.

  Pressing his index to his mouth, he sucked on his injury. “I’m okay, just a splinter.”

  My heart rate slowed a little. He’d had countless splinters. They weren’t anything to fear.

  “Here, let me help.” Pulling his hand from his mouth, I quickly inspected where the sliver of wood punctured his digit. A small droplet of blood welled beneath his fingernail. “It’s gone into your cuticle.”

  Peering closer, I pressed the swollen flesh to make sure the splinter was gone. “I can’t see anything. It must’ve just been a little prick.”

  “A little prick?” His lips formed a crescent smile, doing his best at joviality.

  Three months was a long time after Conner’s death.

  Three months was no time at all.

  I laughed quietly, doing my best to meet his effort. “Well, I wouldn’t use the word little when calling your, eh—” My eyes went to his shorts. “I’d call my husband a very well-endowed prick.”

  His eyes warmed. “I’ll never tire of hearing you say that.”

  “What, prick?”

  “No.” He chuckled. “Husband.”

  “Husband?”

  “Yes, wife. Never stop calling me it.”

  My heart fluttered. “I won’t.�
��

  Seriousness replaced fake merriment. “I mean it, Estelle. We’re leaving today. Tonight who knows where we’ll be. Tomorrow...we might be alive or dead.”

  He cupped my cheek, bringing me forward to kiss. “But no matter where we are, promise me we’ll always be married.”

  I grasped his wrist as we kissed softly, then fiercely.

  When we broke apart, I vowed, “Forever, G. You’ll always be mine and I’ll always be yours.”

  We drifted off to our remaining chores, our thoughts locked on the terrifying unknown.

  .............................

  A few hours later, when I brought Galloway some water, his forehead was burning up and a hazy film covered his eyes.

  Instantly, the dizziness in my blood switched to cold-sweats. “Are you feeling okay?”

  He took the bottled water, guzzling it down. “I’m fine. Stop fussing.”

  “I’m not fussing.”

  “Yes, you are. You’ve been buzzing around me all day. What’s up, Estelle?”

  He was right.

  Ever since he’d hurt his finger, I’d been watching him. I couldn’t stop my paranoia—not after losing Conner. If Pippa or Coco were out of my sight for too long, I choked up and dashed to find them.

  Galloway was no different.

  I hated that I loved them all so much but had no power to protect them.

  “I’m just worried.”

  “Well, be worried about the journey, not me.” Galloway brushed past, dumping the oars by the water’s edge. “I’m fine.”

  He’s not fine.

  Something isn’t fine.

  But what?

  “G...I—something isn’t right.”

  He scowled. “Don’t start that, Estelle. You know what today is. We’re not delaying any longer.”

  In the past, he’d indulged my whims of instinct and listened. But today his snappy attitude stopped me from blurting my fears.

  He’s right.

  I shouldn’t make today any harder than it already was.

  I smiled apologetically, clutched the empty water bottle, and forbid myself from touching his hot forehead again.

  It took every reserve not to climb up his height and force him to sit so I could take care of him—to reassure myself that he was okay. Instead, I turned my back and headed toward Pippa and Coco to tick off our remaining items.

  If he’s still hot in an hour, I’ll say something.

  Only, I didn’t need to.

  An hour passed and he put down the axe and disappeared into the house.

  Sharing a worried look with Pippa, I trailed after him.

  I found him lying on our leaf-stuffed bed with his forearm over his eyes.

  My heart rolled over as I fell to my knees and touched his cheek.

  Hot.

  So, so hot.

  Bowing over him, I kissed his lips with so much fear, so much terror, I couldn’t breathe. “G...what is it? Tell me. Please, God, tell me.”

  He groaned a little as I lay beside him, doing my best to hide my shaking. “Stop fussing, woman.”

  “I’m not fussing. It’s gone way beyond fussing.” Nuzzling his neck, I sucked in a gasp at his scolding temperature.

  He’s sick.

  He’s burning up.

  He has a fever.

  What do I do?

  How do I fix this?

  We can’t leave.

  God, don’t leave me, G.

  “Estelle, I can hear your thoughts. They’re so damn loud. I’m okay...truly.”

  I sucked in a shaky breath.

  First, Conner.

  Now, him.

  I couldn’t handle it if he lied.

  If he got sick.

  If he...

  died.

  “What’s wrong?” My voice was whisper quiet. “Tell me how to make it better.”

  His eyes tightened; he turned to look at me. “I just have a headache and feel a bit sick, that’s all.” He swallowed, his throat working hard. “It might’ve been the fish for lunch. Or I’m just dehydrated.”

  “Do you want some water?”

  His lips quirked. “You’re so good to me. But no, I just want to nap in the shade. I’m sure once my headache goes away, I’ll be fine.”

  Looking through the window, I calculated our time to depart. We’d agreed on pushing off late afternoon in the hope that we’d have enough daylight to move closer to another island and it would be dark enough that we’d see flashing lights or the glow of smog from a village better than in full sunshine. Not to mention, rowing in full zenith would’ve been impossible.

  On the other hand, setting sail just before dark might be the worst idea we’d ever had. A full night on the ocean with nothing to illuminate our path? We might row the opposite way. However, Galloway had promised he knew north from south and had a good guess which star to follow.

  “Just rest, G. Get better. We can leave tomorrow. No problem.”

  “No, we’ll leave today. I’m fine, Stel. You’ll see.”

  The heavy depression (that never left thanks to Conner’s death) wrapped a thick cloak around me.

  I kissed him again, but my lips found burning skin rather than the salty coolness I knew and loved.

  It took everything I had to leave him to sleep and spent the longest afternoon of my life with Pippa and Coco, whispering about the pitfalls and hopefully achievable tasks we’d set ourselves. Doing whatever I could to keep my mind from dismal thoughts.

  Neither of us mentioned Galloway’s sickness.

  Neither of us brought up Conner.

  Both were subjects far too hard to tolerate.

  By the time I brought him dinner of coconut milk and squid, he was worse.

  His hazy gaze had turned glassy, and he complained about the fire’s brightness, even though there was no way it could affect him being so far from the house.

  If he had a migraine, it was severe.

  He might have swelling of the brain.

  He might have a virus or meningococcal disease.

  Both those I wouldn’t be able to cure.

  Please, let it just be overwork and tiredness.

  Those I could tend to.

  Those were in my realm of acceptable concerns.

  Halfway through the night, when I clambered out of bed to use the washroom, I touched him again and my heart stopped.

  I couldn’t contemplate the worst.

  I’d blindly believed (trusted) that what he’d told me was the truth. That this was a simple set-back and he would wake in full health tomorrow.

  I needed him to rest.

  To heal.

  To get better.

  To get well, dammit.

  Not to get worse.

  But he was worse.

  So, so much worse.

  I shook him as his eyelids fluttered.

  “G, open your eyes.”

  He moaned, rolling onto his side. In his sleep, he’d cradled his left hand where his index finger had swollen and turned a faint shade of red.

  The splinter.

  Something so simple and common.

  Something he’d overcome a hundred times before.

  So why isn’t he overcoming this one?

  What’s going on?

  My mind went into overdrive, forcing dormant cures to rise. If his finger caused his fever, that had to be isolated.

  A tourniquet.

  Fumbling in the dark, I rushed to Conner’s bedroom.

  Tears shot to my eyes at the pristine, untouched space. No one had had the heart to remove the flax blankets or clear out the island clutter. On top of his carved belongings sat the slingshot Galloway had made him.

  It tore out my heart to untie the black string from the forked weapon but I did it to save G. Clutching the fine rope, I rushed back to Galloway and slammed to my knees.

  He remained fast asleep, unmoving.

  I dropped the string I shook so hard, wrapping the blackness around his forearm.

  How
tight should I pull?

  How tight could he stand it before the limb starved of blood?

  Is this going to work?

  Tying a hasty knot, I ran my hands up his arm, hating the tingling heat beneath my fingertips. The ever-present fear hung itself around my throat as I shook him again. I craved the beauty of electric light to douse him in brightness and confront just how sick he was.

  But we didn’t have that luxury; I’d even forgotten how brilliant such a device was. All I had access to was a burning fire or the silvery moon and both were outside.

  We have to go.

  “G, please...help me get you up.”

  He flinched with annoyance. “Woman, just let me rest.”

  “No. I need to look at you.”

  “You can look at me here.”

  “I can’t see in the dark.”

  He groaned, clearly debating whether to yell at me or obey. Luckily, the gentleman in him was still in control and he struggled upright, letting me guide him to the fire pit.

  Immediately, he slipped from standing to lying, stretching out by the comforting flames. “Just let me rest a little, okay, Stel?”

  He hadn’t mentioned the tourniquet. He hadn’t opened his eyes fully.

  His personal awareness was nil, focusing entirely on whatever he battled.

  I couldn’t calm my clanging heart, no matter how much I told myself not to be stupid. Not to picture the worst. Not to imagine every awful conclusion that I’d been terrified of for years.

  Resting on my knees, I stroked his burning forehead, drinking my tears. “Okay, G. Rest. I’ll watch over you.”

  And watch over him, I did.

  I didn’t move.

  I didn’t sleep.

  I hardly ate or drank.

  I ignored my children.

  I shut out the world.

  I prayed for a miracle.

  For three excruciatingly long days.

  I watched over him, just as I said I would.

  I fed him.

  I bathed him.

  I cried for him.

  I pleaded with him.

  But he didn’t get better.

  He got worse.

  And worse.

  And...

  worse.

  .............................

  “Stelly, you can’t keep doing this. You need to rest.”

  I wafted Pippa away and her intolerable begging for me to eat. My stomach had stopped growling for food, my raging thirst had given up, and my heart had broken and bled out long ago.

  Even Coconut couldn’t reach me in my grief.

  Galloway wasn’t getting better.