by Judy Nunn
While Karim sat on the bench, his arm comfortingly around his wife, Hala turned her attention to the girl, so unfathomable to them all. The Egyptian woman, Sanaa, was seated on the paving stones leaning against one of the wooden pillars, eyes trained on the men in the distance, which gave Hala ample opportunity to study the girl unobserved.
It appeared, for the very first time, that she might be showing something approaching a glimmer of interest as she looked down at the child in her arms. She was displaying no emotion certainly, but Hala noted she had drawn the end of the light shawl, which was draped over her head as it always was, about the child. Such a gesture was surely evidence of compassion.
Hala indicated they should move away from the bench and the child’s parents, and the girl allowed herself to be led from the verandah around to the shaded side of the hut, where they stood in silence for a moment or so, the girl’s eyes still focused upon the child.
‘He is suffering from malnutrition,’ Hala said, ‘and most importantly dehydration.’ Well of course, we all are, she thought, feeling stupid for stating the obvious.
The girl gave the slightest of nods.
‘The degree of deprivation we have suffered affects a child far more severely,’ Hala explained. ‘To be quite honest, I’m surprised he’s still alive.’ She wondered why she was being so brutally truthful, presumably to shock the girl into some form of reaction.
Once again, the girl gave a slight nod, but her eyes remained on the child.
Hala waited for a moment, then … ‘What is your name?’ she asked.
There was no reply, no reaction whatsoever.
‘We must have a name,’ Hala insisted. ‘In order to survive we must form a bond and work together. This is where our strength lies. What is your name?’
Still no reply, and still the girl did not meet Hala’s eyes.
‘Give me the child,’ Hala said. No point in pushing any further, she told herself, although she felt a flash of annoyance, which she knew was quite irrational. The girl’s condition was obviously a result of some trauma that was no fault of her own. But we’ve all suffered trauma, haven’t we? Hala thought. Why else are we here? She was suddenly so very, very weary that she felt she might collapse. But she didn’t, straightening her back instead and holding her arms out for the child.
The girl, with her customary grace, drew the end of her shawl aside as if parting a curtain in order to reveal something precious, and in doing so she exposed the little face looking up and the eyes that had been fixed upon her all the while. Then without a word, and with no obvious show of reluctance, she transferred the child into Hala’s waiting arms.
Hala steeled herself, determined to remain unmoved; the girl’s problems were her own. She took the child and turned away, her intention being to return the boy to his parents – she did not relish their queries about his condition – but she was barely a pace from the girl when …
‘Jalila.’
She turned back. Silence. Then …
‘My name is Jalila.’ Little more than a whisper.
Their eyes locked and Hala was so startled it was all she could do to suppress an involuntary gasp. The girl’s eyes, not unsurprisingly, were beautiful, heavy-lashed, hazel-green and arresting in the olive-skinned perfection of her face. But it was not the beauty of the eyes that so startled Hala – it was the lack of life she saw there. The girl held her gaze unwaveringly, yet appeared to see nothing. The girl was staring through eyes that were dead. Or else she’s looking into somewhere else, Hala thought, some other place, some other time, I doubt she’s seeing me at all. Hala was mesmerised; the girl’s eyes engulfed her.
But whether she sees me or not, the offer of her name means something, Hala told herself, contact has been made. I must engage her. I must further the connection.
‘Jalila,’ she said gently, to which the girl gave another barely perceptible nod. ‘What a pretty name.’
Any hope of more conversation, however, was quickly dashed as the girl broke eye contact and again focused upon the child.
‘He needs water,’ Hala said, looking down at the infant, once more stating the obvious, but determined to maintain the girl’s interest. If the child was the only way to do so, then she would talk about the child. ‘He needs water above all else. It is dehydration that is killing little Hamid. If we can get water into him, Jalila, then there is just a chance …’ She turned her gaze upon the girl and left the sentence hanging.
The girl’s nod this time was more positive and, as she raised her eyes, Hala was sure she saw a flicker of something there. A flicker of what, she wondered. Hope?
Then as if on cue the men arrived, Massoud and Hany carrying a bucket of water each, Rassen with a miscellany of tin mugs and cups.
‘The tanks are full,’ Rassen announced triumphantly, ‘and we took these from one of the houses – no one was there. Come, come,’ he urged, ‘we must drink together.’
As he led the way around to the front of the hut, the others following, Hala glanced at the girl, receiving no reaction, which did not surprise her. Eyes downcast, the girl had once more retreated into her other world. But the girl now had a name. Jalila. And that was a start.
Hala returned the boy to his father, and the group gathered in a circle on the paving stones of the verandah, the buckets in the centre, Rassen handing out the mugs and cups.
‘We washed them in sea water, the buckets as well,’ he said in an aside to Hala, ‘it’s the best we could do.’
Hala smiled at the irony of the comment. They had survived typhoid aboard the vessel before the storm broke, they had survived death by drowning following the capsizing of the vessel and they had just now come very close to dying of thirst, so the sanitary requirements of the medical profession seemed somewhat superfluous.
Rassen returned the smile, aware of her thoughts. ‘Drink my dear, drink,’ he urged, handing her a cup of water. He took the child from Karim. ‘I’ll look after the boy, Karim,’ he said, ‘you must drink.’
Rassen, Massoud and Hany had slaked their thirst at the water tank and already looked stronger. The others now followed suit, feeling the dizziness lift, feeling their bodies re-energise.
‘Be careful,’ Rassen warned, ‘do not drink too quickly.’
Then he started, very, very slowly, to feed the child, cup to tiny lips, parched and cracked, pausing carefully between each sip. Aware the boy would likely be unable to swallow, Rassen expected any minute that the water would be coughed back up. But the boy did not cough back the water. The boy was able to swallow. And he did so slowly and steadily, matching Rassen’s timing with every single sip. Little Hamid, it seemed, was as intent upon survival as the rest of them.
Rassen and Hala shared a look of understanding: this was a very good sign. Hala’s eyes darted to Jalila, hoping to share a look with her also, but none was forthcoming. No matter, she thought, as she watched the girl watching the child. The child is a strong enough link for the moment – given time Jalila will bond with the rest of us. Hala certainly hoped so anyway.
A half an hour later, it was decided to explore the island, or at least the huts, in an effort to find the inhabitants and hopefully food.
Rassen said nothing of his earlier misgivings and, preparing to set off once again with Massoud and Hany, he suggested Karim stay in the shade of the verandah and look after Azra and little Hamid.
‘The women too,’ he added, ‘look after the women for me, Karim.’ He did not wish the young man to feel emasculated.
But Hala had something to say about that.
‘The women may wish to accompany you, Rassen.’ She looked to Sanaa, who returned a vigorous nod. ‘And we will no doubt be of great value in negotiating with the locals. We are, as you well know, my dear, far more skilled than you men in matters of diplomacy.’
Rassen acquiesced with a wry smile, considering it an extremely healthy sign that even under their current circumstances his feisty wife, a social activist and confirmed feminist,
should behave so true to form.
‘Jalila may wish to stay, however,’ Hala added, noting the girl’s continued lack of interest in anything but the child.
‘Ah. Yes, of course.’
Rassen was not the only one taken aback by the comment. So the girl finally has a name, they all thought. But Hala’s blatantly casual manner in announcing the fact signalled no response should be forthcoming, so no one uttered a word.
‘Well let’s be off then, shall we?’ Rassen said as heartily as possible, although he continued to have a strange sense of foreboding. ‘All those who are coming, join me.’
The others followed as he led the way along the path, Hala by his side.
‘I gather you’ve had a bit of a breakthrough,’ he muttered in English.
‘Just a bit,’ Hala replied. ‘Not much, but it’s a start.’
There were eight huts in all, each crudely constructed of wood and corrugated iron, but in good condition, brightly painted, homely and each, it was discovered, with a water tank of its own, some at the back and some at the side, dependent on the shape of the hut’s roof. The overall effect was that of an attractively colourful miniature village. Freestanding cottages, some with verandahs, some without, yellow and blue, green and red, one even a bizarre shade of magenta, all in a line facing out to sea, a well-worn path of crushed coral running along the front linking them in neighbourly fashion.
Four sturdy wooden jetties projected forty metres or so from the rocky shore, each in excellent condition, ready to receive the vessels they had been built for. But where were the vessels? Apart from the survivors’ own shabby dinghy anchored in the shallows there was not a boat in sight.
Equally strange, several hundred metres from the huts were a number of roughly hewn benches; was this a popular gathering place for the inhabitants? Certainly at dawn or dusk there would be no impediment to the view of a fine sunrise or sunset across the ocean. But where were the people who enjoyed this spectacle? A door knock had revealed each hut unlocked, but not one occupant. Apart from themselves, it would appear there was not a soul on the island.
‘Well we have water and shelter,’ Massoud said optimistically, although like the others he was fully aware that, in this desolate place and without assistance, they now faced the threat of starvation.
‘You are right, my friend, it is an excellent start.’ Rassen was grateful for his young ally’s assistance in buoying their spirits. They had survived so much together; they must not give way to despair. ‘We will scour the huts for food and provisions, we’re bound to find something.’
Once again they progressed methodically from hut to hut, this time exploring each one in detail and, as they did, marvelling at every new discovery.
Many of the unruly, overgrown gardens at the rear of the houses bore produce. A healthy potato patch here, runner beans gone wild there, carrots, turnips, herbs.
Inside the houses, each kitchen was provided with a basic supply of cooking utensils, crockery and cutlery; and the bedrooms, although devoid of linen, revealed comfortable bedsteads with mattresses and pillows, together with cupboards housing an ample supply of blankets. Each hut even had its own outhouse with septic tank. Here indeed was luxury.
Further exploration of storage sheds revealed tools also, and, most important of all, fishing tackle: rods, hand lines, casting nets, scoop nets, apparently home-made three-pronged spears with broom-like wooden handles … The list went on.
A self-sufficient village all of our own, Rassen thought, barely able to believe their good fortune. A tiny ghost town with everything set up for instant tenancy as if we are being invited to move in. He didn’t even pause to wonder about who had lived here, or where they were now or why they had left. Here on this seemingly barren island was everything they could possibly need in order to survive.
The group returned to the others to impart their findings and share their elation.
‘We are most certainly saved,’ Rassen declared.
Some once again gave thanks to God, and in their own way, through unspoken prayer or muttered words, but as they looked at each other one common thought was mirrored in their eyes. We have cheated death.
It was only Jalila who appeared not to care.
About the Author
Judy Nunn’s career has been long, illustrious and multifaceted. After combining her internationally successful acting career with scriptwriting for television and radio, Judy decided in the ’90s to turn her hand to prose.
Her first three novels, The Glitter Game, Centre Stage and Araluen, set respectively in the worlds of television, theatre and film, became instant bestsellers, and the rest is history, quite literally in fact. She has since developed a love of writing Australian historically based fiction and her fame as a novelist has spread rapidly throughout Europe, where she is published in English, German, French, Dutch, Czech and Spanish.
Her subsequent bestsellers, Kal, Beneath the Southern Cross, Territory, Pacific, Heritage, Floodtide, Maralinga, Tiger Men, Elianne and Spirits of the Ghan confirmed Judy’s position as one of Australia’s leading fiction writers.
In 2015 Judy was made a Member of the Order of Australia for her ‘significant service to the performing arts as a scriptwriter and actor of stage and screen, and to literature as an author’.
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Version 1.0
OSKAR THE POLE
ePub ISBN – 9780143789277
First published by Random House Australia in 2017
Copyright © Judy Nunn, 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A Random House Australia book
Published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
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Cataloguing-in-Publication entry available from the National Library of Australia
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Cover design by Louisa Maggio © Penguin Random House Australia
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