by Lydia Syson
‘You have to creep up on them,’ boasted Queenie. ‘Take them by surprise. I’ll show you later.’
Lizzie and Ada pretended that they had never tasted such a delicacy, and begged her to collect more the next day.
‘Pass me the shells,’ ordered Pa. ‘They’ll be useful for something.’ As he stacked them, he noticed that plenty had a second, smaller limpet cemented on top of their ridged domes. They roasted the passengers on the embers to release them, and Albert collected up the small shells in the hope that one day there would be time to play draughts again.
The only other food was roast bulrush root, another dish that couldn’t be eaten in a hurry. Ma scooped the lumpy blackened sticks away from the heat with her long tongs, and Pa showed the children how to peel off the charred outer layer and pick out the fluffy white flesh, separating out the stringy fibre in the middle. His teeth moved methodically, delicately. Cobwebby strands stuck to his beard like spun sugar.
Lizzie was too hungry to concentrate. The limpets had released her appetite, but failed to satisfy it. How many lumps of root were there? How much could she claim as her share? Too impatient to work through each mouthful with the attention it demanded, and too afraid of missing out, she was left with a dry, chewy mass in her mouth. When nobody was looking, she spat it into her hand and threw it into the fire where it landed with a treacherous sizzle.
BEFORE
Within a week the westerly winds had returned with a vengeance. They tugged at the tent all night and blew up the surf so high that fishing was impossible. At low tide the rocks below the shoreline were dotted with bare circles, cut out of the green and red algae all around the bay. The limpets were finished. At least there was nikau, Pa reminded the children. It turned out you could strip off the palm tree’s long, tough outer leaves, and find a pale, tightly folded heart nestling inside. Ma said it tasted of celery. Lizzie had never eaten celery. It was good to eat, though not for every meal. Like the limpets, it never quite filled you up. And there was never enough. The fruit was soon gone. Pa found fern roots for Ma to roast. Afraid of the look in their parents’ eyes, the children stopped speaking of their hunger.
*
One morning, the family woke after a restless night, filled with growling stomachs and the intermittent whining of the dogs, and Queenie found one of the puppies cold and stiff. Sal had disappeared. She must have followed a promising scent too far and lost herself, thought Ma. ‘She’ll find her way back,’ she added, reassuringly. Later, Pa sent the children to hunt for her in the woods, but all their shouts and calls were in vain.
Queenie and Billy wanted to baptise the remaining puppies, which kept nosing around the empty space they were left with, their legs more unsteady every hour.
‘Think of their lost souls.’
‘Animals don’t have souls,’ said Ada. ‘They can’t be heathens.’
‘Then they can’t go to heaven,’ Lizzie pointed out.
‘Where do they go?’ wondered Albert. Nobody knew.
‘We can still have a funeral,’ said Queenie. But when they looked for the tiny body, Ma told them Pa had already taken it off to bury, and nobody dared ask him where. It seemed too late for prayers.
Queenie knelt with Albert at the crate, gnawing at her bottom lip.
‘They’re starving, aren’t they?’ she said, sucking in her own stomach, trying to think how they could keep the tiny hearts still thumping. Albert nodded. He stroked their wrinkled, plush-felted skin and sent Queenie for a shawl to cover the remaining puppies. At first they kept staggering out from underneath it. Then they lay and shivered. Then they lay still. By that evening another was dead, and Pa was chastising Albert for being mawkish.
In the night, the whimpering grew more feeble. Lizzie planned to wake extra early, before Pa even, so she could go and search for Sal again before they had to get back to the housebuilding, if she could find the energy. She listened to the fading whines, and Queenie’s breathing – too light, too rapid – and knew that she was not asleep either. She reached a hand out across the groundsheet, tiptoeing her fingers from Queenie’s shoulder, along her arm, until she reached her hand. Her sister lay flat on her back with her palms pressed into prayer, her lips forming silent amens. Lizzie stroked her cheek lightly, and leaking tears dripped into Queenie’s ears and overflowed into her hair.
‘Shhh. Shhhh,’ Lizzie whispered. Queenie hadn’t made a sound. ‘They’re going to sleep now. Listen!’
Not sleep. Only one puppy was still breathing in the morning. With eyes of steel, Pa strode off into the woods, slung with rope and tools, ordering Albert to follow. His son hesitated while Ma removed the cold companion, and then he sighed, and told Queenie to look after the last puppy.
‘I have to go, or Pa will … Pick the puppy up and don’t put him down at all, if you can help it,’ Albert told her. ‘You’ll keep him warmest with your own body. See if he’ll take a little water and sugar, on your finger. Some rappoo porridge maybe, if there’s enough to spare?’
‘Can’t you help me?’
Albert sought permission from Ma. ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said.
A short time later the distant rhythmic thud of Pa’s axe broke off abruptly and didn’t resume. When he came back to camp, he was carrying Sal.
‘She’s a bag of bones,’ he said, putting her in the crate. The terrier’s fur clung to corrugated sides, and her stumpy tail curled tightly between her legs. ‘Those pups should be weaned by now.’
‘But we’ve nothing to feed them,’ cried Albert, panicking. ‘We’ve hardly enough for Sal.’
Pa’s eyes quickly quelled his protests.
‘I told you to come with me. Don’t make me tell you twice. We’ve a house to build.’
Back to the woods.
‘Go on, Albert,’ said Lizzie. ‘Or shall I go?’
Albert shook his head and ran after Pa, followed by Ada’s helpless gaze.
Queenie laid the last pup back in the crate with Sal, hoping it would do them both some good.
‘Can she count?’
Ma shook her head.
‘She knows something’s wrong,’ said Lizzie, who found herself at that moment in the grip of a chilly, skin-crawling shiver. ‘Sally, oh, Sally, what are we to do?’
The terrier could barely find enough energy to raise and turn her head, but she managed a few licks before flopping back, exhausted. Her teats were swollen and sore. Without thinking, Mrs Peacock pressed her hands to her own breasts, which hung like empty skins. She looked at Gussie, sleeping in a crate of her own, her chin moving in her sleep as if she were feeding, as it used to when she was tiny. She had spat out limpets and bulrush roots alike. Feeding the dogs was the least of Ma’s concerns.
BEFORE
Soon the children could barely remember how to stand upright. Lizzie walked like an old woman. If she wasn’t stooped under a load of bricks, or a vast bundle of rushes, she was dragging a tree trunk through the woods, fighting with the greenery that caught at her knees and ankles and sometimes at her throat. Like all the family’s, her hands were raw and blistered, her legs slashed with reed cuts. One day her bubbling, squeaking stomach went quiet, as if it had given up on hunger.
But at least the frame of the first hut was up, and the back wall in place, green at the top and pale at the bottom. When Pa came back with a fistful of clay – to cement the fireplace bricks in the outdoor kitchen and firm the floor, he said – and explained every bucketload had to be dug up from the far side of the swamp and carried back too, Ma folded her arms and shook her head.
‘Enough. It will have to wait. Just look at the children, Joseph. Pale as death. And Albert was half starved before we even got here. You’ll wear them all out if they eat no meat. As for Sal … there’ll be no hope for her, let alone the pup. We must have a goat, right away. Two or three, if possible. For meat and for milk.’
‘Now, Mrs P?’
‘Yes, now. We can’t wait another day. I’m only sorry I held you back before. An
d the pup—’
‘Spy,’ reminded Queenie, and Ma smiled and kept talking.
‘Spy’s strong enough to manage without Sal for half a day now, I believe. Take this.’
Slowly and laboriously, without a word, Ma had been gathering pollen from the bulrushes. That morning she had made the dusty flour into scones.
‘A picnic!’ said Lizzie. To her and Ada, it felt like a holiday. They could stand up straight! The sun was shining! In high spirits, they skipped ahead on what was already becoming a track through the woods, Albert more or less keeping up with them. Pa’s pace was more measured. He knew to preserve his energy for the climb.
The path ran out. Albert called to Sal, and the children leaned against the base of the cliff, waiting in the cool of the overhang for Pa to catch up and tell them what to do.
‘Keep going,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Lizzie.
‘How?’ said Ada.
‘Where?’ asked Albert.
‘Up.’ Pa nodded at the vertical rocks. ‘Up there.’
Lizzie looked up, and down again, then up, and along. She was so very tired.
‘Will you go first?’ she asked.
Mr Peacock thought about it, then spat on his palms and heaved himself up to the first ledge. He edged along a little way, and reached down a hand for her. She shook her head. They’d never get up if they couldn’t do it on their own. Lizzie spat into her own palms, supposing it would give her a better grip, or courage, or had some other purpose that would become clear. She tucked up her skirt and swung herself up, and then along, and up again, and once more along till she was standing beside her father.
‘Take your time, pet,’ advised Pa. ‘There’s a long way to go yet …’
The cliff was too sheer for Sal’s stubby legs, so Albert passed her up to Ada, and then Ada passed her up to Lizzie, and finally Lizzie held her scrabbling claws away from her face and heaved her up to Pa. She weighed so little. After that, Pa took charge, lifting the terrier up in front of him at every stage, until she conquered her trembling fear.
Lizzie shifted again, to make room for Ada on the ledge. Pa was right. No point in rushing it. Albert seemed to agree, for there he was, still on the ground, tightening his belt and gathering strength. Lizzie caught a glimpse of his white translucent face, and turned her attention to the next ledge, refusing to think about how frail he’d so quickly become again. Perhaps it would be better if he stayed below. But Pa would never hear of that.
The lime-streaked rock face was pitted with hand-holes. You never had to reach far to find a place you could edge your fingers into or tuck your feet inside. She felt like a spider, stretched and taut, after too many days of feeling like a beetle. As they persevered, the vegetation thickened, until you could hang on to bushes, and at last small trees. The sea’s backwash diminished to a faint sucking shush.
‘Wait, Lizzie! You’re going much too fast.’
She looked down between her feet, and laughed at Ada, calling from the ledge below.
‘Too fast? Your legs are longer than mine! Why don’t you hurry up?’
‘But what about Albert? You’re being unkind.’
Lizzie knew she was. It wasn’t the length of Albert’s legs that caused him problems. It was the way they trembled. The strength of them. His swollen ankles.
‘But you know we’ve got to keep up with Pa,’ she called down. And kept going.
The next ledge was wide enough for Lizzie to turn round completely. She grabbed hold of a root above her head and flattened her back against the wall of rock. You could see so far from up here. You could see how alone they were. Frameless, the ocean looked bigger and more infinite than it ever had from the beach. Just one great rock right out in the middle of the bay, and the distant rise of another, much smaller island, far off to the left, too small and treeless for human habitation. Maybe another beyond that. Nothing else at all. Directly below the cliffs, the pale tent and the fire looked tiny, and the small figures of Ma and Billy and Queenie moving about the camp seemed barely human. Insignificant in such an expanse of ocean. Nowhere lonelier.
‘Lizzie, wait!’ Ada shouted up again.
‘Can’t you see I am waiting?’ said Lizzie, cross because she didn’t like the thoughts that came when she stopped and because she knew Ada was right. But where did she find the patience? At last a job that had some pleasure in it – a chance to see the rest of their island, to stretch their legs, a chance of excitement – and their brother didn’t care if he ruined it.
‘Hurry up, Albert!’ she shouted down. ‘What’s keeping you?’ And why did Ada always have to speak for him?
Soothing noises from Ada. Nothing at all from their brother.
‘You can,’ said Ada. ‘I’ll show you. I won’t let you go. There … that’s right … feel with your left foot now, yes, just a bit higher and you’ll be there. Don’t look down. And that’s the difficult bit over, I promise.’
She kept talking cheerfully to Albert, pointing out bird burrows splashed with guano, enticing him on. Eventually Lizzie helped her to heave Albert up to their ledge, and he leaned against the cliff with eyes closed, spectre-faced and limbs unsteady.
Of course Lizzie arrived at the top first, where Pa was waiting at the edge of the forest, looking out to sea, and Sal was already exploring.
‘What can you see?’ asked Lizzie. ‘A ship?’
‘Nothing. But it never hurts to look. Sit down and get your breath back, my spadge. You’ve done well. You always do. But be ready to move like lightning on my say-so. There’ll be no time to lose if the animals appear.’
Lizzie flopped down, gratefully, jumping up again as soon as Ada and Albert reached them.
‘Seen any yet?’ asked Ada.
‘No,’ said Pa, shortly. He looked Albert up and down. ‘What took you so long? Lizzie was far quicker, and she’s younger than you. You’re going to have to get used to this climb. Now, let’s find these goats.’
Of the many faint tracks leading in different directions, one seemed better used than the rest, so they set off down it in single file. Several hours passed looking, a few scattered droppings the only sign of their prey. The longer they marched, the less often Pa looked round.
When Sal suddenly made a backtracking dash off the path into a clearing to the right, provoking a crashing in the undergrowth, Pa was quick to raise his gun. A fierce little goat, brown and white, stood with lowered horns, cornered in a sharp crevasse. Pa fired. The animal staggered and fell. Lizzie gave a cry of pride and relief, and Pa strode forward, a satisfied grimace on his face.
‘About time,’ he said, pulling out his knife. There was no point in carrying any more than they needed back down that cliff. Mr Peacock grabbed the goat’s back leg and set to work, skinning the animal there and then. At the first cut, Sal set up a frenzy of barking. As soon as Pa had separated the thigh hide, he hacked off a foot at the joint and threw it to her. She dragged off hoof and bone to chew contentedly alone, growling quietly.
Then Mr Peacock remembered the children, and reached inside his jacket for Ma’s parcel of scones. Ada unwrapped them, offering him the first, but he shook his head and bent back over the goat. Lizzie squatted next to Pa to watch while she ate, as slowly as she could. Next time, she wanted to be able to do this job herself, just like Pa. He steadily slid his knife into just the right space between skin and fat, systematically pulling, unpeeling, cutting again, revealing marbled muscle, membrane, lard, and the white, white underside of skin. He cut off the tail, slowly eased away the back hide. Limbs and head slapped against earth.
‘Is it really a wild goat?’ she asked. It didn’t look different from any other she’d ever seen.
‘Wild enough,’ Pa grunted. He reminded her how the early explorers had left goats to breed on islands so there’d always be something for passing sailors. ‘Or castaways.’
‘Or shipwrecks?’
‘Umm.’ The goat was quite naked now. ‘Goats are survivors. That’s the point.�
��
‘Like us?’ said Lizzie.
‘Like us,’ agreed Pa.
Albert hovered queasily.
‘I’m thirsty,’ he said.
Lizzie was afraid Pa would be harsh, and roll his eyes. But the kill had improved his mood.
‘Well, you’re in luck.’ Mr Peacock jerked his head towards a bush with lacy, heart-shaped leaves, whose branches were stuck all over with orange berries like squat little candles. ‘Eat those. Kawakawa,’ said Pa. ‘Tuck in.’
They gathered sweet, peppery handfuls of berries far bigger and juicier than they’d ever found in New Zealand. After a while, Lizzie’s tongue was tingling. She stuck it out and pinched it. Her fingers could feel her tongue, but her tongue couldn’t feel her fingers. They all began to slur their words, on purpose, laughing, and Ada pushed her tongue down to her chin, and opened wide her eyes, and then all three children spread their knees and tried to dance like New Zealanders.
Meanwhile, Pa gutted the goat. Great grey sacks, and snakes, still pulsing, spilled out like eels hitting the air. When their father reached in to wrench out heart and lungs, and laid them carefully on the hide, Albert turned away, retching. Lizzie gave the organs a curious poke.
‘Do I look like that inside?’ she asked.
‘Not so different. You’ve only got one stomach.’ Pa flicked a fly from the subsiding entrails. ‘But it’s a strong one.’
Lizzie felt triumphant. Until Pa added, in Albert’s earshot: ‘Unlike your brother’s.’
Albert walked quickly away from Lizzie and Pa, pushing into the forest on the pretence of answering the call of nature. Ada kept her face blank and would not meet her sister’s eye. How had the day soured so suddenly?
17
THREE DAYS NOW … FOUR … WITH NO SIGN, NO breath, no fingernail.
The skies hang low and grey and heavy for hours on end. We rarely see our shadows. We live in limbo, all together, Rock fellows and palagi, and spend each day looking under leaves and roots, searching cliffs and rocks, calling and praying and weeping, yes, there is more weeping now, and more and more each night, and we are becoming closer and yet more distant to this wounded family. We hush our steps and still our voices, hardly knowing how best to show kindness. No track, no trace of the boy on this island can be found. No hair. No whisper. Nothing. I can no longer believe that Albert can return, but nor can he be buried. We fellows will never see this boy we have never seen. And still we cannot step forward. We cannot go back.
