by Mark Smith
When the rabbit’s cooked we sit around the table and eat, slurping and crunching our way to the bottom of the pot. I think it’s one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten. The wind is howling outside, and every few minutes squalls batter the roof with hailstones.
When she’s finished, Kas pushes back her chair and crosses her arms. She hardly speaks now, so it surprises me when she says, ‘I’ve been thinking…’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Do you reckon Ramage would have made it back to Longley?’
‘He had the trailbike. He could have taken Hope and that woman with him. The rest of the Wilders could have followed. If these storms keep up no one’ll be crossing the range for a couple of months at least.’
‘We need to wait out the winter,’ she says, her voice loud against the hail. ‘Then…’
I’ve known this was coming, I just didn’t expect it so soon. ‘Then what?’
‘Find Hope and bring her back here,’ she says, the old steeliness returning to her voice.
‘And what about Ramage?’
She clenches her fists and plants them on the table.
‘I’m going to hunt him down and kill him.’
The hail begins to ease to a steady rain.
‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,’ she adds.
Somehow my answer is made simpler because I know I won’t have to act on it straightaway. It’ll be months before we can travel.
‘If you’re going, I’m going too,’ I say, avoiding her eyes.
In the morning I paddle out for the first time in weeks. The storm has backed off, but I know the next front won’t be far away. With each duck dive and the feeling of the familiar surge underneath me, it’s as though the events of the last month, the fear and the love and the death, are all washed clean, at least for a while.
Rowdy keeps watch on the beach, chasing seagulls and snapping at the whitewater like it’s something he can catch. The swell is small but clean, and I surf wave after wave, each one bringing me closer to that balance that’s been missing since the day Rose arrived—a balance that doesn’t seem to exist on land anymore. Like it always does, the ocean stops time and only the exhaustion in my arms and shoulders tells me it’s time to paddle in.
Rowdy bounds out through the shore break to meet me, and I see two familiar figures sitting halfway up the dune. They rise slowly to their feet and walk down to the beach, their feet sinking in the soft, dry sand.
As they come closer, Willow does a cartwheel, her blonde hair flying in the wind. Kas hangs back, her eyes following each wave as it makes its way into the river mouth.
‘D’you reckon you could teach me how to do that?’ she asks.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book has felt like a collaboration from the beginning—so many people have invested their time, energy and faith in it. My thanks firstly to the members of each of the writing groups I have been part of over the last four years—I am lucky to have been surrounded by such talented writers and readers. Special thanks to Melanie Cheng and Terry Gunn, who read the early drafts and helped in the development of the manuscript. To my YA trial readers Scarlett Murray, Jesse Stapleton and Chloe Schneider who convinced me I was on the right track and provided invaluable feedback on how to make it better. Thanks also to the other writers who have contributed along the way—Amber Woodward, Michelle Wright, Siobhan Sheridan and Michelle Irving.
To my wonderful local supporters Nicole Maher and Nan McNab, who have been unfailingly encouraging and supportive; to Toni Jordan for her assistance and advice in developing the manuscript; to Favel Parrett, who took the time to give me the benefit of her experience when I needed it; to all the editors of the journals, magazines and anthologies who saw enough in my writing to take a chance on publishing it (especially Jock Serong and Mick Sowry from Great Ocean Quarterly, still my favourite layout and story!); to Caroline Wood and Margaret River Press for the use of the beautiful studio at Margaret River; to Anna, Jason, Harriet and Matilda for my writing home-away-from-home at Falmouth; to all at Writers Victoria who do so much to nurture and develop writers in this state; and to Amanda Lohrey for the wise counsel and long chats in her kitchen.
Thanks also to the whole team at Text—from the staff member who picked a raw manuscript off the slush pile, read it and actually liked it, to Rebecca Starford for her calm, no-fuss editing, to Steph Speight, Jane Pearson and Kirsty Wilson.
Above all, to my family, who make it all possible by creating time for me to write and who constantly nourish and support me in every aspect of my life—Lynne, Oliver, Maddy and Harley. They’re keepers, the lot of them.
And finally, to my parents, June and Bert, who blessed me with a childhood not unlike Finn’s, with the freedom to roam, explore, discover and learn.
