Castaway

by Joanne Van Os

  ‘What the …? Hey, look at this!’

  There inside the oven was the atlas he had found on the beach, and his water bottle! He pulled them out. The atlas had dried a bit, as if someone had laid it in the sun and fanned the pages out to stop them sticking together. The water bottle was empty.

  Sam was dumbfounded. ‘That’s really weird. How could they have got here?’ Both boys stared at the atlas and the water bottle in complete confusion.

  ‘Maybe it was some of Uncle Mungo’s illegal people,’ said George finally. He looked around, as if expecting illegal immigrants to come bounding out of the bushes to demand the return of the atlas. Sam scanned the ground, but it was pointless looking for footprints – he and George had been walking all over the place and any strange marks were long gone.

  ‘Can you see the boat wreck?’ He craned his head to look out towards the Point, but the tide was nearly in and the reef and its victim were hidden by the calm, flat water.

  ‘Let’s go and have a look along the beach.’

  George moaned that he was dying of hunger but he followed Sam just the same.

  ‘What do you reckon about Uncle Mungo chopping that tree up all by himself, huh? He’s a pretty strong guy, hey!’ George was hugely impressed by his uncle’s feat.

  Sam just grunted. He didn’t want to talk to George about what he’d overheard, not yet anyway. He led the way along the top of the dune and was about to slide down the embankment to the beach when something stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘What?’ said George, looking past his brother, trying to see what he was staring at so intently.

  ‘There’s a body on the beach – look!’

  Less than thirty metres in front of them, directly below the dune, a small figure lay a short distance from the incoming tide.

  ‘Oh man,’ whispered George. ‘Do you think it’s dead?’

  ‘We better go check.’ Sam’s mouth formed a grim line as he set off down the slope.

  ‘Sam, wait! Look out there!’ George pointed wildly out to sea past the body. A familiar and deadly shape was cruising towards the same stretch of beach, the long knobbled back and scarred head of Lumpy clearly visible in the shallow water. His tail moved sinuously from side to side as he swam directly at the shape on the sand.

  Sam didn’t stop to think. He snatched up a big rock and charged down the slope, yelling and screaming, and hurled the missile as hard as he could at the crocodile. It hit the reptile fair on the skull with a crack that George could plainly hear, and the crocodile disappeared in a swirl and thrash of foam. George ran breathlessly up to where Sam knelt over the body.

  ‘George – watch out in case he comes back again.’

  He gently turned the body over, and it moaned softly.

  ‘He’s alive! Quick, let’s get out of here, get him away from the water before that croc comes back again for another go.’

  They dragged the small figure up the beach as fast as they could, and then half carried and half dragged him awkwardly up the sandy slope. He wasn’t very heavy. In fact, when they managed to haul him to the top of the dune, they realised he was a child.

  ‘Oh man,’ panted George, when they laid the child in the shade of the big tamarind tree at the camp. ‘Do you think he came from that wrecked boat? What’s he doing out here, and how come he’s sick?’

  Sam examined the child as much as he could. There didn’t seem to be any injuries, but the child’s lips were split and cracked. His hands and feet were spongy and raw, as if they’d been in water for too long. Short dark hair stuck up in spikes, crusted with salt and sand. He was clothed in a pair of once-white baggy pants cut off at the knees, and a torn, stained T-shirt. He was very thin, and his brown skin was dry and scratched.

  Just as Sam sat back wondering what to do next, the child’s eyelids fluttered open. His eyes were a startling green, with long black lashes, and they stared in terror at the two faces that stared back. The child tried to cry out, but no sound emerged, and he coughed weakly and slumped back onto the ground.

  ‘Quick, George, get the water bottle out of the saddlebag!’

  George raced back with the bottle and handed it to Sam. He uncapped it, and offered it to the child, who didn’t seem to understand.

  ‘Water, water,’ said Sam, and proceeded to tip a little into his mouth.

  The child struggled up weakly. Sam and George helped him into a sitting position, and held the bottle to his mouth. The child drank as much as he could and then started to fall again, but Sam supported him with his arm.

  ‘George, take the seat off the bike – you know how it unclips. He can lean against it.’

  They made the child as comfortable as they could. He lay back against the soft cushion of the bike seat and continued to drink sips of water. Sam tried to stop him drinking too much at once. He recalled Mac telling him how people who were this thirsty got sick if they drank too much water too fast. When Sam judged the child had recovered a little, he brought out the packet of sandwiches and unwrapped them. The smell of roast lamb on fresh bread made the child look up, startled and hungry, and he snatched the offered sandwich from Sam’s hand and devoured it.

  ‘Well, he likes lamb sangers, I guess,’ smiled George. ‘Where d’you reckon he’s come from?’

  Sam had been wondering this himself. The child had to be from the boat. There was no other way he could have got here.

  ‘Not sure but I reckon Uncle Mungo’s gunna have a fit.’

  ‘An illegal immigrant? Yeah – the boat, of course!’ George thought for another moment. ‘But there must have been other people with him – he can’t have been on his own.’

  ‘Maybe they all drowned when the boat hit the reef. Sure looks like he’s the only one here, doesn’t it?’

  The child finished the sandwich and looked at them properly for the first time. The terror in his eyes had been replaced by a frightened wariness, as if he had decided that Sam and George, while strange, were not dangerous. The green eyes were huge as they stared out from the thin brown face.

  ‘Who are you?’ Sam asked.

  The child looked at him blankly.

  ‘I guess he doesn’t speak English. WHO – ARE – YOU?’ said George, slowly and loudly.

  ‘George, I don’t think he’s deaf …’

  The child blinked for a moment, as if trying to remember something, and awkwardly, as if his voice was rusty with disuse, a sound croaked out: ‘Hullow … pliss … Or-stra-lie …’

  ‘That sounded like hello, please, Australia,’ said George in a rush. ‘Hey, maybe he does speak English?’

  Sam pointed to the ground and said clearly, ‘Australia. Or-stra-lie. This is Australia,’ and nodded his head several times.

  The response from the child was dramatic. He grabbed Sam’s hands and held them tightly, talking rapidly in a language they didn’t recognise. Tears began to roll down his cheeks, and he cried as he talked, weeping uncontrollably.

  ‘Whoa, mate,’ said Sam, feeling a bit uncomfortable. He patted the child on the shoulder, and gradually the sobbing subsided. They all sat there looking at one another.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked George.

  ‘We can’t tell Uncle Mungo about him, that’s for sure.’

  ‘But he’ll know what to do. He’ll just phone up the people in town and they’ll come and get him and look after him.’

  ‘Yeah, and they’ll lock him up in a wire cage, like those people we saw on tv. Or they’ll send him over to that island, all on his own. No, we gotta think of something else.’

  ‘Well we better hurry up, because if we don’t get back before dark, Uncle Mungo’s gunna come looking for us anyway.’

  George was right. But they needed time to work out what to do.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Sam. ‘Put the seat on the bike, and we’ll go back. We’ll hide this bloke in the hay shed till we work something out.’

  As they stood up, the child saw the atlas where George had left it on top of the oven. He cr
ied out, and pointed at the book. George looked at Sam.

  ‘It must be his, hey? Better give it to him, or he’ll start crying again.’

  A little while later the three of them were bumping up the fence line back towards the homestead. Sam drove, with the child in the middle, and George holding him on from behind. He still seemed to be quite weak, but he had appeared willing to go with them. They went slowly, stopping several times to give the child a rest, and more water.

  Just as they came in sight of the house, Sam pulled up. He peered through the trees and realised with a sinking heart that there was a police vehicle parked beside the house. Surely they couldn’t know already? As he watched, two uniformed police officers came into view, with Uncle Mungo beside them. Sam felt the child stiffen behind him, his arms tightening around Sam’s waist. It must have been the sight of the uniforms, he supposed. If this child was a refugee, he probably didn’t trust anyone in a uniform.

  ‘George, take off your T-shirt, and put it on the kid. You sneak around on foot to the hay shed, and I’ll drive straight up to it. That way if anyone sees us, they’ll just think it’s you, from a distance. Put your hat on his head too.’

  The child accepted all the subterfuge as if he knew exactly what they were doing. He immediately seemed to understand the need to be secretive, and huddled close in behind Sam’s back as they took off again for the shed. They reached it without incident, and Sam drove right in amongst the stacks of hay. Quickly, he helped the child climb up to the loft, a large platform suspended below the roof which held a few spare bales and an assortment of old gear. They used it as a storage place for odd bits of saddlery and things no one wanted but couldn’t throw away. It had been Sam and George’s cubbyhouse a few years earlier, but they hadn’t been up there in ages. It would make a perfect hiding spot.

  George arrived soon after, out of breath, and climbed up the ladder to them. They cleared a space between the hay bales, moved some of the junk out of the way, and found a couple of old horse blankets to cover the rough wood. Sam gave the child the water bottle, and tried to explain that he must stay where he was, and that Sam and George would come back with more food. Somehow the child seemed to understand, and nestled down between the boxes, pretending to hide.

  Sam nodded and smiled. ‘That’s right. You’re really smart, aren’t you? Just wait here till we come back, and don’t make a sound.’ He held his finger up to his lips, and tiptoed to the edge of the loft. As he descended the ladder, he looked back and saw that the child had hidden himself completely out of sight.

  Uncle Mungo was waiting on the verandah when Sam and George rode up on the quad bike. The police vehicle had already left.

  ‘That was the local cops from Jabiru. Just called by to see how Mac was getting’ on. News travels fast around here, doesn’t it?’

  Sam and George climbed the stairs and Sam said, without looking at his uncle, ‘Has Mum called yet?’

  Uncle Mungo shook his head. ‘No. Jock and I just got back ourselves, just before the police came. But Jaz said there’s bin no calls. Yer mum’ll probably wait till after dark, when she knows we’re all here. Well, it’s almost dinner time, better go and wash up, hey?’ He looked at the bike. ‘How’d you go with the fence?’

  ‘Fine’, said Sam shortly.

  Just then Jaz came out to see where they were. ‘Hi, guys, dinner’s nearly ready. George, where’s your shirt?’

  George looked at her blankly. Sam panicked for a brief moment – George’s shirt was still on the child, now hidden in the loft – but George just gave Jaz a rueful grin and said, ‘I forgot it. Took it off when it got wet before. I left it behind. Sorry!’

  Sam relaxed. ‘We’ll go and get it tomorrow, Jazzy,’ he said. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  Sarah phoned halfway through the meal. Mac was still recovering, and they wouldn’t know anything for another few days, but he seemed better. He was conscious and asking after the boys.

  ‘Tell him everything’s fine,’ said Sam, ‘we’re looking after everything. We fixed the fences today.’ For a few brief seconds he wondered if he should tell Sarah about the child, but swiftly decided against it. His parents had far too much to think about right now. He and George would work something out, somehow.

  After dinner, Sam and George washed up and, as soon as Uncle Mungo, Old Jock and Jaz were out of the way, they crept out of the house with the leftover stew from dinner and a fresh bottle of water. George had grabbed a pillow and a sheet off the spare bed in his room as well. Up in the loft, the child seemed relieved to see them, and hungry. Jaz’s stew seemed to go down pretty well, and the child ate quickly, spooning rice and vegetables into his mouth as if he was afraid someone would take the bowl away before he’d finished.

  ‘We better go,’ Sam whispered to George. ‘We don’t want Uncle Mungo coming to look for us.’

  They managed to get back into the kitchen without meeting any adults, and hurriedly washed up the bowl and spoon.

  ‘You blokes still washing up?’ boomed Uncle Mungo. ‘How ’bout a game of cards?’

  The last thing Sam felt like doing was playing cards with his uncle. He turned back to the sink and shook his head. ‘Nope. I’m going to bed.’

  George looked from Sam to his uncle and back again, and said, ‘Yeah, I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll go to bed too. G’night, Uncle Mungo.’

  Sam was in his room with a book propped up on his knees when George came in and plonked himself on the foot of Sam’s bed.

  ‘What are we gunna do about the kid? We have to tell someone.’

  Sam closed the book. The truth was, he had no idea what they should do. All he knew was that he was not confiding in his uncle. ‘We’ll think of something. He’ll be okay for a little while, and we can keep sneaking food up to him when no one’s looking.’

  George thought about that for a moment and, ever practical, said, ‘What about the toilet? How’s he gunna go to the toilet? Or have a bath? He can’t just hide up in the loft forever!’

  Sam had to admit that he hadn’t thought this through very well. Things like toilets and baths hadn’t occurred to him yet. ‘Well … we’ll just have to sneak him into the house when no one’s here.’ It was a problem.

  ‘And how come you’re being so mean to Uncle Mungo, anyway?’

  ‘What? I haven’t been mean to him!’

  ‘Well, you’re not talking to him, are you?’

  Sam hesitated for a second, and then blurted out, ‘Well neither would you if you heard what I did at Aunty Lou’s!’

  George looked at him expectantly.

  ‘I got up to get a drink of water last night, and I heard him tell Aunty Lou that the accident was all his fault, that Dad wanted to cut the tree up before they shifted it, but Uncle Mungo reckoned he could move it without doing that. It’s his fault Dad got hurt!’

  George stared at his brother with his mouth open. He closed it abruptly, and looked out of the darkened window for a bit.

  ‘That’s why I don’t want to talk to him.’ Sam angrily wiped the corner of his eye, as if something was bothering it.

  ‘But … but … Uncle Mungo wouldn’t hurt his own brother. I mean, it was an accident. He just thought he could save time or something, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, if he’d listened to Dad, Dad wouldn’t be in hospital right now, would he?’

  George didn’t know what to say to that. He kicked his feet for a while, and frowned at the floor. Then he changed the subject back to the child in the hay loft. ‘We better bring the kid in here tomorrow to use the bathroom, as soon as the coast is clear. Maybe when Jaz goes back over to her donga after breakfast, and if Uncle Mungo and Jock go fencing again, we’ll be able to do it. We gotta do something. Man, he’ll be busting!’

  After George said goodnight and went to his own room, Sam lay back and thought about the child in the loft. He wondered if he was missing his parents, like Sam was. He wondered what kind of life the child had led in his own country, whether he had
a brother too. He shook his head. There must be something they could do to help him. If only Mac and Sarah were here. They’d know what to do.

  As it turned out, getting everyone else out of the house the next morning wasn’t such a problem. Jaz was keen to go and see the boat wreck at low tide, and Uncle Mungo agreed to take her down there. When he asked Sam and George if they would like to come along for the drive, they shook their heads.

  ‘Nah, I have to clean out the guinea pig cage, and Sam said he’d help me,’ said George.

  As soon as Old Jock had disappeared back to his quarters and the others had driven off, Sam and George raced over to the shed and quickly climbed up the ladder. As they stepped out onto the floor of the loft, a little head poked out from behind a box, green eyes staring hugely at them. Sam beckoned to the child to follow them, and they all climbed back down.

  The child appeared to be quite pleased to be inside a house again, and was fascinated by it. The kitchen, living room, hallway, all were subjected to a thorough examination. He looked immensely relieved to see the toilet, and wasted no time shutting the door in their faces. When he came out again, Sam showed him the bathroom.

  ‘George, get some of your clothes – he’s closer to your size than mine.’ Meanwhile, Sam turned the taps on and began to fill the bathtub with warm water. When George came back with clean shorts, T-shirt and jocks, Sam mimed to the child to take off his clothes. The child seemed not to understand him, so Sam tried to take hold of the dirty, ragged T-shirt, and lift it over his head. At this the child spun out of reach, and a torrent of indignant words came pouring out at Sam, while his green eyes flashed angrily and his hands gesticulated at Sam with very clear meaning.

  ‘I don’t think he wants you to do that,’ said George warily.

  ‘Yeah, what’s the big deal?’ He turned off the taps, and shrugged. ‘Well, I guess we can just leave him to it. I hope he doesn’t take too long.’ Sam tried to mime ‘hurry up’ but he didn’t think he was very successful. He hung a fresh towel over the rail and pointed to it and to the child, who just stared furiously at him until he shut the door.