Rohan watched the younger men interacting with the Native. No longer did they question the direction, no longer did they treat him like an animal, they still treated him like he was barely better than an animal but that was an improvement. He felt himself warming to their Native.
It was a complete surprise, therefore, when they woke on the fifth morning since they entered that maze. The patch of ground where they had last seen the tracker was empty, his blanket gone. They searched the camp and there was nothing, no evidence he had been there at all. There was no sign of him, no sign of a track, he was just gone. He had not even taken their supplies, he had just disappeared.
The only thing he had taken was their map, basic as it was.
Rohan screamed in frustration and anger, a wild formless cry aimed at the heavens, at the hills around him. Mick swore and cursed, continuing after Rohan’s cry faded to silence. The other deputies frantically packed their things, their fear and panic written on their faces, and in the way they moved. It had taken all of the tracker’s skill to get them into that maze of rock, and they could not remember the way out again.
‘We gotta find the tracker,’ Mick said, his voice frantic. ‘We’ll never find Jacky without him, we’re going to die.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Rohan’s reply sounded like he had walked through rage and found a deep pool of cold calm on the other side. ‘If we look for him we will just get more lost.’ He paused, deep in thought, staring into the cloudless sky. ‘We have to go on, we will follow compasses, follow the sun, go east, wait for news of Jacky.
‘The tracker led us here, left us to die in this mess. We will see him again and when we do, I will kill him.’
Bagra sat, silent, in the cool comforting darkness of her cell, relishing the empty silence that allowed her to finally think. Again she could not get the letter, the filthy accusations from home out of her mind. She had become obsessed with the accusations, with the betrayal implicit in them; she could not clear her head, could not stop thinking about it, no matter what she tried. She must determine who it was, must identify who betrayed her, the mission.
There was, of course, one obvious choice. That stupid child, Mel, had questioned her duties, questioned their entire mission, questioned the great, important work they were doing, argued with Bagra. Nobody else doubted what they were trying to do here; all the other sisters believed, wholeheartedly, in the good they were doing the Natives. If they did not believe in the work, they believed in their Order, did not question and simply did what they had to do, what they were told to do, without complaint. Bagra had little doubt that some of them must have their doubts, though she could never tell who; they were so good at not showing it. They were too clever to let her see it.
Mel, on the other hand – you could tell she had doubts. The silly girl even had the audacity to directly question her elders and betters, even questioning the purposes of the mission at the dinner table where such discussions have no place.
Then there was the incident of the fugitive: the girl was the one who found the man known as Jacky, and even without evidence Bagra had doubts about the events of that night. What if, and the thought made her cold, the girl had not just found him and screamed? What if she had found him earlier and was in some way helping him fulfil whatever his inexplicable purpose was?
These doubts, ruining the peace inside Bagra’s head, fuelling a rising paranoia, had to be managed some way. It seemed most obvious that the traitor who had written home must be Mel: she was newest, she was youngest, and therefore most prone to a silly girlish, thoughtless sensitivity. Not only that, she had also questioned Bagra. That was no proof she had informed home, but she had questioned the mission in front of all the nuns.
It would not do, however, to simply confront the girl. What if she was innocent – foolish but innocent? There was also no way to just get rid of her, send her elsewhere. If she was silly enough, was willing to send a letter of complaint back home, surely there was no limit to what she would do. Bagra would not inflict such difficulties, such thoughtless action on another mission; she would have to deal with it internally.
There was a faint rustle, quieter than the fluttering of dragonfly wings, as she pulled a piece of paper out of a pocket in her habit. As dark as night in the cell, she could not see the letter. That did not matter, she knew every word already. Sooner or later she must reveal the letter, and its contents, to the other nuns in the mission, but later would be better. She worried, though. If she waited too long it would inspire whoever had instigated this mess to wonder why they had no response to their letter. Who knew what they would do then?
Telling the others too quickly would warn the traitor she knew, warn them she was watching; doing it too slowly would likely lead to more letters being sent home. If the other sisters knew she was hiding a letter from home, such an important letter, they would be angry; they too might turn traitor. It is impossible to find a balance when you don’t even know the weights.
Mel would have to be watched, to find more evidence that it was she who had betrayed the mission. It would have to be done carefully, secretly, and Bagra would have to do it alone. She was not certain enough that there was nobody else involved.
She could do nothing but watch, and wait, for something to change – for the silly girl to make a mistake. She was waiting anyway, for this excremental inspector who was meant to be on his way. A part of her wished he would just hurry up and get there, get it over with; the other parts all hoped he was not coming at all.
A cacophony of children’s voices from the distant dormitory broke her concentration. Opening the door with a bang, she was out of her cell and moving at a brisk walk before she was even consciously aware she was standing. It would not do to be seen running, so she strode as fast as she could down the dark hallway. She needed no light; she had walked these halls so long they were burned into her brain, and light would be an extravagance. The nunnery buildings were still silent, though she could hear the faint sounds of others stirring, the slippery rustle of hard blankets sliding off a bed here, a bare foot hitting the floorboards there.
It was still deep dark, and the noise rather than abating was still waxing, too loud to differentiate individual voices. She was not the first there, though she had no doubt she was the first to arrive, for she had not even been asleep. Mel was already there, she must have been there before the noise began, or arrived just after – impossible – nobody would have been moving faster than Sister Bagra.
Why Mel was there was a mystery. With her was another of the younger girls, though not quite as young and stupid. This, too, was mysterious. She taught mathematics, counting and addition – just enough for the Natives to be able to do simple chores. They seemed to have little aptitude for counting. They learnt that just like they learnt everything: by rote, by singsong. There seemed little point in trying to teach them more.
It did not even occur to Bagra that a girl who had no experience at teaching would be terrible at teaching mathematics. Bagra wouldn’t have cared anyway. The law said they had to be taught mathematics, so the mission was careful to hold mathematics classes. Nobody official bothered to check how well it was taught, or what was taught.
Bagra suspected they could just have the children sit and do nothing as long as the classes were scheduled.
Behind her she heard the door swing open as somebody went through it at about the same pace she had. Her staff, the other nuns, everybody, had better learn to respect the building more, before someone tore the door right off. She made a mental note to ensure that people were aware of the proper way to open a door. Everybody was now awake it seemed, and it was time to discover what was causing such a noise.
The door to the dormitory was open a crack. Bagra led the two girls through to investigate. She could not tell if that was confusion or guilt on their sleepy faces. The mission’s Native tracker was standing in the middle of the dormitory holding a squir
ming child by the scruff of his neck and shouting at the children to hush.
‘What is going on here?’ Bagra was forced to roar to be heard over the noise; the bubbling of her temper made that easier. It was not good to shout too often, though this time it felt justifiable.
The tracker gulped. ‘Ma’am, I found this girl in the camp, she was sneaking about, I am sure she was up to no good.’ Bagra realised then that the child thrashing and writhing like a fish on a hook was a teenage girl. The child – the right age to be sent off into service if she was more disciplined – was screaming and wailing. If there were words in all that noise, there was little doubt from their tone that they were profane and probably blasphemous.
‘And why did you not bring her to the office, why did you not inform me rather than bring her here, unleashing all this noise and ruckus? You seem to have woken the entire mission, surely it would have been better to just wake me?’
‘Was very late, ma’am,’ he shouted over the barely subsiding noise, his Native accent almost rendering him unintelligible. Behind her there were faint rustlings and quiet grunts as the two younger women fielded children at the door. More nuns were arriving, more escapes were unlikely. ‘I din’t want to wake up anyone.’
‘And you did not want to get the child in trouble,’ Bagra said in a cold voice, loud in the spreading silence as children discovered their chance of escape was over and began to understand they were in big trouble. ‘Otherwise you would have done the sensible thing and chucked that thing in the “boob”. That would have let us sleep and prevented the creation of all this chaos and noise.’ If she had shouted the last word it would have been less frightening than the cold-blooded hiss she used.
‘No,’ she said, her voice so cold it could have formed icicles, ‘I believe you were attempting to clean up this mess without me finding out about it.’
Was that a significant glance he cast towards the two young nuns in the doorway? What did it mean if it was?
‘Let us discuss this outside, away from the ears of these little darlings.’ Her tone turned the word ‘darlings’ into ‘monsters’. ‘Bring the child.’
Turning she strutted out the door, gesturing to Mel and the other girl to come with her too, trusting the tracker, chastised, would follow with the child. She led them to the ‘boob’ and opened one. The tracker, knowing better than to argue, threw in the Native and closed, then bolted the door.
Nearer to the nunnery building she stopped and, trusting her ability to control the others, spoke without turning. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘’Scuse me, ma’am?’
She was gratified the tracker had followed; he seemed sufficiently obedient, or scared enough to obey if not. ‘How many children have you captured trying to escape and returned to the dormitory without informing me?’
‘Ma’am?’
She whirled suddenly, seeking the faces of the two younger nuns, hoping to catch an uncontrolled expression. ‘You two,’ she snapped, ‘how long has this been going on? How many times have you helped this Native,’ she spat the word, ‘hide escapes from me?’ She was disappointed with their blank looks. For a moment she stared into their eyes, daring them to rebel, to give her some excuse for a more vigorous punishment.
There was no rebellion in their faces, only terror in their eyes. Bagra finally turned away and looked to the dormitory, thankful that the other nuns, awakened by all the noise, had the sense to be standing guard around the building. Two had taken the initiative and were silently searching around the dormitory for any clue how the Native girl had escaped. That was a good idea; Bagra made a note to quietly commend them later.
‘No matter,’ she said after waiting long enough for an answer, ‘however long it has been happening it must stop immediately. If Natives who attempt to escape are not disciplined for it they will never learn to obey orders, they will escape again. If I discover again that escapes have gone unreported there will be consequences.’
Turning, she took two steps and then stopped. ‘I will discover how long this has been happening, it must be reported.’ She turned to face the women but her eyes only met Mel’s. ‘Disobedience to the dictates of our Order will not be tolerated. I am the senior here, I represent the Order here. I am the Order here. If you don’t understand or agree with the rules here it doesn’t matter, you still must obey.
‘If you can’t obey my orders you have no place here.
‘You will spend the rest of the week in your rooms thinking about what you have done and praying for guidance. You will only emerge –’ she let it sink in ‘– to eat and visit the necessary.’
The wind was comfortingly cold; in her rage she had not noticed that, and a slight drizzle had started to fall. She always loved rain. It was rain that brought all good to the world. It mattered not what other people said, it was through rain that the hand of God was most visible.
‘Tracker,’ she said more kindly, the drizzle mitigating her anger, ‘go back to your camp, but report to me tomorrow. It is late now, we are all tired, but I must know how long you and these ladies have been hiding these things from me.’
‘Ma’am,’ he said in an obedient and remorseful tone and slipped away.
‘Mother,’ said Mel, ‘I . . .’ she petered off.
‘Stop dithering,’ Bagra snapped, ‘get to bed, get to sleep, if you have any more to say on the matter I might be ready to hear it in the morning.’
Mel was staring down at Bagra’s hands. Too late she realised the note from home was still there. She had forgotten she was holding it, had run out holding it, was still holding it. It was too dark to read, but surely the others would be curious.
‘Mother?’ The girl said nothing as Bagra waited, only her tone informed Bagra there was a question.
‘Tomorrow,’ she snapped, covering her uncertainty with more anger. ‘Get the others to bed, except two. Two volunteers to watch first. We need to take turns watching the children, make sure there are no more escapes.’ She wished she could trust the tracker to watch the dormitory, or that she could trust Mel and her friend enough to make them guard the children as punishment.
Bagra was certain: if she left those two alone watching the Natives the dorm would be empty by morning, whether through incompetence or malice towards the mission, towards her. ‘We will get the handyman to find their rat-hole in the morning.’ With that final word, Bagra stormed off, hoping her display of anger would be enough reason to be almost running. It was not a good time to have them ask about the damned letter.
Never had someone come from that direction, north and east, from the deeper desert, where surely nobody could be living. So silent he was that none of the lookouts, none of the keen listeners, none of the sleepless watchers, had seen or heard him coming until he stepped into camp and crouched down, sat on his heels, in the middle of the open space. He seemed to have been born from the sand and scrub; nobody from the camp would have believed there was enough cover to hide someone until he appeared. Esperance, belatedly alerted, ran from her hut, hand on the knife on her belt. Grandfather was smart enough to stay inside when there was a stranger around.
He was almost naked, this stranger, his ancient pants cut off at the knee, or torn off – who could tell, the hems were so ragged. His torso was naked, muscle standing out as if carved; tall and strong he was clearly half-starved, yet not weak. His black skin was covered with patterns of dust – red on white on brown. His eyes, deep-set, were displaying an expression that could be anger, could be something else Esperance could not read.
The camp was sluggishly awakening, clawing its way to alertness. Those who were armed and ready stepping from their tents and huts, walking out from their fragments of shade, hands on whatever weapons they had. Those who were slower to react, those whose weapons were harder to lay hands on, hid in their dwellings, there to be a surprise reserve if needed. There was no need, yet, to reveal all th
eir strength.
Esperance signalled rapidly with her left hand – ‘stay, be alert, no violence yet’ – then stepped forward to talk.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here? We offer you no violence but if you have brought it with you we will retaliate. We are armed.’
‘My people, over there,’ he gestured north-east – the direction from which he had walked, the direction the refugees had long refused to take knowing it was inhospitable – ‘they are gone, they came, killed so many, everyone who lived ran away.’
Nobody should have come from the deep desert, Esperance knew that. She had heard rumours there were people, maybe many people, out there hiding from the settlements, where no Settlers could possibly survive. So rarely did they come out of the desert that the rumours seemed exactly that; she had long ago ceased believing in them. Anyone out there would be safe far away from the Settler camps and towns if they could find a way to survive.
Why then, if it was so safe, would they ever leave?
Once again she signalled, a series of rapid hand signs that she had no idea whether the stranger could read. ‘Stay alert, bring water.’ She looked at the stranger. ‘We had no idea the Settlers had made it inland past us, thank you for telling us. What happened?’
Squatting on his dirty heels, drinking the mug of water handed to him by a tall woman armed with a wood-cutting hatchet, he told his story.
‘Don’t think they were settling there, in my Country, they can’t live there, no water –’ He paused then, seeming thoughtful, ‘– no water they know about. They were not looking for a camp, maybe they were looking for water, dunno. They were just looking, looking for something.’ Again he stood there, sipping water, thinking, mulling over his words. ‘Maybe they were looking at nothing.
‘They would say there is plenty of nothing out there in Country.
‘We had heard of them Settlers. People had come into our Country running from them, they told us about the Settlers. They never got to us before, we never seen them.
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