A New Kind of Dreaming

by Anthony Eaton

  Anthony Eaton is the award-winning author of 11 books for children, young adults and adult readers, including Fireshadow, The Darklands Trilogy and Into White Silence. A New Kind of Dreaming was a Children’s Book Council of Australia Notable Book and was also included in the prestigious International Youth Library Selection of Notable Books (White Ravens) Catalogue. Anthony currently lectures in Creative Writing and Literary Studies at the University of Canberra.

  www.anthonyeaton.com

  Also by Anthony Eaton

  Young Adult Fiction

  The Darkness

  Fireshadow

  Into White Silence

  Younger Readers

  The Girl in the Cave

  Nathan Nuttboard Hits the Beach

  Nathan Nuttboard Family Matters

  Nathan Nuttboard Upstaged

  The Darklands Trilogy

  Nightpeople

  Skyfall

  Daywards

  To Nick & Sue; siblings and great friends.

  acknowledgements

  The saying on page (202), A friend always leaves a trail, can be found in Stephen Muecke’s foreword to the 1992 edition of the novel Wild Cat Falling by Mudrooroo Narogin. It is attributed to David Unaipon.

  If you don’t learn about this place and love this land, then your spirit will be restless and you will feel like you don’t belong.

  Boori (Monty) Pryor

  Maybe Tomorrow

  prelude

  awakening

  The boat was dead.

  It drifted, alone, across the oily swells of the deep, showing none of the signs of life one would normally expect from a ship at sea. No feet walked its deck, the throb and pulse of diesel engines no longer shook its timbers, the surge and sway of the hull against the waves was no longer a sensation felt by anyone aboard, except perhaps ghosts. In the small wheelhouse mounted over the stern, the wheel swung uselessly from port to starboard and then back again, spiralling endlessly without a guiding hand.

  In the early afternoon sun it cast a sinister silhouette, black against the silver glare of sun on water, listing heavily to one side as it rolled abeam through the troughs and peaks of the seemingly eternal Indian ocean.

  The six men fishing from their cabin cruiser a couple of kilometres away didn’t spot the boat itself. Initially they noticed the thick black cloud of seabirds that wheeled in the air above it. Boobies, terns and petrels, attracted by the prospect of easy food. Only when they turned towards the distant feeding flock did the men notice the dark shape on the surface of the water.

  ‘What d’ya reckon that is?’

  ‘Dunno. Let’s check it out, eh?’

  The cruiser lifted across the surface as the powerful inboards roared into life beneath the fish locker.

  The men were young, most in their early twenties. Only one looked a little older, perhaps twenty-seven or eight, and he stood alone in the stern, apart from the others who gathered around the helm. The shape began to resolve itself into a lifeless hulk that wallowed on the waves, driven slowly by the sea towards the distant north-western Australian coastline, thirty-five kilometres away over the southern horizon.

  Coming closer, the driver eased back on the throttles and the vessel settled into the water, describing a slow circle around the mysterious craft, keeping about twenty metres away. All six men were silent.

  Next to their sleek aluminum and fibreglass cruiser, the timber boat looked old and unwieldy, barely seaworthy. Its high, raked bow led back in a long sweeping arc to a boxy wheelhouse perched precariously above the square stern. The men shouted, but their calls echoed unanswered across the water.

  Passing downwind of the silent boat, the stench of decay reached out from the drifting vessel and assaulted their nostrils, making stomachs heave and eyes water. One of the men, the youngest, leaned over the side and threw up violently. For a few seconds he lay across the rail retching, the roll of the boat bringing his face to within centimetres of the surface of the water.

  ‘Look!’

  ‘Holy shit!’

  A black fin sliced through the water, and then another. In seconds, the sea was boiling with lithe, dark shapes snapping and twisting in all directions.

  ‘Sharks.’

  ‘Yeah. You see hundreds of them in these waters. Not usually all in the one place, though. I’ve never seen ’em like this.’

  ‘What’s attractin’ them, do you think?’

  The fishermen stared at the drifting hulk.

  ‘I’m gonna radio Coastwatch and get ’em to send a boat out.’ The helmsman reached for the VHF radio built into the helm console.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ The older man, standing alone in the stern, took a step forward. All eyes turned to him. He hadn’t spoken loudly, just the opposite, and yet the effect of his words on the other five members of the fishing party was electric. The helmsman’s hand stopped mid-air, halfway to the microphone.

  ‘Get us up alongside. I want to have a look around first.’

  Silence . . .

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Better check things out and see what the deal is.’

  No one moved, no one spoke.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ The man who had vomited hauled himself back to his feet.

  ‘An idiot?’ The figure in the stern arched one eyebrow slightly, questioningly. On the bronzed face, the gesture was sinister and threatening. Even so, the younger man refused to back down.

  ‘That’s what I said. Let’s just call the Coastwatch and get the hell out of here.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Mike? You scared?’

  ‘Bugger off! Of course I’m not scared. I just . . .’ His voice trailing away, Mike looked down at the deck, uncomfortably aware of the level gaze of the man in the stern.

  ‘Good then. You can come across with me.’

  Mike continued to stare at the deck, unwilling to meet the challenge behind the older man’s words, but in the end he was unable to refuse to do so.

  ‘Whatever. Let’s just make it quick, okay.’ His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

  The man in the stern smiled. A cold, hard smile, then nodded to the helmsman.

  ‘Take us alongside, Gerry.’

  With no engines and no steering, the larger wooden boat was unpredictable and dangerous in its movements. It surged up and then dropped away from the smaller powerboat with little or no warning. Gerry drifted the cruiser down towards the wooden hulk while the crew hung rubber fenders off the side of their own craft to hold them safely apart. The stench wafted over to them, even from upwind, and a couple of the men had to fight the urge to gag and cough. Mike looked into the narrowing gap of indigo water between the two boats, uncomfortably aware of the dark, streamlined shapes cruising silently below.

  ‘Not nervous, are we?’

  Mike could only shake his head in reply.

  ‘Good then. I’ll go first.’

  When the roll of the two boats brought their rails roughly level, the man leapt easily across the dark water and onto the timber deck of the dead boat. Although he was a large man, tall and solidly built, he made the jump with the grace and agility of a jungle cat. Once aboard, he disappeared towards the wheelhouse.

  Perched on the rail, Mike stood a few seconds longer, feeling his mates’ stares at his back. He knew exactly what they were thinking. Below him a torpedo-shaped black and silver shark broke the surface of the water with its dorsal fin.

  ‘Look, Mike . . .’

  Mike took a deep brea
th and leapt. Everything slowed. Gravity seemed to settle upon him, drawing him inexorably down towards the waiting sharks.

  And then he was across, sprawled in an undignified heap, splinters from the deck driving into the palms of his hands. When he looked back towards the cruiser, his mates were standing still and silent, watching as he climbed to his feet.

  Gerry spun the helm, and the cruiser pulled away from the splintering hulk.

  The air on board was foul. Even on the open deck the scent of decay tainted every breath. Mike’s stomach heaved again, but all he could manage was a dry heave. From aft came a soft, derisive laugh.

  ‘Made it, did you? Took your time all right. Didn’t think you’d have the guts.’

  Mike shrugged. The big man was watching him through the shattered remains of the wheelhouse window.

  ‘Come and have a look at this.’

  The boat had taken on water and leaned permanently to one side. On the bigger swells it would roll slowly and lazily, to the point where the lower rail came within a few centimetres of dipping beneath the surface of the water.

  Hundreds of pencil-thin beams of light streamed into the wheelhouse through small, neat holes in the wooden walls. The simple instrument panel looked like it had been attacked with an axe. Broken glass and splinters of wood littered the floor. A dark brown stain on the rear bulkhead ran down and across through the far door to the lower rail at the side of the boat.

  ‘Is that . . . ?’

  A nod.

  ‘Yep. Something real nasty went down on this wreck.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘I’m going to have a look below.’

  The other man vanished through a hatchway. Alone in the wheelhouse, Mike glanced nervously about. Everything on board was still, the only sounds the creaking of the timbers, the sloshing of water in the bilge, and the cries of the seabirds circling endlessly above.

  The smell and the close atmosphere inside the cabin were too much for him. He stepped back out onto the deck. Smashed wooden crates and piles of rope and netting were strewn everywhere. With the brightness and intensity of the sunlight, the hatchways down into the belly of the boat seemed to lead into a black pit of darkness.

  ‘Hey, get down here!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll see. Get down here.’

  If the smell was bad up on deck, down it was doubly so. It drifted with a sweet, cloying and yet evil scent that pervaded every part of Mike’s thought processes. The air had substance, settling and clinging to his skin and clothes.

  Mike closed his eyes for a few seconds, willing his stomach to settle. Feeling a little calmer he reopened them, to be confronted by a scene of pure horror.

  They were gathered together up in the bow. Forty or fifty of them, piled on top of one another – men, women and children. A nightmare of humanity. Bodies twisted into grotesque forms, arms and legs angled in all directions in the semi-darkness.

  Mercifully, lack of light hid specific details. Mike stared, long enough to take in the expressions of agony and fear on the faces, the ragged bullet holes in chests and limbs, the heads half blown away, and the stained deck beneath the gruesome pile.

  This time there was no containing the wave of nausea that overcame him; he clawed his way back up the stairs, into the sunlight, and dashed for the side rail.

  As he lay prone, spewing evil-tasting yellow bile into dark blue waters, a hand grabbed his shoulder.

  Mike continued vomiting, assuming that the grip was the other man wanting to get away. Bugger him! If the dumb bastard wanted to get off, then he could wait.

  Eventually Mike straightened, his guts still cramping from the exertion. The grip on his shoulder had taken on a strange insistent quality, some strength he hadn’t noticed before.

  ‘Let up! You’re hurting!’

  Mike found himself staring into the hollow eyes of a walking corpse.

  Open sores gaped on the skin of the emaciated figure. A tattered sarong clung around his waist, but there was barely enough of it to cover him properly. In his right hand a rusted machete hung limp and heavy, its pitted blade glinting dully in the afternoon sun.

  For ten or fifteen seconds the two men stood locked in motionless silence. At the edges of Mike’s consciousness, the afternoon light, the boat, the ocean, everything dissolved away into nothingness; all that remained were the eyes of the other man – two hollow orbs of madness and dark desperation which trapped him, pulling him in, sucking him down. He was caught. Drawn into a long tunnel of pain and horror – no end in sight. The sensation was one of falling – of being swamped, engulfed and surrounded as the gleaming black insanity behind those eyes invaded his thoughts and drew him to itself.

  Abruptly, the spell was broken. A wet thump, and the man stiffened and folded in a heap on the deck. He tried to speak, uttering some soft, unintelligible sounds before his eyes rolled back in their sockets. His body twitched a couple of times and then was still.

  Over the body stood the other man from the fishing boat. In his hand was an iron bar, its end stained a bloody red, a strange expression on his face – half panic, half triumph.

  ‘Oh my God! Elliot, what did you do?’

  The larger man shrugged. He was visibly shaken and trying not to show his fear, but when he spoke there was a note of pride, of arrogant confidence in his voice.

  ‘What does it look like? He was gonna kill you, you dumb bugger.’

  ‘That’s bullshit!’

  ‘Come on, he had a machete.’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  ‘Don’t be a dickhead, mate. I just saved your life.’

  The crumpled form lay motionless, a dark stain already spreading on the deck behind its head.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I should bloody hope so. I hit him hard enough.’

  ‘What are we gonna do? Let’s call the others and get out of here.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ The larger man scratched his chin, thinking. ‘It seems to me that one way or the other this old hulk is headed for the Aussie coastline.’

  ‘So? Who cares?’

  ‘I do. It’s only a matter of time before someone else finds it, right?’

  Other than a mute nod, Mike offered no reply.

  ‘Well then, the last thing we need is for someone to come poking around and discover that this guy died on deck from a blow to the head, when everyone else on board was shot down below. Hell, with modern forensics, they’ll soon work out that he died a few days later than all the others, and then there’ll be all sorts of awkward questions.’

  ‘Fine, but I don’t see what we can do. There’s—’

  He didn’t get an opportunity to finish. Without any further discussion the larger man reached down, grabbed the body by one arm and began to drag it towards the lee rail.

  ‘What are you doing, Elliot?’

  ‘Shut up, Mike, and give me a hand.’ Reaching the far side of the deck, he struggled to heave the body upright. The dead man was little more than a skeleton, but he was still heavy and awkward to lug up off the slanting deck.

  ‘Hang on! We haven’t even checked to see if he’s dead yet.’

  ‘If he isn’t then he soon will be. Now give me a hand.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I said, give me a hand here.’ Some softly spoken suggestion behind the words made it impossible to argue. In a daze, Mike seized the body by the other arm and hauled it up and over the side.

  It hit the water with very little splash, sliding gently onto the surface and then floating for a second or two before the first of the sharks, attracted by the blood, lunged from the deep. Within seconds, the water was a seething frenzy.

  ‘There.’ Elliot took a couple of steps back and wiped his hands on his pants. ‘That solves one problem.
’

  Mike looked up, amazed and frightened; Elliot was smiling. The same hard, cold, emotionless smile that he’d witnessed before. A smile that touched the corners of his mouth but had no impact on his eyes.

  ‘Now then, Mikey boy.’ Elliot clapped him on the back, hard. ‘Let’s see about organising a tow rope of some sort.’

  The other boat was still some distance away – out of the smell. Moving across to the other rail, Elliot waved their friends in the fishing boat back across.

  ‘Here they come. Oh, and Mikey? This’ll all have to be our little secret, eh?’ He turned his attention back to the approaching cruiser, while Mike struggled to get himself under control before his mates arrived.

  Neither noticed the pair of eyes watching them from under a pile of rope and netting strewn in the bow.

  arrival

  one

  As the coach pulled back out onto the highway, a figure stood alone in the thick red cloud it left behind. The desert breeze drifted the dust across towards the town and Jamie Riley looked around, taking in his first sight of Port Barren.

  ‘Shit.’

  He’d expected to hate the place, right from the moment that the judge had passed sentence. No disappointment there, Port Barren was a hole. A hot, dusty, dry hole with flies. It was only eight in the morning, but the temperature was already in the thirties. Jamie’s tee-shirt clung to his skin. ‘No wonder Eddie started laughing.’

  It seemed like weeks, not days, ago that they’d sat on opposite sides of the thick safety glass, shouting to be heard through the few small holes, and Jamie had told his brother about the court’s decision to send him to Port Barren. Eddie had cracked up. It had taken about ten minutes for him to stop laughing long enough to continue talking.

  ‘Jeez mate, Port Barren. And I thought I’d got the rough end of the stick being banged up in here.’

  ‘Ah, it won’t be that bad.’ Jamie affected his best ‘I don’t give a damn’ attitude. It had no impact on his brother, though. Eddie knew him too well.