Storyland

by Catherine McKinnon

  When I return to the Reliance I will recount how I swam to this beach on my own and discovered a stream and was not frightened of cannibals. The lieutenant’s brother, Samuel, will pretend not to listen, thinking I am beneath him, but others will slap me on the back.

  To dare is to do.

  I will not tell of Mr Bass’s moods, of how he thinks less of me than the natives. For to do so might lower the opinion others may have of me. For, as Mr Bass has often said, Slander sticks, no matter where it comes from.

  Ha! I feel emboldened by my thoughts.

  I shift about on the high branches, and take in all that is around me, land and sea, mountain and sky, tree and bird, and find in me another stirring. One I may also never be able to tell, because there are no words fit to describe it. A quiet stirring, with its own magic, like a small candle burning on a dark night. Here I am. It may be nothing more than that but it seems, at this moment, much more.

  After a time I climb down from the great tree and pat it goodbye, for it has given me solace. When I bolt into the sea, I dive beneath an enormous wave, to cheat it of its power, kick along the sandy bottom then surface to tread water. I look back at the shore. The white sand curves around the land; the dunes in the late light are dark mountains and valleys; the forest behind is thick green to the sky. This is a wild place. Too wild for civilisation. It is a place for adventure.

  I will remember this place in my dreams. I will remember it in the stories I tell. For in this place I first realised that if I am to rise, it will come not only by what I tell of what I dare, but also by what I don’t tell.

  I kick out my legs and swim towards Tom Thumb.

  Mr Bass hauls me into the boat, greets me like a long-lost friend, his mood much improved. The sun has fallen behind the cliffs and dark is descending.

  ‘What did you find?’ Mr Bass asks.

  ‘A stream of fresh water,’ I say, wiping my face.

  Neither he nor the lieutenant question the length of time I spent on shore.

  The lieutenant glances about him. ‘The wind is for us,’ he says. ‘We must make use of it.’

  Mr Bass and I get upon the oars and pull out through the gap in the reef. Swish, swash, swish, swash. We step the mast and haul sail.

  At first the wind is strong and steady and we make good time, but soon it gusts, tipping us about. The sky is heaving with inky clouds that threaten to burst as we ride the waves.

  A great clap of thunder sounds right above our heads.

  Boom! Boom!

  The thunder makes me jump.

  Boom! Boom!

  Giant spider legs of light rip through the sky. Night comes in a hurry, and the moon is hiding.

  ‘We need shelter,’ I call to Mr Bass over the drumming sea.

  ‘Matthew,’ Mr Bass bellows at the lieutenant.

  The lieutenant points to a piece of land that juts out from a beach to the north. We strike sail and row in that direction and find shelter beneath a cliff. We heave the stone anchor up and toss it in the sea. The lieutenant leans over the gunwale, peers into the gloom to estimate our distance from the rocks. He can see nothing.

  Lightning blazes. The lieutenant quickly surveys our position. ‘We are too close to the rocks to stay long,’ he shouts.

  The light goes, and again we sit in the dark. Waves drum the nearby crags. Thump, thump, thump! Thump, thump, thump!

  Which gives the greater danger – the monstrous rocks so near to us now or the ocean waves?

  Another burst of lightning and the sky crackles with light. Mr Bass holds the anchor rope as if it might race away. The lieutenant at the helm, ever watchful.

  Dark again. We wait. Whoosh, whoosh, goes the sea.

  The wind shifts and smacks into our boat.

  The lieutenant shouts, ‘Pull now. Or we will smash upon the rocks!’

  Mr Bass and I haul up the anchor – haste, haste – get on the oars – haste, haste – and row. The ocean waves it must be. Swish, swash, swish, swash.

  Out from the cliff we boat the oars and hoist sail. Soon we are rolling on the sea. Lightning whips the sky. High above us the crest of a wave is bearing down. We sink to the dip of the wave. I spy harsh-faced crags barely more than an arm’s length away; then, just as we seem sure to smash onto them, we rise up and ride to the wave top.

  The boat is filling with water. I slip and scramble, fetch the bucket and begin to bail. Lightning sizzles and snaps. Again Thumb tips towards harsh-faced crags and again we rise up and ride the wave. I push my body into the side of the boat to steady myself and bail. All is cold and hard and urgent. Time is measured by waves and lightning.

  We again fall towards the rocks.

  I cry out.

  But yet again, yes, yes, we rise and ride away. In a crack of light I see the lieutenant, iron-faced, as the waves, like shapeshifting ghouls, emerge from the noisy dark to chase us. It is death coming but we will not be taken without a fight.

  To dare is to do. Slap, slap and roar. To dare is to do. Slap, slap and roar. Glory for us, not death.

  Lightning crack!

  A monstrous wave hovers above like a magnificent dark angel. This is not a battle of my daring. No, this is nature laughing at me. Ideas of manhood and mankind are nothing now. There is no leveller that can beat this. Mankind is no more than a squib that hisses and dies.

  Everything hurts. My arms scream, but my legs hold on. Water crashes over me, swoosh, swoosh. I am thrust from one side of the boat to the other. My body whacks against the timber, against all that lies between me and the hungry sea.

  Bail, bail, I must bail.

  I dip my bucket in the water and bail. I spy in the distance, through the sheeting rain, the white water of a break. Could it be?

  ‘Reef! Reef!’ I shout above the wind howl.

  The lieutenant and Mr Bass follow my pointing arm.

  ‘We can make it,’ I shout.

  ‘Get ready to strike sail!’ Mr Bass hollers.

  The lieutenant leans back on his steering oar and Thumb flips into the wind. Waves smash over us. I stash the bucket and heave on the sail rope, my strength stretched like in a tug-of-war. Mr Bass and I leap up, strike sail and unstep the mast. The rain pummels us as we get on the oars. We wait for the slow between racing waves and then pull, hard and fast.

  Every muscle in my body screeches in pain. We pull and pull.

  Rain slaps my cheeks. Pull, pull.

  My feet start to slip. Pull, pull.

  My hands clench the oar. Pull, pull.

  Again and again, pull, pull.

  To dare is to do, to dare is to do, to dare is to … We slip through a gap in the reef and are delivered – magnificently – into smooth water.

  An immense quiet crowds in as though my ears are muffled in wool.

  We keep on pulling, but the ease is so far from the force we have just been rowing against that it must be a dream. I see a sliver of flickering white. Oh my, it looks like the edge of the world. Is this, perchance, death’s sweet ride?

  But then the flickering white becomes a beach. I laugh inwardly at my foolish thought.

  Mr Bass and I slide away the oars. Slipping on the wet wood, we muddle about in the dark, heave up the stone anchor and drop it over the side.

  We stop still in the pitch black. I listen to our breathing, the sound like an untuned instrument. Oh, but I am thrilled by the sound.

  The moon comes out from behind a cloud, and I spy the lieutenant. He looks like a cat that has caught a mouse. It is infectious.

  We laugh, quietly, then loudly, at the surprise of being alive.

  ‘My God, there is grace in our protection,’ the lieutenant says as our laughter subsides.

  ‘Not God, it was chance gave us safety,’ says Mr Bass.

  ‘Perhaps,’ says the lieutenant.

  ‘We had only the option to choose movement or not,’ Mr Bass says, his voice joyful and sad together.

  ‘And all the while we knew not where movement would take us,’ I say
.

  ‘This time to safety,’ the lieutenant whispers.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree.

  The lieutenant grabs Mr Bass’s hand. ‘This place is providential, do you agree, George?’

  ‘It feels that way,’ Mr Bass replies.

  ‘Providential Cove, that is what we must name it,’ the lieutenant says. ‘Will, do you agree?’

  ‘That be the name,’ I say, ‘that most fits this place.’

  I see now what it takes for me to be one of them. It is not about blood, but something wrought by a higher force. It was the dark angel who came to us. We battled her, and now, here we are, us three, alive and together, together and alive.

  I bend back and watch clouds that race the sea currents below. The stars peek through, like children behind fingers. All is childish wonder. It is a night not to be forgotten. We sit there remembering the storm, remembering wave after wave, jawing as though it were a story anew. It is some time before we attempt to sleep.

  ‘Our seventh day,’ I say, as I jump into the shallows and help Mr Bass and the lieutenant haul Thumb onto the shore.

  I stand and look about me. The rocky cliffs curve to a headland on each side of the beach and set a frame for the sea beyond. The water is magnificent, like a turquoise jewel. Behind, spiky green bushes grow in the sand and tall trees cast shadows across tidal pools. I see a stream at the back of the cove and without waiting for instruction I run up the sand hill.

  The stream snakes through the dunes. There are Indian footprints leading down to the water, yet my feeling of gladness cannot be dampened. This is a cove of peace. I spy the ashes of a fire and dare myself to nudge a burnt log with my toe. Ah, it is cold. Nothing bad can happen here. There is nought to fear, not from man or beast or sky or sea.

  It is late morn when we leave our peaceful cove. We push off and row, then pick up a light breeze and sail. Our spirits are high.

  When I was young, my mama would tell me stories about Jamaica and Calcutta and other places that may or may not have existed. Once, I asked her, ‘How do you know about such places? You, who have never been from England?’

  ‘You have missed the point of the story,’ she said. ‘I have been to many faraway places, the future as well as the past.’

  But here am I, and I have been to places beyond imagining.

  We sail on with Point Solander in sight. Point Solander is eleven miles from Port Jackson. The cliffs turn low and sandy as we breeze into an open bay. The sun beats down upon the still water, and a tired wind pushes us along. The sky is pale blue, like faded uniforms, and on the scrubby shore the green bush is flecked with silver.

  It is near noon when we see it. We are sitting in Thumb, coasting the northeast of the bay.

  ‘There is our river,’ the lieutenant says.

  We do not whoop for joy but eye it like seasoned travellers.

  ‘So it is,’ I say.

  ‘It was a long journey here,’ adds Mr Bass.

  We strike sail and row up the river. Our river. It is scrubby on either side with rock ledges that hang over the water like bushy eyebrows.

  Mr Bass sighs. ‘It will not do for large vessels.’

  It is a river, but not one that will please our governor. Not one that will easily transport a new community to clean water and good pastureland.

  ‘We might name the river after Hacking, who guessed it was here,’ the lieutenant suggests.

  This river will not make monuments of our names but, after our stormy night, each day is monument enough. We row back out to the bay and sit rocking in our boat.

  ‘This place feels older than time,’ Mr Bass says.

  ‘Yes,’ agrees the lieutenant.

  ‘It should be our care, not so much to live a long life, but an honourable one,’ says Mr Bass.

  ‘Well said,’ agrees the lieutenant.

  They look to me and smile and, in their serenity, I see something of what it means to live. For in the tumble of all that is life, there are moments that lift a man into a quiet place, where the wonder is in the drawing of each breath. Our journey has been worth this discovery alone.

  We row to the north side of the cove, drag Thumb up onto the sand. The fan leaves of the palm trees give us shade. I gather sticks from the back of the beach, flint a fire and lay out our clothes to dry. Then I stretch my arms and legs, and rub my toes in the sand.

  I turn and spy two Indians standing in the trees. How long have they been watching? The two men smile. One is older than the other. No spears. Must have left them in the grasses.

  Mr Bass calls out a welcome in the Port Jackson speak and slowly the Indians walk across the sand, as if we are the wild things and not they. The lieutenant, down by the water’s edge, hurries up to join us. He tells the Indians we are from Sydney Cove, yet they seem not to know the name. We offer to share what food we have but, to our surprise, they wave it away.

  Instead, they look us over from head to toe. The older man touches the freckles on my nose. The younger one strokes Mr Bass’s waistcoat.

  I sit to tend the fire but, when I stand, they are already leaving, as quietly as they arrived. I watch them go.

  We push Thumb into the water and row to the middle of the bay to fish. I look to the hilltops, but there is no sign of the Indians. Sharks slide alongside and watch us, as if curious to take a bite. We sit with our lines. Catch nothing.

  We leave off fishing and row back to shore.

  Mr Bass and the lieutenant gather sticks for the fire. I rinse the salt from our piece of beef and then boil it. We eat a small supper. Later, I pull up soft grass and throw it on the ground to make our beds.

  The night is all stars. I pick out Warrewull. I hear the bird that sings in the moonlight.

  Our eighth day. Gulls wake me. Carick, carick! We breakfast in the morning cool then again push Thumb into the water – splish, splash – and the lieutenant and I pull around Port Hacking. Mr Bass is at the helm, his long legs stretched out before him.

  We boat our oars. The lieutenant scrambles to the bow and ferrets out his compass and journal. He sketches the final part of our journey onto his map.

  Mr Bass and I rummage for hooks and line so we can fish. We talk about what we will say on our return, about the currents being too strong so that we overshot our mark, about the dumping on the beach where the thin trails of smoke from the forest alerted us to danger, about the cannibals that we nearly met, and our trading with the Indians and the barbering of their beards.

  ‘And our escape from their clutches,’ the lieutenant adds.

  ‘Was it escape?’ Mr Bass asks.

  ‘You know it was,’ the lieutenant says.

  They look to each other, then to me, and for a tick-tock I hold my breath.

  Carick, carick! the gulls call out.

  The lieutenant and Mr Bass are waiting for me to speak. And what shall I say? What will be the story of how we met this land?

  Carick, carick!

  From a single tree a forest can grow but only if the seeds are well spread. Yet not all stories can be told.

  ‘We were dead men in that place,’ I say.

  ‘We were,’ says Mr Bass.

  ‘Indeed,’ agrees the lieutenant.

  Mr Bass claps me on the shoulder. The lieutenant takes hold of my neck and squeezes it, which is his dearest form of affection.

  We three talk on about our battle with the storm.

  ‘What a story we have to tell,’ I say.

  Mr Bass laughs and ruffles my hair.

  ‘I am too old for that,’ I shout, pulling away.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You are too old.’

  He ruffles my hair again, and we start to wrestle.

  ‘My journal!’ the lieutenant shouts, as the boat rocks.

  Mr Bass pushes me, but I push back. He is stronger but I am faster. We grip arms, breathing close, poised for a fall.

  ‘The sharks will get us,’ I dare.

  ‘You think I am frightened of sharks?’ he asks.

&nb
sp; ‘You tell me,’ I say.

  We stay, both holding tight. My heart beating fast. He pushes me as I push him. We tip together and fall into the cool water.

  Down, down, down, I go, drift with the current, then swim up to the surface.

  I stroke away from Thumb, dive under again, swimming beneath the surface back to the boat and bursting up for air at the bow. I climb in, quicker than I might normally do, for a dare is a dare but I do not want to chance sharks any more than I have to.

  Mr Bass stays in the water a moment longer to prove that he can.

  ‘Look there,’ I say, pointing to a spot beyond him, where my imaginary shark is circling.

  Mr Bass is in the boat in a tick-tock with me sitting on the thwart laughing.

  In the early morn of our ninth day, I wake to a sky full of majestic ships. All is glory up in the clouds. It is a future portent, perhaps?

  Mr Bass and the lieutenant are still sleeping. Loud snores.

  I rise and walk the beach, gathering sticks, but when I have a pile I dump them on the sand and bound off along the shore, through the shallows. When my breath is short I stop to rest, then splash into the water to swim.

  Soon I will be back on the Reliance and my time will be measured. What is unmeasured is unknown. A secret that can be discovered by no one.

  I swim back to the shore and run in circles to dry off, feeling the soft sand beneath my feet.

  The sun is skimming the water when I walk back to gather my pile of sticks. I return to the camp where my elders are still snoring, as if they have not a care in the world. I light a fire, setting a pot to boil, so we can feed on the last of our soup cakes. The flames dart up into the air. Mr Bass and the lieutenant finally stir, and we sup as though at a feast. Later, we pack and then heave Thumb into the water.