by John Marsden
When the rain cleared we moved back down to the river, which was now running hard and fast. It thrilled me somehow to see the water rollicking past, carrying all manner of tree branches and logs, smashing into boulders with clouds of spray, and spilling onto land which had hitherto been dry and out of its reach. I made sure not to get too close, for I was wary of its speed and ferocity.
We detoured around a small waterfall and went less than a hundred yards further downstream when my attention was drawn by a little island created by the torrent. Judging by the bushes in the water on the other side I felt confident that the island had not been there the night before, for I could see the bushes were bent over by the rushing water, and for the most part were completely submerged by it.
Johnny was a little way ahead of me, and I continued to follow him, picking my path carefully among the rocks. As usual we had no particular end in view. As I passed the island I took one more glance at it and almost kept going without another look, except that a small patch of white drew my attention. I confess I took little interest in the sight, for I imagined it to be a piece of wood, or perhaps some white stone. Then, just as I took my eyes off it, a breeze caused it to flutter slightly.
This intrigued me a little more. I glanced at it several more times as I made my way through the rocks. It fluttered again, and I could see now that it was probably a piece of man-made material.
A thing of slight interest to those who dwell in Europe perhaps! But consider, it had been many months since Johnny and I had seen anything made by white hands. We had long since lost the last remnants of our clothing, and these days were as naked as the Indians. So it was with some excitement that I called to Johnny: ‘Come back here!’
He did not hear me over the roaring of the river, and I had to run forward and shout from just a few yards behind him before he turned around. ‘Come with me,’ I said. ‘I’ve found something.’
He followed willingly enough. We stood opposite the island and peered at the white patch. ‘It could be just a plant,’ he said doubtfully. Then the breeze caught it again, and he was forced to admit: ‘It does look like a piece of clothing.’
‘I want to get it,’ I said.
‘That won’t be easy,’ Johnny said. Then suddenly he grabbed my arm with such fierceness that I cried out in pain. ‘Barnaby! Are my eyes failing me?’
‘Let go,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if your eyes are failing you or not, because you haven’t told me what it is you’re seeing.’
Without looking at me, staring at the island, he said hoarsely: ‘I’m seeing the shape of a fellow creature, Barnaby Fletch.’
In astonishment and horror I stared at the patch. And yes, I thought I could just discern the shape of a human head in the grass. Or was it that Johnny had put this picture into my head?
‘We have to get over there,’ he said urgently.
We both looked around in desperation. ‘If we go back up to the waterfall,’ Johnny said, ‘and find some decent sized logs, we could ride them down to the island.’
‘But we could miss,’ I said. I was, however, unable to think of any better suggestion, so I went with him to the churning pool at the bottom of the fall. It was too dangerous for us to attempt to enter the pool itself, but a number of logs had jammed just below it. Wading in, until the water was up to Johnny’s waist and my chest, we worked furiously to separate them. The first couple were torn out of our hands as soon as we loosened them, and away downstream they galloped, but we learned from that and were able to control the third more successfully. By then we were both desperately cold and barely able to talk.
‘What now?’ I called to him.
‘You take this one,’ he called back. ‘I think I can get the next one out on my own.’
I was too cold to argue. I knew we could not endure this for long. I tried, foolishly, to mount the log as if it were some kind of horse to be ridden. Johnny snapped at me: ‘Not that way.’
I understood his meaning, and taking a deep breath launched myself into the river, holding the log before me and praying that it would not immediately be ripped out of my hands. Johnny let go of his end and I was immediately swept away with ferocious speed. I lost my grip on the log with my left hand but, after several frightening seconds, was able to regain my hold. I had no control, but was dragged over boulders and hit by other pieces of wood. For one long stretch I was completely underwater and feared I would be drowned, but at last I managed to get my face to the surface and draw in great gasps of air. Surely the island must be close? I looked around and saw that it was indeed dreadfully close; another few moments and I would be swept right past it. At least here, a good way downstream from the waterfall, with the river widening somewhat, the force of the current was slightly weaker. With all my strength I steered the log to my left and kicked madly. A piece of wood struck me hard in the nose and blinded me briefly, but I continued kicking. Suddenly I felt my chest and knees grinding on a rough material and realised that I had landed on a spit of gravelly sand at the very tip of the island.
I let go the log, pleased to discard that which I had clung to so affectionately for so long. Such is the fickleness of humanity. I staggered up onto the grass, looking around for Johnny. I was in time to see his log crash into a boulder just a few yards upstream of the island. He let go of it at the last moment, trying desperately to swim around the rock, but was thrown into it. Tumbling end over end he was rushed along by the river. I did not know if he was dead or alive after his collision with the boulder, but I stepped out as far as I dared into the water and, leaning out, reached across to him.
Our eyes met, and I was relieved to see that he was conscious. He wriggled through the water somehow, towards me, and our fingers made contact. I grabbed him around the wrist and, digging in my feet, tried desperately to stop both of us being swept away. Inch by inch, I dragged him to me, until our other hands met and then it was comparatively easy to get him ashore.
We both fell back onto the grass gasping for air. As soon as I could, I turned onto all fours and staggered upright. Looking at Johnny and then at myself, I could see that we were in much the same condition: covered with grazes and cuts. My nose felt swollen and bruises were already starting to form all down the front of my body. No doubt my back was equally afflicted. Johnny dragged himself to his feet and, walking like a pair of drunks, we went looking for the object of our search.
I thought the most likely outcome would be the ignominious discovery of some variety of native flower or heath. If it were not that, I expected to find a piece of clothing, perhaps washed downstream from the camp of an explorer. I had no real confidence that the head we believed we had seen was anything more than a rock, or a trick our eyes were playing on us. Yet I knew also that it well behoved us to investigate the white patch. Hardened criminals as the law had ajudged us to be, yet neither of us was so lacking in humanity as to walk away from what could have been the body of a fellow creature.
I was the first to reach the place. It took some moments for my eyes to draw out from the surrounding grass and gravel the figure that lay on the ground. It was like trying to define a kangaroo against the background of eucalyptus trees and rocks into which they blend so successfully. Hardly any wonder it took me so long to recognise what I saw now, however: who would have expected to see a white child, a little girl, lying insensible in front of them?
From behind me came a hoarse cry from Johnny, as he too recognised the nature of our discovery. He was quicker to act than I. He dove in beside me and put a hand on the child’s forehead, at the same time picking up her nearer arm. She seemed to stir and shake her head slightly.
‘Is she alive?’ I said stupidly. This seemed even more unlikely and astonishing than the fact that she was here at all.
‘She is, or we’re all in another place together,’ Johnny said grimly. ‘But whether she’ll stay alive is another question.’
‘What are we to do?’ I a
sked.
‘She’s too cold,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what else may be wrong with her, but she’s too cold.’ He thought for a moment, then came to a decision. ‘Take her in your arms, Barnaby, and hold her like she’s a baby. You may be cold yourself, but you’re warmer than her. I’ll try to get a fire going.’
I did as he directed. It felt strange to hold a child like this. I tried to transmit what warmth I could to her; I tried to will her into life; I tried to redirect my strength into her limp body. From time to time I glanced at Johnny to see what progress he was making. He had to use the Indian methods again of course; our firestick was on the other side of the river. But I could see what he was doing: searching among the bushes for tiny twigs that had been protected from the rain, especially the ones that grew straight upwards and so were drier than the ones which grew horizontally.
Several times the little body in my arms gave a great shudder, and each time a terror ran through me, for I thought it might be the child’s last breath. She felt thin. Her face was very pretty though. She had dark brown ringlets and the sunburnt complexion of all those who had been in the colony more than a few months, so different to the pale skins of those who dwelled in England. The white material that had caught my eye was her dress, which so far as I could judge, was made of linen, or possibly linen and wool. It was flared somewhat at the bottom, and had an elaborate stitched border of red, brown and green lines, made to simulate vines or creepers and highlighted at regular intervals by a pretty arrangement of flowers on stalks that almost resembled a peacock’s tail. It looked expensive, and I thought that she might be from a rich family. Both the sleeves of her dress had been torn; one was torn almost completely off, the other had a long rip from the elbow to the wrist.
I wondered how long she had been wandering alone through the forest, separated from her parents, no doubt, by some mischance. At the same time I kept looking to the two banks of the river, half-expecting to see a search party, and I wondered what our fate would be should such an eventuality occur. It seemed to me that a great rage might be visited upon me, should, for example, the child’s father find me, a naked runaway boy, cradling his infant daughter. From my terrible experience with Mr Ogwell, and then the conversations I had been exposed to since joining the world of convicts, I had learned enough to know that such a situation harboured dark possibilities which would not have occurred to me when I was younger.
At last Johnny got the fire going, and I wriggled closer, still holding the girl. ‘What do you think?’ I asked him.
He shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know what more we can do,’ he said. ‘We can’t get her off this bit of land until the river goes down. We’ve got no food to give her, and the way she is at the moment, she couldn’t eat it anyway. All we can do is what we’re doing.’
I could not disagree with him, for I had nothing better to suggest. He built up the fire. Each time the blaze permitted, he put another damp log on it, which quieted it for a time, but as the log dried out the flames burned more fiercely. I felt the little body in my arms gradually becoming warmer.
After a time, however, my arms grew too tired to hold her any longer and we exchanged places, Johnny nursing the child and me feeding the fire. We continued to alternate our duties throughout the evening. As night fell, Johnny rolled up a big rock, then hauled in logs to make a kind of frame or structure to support me as I slept, so that I could continue to hold the little girl. Had we been better guardians we might have stayed awake all night to care for her, but our exhausted and aching bodies demanded rest, and we were too weak to hold sleep at bay.
Chapter 45
As the sun rose I opened my eyes, feeling very sore from yesterday’s battering, but my first thought was for the child. To my great relief she was still alive. My concern was not only for her; I had woken several times during the night with the dread that she might be dead, for I had a great horror of the idea that I might be sleeping with a corpse in my arms.
However, I had a fancy she was breathing more easily, and her colour was undoubtedly healthier. Johnny was already awake and building up the fire. I ventured to suggest to him that the child looked a little better, and he agreed. Neither of us expected, though, that within a minute her eyes too would be open and she would be fluttering in my arms like a tiny bird caught in a boy’s cupped hands. Yet that was what happened. I was so startled that I almost dropped her. To my further surprise she spoke almost immediately.
‘I’m hungry,’ were her first words.
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ I answered. ‘But I’m afraid we haven’t any food.’
Her face puckered up and she let out a thin wail. ‘We’ll get you some food as soon as we can,’ I assured her, but she continued to cry, sobbing, ‘I want my mummy.’
I felt helpless, and looking at Johnny gave me no confidence that he would be any more use than me in this situation. ‘Have a drink of water,’ I suggested. ‘Sometimes that makes hunger a little easier to bear.’
When she did not respond I helped her up, took her by the hand and led her to the edge of the river. She did then lap up some water, and it seemed to calm her. ‘We’re hungry too,’ I said. ‘When the river goes down we’ll be able to get some food.’
‘Are you Indians?’ she asked me.
‘No indeed,’ I said, smiling a little at the notion.
‘Then why aren’t you wearing any clothes?’
I thought quickly. ‘We’ve been in the forest a long time. Our clothes wore out.’
She seemed satisfied with that answer and followed me back to the fire. Johnny said to me: ‘You know, the vines over there look like the midiny that the Indian women dug up.’
I went to where he indicated and was excited to see the familiar heart-shaped leaves and papery flowers that characterised the yams which we ate frequently when we lived with the tribe. We both got digging sticks and set to work. Despite the rain, the ground was quite hard and dry, once we got down a few inches. But we continued to dig, and eventually were rewarded by finding half-a-dozen tubers, each similar to a medium-sized potato. We washed them in the river, then put them in the coals. After her initial burst of energy when she awoke, the little girl seemed to have gone into a decline. She sat at the fire, but her eyes were half closed and she kept tipping over. I was afraid she would tip right into the fire. She would not now permit me or Johnny to touch her, shrinking away from us when we tried, but I modified the structure Johnny had made the night before, to support her.
While the yams were cooking, Johnny searched for some stones with sharp edges. He found only one that was in any way satisfactory. It took much patience on both our parts after we had pulled the yams from the coals to wait for them to cool enough for him to peel them, and further patience while he scraped away at them with his stone. When the first one was done, I took it to the river, washed it again, then brought it back to the child. She still seemed in a state of semiconsciousness, but I borrowed Johnny’s stone and used it to strip off pieces of the root in the way that I had seen the native women doing. Then I forced a piece into the little girl’s mouth. She seemed too insensible to know what it was, but I gently worked her jaw to encourage her to chew, and after a few moments she seemed to ingest the vegetable.
I had a better idea then, and again following the practices of the Indian women, I chewed some yam into a soft mass and transferred it to the child’s mouth. This seemed more successful, as I was convinced that she swallowed the food voluntarily. Like a mother bird I continued to feed the fledgling, until she had eaten an entire yam. ‘Maybe give her a rest for a little bit now,’ Johnny suggested. ‘If she hasn’t had food for a while, she might not be able to take much.’
At last this gave me licence to make a meal for myself. I had been sorely tempted whilst chewing for the child but had suppressed my own hunger in the hope of bringing about an improvement in her condition. To my great joy, as I began my breakfast, the l
ittle girl opened her eyes and sat up. ‘More potato,’ she said, and the words were sweet to my ears.
From then on, her recovery was quite rapid. After eating another yam she became more talkative. We tried to elicit from her details about her identity and current predicament, but she was too young to communicate much information. She said her name was Sophie and she lived in a new house, and they had chickens, and a pig called Roger. She said they had been for a picnic in the forest when her father and mother had fallen asleep, so she ‘went for a walk’ and got lost. She didn’t know how long she had been lost. She cried and said her father and mother would be angry because they had told her not to leave their sight. Then she had another fit of shyness and wouldn’t speak to either of us.
The river was going down quite quickly again, as is the habit of some of these New South Wales rivers after a violent storm. I thought that we would be able to cross to the shore by the middle of the day. I had deliberated on our best course of action and I told Johnny I thought we should take Sophie down the river until we saw some colonists, and then we could point them out to her and trust her to walk to them while we ran off into the forest.
Johnny, however, was thinking of an altogether different approach. He cut me off before I had finished, saying: ‘Barnaby, don’t you realise what we have here? This child is our ticket to forgiveness. She is like an angel of deliverance. She represents the first stroke of good fortune I’ve had in a dozen years.’
I started to grasp his meaning and said slowly: ‘Do you mean we’ll be let off our punishments if we return her to her folk?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
I felt a surge of excitement in my chest. Despite Johnny’s company, I had been feeling a great loneliness: just the two of us out here in the vast forest, sharing the space with an occasional kangaroo or opossum . . . and in some ways the loneliness was not the worst thing. I was too young to put a name to it, but I found it disheartening to have no purpose, no meaning in my life. I did not want to spend more months or years wandering aimlessly, preserving my life simply for the sake of preserving it. I wanted to be back in a world where I had something to work towards, even if my goals perforce had to be long-distance ones.
