Chapter Fifteen
The lady returns
Chantel stared once more at the black expanse of the ocean. She felt yet again like she was stranded in the middle of a vast vortex of nothingness, like she was swirling aimlessly amongst the black space in between the stars of the night sky. They had made it aboard the Saharan again in relative obscurity. Although it did look for a moment like their cover might be blown when the hippo fairies broke from their revelry to wave goodbye to the band of absconders, the party quickly lost interest in the sight of the boat sailing away when a member of the group discovered a stash of Condor’s rum hidden in the Kazaa’s cellar. Once the lights of the Kazaa began to fade away across the billowing waves of the ocean, Chantel and the others could breathe a sigh of relief.
It had been slightly nerve-wracking loading Beren onto the boat by dangling him precariously from the side of the ship. Beren himself had endured this ordeal by simply folding his arms stubbornly until the wheels of his chair touched the deck of the Saharan. Once Beren was on board again he, as expected, immediately wasted no time in creating his hermit’s den off to the side of the deck. There, he sat, scowling at anyone who dared approach and preparing himself for a journey of converse sleeping and eating patterns. Chantel knew not to expect Beren’s mood to lift again until they were on dry land.
As the Saharan sailed on into the night, each of the occupants retreated into their own individual moods. Chantel observed Beren, Auntie Bessie and Julie embrace the forthcoming journey with a mixture of trepidation and romanticism. Auntie Bessie seemed to practically swoon when talking about revisiting the community in the wastelands.
“A dump of Eden,” she would call it chuckling nervously to herself at her own facetiousness. “That’s the world we lived in, a dump, but the most beautiful dump I’ve ever known.”
Julie was more reticent about the trip towards the unknown. She had never been beyond the shores of the wasteland zone and it was hard for her to imagine that the life described by Auntie Bessie beyond the garbage walls could be as idyllic as a Garden of Eden. Chantel sensed that the more Auntie Bessie gushed about life in the community, the more Julie withdrew from the discussion until eventually the topics of conversation on board the Saharan became more and more scarce.
Julie steered the ship onwards using all the power she could muster from the meagre energy supply stored on the battery and, wherever possible, harnessing the puffs of air preening the sails. For three days they travelled like this with nothing but the sound of the waves beating against the hull of the Saharan for company. Each passenger on the boat had drenched themselves in their own unexplainable silence. Chantel watched them drift away with dread. It reminded her of another time long ago when her family had similarly splintered into a pattern of reclusiveness and she could do nothing to help it regroup. However, this time there was no horrific event that triggered the detachment. There was no singular moment that sent each of the passengers into a spiral of segregation from each other. They simply slipped independently into a rhythm where they let the absence of their voices descend upon the boat like a deflating parachute.
Inadvertently, the sound of the sea reigned supreme. The battering of the ocean on the boat was like its own triumphant symphony that neither of the passengers dared to interrupt. Chantel listened to the beating of the waves with a mixture of fear and awe. At times the lashing would rise to a crescendo of incomprehensible sound, a blanket of noise that wrapped up each of the boat’s occupants as prisoners, hijacking their senses in the process. When the breaking waves retreated, the release from the imprisonment of the sound was almost like a palpable relaxation of the body. Chantel could feel all the muscles in her body ease with each momentary lull in the sound of the waves, only to tense when they surged again and squeezed her in a suffocating embrace.
Together, each of the passengers continued in this way, cocooned in their own contradictory prisms of silence and noise. As the Saharan floated along the water, inching ever closer to the mysterious wasteland zone, the passengers on the boat remained caught in limbo, held in the captivity of a journey where the scenery never changed. Chantel watched her friends that she had come to know so closely and treasure during these past few weeks finally come together, only to start living fragmented lives. She couldn’t put her finger on what force was teasing them apart, only that whatever imperceptible influence it was could not be stopped. Chantel, once again, was powerless to prevent the chains of isolation from entering into her world.
She passed the time trying to escape this purgatory by lying back and watching the sky. She found the constant blue comforting, unlike the inconstant blue of the ocean which sparkled and glimmered with varying refractions of light. To imagine that she was in some place other than on the deck of the Saharan, Chantel enjoyed gazing at the uniformity of colour encircling the area directly over her head. When she turned her head to the horizon, she found the colours of the sky too diluted and washed out like icing dripping down the sides of a cupcake. By staring vertically upwards, however, the constancy of the colour made it seem like she wasn’t even moving, like she was perpetually staring at the same patch of sky.
Chantel passed days like this, pondering the basis of the party’s quest for Wolram. He was, as Auntie Bessie had said, a man of colour, a distinct person who was not like any other that either of them had ever known. She wondered if he was different in any other way, if the pure blood running through his veins contained some other ancient secrets from a world long past. Chantel concocted a vision of Wolram based on Auntie Bessie’s anecdotes that referenced him as akin to a god. She conjured up images in her mind of a man standing over eight feet tall, towering above all others around him, whom he commanded at will by merely raising an eyebrow or a finger. Chantel imagined the community in the wasteland zone worshipping Wolram, idolising him and his black skin; all the time cherishing the wisdom of his leadership. Curiosity was drawing each of the passengers of the Saharan closer to him. She could feel the primeval calling of the pureblood drawing the Saharan closer to the wasteland zone almost like the beating of an historic drum. Chantel felt nervous and anxious that she would have the chance to see a part of history that the world thought had been erased.
As Chantel lay on the deck one day thinking about these things she saw a flicker out of the corner of her eye. A shadow passed over her and she saw the silhouette of wings superimposed against the blue of the sky like a beacon calling out to whoever was watching. It was a bird, flying nonchalantly over the ocean. Chantel sat up immediately to find the others on the boat equally as excited as she was. Beren spoke for the first time in days.
“Blimey, a bloody bird! That’s the best thing I’ve seen for ages. Come down here my feathered friend so I can give you a kiss.”
Auntie Bessie and Julie were just as exuberant.
“We must be getting close,” Auntie Bessie cried. “I can’t believe I’m actually going back home after so many years!”
Julie checked her coordinates.
“That’s strange,” she announced. “We are a long way off from where I thought the wasteland zone was supposed to be. We’ll have to track where it is once we see land.”
The sighting of land didn’t take long after the bird had been spotted. Once again, Beren was the first on the scene to make the announcement.
“Land ahoy!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
Sure enough the blue line of the horizon gave way to the craggy formations of hills and cliffs breaking up the scenery of the sea. Beren almost leapt from his wheelchair into the water in delight. As the Saharan swept closer to the shore the passengers could start to discern the beach strewn with rubbish which must have been the last sight Auntie Bessie had of the wasteland before she left her community over 10 years ago. Julie gasped with surprise at what was on the beach.
“Is that the Pedigree?” she exclaimed. “It’s still here, after all these years!”
A look of dread passed over Auntie Bessie’s f
ace before she made her revelation.
“That’s the Pedigree alright. I’m surprised that it’s still here…and it doesn’t look like it’s been used for years. Julie, I think you should know that the Pedigree was part of the trade made for my release. It was the condition upon which I could leave the community and follow you and Condor onto the Kazaa. Wolram made that the deal and for that reason, Condor will never return to these shores. He gave up one part of his family for another and he doesn’t want to be reminded of what he lost. It will just be too much for him.”
Julie turned to Auntie Bessie with incredulity, finally realising what had transpired all those years ago when Condor visited the community in the wasteland. She understood now why Condor had been so bitter about leaving the Pedigree on the shore of the beach when they sailed away in the Kazaa and why he would not return to the same place when the Kazaa had to be reconfigured to implement the setup for the rowers. It dawned on her why Auntie Bessie had not wanted to let Condor know that they were returning to the community. Julie all of a sudden sympathised with Condor. She realised what a brutal sacrifice he had made to give up the only thing that he had which still bore a connection to his parents. She could see why it would be too painful for him to return.
The Pedigree lay perched on the beach of the wasteland shore like a bowl of decaying fruit. Half submerged in the sand, what was left of the Pedigree was covered in the ravenous tendrils of creepers that reached their tentacles deep into the cracks of the ship, slowly prying it apart from the inside out. The only pristine part of the vessel was the stainless steel mast, a proud edifice of metal contorted into the shape of a bird that stubbornly protruded from the otherwise rusting structure, like a matted flag clinging tenaciously to its flagpole.
“Thank goodness Condor is not here to see this,” sighed Julie, knowing that the image of seeing his family heirloom rotting like a corpse would destroy him.
The mere sight of the Pedigree being sacrificed to the insatiable hunger of nature was unnerving to Chantel. She was used to seeing a multiplicity of towers; endless miles of steel gleaming with invincibility, suffering no interruption of greenery in between the rows of buildings. She thought about how long it had been since she had taken in such a view; a sight that she used to take for granted, and how peculiar the supremacy of the weeds claiming the Pedigree seemed in contrast. Chantel thought that the world of the ocean had been foreign, but this land exceeded the sea in its oddity.
Beyond the shore, the wasteland was just as Julie had described – full of rubbish. Chantel caught glimpses of the wasteland zone that reminded her of the beaches they had passed just after leaving Sydney metropolis, on the southern side of the great south-eastern island. However, the concentration of rubbish in these quarters was amplified threefold. The piles of waste reached mountainous heights, mimicking the formations of the land so much so that rivers carved their way through the stacks of rubbish, dragging plastic and foam into the tepid trails of water. The accumulation of moisture in amongst the contours of the land caused reflections and tricks of light that, from the vantage point of the arriving boat, made the whole scene almost seem like an optical illusion. The most arresting sight to Chantel though, were the trees and foliage growing in amongst the refuse. Despite her upbringing in the agricultural zone and being surrounded with crops during her childhood, Chantel was accustomed to seeing vegetation manicured into meaningful plantations. The sight of the jungle sprouting like mangled spiders from every crevice in the garbage pile unnerved Chantel in a manner she could not describe. She found the whole scene confronting in its unruliness.
“Try to steer over there towards the rivulet, where you can travel up to the community,” Auntie Bessie directed, pointing towards a gap in the trash piles where a small stream of water sat barely moving.
Julie navigated the small boat closer to the shore in the direction of the tributary. There the water was deep enough to let the boat pass and it glided effortlessly from the sea to the river. As soon as the Saharan passed beyond the reach of the buffeting waves the boat seemed to relax and it seemed to Chantel that they were almost drifting above the water. The boat ceased bobbing involuntarily as the water underneath lost buoyancy and the sound of the lapping waves against the side of the boat hushed into an eerie silence. The only noise accompanying the crew was that of the small motor whirring audibly in the background. Not a person on board the Saharan spoke or moved as they watched the landscape pass by, each of them transfixed by the amount of life in the wasteland. As they peered closer at the hills and mounds of refuse making up the land, they could glimpse thousands of tiny insects and rodents scurrying amongst the plant life. The whole ground seemed to be alive with the movement of creatures. Chantel observed the myriad of wildlife with a mixture of repulsion and fascination. She remembered the rats that had swarmed upon Brad that day long ago in the warehouse and the disease they carried. She recoiled in horror at the proximity of the rodents to the boat and dreaded the possibility that one of them might leap onto the deck at any moment. Despite her disgust, she could not look away.
All the while the Saharan seemed to levitate itself further upstream towards the calling of the community in the wasteland and the voice of the leader, Wolram. Auntie Bessie was brimming now with excitement and could not stop beaming despite the apprehension felt by the other passengers on board the Saharan. Sensing the nervousness of the other passengers, she attempted to break the silence with some reassuring banter but found her anecdotes falling upon deaf ears. The calls of cicadas chirping in amongst the piles of waste echoed the futility of her conversational topics as the chorus of screeching insects eventually drowned out all other noise. The sun lowered itself closer to the horizon casting longer shadows across the land. Stubbornly, the Saharan led them further along the river, as if being pulled along by an invisible rope.
Suddenly the rubbish gave way before them and opened out into a clearing. There, falling in the shadows of the trees that surrounded it, lay an oval of pristine grass. At the far end of the oval Chantel could just make out the forms of houses and other accommodation built into the structures of the trees on the edge of the clearing. At the front of the oval, near the banks of the river, they were waiting. A band of people were lined up along the river, expecting the arrival of the Saharan like the homecoming of a cruise liner. Chantel squinted her eyes for a glimpse of Wolram. The sun by this time was falling low on the horizon behind the clearing, with just a few rays of light piercing through the trees. Despite the sun shrouding the people on the banks in silhouettes of shadow, Chantel immediately recognised the immense shape of the person that she imagined must be the leader of the community.
Chantel’s perception of Wolram was not far from the truth. As the Saharan drifted closer, she could see that he was indeed a huge man. He was just as muscular as the purebloods featured in the glitch and stern in his presence. His face wore the timeless wrinkles of one that had stopped ageing decades before. Even with the light disappearing rapidly behind the towering trees at the edge of the oval, Chantel could discern Wolram’s bald head glistening with sweat and a hard drive chip firmly planted on his skull, just like the chip that she bore.
‘Maybe he’s not that different from us after all,’ she thought.
Her attention turned for the first time to the other members of the community. Like the crew and hippo fairies on board the Kazaa, whole families lived in the community. She watched children run barefoot alongside the approaching boat, waving cheerfully at the arriving guests. The community gawked in wonder at the Saharan’s arrival. Most of the people looked dishevelled, dressing themselves in rags and odd pieces of clothing, no doubt scavenged from the tip. However, despite their matted hair and dirty clothes, Chantel could not deny that all of the people looked happy and healthy. Each of them seemed to greet the visitors with a welcoming smile. Chantel smiled and waved back at the families on the shore, finally appreciating a sense of relief after the tenseness of the journey up the river. The
Saharan came to a stop just in front of the main group of people. Chantel was close enough now to see the whites of Wolram’s eyes, almost glowing in contrast to the black skin of his face. Finally he spoke with such a booming resonance that it seemed to shake the leaves of the trees and silence the cicadas with a single command.
“You have returned, my lady.”
Pangaea Page 15
