River

by Shira Nayman

  We took another jalopy of a taxi and sat in silence as we bounced along the road. Looking out the window, I felt a kind of visual hunger—like I’d been starving for these colors, for this rocky-red clay earth, for the sage-and-olive hues of nature’s green, here, so different from what I was used to back home.

  At the base we were welcomed with the good-natured cheer that was as bright and abundant here as the light. Everybody seemed to know Grandpa Jack, who had an impressive ability to remember people’s names and those of husbands and children and wives. There was lots of backslapping and arms flung around shoulders. Talia seemed to enjoy it all and showed me around the base as she’d shown me around other parts of Broken Hill.

  We were invited to join a group for tea; by this time, we were hungry again and happily tucked into scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream, and lamingtons—cubes of yellow sponge cake soaked in chocolate sauce and rolled in coconut. The teapot seemed like the treacle jug in an Enid Blyton story my mother read to me when I was little: magically and endlessly full. I must have gulped down five cups of the strong, sweet, milky brew.

  “Good Lord!” Grandpa Jack said, looking at his watch. “I had no idea of the time. We really must get going. I don’t relish the thought of flying in the dark.”

  Out the window, I saw the light fading and the sky streaked orange and pink.

  We made quick business of our goodbyes then climbed into the car of a guy who offered to drive us to the airport. By the time we got to the hangar where Grandpa Jack’s Cessna awaited us, the sun was bobbing down behind the mountains and the air was hazy with dusk.

  “We’ve done this hop at night before, eh Tal?” Grandpa Jack said. “It’s always gone without a hitch.”

  Despite the casual sound of his voice, I could see a shadow of anxiety in Grandpa Jack’s face.

  He turned his concentration to the instruments. Talia and I sat silently in the back seats, looking out at the darkening shapes of the mining structures that crouched above Broken Hill like protective, watchful beasts.

  The engine started up: whirring, rattling, the sickening wafts of diesel fuel. We lifted from the ground and were airborne. Gone, now, that carefree thrill I’d felt upon taking off in Melbourne, when we’d found ourselves high up in a sunny sky, with its weightless blue freedom, the landscape spread out cheerfully before us. Now, we flew into dark shadows that swallowed our sight as if we were entering a cave, the whirring propellers like flapping bat wings in my ears.

  I focused on my breath, tried to still the rapid pounding of my heart. We were silent, as if clenching our mental strength to help Grandpa Jack navigate the dark skies and bring us safely home.

  All of a sudden, I realized that we were turning around in a large arc. Something in the atmosphere of the plane seemed to have changed; I felt it, pure anguish coming from the pilot seat where Grandpa Jack was engaged in a new burst of activity at the controls. Then, I heard his voice. Quiet, low, but what he said was unmistakable.

  “Shit! I’ve taken a wrong turn.” He paused, busy at the controls. “Sorry about the language, girls. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” There was something ominous in his tone.

  We circled again, another wide arc, which seemed to go on forever. As the propellers ground away at the increasingly dark night air, I could feel my heart pounding with panic. For a moment, we went into an eerie, slow descent; we seemed to hover for an instant, as if the plane were taking a quick, short breath and holding it in—and then, a sudden blast of acceleration.

  Something was happening to the wind; the whistling turned to a howl, and the windows shook wildly.

  “Don’t worry, girls!” Grandpa Jack shouted again from the front seat, but his voice was unconvincing. And then something further I couldn’t make out.

  This was probably just typical when flying in a small aircraft, I said to myself, searching for calm. They must have been through this kind of thing many times—and Grandpa Jack was so brilliant and knowledgeable, surely he knew what to do. I looked over at Talia, expecting her to shoot me a reassuring smile, to reach over and pat my arm. Instead, her face was ashen and there was fear in her eyes. She reached over, but instead of patting my arm, she gripped my hand and held fast. The panic rose in me like pressurized steam. Oh my god, I thought. I might die here, in the Australian Outback! Without even having a chance to say goodbye to Mama and Papa and Billy! The plane was now thwacking about, as if the air outside were pummeling it. My head banged against the window, wrenching my neck. I felt a jolt of pain wrap around my skull.

  “We’re coming in for a landing!” Grandpa Jack shouted above the racket of the propellers. He was no longer trying to sound nonchalant.

  “But Dad! There’s no airstrip!”

  “It’s pretty smooth ground. There’s a strong tailwind and there seems to be something wrong with one of the props. Tighten your belts!”

  I reeled as the plane tipped sharply, and Talia and I were jammed up against each other. I gripped her as she’d been gripping me, our panic turning to terror. I yanked hard on the seat belt flap, which had been comfortably loose across my lap, then glanced at Grandpa Jack, who was battling the steering control, his face clenched with concentration. Another dip, this time in the opposite direction, and then a forward slant.

  Now we were tipping even farther forward—not quite a nose dive, but definitely heading in a direction that didn’t seem right for a plane: directly down. Grandpa Jack’s face was white. Talia’s was mottled grayish-green. My stomach plunged and I let out a thin scream. I realized that Talia was doing the same, calling out “Maaaa-maaaa,” in a panicky voice.

  In a flash, we were hurtling toward the ground. The earth thrust up toward us, trying to meet us halfway. A series of powerful jolts shook the plane; I heard a horrible crunching, and then an unnerving, smoldering stench filled the cabin. The whirring propeller suddenly ceased.

  Then, we were bouncing along the ground. Talia was still gripping my arm and we were slammed first against one side of the plane and then against the other. I closed my eyes tightly and a picture of Billy’s pixie face appeared in my mind, nose crinkled and eyes twinkling. Then Papa: elegant, thoughtful, kind. And Mama. Not tired, thin Mama, but funny, lively Mama, her face shining with love.

  For a moment, we were off the ground again. I opened my eyes and looked through the window to see that we were sailing over what seemed to be a small hill. The wing and propeller on my side of the plane were no longer there. The plane—what was left of it—tipped ninety degrees, and we came to a sudden halt, in a position that had all three of us, still strapped into our seats, perpendicular to the ground.

  There was a long and echoing silence.

  “Girls. Are you alright?” Grandpa’s steady voice came from the front seat, where he was struggling to unlatch his pilot’s harness.

  I heard Talia’s voice from beside me, shaky and weak.

  “Okay, here, Dad. Jasmine?”

  “Okay, too.” My own voice sounded as shaky as Talia’s.

  “Quick, girls. Out! The tank might blow!”

  My seat belt snapped free. I reached above my head to where the door now was and managed to hoist myself up and push the door upward. One by one, we climbed up and out of the cabin. As we scrambled from the plane, I could see, in the moonlight, that the cabin was all that was left of Grandpa Jack’s spanking new blue-and-white Cessna. Wings, tail, propellers, and nose had all been ripped clear—by trees?—in our crash landing. It was a miracle that the cabin had remained intact, and that we were unharmed.

  “Holy moly,” Grandpa said, a great weight of relief compressed into the sound of his whisper.

  As we hurried away from the plane, I could see that Talia was limping. I took her hand and we crossed quickly—some two or three hundred yards, picking our way through undergrowth that included thick, dry branches and crackly old leaves. Here and there, bits of twisted debris from the plane shone dully in the moonlight. We stopped under a tall eucalyptus tree, cr
ouching beneath its leaves.

  Grandpa Jack was very still, and serious. After a time, he said: “I don’t think the tank’s going to blow. I’m going back to the cabin to fetch some supplies. You stay here.”

  He strode back toward the cabin and clambered up the wreckage, disappearing into the hole below the open door, which looked like the stiff, outthrust wing of a dead bird. Talia lowered herself to the ground. Only then did I notice the tear in her jeans at the calf, and the dark stains growing on either side of the tear.

  “Talia,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice, “you’re hurt.”

  She looked down, placed her hand by the wound.

  “God, I didn’t even notice.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I guess so,” she said, her face going pale. “Now that I’m paying attention to it.”

  Grandpa Jack’s head had reappeared above the open door of what was left of the plane, and I saw him place several objects on top of the cabin. He re-entered and again reemerged, his arms full. It took him two trips to get all the stuff back to where we were sitting under the tree. He set everything down.

  “Talia’s injured,” I said.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling beside her, his brow furrowed.

  Talia pointed to her calf. “I don’t think it’s serious,” Talia said.

  Grandpa Jack grabbed the first aid kit he’d brought back with him from the damaged plane, also the flashlight, which he shone close to the wound.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Not too serious, but you will need a few stitches.” He sounded relieved, but I could see that his face was still hung with worry. Carefully, he lifted the hem of Talia’s bell-bottomed jeans and pulled it up to the knee. Then, he cleaned the wound with a disinfectant wipe and applied several butterfly bandages, pulling them tightly across the wound. He added several dabs of antibiotic cream, then covered the area with a wad of gauze and first aid tape.

  “That will do for now,” he said, casting a glance around, taking in the surrounds, the tall eucalyptus trees, clumps of grayish-green vegetation and rocky outcroppings in the rust-colored soil.

  “Jasmine,” he said, eyeing me closely, “you sure you’re okay?”

  My head was in fact aching where it had banged against the window, and my wrenched neck felt uncomfortable. There was no cut, though, or anything he might tend to. I didn’t see the point of worrying him further.

  “I’m fine, truly,” I said. I reached up and touched the spot on my head that hurt to find a large, tender bump, but no wetness that would suggest blood.

  “Okay,” Grandpa Jack said, all business now, “let me show you what we have.

  We turned to examine the supplies he’d brought from the plane.

  Two warm, lightweight blankets; the first aid kit; an emergency box that contained a compact lantern, three flashlights, spare batteries, flares, and a Swiss Army knife with all the extras; a fire-making kit—lighter fluid, several gas cigarette lighters, and a compressed material that functioned as tinder; and a carton of food supplies—dried beef jerky, several cans of tuna, a box of tea bags, six large bottles of water, dried milk, sugar, three packets of Marie biscuits, and four large bars of Cadbury milk chocolate.

  There was also a “billy” drinking tin. And a lightweight tent folded into a pouch, with several retractable aluminum poles shortened to a length of about six inches and attached to the pouch with a clip.

  Surveying our goods, the reality of what had just happened hit me and I started to shake—from the top of my head down through my fingertips and all the way to my toes. I could hear my own teeth chattering. Talia must have heard them too.

  “Jasmine. You’re shaking like a leaf!” She wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

  Grandpa Jack eyed me with concern. “We’re very lucky, you know, girls. That little plane sure took care of us.”

  “It’s like it decided to take all the hits, and spare us,” Talia said, glancing toward the wreckage strewn for several hundred yards around us. The moon, which had been mysteriously absent during our doomed flight, was not very bright, but we could see fairly well by its light.

  “All these trees helped,” Grandpa Jack said. “Once we got close to the ground, they broke the speed.”

  The plane had careened through the trees, which in ripping off the wings, the propellers, the nose, and the tail, had brought the plane to a halt.

  “I can’t believe the cabin wasn’t crushed,” I said through my chattering teeth.

  Grandpa Jack nodded. “I know. It’s a good plane, that Cessna. Look, girls. I’m going to go for help.”

  He glanced again at Talia’s calf. “It’s fine for now, don’t worry. But I do want to get that leg of yours seen to. I’m not sure exactly where we are, but you can see that we’re well out of the desert, at least. You should be all right through the night. It’s cool, but it shouldn’t get too cold. You have the blankets, and it’s safe to make a fire in this clearing, if you want; it’s not too dry.”

  He explained how to use the flares, then picked out a few supplies to take with him: one flashlight, extra batteries, a bottle of water, a package of biscuits, and one bar of chocolate.

  “Just stay put. I’ll get back as quickly as I can.”

  He gave Talia a hug and kissed her cheek. Then, he turned to me.

  “How about a quick hug for the road,” he said, enveloping me in his arms.

  The shaking in my body stopped. Tears sprang to my eyes. I realized that all my life, I’d longed for my grandfather—longed for the three grandparents I’d never known.

  He whispered one last thing to Talia, and then was off, loping into the bush with his forthright stride. I was hoping Talia would tell me what it was he’d said, but I didn’t want to intrude by asking.

  “Good old Dad,” Talia said. “He’ll be back sooner than you think. He has a way of making things right.”

  I thought of Papa, back in New York, or should I say, ahead in New York. It suddenly occurred to me: here, it is 1974, which would have made my father—not, of course, yet my father—a boy of seventeen. Was he at school, now? Sitting in a classroom? Kicking a soccer ball around a field? I thought of the permanent furrow that creased his brow, etched there by years of worrying that seemed imposed on him by his nature. I thought of the way he looked at me from beneath that furrowed brow, his blue eyes filled with affection.

  “My father has the oddest expressions. Just now he said: ‘Give it a tonk, Tal!’ That’s what he says when I have some challenge to face, like a difficult exam.”

  “Is he always so cheerful?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. I bet my dad just popped out into the world with a grin, then went scooting about in search of anything and everything to be interested in and love.”

  Talia could have been describing Billy! His temperament must have come directly from Grandpa Jack. The thought of her father seemed to energize Talia, lifting her concern.

  “I may as well get a fire going,” she said. “Why don’t you figure out the tent? It probably just springs up somehow and then needs the poles stretched out and inserted.”

  “You okay to do that? Your leg …” I said.

  “It’s nothing, truly. I’m fine,” Talia said, rising and testing her weight on the leg. I watched her head toward the little eucalyptus woods, favoring the good leg.

  Talia was right. The tent did spring up, once I unfolded it and pulled here and there on the flexible wire frame. I unfurled the aluminum poles and found the narrow pockets into which they slid. Fifteen minutes later, I was admiring my work.

  “Home sweet home!” I announced.

  Talia, busy over the pile of twigs and logs she’d gathered, turned toward me and grinned. “Who needs civilization?”

  Then, I saw her freeze. The next instant, I heard what she’d heard. A crackle and snap. There was a pause. Then another crackle and snap. Talia carefully laid down the lighter and phial of fluid she’d been holding, p
ut a finger to her lips and made a barely audible “Sssh.” I froze, too, and listened. There it was again. The crackle of dry leaves, the tiny snap of a twig. Crackle again, no snap this time. The sound of a heavy tread. Not a small animal, or even a large one. It was the sound of a person, someone who was carefully choosing each step to avoid making too much noise.

  I crouched, peered through the foliage. I thought I saw the bottom of a pair of pants—blue jeans.

  “Hello?” I said, without thinking. “Who’s there?”

  A man emerged from the clump of bushes, barefoot, taking in the scene. The blue jeans had frayed bottoms and tears in both knees. A football shirt of some kind completed his outfit; it was black with a diagonal red stripe. His eyes were wide set and dark; his long, stringy hair was light brown and streaked blond. Pursing his lips, he let out a low whistle.

  “See you had big trouble with your plane, eh?” he said. “I never liked planes myself. I like to get about on these,” and he slapped his thighs.

  “You barrack for Essendon?” Talia said. The man’s face relaxed into a grin. “Nope, Collingwood. Me mate gave me this as a joke. But I don’t go in for footy much anymore. Not since I left town.”

  He tossed his head in Talia’s direction. A small flame had leapt up from the little pile she’d built.

  “You wanna keep that goin’ or you’ll lose it. You girls got a billy? I could use a cuppa myself.” He reached behind him and tugged at something around his waist. His hand reappeared and I saw he was holding a tin mug.

  “Jimmy’s the name. Walkabout’s my game. Sorry if I scared you.”

  He strode up toward us and hunkered down near the fire, which was spurting to life.

  “Nice fire,” he said, looking into the flames, which were beginning to dance blue and yellow in the dark night air.

  “Only kidding, about the walkabout.” He pointed to our faces. “Gubba think we Kooris are always goin’ walkabout.” I figured that gubba was an Aboriginal word for white people. “We do, now and then. Sometimes, though, we’re just goin’ from one place to another, like anyone. I got work down in Menindee.” Jimmy pointed again, this time toward the plain stretching out beneath us. “Down there, by the Darling River.”