Victorian coast, 1929
Laughter invaded her dreams. Strange, harsh laughter. The sound rose in a squawking frenzy, crested to a high note, and then dropped away to a lazy haw-haw, as if the joke had finally worn thin.
Orah burrowed back into sleep. The ground began to pitch beneath her. The wind lashed the waves into frothy peaks. Cries shattered the night as the great ship swung onto the rocks and its underbelly tore away. The water was so terribly cold. Mam’s face was pale and bleeding, her eyes big pools of fear. When the black water took her, she cried out—
Orah . . . Orah!
Orah lurched upright. She lay in a small shelter made of branches and sticks, covered by a thin blanket. Beyond the shelter was a clearing surrounded by thick bushes and ferns. She could still hear the ocean, but its roar seemed distant, as though muffled by the densely growing trees.
A few feet away, a fire crackled. Plumes of smoke drifted on the air. A breeze brought the smell of roasting meat unlike anything Orah had known before, rich and dark, strange. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had a bite to eat in what felt like days. Bread and mutton, and sweet tea from tin cups that Mam had begged from the galley—
Mam.
Desolation washed over her. She had the urge to smash her hands on her legs and bruise the skin, to claw her neck and draw blood. Her eyes streamed and stung, and when she dashed her hands to her face, a swirling giddiness overtook her. Rolling onto her side, she retched. A trickle of seawater puddled on the dirt.
Oh, Mam. No.
She couldn’t be gone. Orah needed her. Needed her so badly that her brain and body ached. She balled her fists to strike herself, this time for certain, but something stopped her.
Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the ocean hadn’t swallowed Mam after all. Someone might have rescued her, just as the boy had rescued Orah; or perhaps the current had washed Mam ashore. Perhaps Mam was sitting, at this very minute, safe and dry in her own rough shelter, wondering what had become of her daughter.
Orah wiped her face on the blanket, drew her knees to her chest. It was easier to think of Mam that way. Sitting on the beach beneath a shady tree, gazing along the sand, pondering her lucky escape. It was easier to picture her alive, her fair hair drying in the sun, curling at the tips as she wrung out the salt water and raked the strands with her fingers. Waiting patiently for help to find her. Waiting for her girl.
Orah let out a breath. Once she found Pa, she would tell him about that beach. They’d return there and find Mam. Mam would catch sight of them and wave happily. She would run up and sweep Orah into her arms, weeping for joy. They would take her back to Pa’s house in Melbourne, and feed her cake and cups of sweet tea. They would celebrate Christmas together, the three of them reunited at last. They would be a family again, just as Orah had always dreamed.
Rubbing her eyes, she looked beyond her shelter. The sun was high. Birds whistled and chirped. The sound of laughter came again, but it was distant, as if the merrymakers had drifted away. Orah was glad. Laughter was supposed to be a happy sound, but something about that noise hollowed her out, made her afraid.
Near the campfire sat a tent-like construction of sticks over which her sodden dress and petticoats hung to dry. She realised she wore only her undergarments, still clinging damply to her body.
The boy approached with an armload of wood.
Orah watched him, her eyes growing large. He had saved her from the water, risked his life for her; he had walked beside her for miles, never letting go of her hand . . . but now she saw him as though for the first time. He was beautiful, brown-skinned with wind-shocked hair and liquid dark eyes. He wore shorts and a grey shirt. His feet were bare. When he looked at her, Orah felt her heart beat a little faster.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
She nodded.
He threw down his bundle and crouched to tend the fire. ‘Sleep a bit more. Later, we’ll eat.’
Orah opened her mouth to tell him about her plan to find Pa, and about Mam waiting back at the beach. She wanted to ask him to bring her dress and petticoats, even though they were still damp. It occurred to her, as her stomach growled again, to enquire about the delicious smell drifting on the air, but forming the words seemed too much effort. The fire blazed, warming her. Her eyelids grew heavy.
‘I heard someone laughing,’ she murmured sleepily.
‘Just birds,’ she heard the boy say, as though from far off.
She frowned. No bird could make such a sound. Perhaps the boy had misunderstood. She tried to gather the will to argue, but instead felt her eyes sink shut. She would rest, she decided. Just for a moment. Just until her strength returned. Taking one last look at the boy, satisfied he was near, she dragged the rough blanket back up over her and settled on the grass bed, quickly sinking into sleep.
She woke at intervals through the day, eating morsels of food the boy brought her, drinking the water he provided, but mostly escaping into an uneasy listlessness. Strange half-dreams washed around her. One moment she felt the giddy rise and fall of waves, and heard the cries of people drowning. But then a sense of calm took hold. There was just the crackle of the fire, and the wind in the trees. Eventually, night came. With a sigh, she let herself slip down into the soft leaf-scented darkness.
In her dream, her parents were arguing. Their angry words drifted up the stairs and along the hall to Orah’s room, finding her ears despite her retreat beneath the covers.
It’s everything I have, Mam said. I’ll not let you take it all.
Pa rumbled, I’m not asking for your last penny. Simply enough money to get me across the sea to the colonies and set me up for a few months until I make my fortune. The boys on the docks, even the sailors, they’re all talking about Australia. It’s the place to be. There’s wealth beyond imagining, gold under every clump of earth, all free for the taking.
What rot, Hanley, Mam said. Your mind’s been addled by talk. I’ll not have it, do you hear? I’ll not have you taking every cent of our savings and frittering it away on a dream.
Their voices grew quiet, and then stopped. An exhausted silence settled on the house. Orah didn’t want her father to leave. She didn’t want him to travel to another land, chasing a dream. Yet she couldn’t stop her heart from racing as she remembered his words.
Wealth beyond imagining, gold under every clump, all free for the taking.
The voices started up again. This time they didn’t belong to her parents. They were strange musical voices. Whispering urgently, close to her ear.
‘Wake up. Quickly, we have to go.’
Someone was shaking her, pulling her upright. Lurching from her dream, she flailed about, fearing the dark ocean waves had claimed her once more. Tiny bright stars still glittered in the sky, but daylight was edging up over the horizon, slowly invading the darkness. In the gloom, two young faces watched her.
‘Come on,’ the boy said, taking her hand. ‘Don’t make a sound.’
He hauled her to her feet, leading her away from the camp and into the trees. She trudged beside him, irritable after her dream, still groggy from sleep. So thirsty, her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. She looked back over her shoulder. The girl collected Orah’s clothes and blanket, kicked earth into the fire pit, and then ran after them.
‘Hurry,’ the boy said, tugging Orah’s hand.
Behind them in the dark, a horse whinnied. A man’s voice rang out, calling to someone. Orah glanced over her shoulder, and into her mind flashed her father’s ruddy face.
‘Pa!’ she yelled, trying to twist out of the boy’s grip. ‘Over here, Pa!’
A deafening report split the silence, the night seemed to explode. Strong fingers clamped over her mouth. The boy pulled her after him into the bushes, and held her steady against a tree trunk.
‘That was gunfire,’ the girl whispered. ‘Old Mister’s feelin’ nasty tonight.’
For a hushed eternity, they crouched in the bushy shadows, listening. The clop of horses’ hooves and the quiet call of male voices drifted nearer, but then the noises faded away. Finally, they disappeared.
The girl tugged Orah to her feet and they stumbled away through the dark. After a while, she gave Orah’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘No more funny business,’ she warned. ‘Those fellas aren’t who you think they are. If they catch us, we’re in strife.’
As the sun rose, Orah sat in a patch of sunlight watching him. He was crouched by the fire he had built, feeding sticks into the flames. Wisps of smoke drifted up to the sky.
She had thought him her age, but now saw he was a year or so older. A faint shadow darkened his jaw and upper lip, and he moved about with confidence. When he glanced over, she did not smile and he offered none of his own, but Orah sensed a silent conversation unfolding between them. As long as he was near, she would be safe; somehow, he knew this, and his frequent glances held reassurance.
The fire died down. Still Orah sat, watching.
When the boy got up to collect a handful of leaves, she followed him with her eyes. When he went behind a clump of bushes and out of her sight, she got up and stood where she could see him. His dark hair had dried into corkscrew curls, and Orah remembered the softness of it against her face as she’d clung to him in the water.
He returned to the fire, and Orah went back to her patch of sunlight. The boy rummaged in a canvas sack and took out a bag of flour, which he emptied into a pannikin. He added water and kneaded the mixture with his fingers. Rolling the dough into a clump, he laid it on a flat stone at the edge of the fire. He cleaned the pannikin with dirt, pulled a rag from his pocket and dusted it out, then carefully filled it with water from a flask. He positioned the pan over the glowing embers, and then glanced at Orah.
Orah burrowed into her blanket.
Her head spun. Their run through the bush had left her feet bruised and bloodied. Insect bites covered her legs, and her pale skin stung from the sun. She wished she were back in the quiet stillness of her bedroom in Glasgow, with Mam in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. There would be porridge bubbling on the hearth, and the smell of lanoline from the newly spun wool, and the spicy aromas of indigo and woad dye lingering in the warm air.
She shut her eyes. The earth pitched and rolled beneath her, one moment lifting her to the clouds, the next dragging her down into a dark trough. She smelled the salty panic of her body, heard her mother’s last cry as the ocean dragged her under—
Orah blinked and saw the girl standing before her. Up close, she looked to be Orah’s age, twelve or thirteen. She wore a shapeless dress of blue homespun, and her feet were bare and dusty. Her hair fell to her jawline, kinked with soft waves, streaked with tawny lights where the sun had touched it. Her eyes were dark and kind, and freckles danced across her brown skin. In her arms was a bundle of clothes – Orah’s clothes, dry and fragrant with sunlight.
‘Feelin’ better?’ the girl asked, placing the bundle on the blanket.
Orah reached for her clothes with a murmur of thanks, but then fumbled when she tried to pull them on.
‘I’m Nala,’ the girl said. She picked up Orah’s petticoat and shook it out, then held it against herself, as if taking its measure. ‘I was on the beach, remember?’
Orah nodded.
Nala handed Orah the petticoat and helped her slip into it. She pulled the skirt over Orah’s head, brushing her fingers over the creases, and then buttoned it into place. ‘You nearly drowned,’ she said gravely. ‘Warra saw you in the water. You were lucky.’
Orah looked across at the boy. He was kneeling beside the fire, prodding the embers with a stick. The bread he’d made was scorched on one side but golden on the other. He broke it into three pieces and set it on a flat rock to cool. A delicious doughy fragrance wafted on the air.
Nala helped Orah into her blouse, brushing out the wrinkles as she’d done with the skirt, and picked a grass stalk off the sleeve.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Orah.’
Nala beamed. ‘That’s pretty. What’s it mean?’
‘Mean?’
‘All names mean somethin’. I got mine ’cause Mum said I sounded like a grass wren, always chattering.’
Despite the gloom in Orah’s heart, she felt the beginnings of a smile. ‘I don’t know what my name means, but I’m glad you like it.’
From where he crouched near the fire, Warra called a string of quick, musical words to his sister. Nala went to him, and returned to Orah with a plate of food. Bread, an enormous lump of roasted root vegetable caramelised by the fire, and some charred leaves that were fat and succulent. Nala and Warra settled nearby on a log with their own plates. They ate in silence. The bread was crusty and good. The vegetable was similar to potato only sweeter. The leaves burst like grapes and filled Orah’s mouth with fresh tartness. When the last morsel was gone, she sat back. Her face burned from the heat of the fire, and a deep bone-weariness crept over her.
A hush settled on the day. The birds fell silent. There was just the pop and crack of the embers and a soft clatter as Nala collected their plates.
‘I thought I heard my father’s voice last night,’ Orah said suddenly. ‘That’s why I cried out.’
Warra frowned. ‘Was he on the ship?’
Orah told them, haltingly at first, but then in a breathless rush, everything that had happened to bring her here. When she got to the part about Mam she hung her head, embarrassed by her tears.
Nala nestled beside her, her skinny arm sliding around Orah’s shoulders. ‘Poor thing, you miss your mum.’
Orah hadn’t wanted sympathy. She hadn’t meant to cry. By nature, she was a foot stomper, a shouter, a puller of grim faces. She had used all manner of tantrums to get her own way with Mam in the past. Yet never tears.
Nala continued to croon and pat Orah’s arm. After a while, her murmured reassurances began to take effect. The fire dried away Orah’s tears. She let out a hiccup, and then took a breath.
‘I have to find my father,’ she said. ‘He lives in Melbourne.’
Warra studied her, his brows creased. ‘You better ask Mr Briar.’
‘Mr Briar’s our boss,’ Nala clarified. ‘He runs a guesthouse with his wife. Warra and me work there. I cook and help clean the guest rooms, and Warra does the outside chores. Bitterwood, it’s called. A good place. They’re kind people, the Briars. They’ll help you find your dad.’
Orah’s spirits lifted. Warra went to the fire and returned with a tin cup, which he placed in her hands.
‘Thank you, Warra,’ she said quietly.
His eyes held hers, and the corners of his lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but it came close enough. Orah hid her blush in the cup, blowing on the tea. Steam rose off the green liquid, but it didn’t smell like any tea Orah recognised.
‘Emu-bush tea,’ Warra told her.
She sipped, then made a face and pushed the cup back at him.
‘Drink,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better.’
There was such kindness in his voice that she did as he said, almost without thinking. The hot liquid burned all the way down, then sat warm in her belly.
‘Who was following us last night?’
‘Old Mister,’ Warra said.
‘Mister Burke.’ Nala pulled a sour face. ‘He reckons all this land belongs to him. Says he don’t want us crossing it, that we got no business here. But our family lives up there.’ She twisted around and pointed back the way they had come, to a line of distant hills. ‘Two days’ walk from Bitterwood. Mrs Briar lets us go home every couple of months. We stay a few days with Mum and our aunties, and then walk back.’
‘We walk along the beach, mostly,’ Warra added. ‘Then we cut across Old Mister’s land. He don’t like it, but it’s quicker.’
‘Lucky for you,’ Nala added quietly, squeezing Orah’s hand. ‘When that storm came the other night, we were on the headland. We took shelter in a cave. Early next morning, Warra went to find dry wood to build fire. That’s when he saw you.’
Warra took her empty cup. He looked at her, his pupils shining like black glass. ‘Rest again now. You’ll feel better after a sleep.’
Orah wanted to stay awake, talk more to Warra and Nala, but she was suddenly yawning, unable to keep her eyes open, as though her body was obeying Warra’s soft command. Warmth flooded her toes and fingers, her feet and legs. She looked over at Warra, who had returned to the fire. He saw her looking, and once again almost smiled. This time Orah smiled back. Then, reassured by the crackle of flames, and secure in the nearness of the boy who had saved her, she nestled back under her blanket.