CHAPTER 1

Western Australia, 1898

 

They walked into the sun.

Her small legs moved without thought; fingers rubbed eyes full of sleep. No need to dress; the clothes she wore day and night. Hunger as normal as breathing.

The fiery ball inched up the horizon leaving waves of heat in its wake, rippling across the landscape as a black shallow lake. Nocturnal beings scurried and slithered and hid with the light, sought shade for slumber. The animals of day woke fresh and loud from nests and mounds and burrows. Flocks of birds settled heavily on the few branches sturdy enough to bear their weight. Brightly colored feathers and noisy chatter quickly brought life to an otherwise dead plain.

The earth was cooked, the red ground baked and brittle. Morning air rested still and hot. The black flies flocked, landed on faces, inched into clothing—a normal nuisance. Only the most intrusive, the ones seeking a nostril or an eardrum, were worth the swat.

Her shoes bulged with stuffed rags, each step kicking a miniature sandstorm. Rust-colored earth stained her stockings to the knees. Over and over she tripped upon the floppy shoes, the soft impact of heel to dirt echoing singularly through the swelter.

She clutched his hand, though his fingers remained limp within her palm. She looked up. He was so tall that his hair seemed to scrape the sky. The sun moved higher and his head appeared as one blinding orb. As he stretched out his neck muscles, his features sharpened— thin cheeks, dark skin tanned as leather, gray and black stubbly chin. He stared at his feet, his eyes vacant, glazed, almost wild, like a sick dingo. Her stomach sank. In the next moment, the sun eclipsed his face and she turned away from the painful glare.

Step. Step. Step. The hole in her shoe chased the shadow of her hat brim, a shadow shortening under the ascending sun. They walked for minutes or hours or days. Hunger and thirst gnawed. Burning heat. Each breath a poker to the lungs. Her feet broiled inside the ragged shoes; her hat melted on her head. Dripping sweat blurred vision.

A lone gum tree rose in the emptiness, its sparse leaves faded gray with a powdered finish. He pulled her weakly to the trunk and made her sit, slipped his fingers from her hand. His arms quivered and his eyes watered as he took the dented billy can from his belt and laid it next to her feet. He turned and began walking. She watched him rub his hands through his thinning hair and rest them on the back of his neck. She watched as his shoulders shook and his legs wobbled, as if he might fall to his knees. She watched as his figure got smaller and smaller in the distance until he was a tiny black dot on the horizon. In another moment, the dot evaporated into the wavy air.

Sinking. Sinking. Sinking. Her stomach lurched, her mouth too dry to vomit. She picked up the can. The water sloshed inside with dull, constrained waves. She tried to turn the top just as she had seen him do, but her tiny fingers slipped from sweat. She tried again and again, her throat tightening. Finally, she cradled it upon her stomach. He would open it. She leaned her head against the smooth bark. He would open it. Patience and sun mingled with throbs of thirst and lulled her to sleep.

Flies flitted across her eyes, tickled her lashes and buzzed in satisfaction upon moist skin. She woke startled, smacking her face and clothes. She looked for him. Panic swelled her throat and she tried to swallow, the reflex painful and chafing. Pushing against the panic, she focused on her feet, clicked them several times and watched the dust fall in puffy clouds. Tree limbs, emaciated lines of shade, pointed inertly—no wind, no breeze, would offer relief.

The sky changed from blue to pink, clouds trimmed lilac. The hues darkened. She wanted it to stop. Dread crept across her flesh and tingled sharply. Her eyes strained to see his emerging figure across the plain. Her pupils searched for a spot moving, one that would grow and lengthen. Blood throbbed as drums. Water pooled in her eyes, dropped down her cheeks and landed salty on her lips, precious water draining. Blackness inched and played tricks, distorting mulga scrub into dogs, tree limbs into extended arms. Shadows magnified, took over the landscape and drowned out the light.

She grabbed her knees and buried her head between them, held her ears against the pulse of terror. “Papa?” she whispered, the fear in her voice breaking any ties of control. She scrambled to her feet, searched the darkness. “Papa? Papa!” She choked in raspy spats, morphed the word into a howl. “Papa!”

The moon climbed.

She bent into her screams and tears, shook with the chilled air. The animals began their night shift, replacing the singers with the chirpers. Her cries echoed over the plain, carried away and diffused by the sounds of insects—a child’s pleading call lost amid the vacuum of night.