Beth

The verandah is lit gold by the late afternoon sun, making good the old boards. I have another go at blowing a smoke ring, a skill I’ve never mastered. The result looks more like airborne seeds as it breaks up and floats away. I found an ancient pouch of tobacco at the back of a kitchen drawer and a few dog-eared rollie papers, the resulting specimen fit for purpose if a little tragic. With the couch now gone, I’ve taken up the remaining armchair.

A rusty Holden ute pulls up at the end of the driveway and a man gets out. He stands close to the Wimmera Wattle, half-concealed among its branches, so it’s hard to see who it is. I shelter my eyes against the low sun. The man steps away from the wattle – he’s seen me too – and for a moment he looks like he’s about to wave to me, then he moves toward his car. He turns this way before he climbs in and I get a better look at him – a little younger than me, on the short side, curly dark hair, the sun catching on something shiny. An earring.

Maybe it’s that Henry guy Nate spoke about, though I thought he said he had blond hair, and this guy doesn’t seem to have any tattoos. The ute drives off, its paintwork the same colour as the dust that engulfs it.

‘Neme,’ I say, as she comes through the front door, the name still so new to me that it sounds like I’m talking to someone else.

She leans against the armchair, her breath infused with the peppermint tea she’s just drunk. Lucky she wasn’t here a moment ago. No doubt whoever that was came to get a glimpse. I wave away the smoke that seems drawn to her. She’s wearing a faded jacket of mine and the runners Nate bought for her, ridiculously white for a girl on a farm. A cabbage butterfly flits towards us, its wings so pale it could’ve been conjured by the smoke. She has the sketchbook with her, tucked under her arm. There have been no more words written inside flowers, but for now this feels like an exquisite gift. Her true name.

‘You want some ice cream? I think there’s still some choc mint left.’

Neme shakes her head and opens the sketchbook.

On a new page is a drawing of what looks like a river, a brown band meandering across country. No river around here is blue. She puts her hand on her chest, then points towards the driveway, its unevenness picked out by the low angle of the sun. At first I think she’s equating a road with a river, making some kind of allusion, or even the suggestion of a story. Once there was a girl. And then I understand.

‘You want to go to the river?’

She nods, her eyes more hazel than green in the evening light. I’m tired from the emotions of the day, and would prefer to sit here watching the sky do its thing while savouring my hard-earned cigarette. But she’s never asked to leave the boundaries of this place.

‘I’ll get my keys,’ I say, dropping the butt into my empty mug.

She grabs my arm and shakes her head. Taps her chest.

‘What? Oh, you want to go alone?’

Neme pushes away from the armchair and stands to her full height. Even with runners on she can barely reach my shoulder and, though she’s strong and her capacity to cross difficult terrain is not in question, she’s still a child. A girl child, which I can’t help thinking adds a layer of risk. And that man with the beige ute could still be lingering in the area. Everything tells me to say no. And there’s not much use ringing Nate for advice. The river, alone – no prizes for guessing what he’d say to that.

Neme frowns at me, shifts her weight from one foot to the other. What trust must it have taken to share her name with me? To let me offer her shelter in the first place? I wouldn’t have to tell Nate.

She makes a half-circle in the air.

‘You’ll go and then come straight back?’

Neme – Neme of the Knowing Eyes – what else can I do?

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘but make sure no one sees you. And please don’t be long.’

She brushes my cheek with her finger, so gently it could be the transit of the wind. Then she leaves, trotting down the driveway, white runners stirring up dust.

I watch her disappear into the descending light and try not to cry.