Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 20 February 1943
Japanese Plane Over Sydney
A Japanese plane over Sydney yesterday caused the city to be blacked out again and anti-aircraft batteries to be on full alert …
PULAU AYU PRISON CAMP, 2 MARCH 1943
NANCY
She dreamt, though she was still awake.
Bogongs, with velvet wings that still left you itchy when they brushed against your cheek. Hills by starlight, red-tinged, blood country, star shadows, purple, green, rocks that sat like humped sheep and sheep that sat like rocks. Black-frost night. No white rims on the gum leaves but in the morning they would be frozen. Odd but if she leant against the tree, it would be warm: bee warm, honey warm, scent of sweetness. The little black bees wouldn’t sting you, most like, Gran said, but take care. The natives bred with the new bees, bees that did sting. You couldn’t be sure now if a hive of wild bees were stingers or not.
Like me, she thought. Black bee, long yellow bees, Gran and Granddad marrying, Dad marrying Mum and here I am, not quite a native bee. One that didn’t used to sting but now …
Ancestors like strings in the night, stretching up and far away. Two strings for parents, four for grandparents, then eight, sixteen, all strings leading to me and Ben. Another string to Gavin, leading to the future, a small strong string from Ben.
Where was Ben?
She called, but made no noise. Ben? Ben?
Somewhere outside the dream the women spoke. ‘She’s been like this for over an hour.’ Moira’s voice. But Moira should not be here, not in the land of rocky, bony hills. My bones. My ancestors’ bones lie here. Not hers. Suddenly, deeply, she knew that Moira would never be buried in these hills.
‘Don’t think it’s malaria. Some other fever. Try the quinine.’
‘I didn’t know we had any.’
‘Miss Beatty bought some.’
‘Doesn’t she need it?’
‘She died an hour ago,’ said the voice. ‘Wherever she is now, she doesn’t need quinine. There’s some native stuff too. Smells like wormwood, but it’s worth a go.’
‘Go fetch wood,’ said Mum, wood shaped like snakes and snakes like wood.
She’d run screaming from a big brown snake, but Ben laughed. ‘It’s a stick. Not a snake at all.’
She’d stared, not admitting she’d been wrong. ‘It’s a snick then.’
‘Ah,’ said Ben. ‘You have to be careful of those snicks. Dangerous creatures. Snicks pretend they are a snake, then when they’ve got you scared, pretend they are a stick.’
‘Where is Ben?’ This time it came out aloud.
Someone took her hand. Moira, who was here but not here. Moira crying.
‘Yes,’ whispered the not-Moira. ‘Where is Ben? Ben? Where are you, Ben?’