“Completed all repairs possible at sea,” wrote Capt. Albern in the ship’s log on the tenth morning after the storm. Under jury rig, carrying what canvas she could on her damaged spars, Misty ploughed her lonely course across the vastness of an ocean that circled half the globe.
Doc worked on Pickle’s guitar, snapped at the neck, despite being carefully stowed. The owl had insisted on helping with every repair. But after falling over and knocking Chips from his work bench; becoming so entangled in a coil of rope that Tam had just untangled that it took both Tam and Thom to extricate him, and getting stuck in the hatch while endeavouring to carry wet bedding on deck to air, he had been informed by Chad that he was more likely to sink the ship than save it, and banished to his cabin. He presented his handiwork to Pickle.
‘Where’s my guitar?’ said Pickle.
‘I’ve made a few design improvements,’ explained Doc.
Pickle studied what had once looked like a guitar, plucked a string, and winced.
‘It just needs tuning a bit,’ Doc advised, ‘then you can strum to your hearts content.’
‘Spare us that!’ groaned Jobey.
Merrie rushed towards them.
‘Doc! Chips is hurt! You’ve got to come quick!’ he begged.
Doc hurried to where Chips lay. The carpenter had allowed a chisel to slip and gashed his leg. Chad knelt at his side trying to stem the flow of blood creeping across the deck. Doc peered, put on his pince-nez, looked closer, and fainted.
‘Get Waff, he’ll know what to do,’ groaned Chips.
The sailmaker arrived armed with a tin box of assorted needles and twine. He looked at the leg and sighed.
‘It’ll have to come off!’ he stated.
‘Thought so,’ agreed Chad, looking grave.
‘Quit fooling and do something,’ protested Chips.
The Cook handed the carpenter a tot of rum and stared at the wound. ‘I’ll get my meat cleaver,’ he said.
‘Will someone please do something before I bleed to death,’ pleaded Chips.
Waff threaded a needle. ‘Stop complaining – it just needs a few stitches,’ he said, and settling himself on Doc’s ample stomach, began to sew.
Chips yelled. In a flash Chad whipped off the carpenter’s bowler.
‘Give it back!’ begged Chips.
‘It’s all wet. It’ll give you pneumonia. I think I’ll throw it overboard,’ shouted Chad, capering about the deck.
‘Give me my hat!’ railed Chips, craning his neck to follow the fate of his beloved bowler. Chad restored it to his head, but not before Waff had sewn the last stitch.
‘All done!’ announced the polecat, nimbly dressing the wound. ‘I recommend no talking for three months to help it heal.’
‘I hope you made a better job of it than your sails!’ flung the beaver after the departing sailmaker.
‘What happened?’ Doc asked Chad, climbing unsteadily to his feet.
‘You fainted.’
‘Ah yes! All that blood, can’t stand the sight of it!’
‘But you’re a doctor!’
‘Indeed I am – Eugene Beaufoy, Doctor of Philosophy. A discipline, may I inform you, of universal importance.’
‘But not a lot of use for first aid,’ Chad retorted.
Chips hobbled for a few days, and Pickle spent six weeks restoring his guitar to its original shape whilst Misty limped east, her weary crew weakening with hunger every passing watch. Only Truegard’s unshakeable faith that they would make landfall sustained their will to survive. And all the while Larren plotted.
At last the West Australian current swept the ship north. The skies cleared and the sun warmed their emaciated bodies.
‘How long before we arrive in port?’ Ancell asked Truegard, as Misty ghosted through a moonless night.
‘We’re not capable of making a port. The best we can hope for is a sandy shore to put her aground.’
‘But how long?’
‘Within seven days.’
‘And then a good meal,’ said Pickle.
‘I bet we arrive just after the shops shut,’ prophesied Jobey.
Truegard laughed. ‘Much of the coast is deserted, apart from which, we first have to get ashore, which will be risky.’
‘Well there you are!’ Jobey told Pickle. ‘You can choose whether to drown or starve.’
Thinking more of his stomach than the problems of beaching a ship, Ancell bade the watch good night.
Larren stood alone at the bow. Night by night he had watched the moon wane until not a glimmer of light reflected on the ship. He stole aft through the dark.
‘The bobstay may be working loose. I think you should have a look,’ he told Truegard.
Truegard paled. If the chain securing the bowsprit failed, the foremast could collapse at any moment and with it any chance of the ship making land. For a brief moment he hesitated – climbing onto the bowsprit in the dark was dangerous and he suddenly feared for his life. But if he delayed until daylight the entire ship’s company might perish. For their sakes he had to face the task. Reluctantly he followed the grey squirrel for’ard into the dark, and climbing out onto the bowsprit leaned over to feel for the damage.
‘Everything seems firm enough. We’ll check it in the morning,’ he said.
‘Then look closer,’ whispered Larren, and kicked hard.
Stunned by the blow, arms outstretched, Truegard hit the ice-cold water and knew no more. Larren leaned on the rail, breathing hard and counting the minutes – then composing himself ran aft.
‘Truegard’s slipped and gone overboard!’ he cried. He rushed for’ard again.
‘All hands on deck!’ he screamed down the fore hatch.
Capt. Albern appeared before a single member of the crew had moved.
‘It’s Mr Truegard, Sir,’ whispered Pickle.
Ashen faced, Capt. Albern issued a string of orders to bring Misty about and retrace her course. Never had her crew worked so fast. All night they searched, back and fourth, time and time again, straining through the dark for sight or sound of the gentle red squirrel.
‘We will find him, won’t we?’ sobbed Merrie.
The Cook turned away, wiping his own tears, unable to reply. He knew, as did Chad and Waff scanning the dark waters from aloft, as did Tam and Thom, who took the responsibility at the helm, and as did Skeet, Chips, Jobey and Pickle, peering into the night, that the task was hopeless. Yet they searched on, disbelief that they would never see their beloved Truegard again overtaken by an aching sense of loss. Other than Capt. Albern’s whispered orders to turn and search and turn again, not a word was spoken. Ancell stood with Doc. He looked to speak to Skeet, saw the tears falling, and said nothing. All night, Capt. Albern stood alone at the stern, staring into the dark, his eyes shadowed with grief, too heart-broken for the tears to fall – and at the bow Larren practiced the account he would give of the accident.
Tentative fingers of light filtered from beneath the eastern horizon, reluctant to unveil the sorrowful ship and light the joyless day. Again and again the distraught captain uttered a barely audible order to turn about and search again. At mid-day, The Cook quietly left his post and brewed a kettle of tea, and Chad and Waff climbed down the ratlines to signal the end of what from the beginning had been but a forlorn hope.
Skeet’s heart sank when The Cook handed him a mug for Capt. Albern. Bereft of Truegard’s advice, he was at a loss of how to approach or what to say to the sea otter.
‘I’ll take it,’ offered Chad.
Capt. Albern stood gazing at the horizon, rooted to Misty’s deck as if destined to search for his beloved first mate for eternity. Chad silently offered the tea. The sea otter motioned it aside.
‘To what purpose are the best sacrificed,’ he whispered.
Chad said nothing, wondering at the words of his grief stricken skipper. Again he held out the mug. Capt. Albern drew a deep breath.
‘Please ask Mr Skeet to resume our course,’ he said.
Misty crept east, as if ashamed to cease to search. The crew moved mechanically, speaking little, and many a time each of them paused from their work, distracted by thoughts of the red squirrel who had meant so much to them. Larren kept to himself, relieved that Capt. Albern had neither summoned him nor held an enquiry into the fate of the first mate. It seemed the sea otter cared nothing for the circumstances of Truegard’s death, but only that the red squirrel would never again stand at his side.
For five days Ancell watched the captain attend to his duties in a trance, numb with pain, unapproachable and inconsolable. On the sixth morning he tapped at the sea otter’s cabin door.
‘It’s me, Ancell,’ he ventured.
Slumped over the chart table, Capt. Albern raised his haggard face. Ancell looked into the blue eyes clouded with sorrow.
‘You must not give in. Truegard will always be with you,’ he blurted.
‘And what of you and your quest?’ asked the captain.
‘I know I’ve wavered before, but never again. For as long as I remember Truegard I’ll not forsake him. That I promise you.’
‘Then we go on,’ Capt. Albern replied.
The following day Misty’s crew watched cumulous cloud build on the horizon before them.
‘There’s your Australia, under that cloud. We’ll make landfall tomorrow,’ Chad told Ancell.
Misty slipped through the night, and at first light her crew climbed the rigging to stare at a low, arid coastline. Calm waters lapped sandy beaches, protected by a reef a few hundred yards from the shore, where the long swell built and broke in a line of white surf. High in the crowsnest, Thom searched for a gap into the tranquil water. She spied a break and pointed.
‘It’s very small,’ she called.
Capt. Albern climbed the ratlines, looked long and hard at the narrow strip of blue that offered Misty a chance of beaching safely, and coaxed his weary ship towards the entrance.
Ancell listened to the boom of the breakers surging onto the coral that would rip the bottom out of Misty in seconds.
‘Will we make it?’ he asked Chad.
‘We’ve only got one chance, and that’s for sure,’ grunted the bosun.
A fast moving swell sweeping over the reef in a welter of foam thrust Misty forward. The sailors gritted their teeth, dreading a sudden lurch and the sound of splintering wood as the jagged coral slid close by, then cheered with relief as they drifted into the turquoise water of the lagoon to ground gently on the sand.
Ancell followed the crew ashore, paddling through clear water, a myriad of fish about his feet. He climbed the sand dunes and surveyed the parched landscape of dry grass and stunted shrub with foreboding. Nothing moved in the stifling heat, and he wondered if he had sailed half way round the world to die on such a desolate and unforgiving shore. Yet he knew this was the place he was meant to be. He was being called into that wilderness.
Protected from the blazing sun by Misty’s foresail rigged as an awning, the sailors devoured the reef fish The Cook had netted and grilled over a fire of driftwood. Between mouthfuls they examined their predicament. There remained but two days’ ration of rainwater saved during the passage, and they faced the grim prospect of dying of thirst.
‘Look!’ shouted Jobey, jumping up and pointing to the dunes. Everyone turned – and saw nothing.
‘A boy! I saw a boy!’ called Jobey, slipping and sliding as he struggled up the soft sand. He looked about wildly; then tramped back and flopped down.
‘Sorry! I thought I saw someone,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t worry about it! I’ve just seen a tankard of beautiful ale!’ replied Chad.
‘You can use your imagination now,’ said The Cook, as he ladled out the last half mug of water for the day, tipping a little of his own into Merrie’s. They sipped in silence, savouring every last drop. Chad rose, stretched, and suddenly stood stock-still.
‘Bless you Jobey, you were right!’ he whispered.
A boy was watching them from the foot of the dunes. Long legged and lithe, his sinewy body was as black as ebony. He held a wooden spear ready to throw.
‘Who is he?’ whispered Ancell to Doc. ‘Do you know anything about these people?’
‘He’s an Aborigine. The name means “from the beginning”. They’ve lived here for forty thousand years,’ said Doc. ‘You and I would soon die in these deserts, but they understand the plants and the creatures and know how to live off the land. He could be our salvation.’
Capt. Albern rose to his feet, but the boy held out a hand forbidding him to come closer.
‘Do you come in peace?’ he called.
‘We do,’ replied the captain.
‘What brings you to my land?’
‘We suffered damage in a storm and need to make repairs. But first we must find water or we will surely die.’
‘Do you have guns?’ asked the boy.
‘We carry no arms and intend you no harm. All we ask is that you lead us to water.’
The boy lowered his spear and walked closer. ‘My name is Jandamarra,’ he said. ‘I thought you might be like the men who cause such misery to my people.’
‘What men?’ asked Capt. Albern.
Misty’s crew listened in silence as Jandamarra told of a ship that had landed on their shore a year ago. The crew had started to build a camp in the sacred valley where the spirits of his ancestors lived. The village elders walked a day to explain their forefathers could not rest in peace while they trespassed there. But even as they begged them to leave, the men had raised their guns and fired. His father had been hit in the shoulder.
‘And they stay there still?’ asked the captain.
‘The ship sailed away, and we hoped they had gone,’ said Jandamarra. ‘But some men remained to build more huts, and now the ship has returned. It’s anchored a little further up the coast.’
‘You should drive them off,’ said Skeet. ‘I’ll join you – we’ll all join you. Guns or not, we’ll soon send them running.’
Jandamarra shook his head. ‘We would never fight on such holy ground.’
Ancell was thinking only of the voice that called him. He turned to Jandamarra.
‘There is someone close by here I have to find, but I don’t know who or where,’ he blurted.
‘He has dreams,’ said Chad, shaking his head sadly.
Jandamarra stared at Ancell. ‘The seer foretold someone would come,’ he murmured. ‘You must come with me. He will know if you are the one.’
Doc pricked up his ears. ‘Is he a bone man, a sorcerer who projects the power of the death bones into his victims and turns them into rock?’
‘He is not what you call a sorcerer,’ replied Jandamarra sharply. ‘We have doctors who protect us by speaking to the spirits, just as we have those who know which plants will heal the sick. It is something you would not understand.’
‘I’d like to meet him,’ persisted Doc.
‘He will speak only to the dreamer,’ said Jandamarra. ‘Come!’ he called to Ancell, and walked away. ‘I will bring you food and water tomorrow,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Now you’ve upset him,’ Pickle admonished the owl. ‘It would serve you right if the bone man changes you into a sparrow.’
‘Or even better has you stuffed,’ said Chips. ‘Seeing as you’re no use as a doctor we could make Misty a figurehead of you.’
‘More likely he’ll turn us all into stone,’ grumbled Jobey.
Long shadows lay across the dunes as Ancell followed Jandamarra into the desert.
‘Are we going to your village?’ he asked.
‘We will walk and he will find us.’
‘Doc didn’t mean to be rude. He reads lots of books and is very knowledgeable about things.’
‘Books? Knowledge?’ said Jandamarra. ‘If he lived in our land a thousand years he might begin to learn.’
They walked on in silence, Ancell struggling to keep up even though the boy’s pace appeared unhurried. The beach was long lost to view and the sky already dark to the east when Jandamarra halted. Ancell looked about him. The desert spread unchanging in every direction, silent and mysterious, waiting for the cool of the night.
‘It’s a strange and beautiful place,’ he said.
‘And before the men came was more beautiful still,’ said the Aborigine. ‘You may go to him now.’
‘Go where? There’s no one here.’
Jandamarra pointed to an old man waiting motionless a few yards away, as if he had been there all the time. His hair was as white as Jandamarra’s was black. He leaned on a staff, and looked too frail to walk, yet his eyes were as clear as Capt. Albern’s. Unsure of the correct etiquette, Ancell made a deep bow. He was relieved there was not a bone in sight.
The seer did not speak, but beckoned him to sit. Ancell felt compelled to look up into the old man’s eyes. Suddenly he began to see his dreams, but more vividly. He could see delicate tracings of silver on the pistol pointed at him. The image faded and for the first time he saw a beautiful star hanging low on the horizon. He could hear the seer speaking, but could not gather his thoughts to make sense of what he said. He felt himself falling and everything went dark. Then he saw the old man smiling down on him.
‘We have waited a long time,’ said the seer, ‘but at last you have come.’
Ancell started to rise, but the seer lightly touched his shoulder with a wrinkled hand, laying such a weight on him he was unable to move. The old man talked quietly with Jandamarra, then raising his staff to Ancell in farewell, turned away.
‘He says you may walk now,’ called Jandamarra. He looked excited.
Ancell stumbled to his feet. He felt light headed and a little giddy, but full of energy. He watched the old man walk into the wilderness.
‘Shouldn’t we see him safely to his home?’ he asked.
‘He’ll have walked twice the distance before I get you back,’ said Jandamarra.
‘He was reading my dreams, and I saw some more – but I don’t understand what they mean or what he was telling me.’
‘We can’t see the future as he can.’
‘He said he had been waiting for me.’
‘And better still, I am to help you.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘You will tomorrow.’
‘Why was I unable to stand?’
Jandamarra smiled. ‘Maybe so you could tell your Doc you were turned to rock. Now save your breath for walking.’