Lighthouse Bay (44 page)

“Are you all right?” Matthew calls over his shoulder. He goes on ahead, breaking twigs and moving branches out of the way for her.

“I’m tired.”

“It’s only a few hours more.”

“It’s so hot.”

“Let’s move a little closer to the sea.” He changes direction slightly and she follows him. He still doesn’t break the cover of the bushes, but the sea noise becomes louder and the breeze dries the sweat on her skin.

“There’s a creek just ahead,” he calls back to her. “We’ll stop there to rest.”

Gratefully, she sinks to the ground at the water’s edge and scoops the cool liquid into her mouth. It tastes of dirt and grass, but she drinks anyway.

He sits next to her and drinks his fill. Then he looks at her. “Can you keep going?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll feel safer once we get to Tewantin. The paddle-steamer might already be in dock. We can get on and head straight for the berths to rest and hide.”

“Let me rest, please,” she said. “The baby makes me tired.”

He nods his assent, and she sits among the greenery and takes deep breaths. He paces around her, clearly itching to keep going. She closes her eyes and tries to ignore it.

“Will you miss the sea, Matthew?” she asks him.

He is silent for a few moments, then says, “I suppose I will. I hadn’t thought of it.” She hears that his footsteps have stopped; he is still at last. “I’ve gone to sleep with the sound of it in my ears every night for twenty years. When we stayed in Brisbane, the world seemed strangely muted. I suppose I will have to get used to that.”

She opens her eyes. He stands with the sun behind him, silhouetted. He is turned away from her, looking down the creek towards the ocean.

“I’m sorry that I’m taking you away from here,” she says.

He turns, and smiles at her. “You are taking me somewhere I never dreamed I’d go. Into a life with a loving wife, children. A new city. A new world . . .” He trails off, emotion choking his voice.

She rises and goes to him, sliding her arms around his waist. “See now? You’ve made me keen to keep moving again. Towards that happy new world.”

He picks up the trunk and they pick their way across the creek—their shoes are already sodden, so it matters little if they fill up again—and farther south.

T
he middle of the day approaches and the sun grows warm. Isabella flinches into shade where she can, but she knows her skin is burning. She has a hat to protect her face, but her sleeves are rolled to collect the breeze and she can see that her hands and forearms are growing pink. Her stomach rumbles, and she collects berries and plants to eat. They pick at food as they walk, a little slower for a while, and she tells him about her journey down the beach from the shipwreck. It seems a lifetime ago: a trauma that happened to somebody else. But it didn’t happen to somebody else, it happened to her. And if she could survive that, then this short journey will be easy. It gives her the strength and confidence to step up her pace. They make good time down towards the Noosa River.

N
ext time they stop, it is because Matthew needs to rest. A stone has worked its way into his boot. He sits on the ground and pulls both shoes off to give them a good shake, then sits back a minute to catch his breath. She remains standing, fanning herself with the now-useless ticket from Mooloolah Heads to Sydney. They are not far from their destination now. An hour ago they began to follow the river inland, where the vegetation changed: thick and dark green, ferns to trudge over, the sharp-smelling eucalypts. The opposite bank, cleared for farming, bakes in the hot sun. Soon, no doubt, she will see the wharf. She feels light and happy, almost as if she could run the rest of the way.

Matthew stands and stretches, reaches out to pull her into a hug, then jumps, shouting with pain.

“What is it?” she asks, fear hot under her ribs.

He drops to the ground, grabbing his leg. “Snake,” he manages to gasp.

She falls to her knees next to him in time to see a dark shape slither off into the undergrowth. “What do we do? Is it poisonous?”

“I don’t know. I . . .” His face is white with fear.

“Let me see.”

He moves his hands and she can see two distinct puncture marks in his ankle, just above the bone. “Oh God, Matthew. What do we do? What do we do?”

“Find some vines or long lines of grass. We have to tie it off.”

She leaps to her feet and heads down near the riverbank on wobbling knees, yanks down two green vines from a tree and returns. He has fumbled in his pocket for his pen knife, and is scoring two cuts over the bite marks. Blood pours out. At his instruction, she ties one of the vines tightly below his knee, and one above.

“Tighter,” he says through gritted teeth.

She pulls tighter. His knee flushes a deep shade of red.

“Isabella,” he says, his hand gently but firmly on the back of her head, “you have to suction the poison out.”

“Suction the . . . ? How?”

“With your mouth. I can’t get my ankle that close to my own mouth. You have to do it. And quickly.”

Her heart hammers. She is certain she will somehow do it wrong, fail to save him. She crouches next to him and fastens her mouth over the bite. His skin tastes of salt and mud, but the overwhelming taste is metallic blood. She forms a seal with her
lips and sucks as hard as she can. Her mouth fills up with his blood; her stomach lurches.

“Spit it out,” he says urgently. “Don’t swallow it.”

She spits, then returns her mouth to the site and sucks some more, then spits again. She doesn’t know what happens next, so she keeps sucking and spitting until he taps her head lightly and says, “Stop now.”

“Can you walk?”

“It isn’t far. Damn it. I have a snakebite kit back in the lighthouse. Why didn’t I think to bring it?”

“Because you didn’t know we’d be rushing off through the woods.” She hangs her head, her cheeks flushing. “It’s my fault.”

He grasps her wrist with cold fingers. “None of this is your fault.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Are you going to die?”

He shakes his head. “I refuse to die.” He smiles, but his face is tight. “But I will likely be ill.”

“Can you still walk?”

His glance slides sideways. “No. I didn’t see what kind of snake it was. There are a number of snakes in these parts, and some are more venomous than others, but I need to stay still. You’ll need to go to Tewantin alone and find help. Carbolic acid. I need to poke it into the wound.”

The thought of leaving him here, alone and injured, overwhelms her. The next thought, of missing the steamer, or of not having him on it with her, is even worse.

“I’ll go,” she says. “Carbolic acid.”

“Ask at the Royal Mail Hotel. Ask anyone. It doesn’t need to be a doctor. Most places in these parts will have a snakebite kit.”

She climbs to her feet. “I’ll be back soon, my love,” she says, and runs.

A
t least it is shadier along the river. She runs a little, walks a little, alternating. Her heart is back in the gully with Matthew, but her mind remains clear and focused. Around the bend a little, she hears voices. Two men, dressed in their shirtsleeves, sit in a shallow fishing boat.

“Hey there! Hey there!” she shouts, waving to them. She puts on a last desperate burst of speed and runs down to the river’s edge. “Hey there!” she calls again, and this time they turn to see her. “I need your help! My friend has been bitten by a snake!”

The man at the oars doesn’t hesitate to bring the prow of the boat around and row it towards her.

“Thank you,” she says, as they draw closer. She sees that they are both Chinese, probably down from the gold fields. “Can you take me to town? I need to get a snakebite kit. Please!”

“No need,” says the first man, who is fumbling away his fishing rod. “We help. You show us the way to your friend.” He holds out a hand and she takes it firmly, and steps into the boat.

“This way,” she says, indicating down the river. “It’s not far.”

They talk to each other in their foreign, twanging music and she keeps a steady lookout for the tree she pulled the vines from. Minutes later, she spots it. “There!” she calls, and the men row her to the bank.

While they pull their boat up onto the earth, Isabella trudges as quickly as she can up the bank to Matthew. His eyes are closed, but he opens them when he hears her.

“Isabella? So quick?”

“I found help,” she gasps, then the Chinese men come into view. One has a small, cloth bag over his shoulder, the other is carrying a soup pot.

“Carbolic acid?” Matthew says to them, his eyes pleading.

The taller man shakes his head and pats his bag, and says a Chinese word.

Matthew struggles to sit. “No, no. I need carbolic acid. I need—”

The second man puts a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “This is ancient Chinese remedy. We bring it with us to Australia. You trust us now.”

Isabella looks from Matthew to the men and doubt creeps into her heart. Has she done the wrong thing? It is too late now. They are here. They are starting a fire and hanging their soup pot over it, boiling water and adding dried herbs while Matthew lies with his head in her lap and his eyes closed.

“Where you going?” the taller man says, indicating the trunk.

“We need to catch the steamer tonight. Will he be well enough to travel?”

“No.”

“We have to travel. We have to leave today.”

“Then, yes. But keep him still and quiet. He will be sick a few days.”

The other man, who is stirring the pot, chimes in. “We take you to Tewantin. No more walking. Still and quiet.”

Isabella nods.
Still and quiet
. The smell of the herbs boiling is pungent and musky. Matthew is very pale. She strokes his hair.

Finally, the medicine is poured into a cup, allowed to cool a little, then offered to Matthew to drink. He sits up, and sips it slowly.

“Drink it all,” the smaller man says. “Then we take you to the wharf.”

Matthew eyes them both dubiously, then takes a deep breath and drinks the whole thing. They fill his cup again, and he drinks that too. His face twists at the taste.

“Come on. Up,” the taller man says, hefting her trunk.

Isabella supports Matthew as he climbs to his feet. She feels his size, his weight. Then he balances himself unsteadily and follows the men down to their boat.

The river is quiet and smooth, gliding underneath them as the men row.
What next,
Isabella thinks.
What next?

P
ercy waits. He hasn’t brought his pocket watch, but he assumes that ten o’clock has come and gone. He sits on a log that has been cut into a stool and harrumphs about the heat and the wait.

The man who has the carriage prepared glances about irritably. “Not like Seaward to be late.”

Percy begins to understand that they are not coming. They suspect he is waiting for them, and they are still hiding in the nightmare woodlands. Curse them.

He turns to the man and says, “How far is Mooloolah?”

“About forty miles.”

“Any other way he can get there?”

“No, sir. Not unless he walks.”

And would they walk forty miles to catch the ship to Sydney? He suspects they would. By his reckoning, Isabella walked fifty to get here after the shipwreck.

“He’ll be along shortly, sir, I’m sure.”

The longer he waits, the farther away they will be. But if he leaves now, he can be there ahead of them either way. He can put out the word for them.

Percy stands and paces. His eyes sting with tiredness. Finally, he turns to the man. “I’ll take my own coach. Meet them there. Don’t tell Seaward. Don’t tell him anything.”

“I won’t, sir.”

Percy holds up a cautionary finger, then turns and runs back towards his waiting coach.

T
he driver stops to water his horses some distance south. Percy gets out to stretch his legs, glaring at the dirt road and the flat, yellow-green landscape. He has no food but doesn’t want to risk stopping at a hotel on the way, in case Seaward and Isabella got ahead of him on the carriage.

“Do you have any food?” he demands of the driver.

The driver shakes his head.

“Never mind,” Percy mutters. “I’ll eat when we arrive.”

“Seeing someone off at the wharf?” the driver asks. He has accompanied Percy on this journey since Brisbane, and is growing increasingly curious about the continual change of locations.

“I hope to meet somebody there. They’re on their way down by foot.”

The driver laughs. “From Lighthouse Bay? Unlikely, sir.”

“Desperate people,” Percy said. “They want to avoid me. Won’t I be a surprise?” He smiles, and the driver recoils almost imperceptibly.

“Nearest port to Lighthouse Bay is Tewantin, sir. Nobody in their right mind would walk to Mooloolah. The steamer leaves Tewantin for Brisbane tonight.”

Electricity shoots through Percy’s veins. What an idiot he has been. This country is like a string of coastal towns, connected by ports and telegraph stations, clinging to the damply hot margins of a great desert. Of course they would go to the nearest port. If only he had thought to ask, before now, where that might be.

“How far is Tewantin, then? Are we nearly there?”

“Passed the turn-off an hour ago.”

Percy kicks the wheel of the coach, screaming with frustration and more than a little pain as the blow jolts back up into his foot. “Right, right. No time to lose. Get us back on the road. Tewantin. The port. As quickly as you can.”

“Right you are, sir,” the driver says.

Percy climbs back into the coach, ants in his belly. For the first time, he starts to fear he might lose her.

T
he
Plover
isn’t yet waiting at the wharf, so Isabella and Matthew sit on a carved wooden bench in the shade of an old whitewashed sawmill, with the trunk at their feet. Matthew is unwell, but he grows no worse and Isabella allows herself to believe that he will recover. If only the steamer would come. She has purchased the last two saloon tickets from the office in town, and she turns them over in her hands, again and again, to make the time go faster. She plays a game with herself: if she looks away for two minutes, when she looks up again she will see the steamer in the distance, plying its way upriver. But the game doesn’t work because she cannot stop watching the horizon.