Scanning their new surrounds, they began looking for a way to breach the thick rainforest barrier, barring them from entering the jungle behind the rim of the seashore and finding the elusive New Guinean natives. The thickly entwined palms, vines, trees and shrubs made it impossible to penetrate the vegetation leading back into the jungle without a machete. Almost at the same time, they located a partially hidden entrance to a trail, well worn and disappearing beyond into the darkest part of the dense vegetation. Thick, humid air grasped at their throats and the exertion of trudging up the beach caused torrents of sweat to run down their backs. Cautiously, they entered the trail and immediately, an intense foreboding clawed at their stomachs.
Something was dreadfully wrong!
Warrammarra followed the preacher, covering his back and searching the thick jungle around them for any signs of human habitation. Sweat covered their limbs, while fear stalked their minds. Each step took them further from the beach and further into the unknown. The trail wound its way through thickening jungle while the dense vegetation closed in overhead, as if they were walking through a green tunnel and making Warrammarra feel claustrophobic. In the distance, birdcalls of an exotic nature, unrecognisable to their ears, played out like some demented choir. The trail turned up towards the mountains and began to climb steadily. With each step the tension and sweat increased.
A sudden movement in the darkening undergrowth made Warrammarra jump, until a pheasant, flapping and squawking with indignation at the two intruders, announced their arrival to the rest of the jungle. The humidity and tension was making the preacher feel faint, torturing his lungs and the sweat poured out from his body in great purging rivers. Swarms of mosquitoes vexed them at every step, biting the exposed parts of their skin with such tenacity and stealth that a well aimed blow would despatch a dozen or more of the creatures in one slap.
WOOSH....WHOMP!
A small feathered arrow buried itself deep into the preacher’s heart.
He stumbled backwards against his friend, gasping in pain, blood and life escaping from the wound deep in his chest. With his dying breaths and holding the shaft of the arrow in pain, he screamed, “GO! RUN, WARRAMMARRA! Save yourself... I am as good as dead, and remember the cause of the Gospel, my friend.”
WOOSH...THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!
Another volley of arrows narrowly missed Warrammarra and embedded into close by trees. Bark splintered, sending white sap showering like spittle through the air. The preacher went limp, his life draining and escaping around the shaft of the deadly arrow.
Warrammarra felt like his mind was shutting down and moving in slow motion, refusing to believe what had just happened. The contents of his stomach lurched into his throat and he fought to regain control, realising he was in the sights of the hunters. He took off at high gait, shock encompassing his body and adrenaline kept him in full flight. His heart hammered and his legs pounded wildly, carrying his body dipping and weaving, dodging any attempt to give the hunters an easy target. Along the dense trail, he desperately searched for a way out of the jungle trap and back to the shoreline. His lungs were screaming in the densely thick humid air, but he didn’t dare stop or chance a glance back.
He crashed out onto the beach and stumbled into the hot sand, rolling as he landed, his lungs screaming for air. The waves seemed to beckon him and urged him to keep going. His head scanned around, disorientated, searching for an escape route, then his eyes settled on the sailboat just down the beach. Stumbling from his position in the sand and breathing heavily, his legs on autopilot carried him toward the sailboat. He grabbed the sides of the little craft and with a great exertion, swung it around and out into the surf.
The waves pounded the boat as he battled to launch it, but sheer determination and fear, fuelled with adrenaline, overcame the barriers to his survival and he hoisted his body up and landed heavily inside the small craft. Warrammarra pulled the sail tether tight and the little boat moved swiftly out into the emerald green sea, the sail taut and in full bloom, assisted by an offshore wind. Warrammarra’s head was giddy and light, so he moved to steady himself against the wooden seat and at the same time pulled hard on the sail tether, opposing the force of the wind and increasing the speed and distance from the dreadful shores of his worst nightmare.
A volley of arrows dropped harmlessly into the sea, a long way short of the little boat. Warrammarra watched in disbelief as a group of New Guinean warriors covered in tribal regalia gathered on the beach, peering out after him. The light coloured paint against their dark skin and bones through their noses gave them the appearance of great evil. Colourful feathers, removed from large birds, decorated their bows and spears and made a fearsome headdress. Warrammarra’s heart pounded violently in his chest, his temples ached and he felt nauseous. His mind grasped for clarity, feeling the light of understanding flickering out. The scene around him swam. The sail tether slipped from his hand, followed by a violent crash, as his world descended into blackness.
*~*~*~*
CHAPTER 2 - PRESENT DAY
The faded blue paintwork of the converted trawler, Annemarie, made him wince, but he couldn’t afford to paint her again. She was a sixty foot, forty year old fishing boat and in her heyday, she was the fastest and tidiest vessel in the northern fleet. Since the government had cracked down on the fishing industry and developed great allotments of marine park in the lucrative fishing grounds of the greater north eastern coast and Torres Strait, Damon and most of the other vessel owners had fallen on hard times. His misfortunes continued until he had to sell his fishing licence, just to keep his beloved Annemarie.
He peppered his disdain for his demise with large, toxic amounts of alcohol that should have killed any other man and in the morning, he was clear headed again and at the helm. Damon was known amongst his peers as a tough, no nonsense skipper, who prided himself on his skill and ability to conquer and tame the sea in any of her moods. His crew did what he said without question, otherwise it was a long way to swim, as some of the past rabble had found out. He was a tall, dark haired man, built on solid muscle, with a face worn hard by a continuing battle with the sea, though he looked a lot older than his thirty eight years. He had a knack for sniffing out trouble and on occasion, had to use his fists to clear his nostrils.
Below decks, Annemarie had a good sized galley; sizeable cabins along the port and starboard sides fitted out with bunk beds; a common toilet and bathroom; and plenty of room undercover. All in all, Annemarie could comfortably accommodate ten people. Her hull was a deep-vee, all steel and she cut through the water like a well sharpened knife, perfectly at home in the roughest of seas.
Damon’s financial misfortunes reduced him to running Annemarie on joyrides into the Torres Strait for rich tourists. It pricked his pride and irked him to have rich people climbing all over his boat and complaining about everything. For now, they held all the cards, paying the bills and so he held his tongue, playing the game of host and mister nice guy, secretly seething, and only just restraining himself from throwing them overboard.
Today was a strange charter. A young woman had hired his boat and his crew to take her to Bathurst Bay, on some secret mission. Damon’s curiosity was piqued even further when the mysterious woman paid cash up front.
There was a tired mythology amongst the fisherman of the Torres Strait, to anchor in Bathurst Bay was considered bad luck. The shaky fable stemmed back to some cyclone that had crept up on the pearling fleet stationed in Bathurst Bay, a hundred and fifty years ago and wiped out most of the vessels anchored there. Legend has it at night, when the southeast gales blow, you can hear the souls of the lost crying out for help in the pitch darkness.
Damon shook the thought from his mind and wiped his mouth, immediately accepting the young woman’s cash. He hadn’t seen so much money in fresh bills for a long time. As a point, the destination would purposely remain concealed from the crew for the moment, stopping any superstitious behaviour that inevitably would s
pread, causing them to abandon the charter and leave him shorthanded. After all, if he didn’t accept the cream work, someone else would step straight in and take the easy money. The pretty redhead was just a side benefit.
The woman appeared at the wharf covered head to toe with a Khaki long-sleeved shirt, long pants, hat and sunglasses. Damon regularly found himself in hot water trying to guess women’s ages and at his lack of success, he usually didn’t try. Today, this unusual young woman intrigued his fascination and Damon could feel the fire of a challenge and took a stab. He guessed she was twenty five.
“Mister...?” the young woman’s voice interrupted his imagination.
“Damon,” he replied, almost too enthusiastically.
“Damon... let me put something up front straight away, so there is no misunderstandings. I am chartering your boat for a specific purpose. I will not tolerate any interference in my business and I expect you to keep to your business. Are we agreed?”
Damon’s hackles went up at the stern, unexpected caution, but in a moment of decision, he swallowed them back down. After all, she had paid good money for the charter and there was plenty of time to make a move on this girl.
“Whatever you say, Miss...?”
“Elishia... Elishia will do fine.”
Damon helped her onboard, then had one of the crew show her to her cabin while the others stowed her gear.
It was nearing mid morning when Damon eased Annemarie from her berth on Thursday Island. The tide was nearing its highest point before turning, so there was plenty of water in the south-eastern channel, but if he was delayed a couple of hours, the tide would be too low and he would have to take the western channel, adding nearly a hundred nautical miles to his journey. He had taken on fuel, food and water the day before, in anticipation of the voyage. The crystal clear, emerald green waters of the Torres Strait still took his breath away, even after twenty years. He was doing what he loved and that was all that mattered.
Horn Island was to starboard. He had been involved in a lot of fights there, usually at the local bar, sitting minding his own business when a drunk local would recognise him and want to settle a score. It was a rough place where the dregs of the earth seemed to inevitably find a home and he didn’t care for the uncivilized roughnecks that hung around, looking for trouble. Thursday Island, however, just twenty minutes across the harbour by boat from Horn, was civilized and comfortable, with a family feel to it; a contrast that he didn’t understand.
The other islands surrounding Thursday Island were primitive and sparsely inhabited, usually by people looking to escape something or someone. The harbour was a naturally occurring safe haven, protected by Hammond Island to the north; Palilug Island to the northwest; Gialug to the southwest; Muralug to the south; and Horn to the southwest. Several tidal channels allowed shipping to enter and leave the anchorage safely at high water.
Annemarie's engine, just above idle, pushed the sixty foot vessel slowly through the calm waters of the harbour. Damon steered her into the southeast channel and pushed her throttle forward to wide open. Annemarie’s engine growled, forcing her stern to dig in and the bow lifted, like a racehorse given its head and unlocked from its stall.
Elishia was standing against the railing at the bow, just staring into the expanse of emerald water. Her long, rich auburn hair danced crazily behind her in the wind. She was directly in front of Damon’s view as he skilfully orchestrated the vessel’s controls. He found himself staring at her form and there was no doubt, she was a stunner.
Annemarie burst out of the southeast channel and was now in open water, the swell gently rocking the vessel like a mother lulling a child to sleep. Damon pushed the buttons on the chart plotter: 14 degrees 25 minutes south, 144 degrees 23 minutes east, set, enter. The apparatus beeped as it accepted the instruction. Set autopilot, enter. Another beep. Annemarie was acting on her own now, which left Damon to attend to other things. The voyage would take 12 hours.
Damon opened the wheelhouse door that led to the forward deck where Elishia was standing. She didn’t hear his approach over the noise of the engine and he startled her when he spoke, jolting her from her thoughts. She had been a long way away and judging by her facial reaction, he was intruding on some sacred moment.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? The sea, I mean.”
She nodded, annoyed at his imposition.
“I don’t mean to intrude, but you...”
“Damon!” she interrupted, in a low voice that he had to struggle to hear. ”I thought we had this discussion before we left T.I.”
His dark eyes narrowed as he met hers. Fury burned and he turned and stalked away.
*~*~*~*
CHAPTER 3 – BRISBANE 1872
As he approached the tiny cottage, he could hear the sounds of his mother wailing. It must be true! His stride grew longer until his gait decayed into a determined run.
The people at the school house had told him to go home and comfort his mother. “Your father has fallen overboard from the merchant ship he was working on, missing, presumed drowned,” they said.
Stunned at the shocking words, he wanted his mother to tell him it was all a mistake and that his father would come through the door as he always did at the end of each voyage. The young boy burst through the cottage door, his heart pounding and chest heaving, gasping for breath. He turned to face the distraught woman, his eyes alight with a thousand questions. His mother began wailing louder at the sight of her son. She motioned for him to come to her and pulled him to her chest, spilling rivers of tears over the young teenager. Instead of being comforted, he was expected to be the comforter at the hands of the distraught female adult, a situation that would never again change. Kenneth Davis was only fourteen years old, the youngest of two boys and older brother to six sisters.
Because of their frequent moves in a constant search for a pot of gold, he had completed only two years of schooling. Now the two boys would have to leave any thought of education to support the family. What would they do? His thoughts kept tumbling around and tripping over each other, grief, worry and a sense of hopeless loss. How he needed the strength of his father’s arms, his kind words and his soothing presence.
The tiny cottage... their home, was situated in close proximity to the seashore. Ken could hear the tireless crashing of the waves on the beach as he tossed and turned in his bunk bed, trying not to wake the eight other people restlessly sleeping close by. He worried, if he couldn’t find work, or enough work, they soon would be homeless and destitute.
Like his father, Ken loved the sea. He always had. Their mutual enjoyment cemented a connection between father and son and they would often spend hours walking along the beach together, discussing its moods, while his dad mesmerised Ken with his endless exciting tales aboard ship on the high seas. It was cathartic listening to his dad’s stories and his eyes shone in excitement. But he also encouraged the boy to develop a healthy respect for the unpredictable power of the deep, open ocean. It could turn on any unsuspecting sailor and pounce at any careless move, costing him his life.
Ken Davis stood on the seashore in the early morning light, skipping stones out over the small cresting waves and watching the splashes as the stone cut its way through the water, bouncing several times before it disappeared in a final, triumphant splash. His father’s prophetic words echoed into his thoughts again, as he skipped another stone. The sea could turn on any unsuspecting sailor and pounce at any careless move, costing him his life. The parable had come true, sacrificing Ken and his family to a bitter life without the patriarch's presence.
With a heavy heart, young Ken Davis was determined to reconnect with his father through their mutual love of the sea. He was immediately drawn to the docks and to the same merchant ship that his father had been lost from. His mother, still grieving for her husband, absolutely forbade the boy to accept the position. The thought of being away from the sea stabbed at his heart and when he was old enough, he would pursue his dream, but for now,
he would obey his mother. She needed him home each night.
He had lost his father. He was determined he would not lose the sea.
*~*~*~*
Mason’s foundry was across town, a good half hour's walk from the cottage. Ken walked in through the gates and asked for the owner, hoping for a start.
Old man Mason laughed at Ken’s scrawny build and pointed to a large, steel headed forge hammer, saying, “If you can swing that hammer, boy, I’ll give you a start.”
Ken took the hammer into his hands and with every ounce of energy, strength and determination, hoisted it above his head and unsteadily pounded it down on the ground, narrowly missing old man Mason’s feet, his face red with the effort but he had done what was required.
It had been a month now since Ken Davis had impressed Mason with his dogged determination to meet the requirements for employment. Seeing the possibilities in such a young, willing and indomitable mind, Mason watched the boy carefully.
The noise in Mason’s foundry was deafening, while the crude tempering furnace kept the large closed in area on the boil. The tedious shifts were long, fourteen hour days. His job was to remove large pieces of glowing, red hot steel from the tempering furnace and beat them into a rough shape. He didn’t know and didn’t care what the shape was for; he just wanted to earn enough to keep his family from being evicted from their home. Ken’s position at the foundry paid enough to keep the landlord happy and his brother earned enough to put a small meal on the table.
In short, they were dirt poor.
After months of tirelessly attending his work, the boy’s small body began to develop and he grew stronger and stronger. His back and muscles became more wiry each day from the constant effort. He threw open the heavy furnace door, reached inside with a gloved hand and a pair of long handled furnace pliers, shielding his face from the heat with his other hand. He hooked onto the glowing metal shape with the pliers and dragged it out onto a forming anvil and beat it like he was killing a poisonous snake. He would then hoist it into the cyanide pit for case hardening, hissing violently as the hot metal met the cold liquid concoction. Over and over, he would repeat the same operation. The job that took an hour when he first started, would take just fifteen minutes now and he was getting faster. He was starting to outperform some of the men and old man Mason had noticed.