Something In The Water
by Mark Peters
Act Three - The First Walk Up the Hill
Up close, Mission Island did not look that mystical. It looked weathered. Lived in.
The jetty stuck out about twenty metres into the channel, and the sun-bleached boards, splintered in places, creaked and rattled beneath their feet as they walked forward. Tony noticed that rust had crept along the bolts.
When they reached the shoreline, Tony noticed the sand was tracked with bare footprints and dog prints and something that might have been bicycle tyres.
A boy of about ten stood halfway along the jetty, staring at Tony without blinking. He wore maroon football shorts and nothing else. His hair was a tight dark halo around his head, and his chin was lifted with a mixture of curiosity and challenge.
'Who's he?' the boy asked Jack, not bothering to lower his voice.
'Visitor,' Jack replied evenly.
The boy's eyes slid back to Tony.
'You famous?'
Tony hesitated. 'Depends who you ask.'
The boy considered that, then nodded once, as though accepting a reasonable answer.
'You bring anything?' he asked Jack.
Jack snorted softly. 'Not for you.'
The boy grinned, entirely unoffended.
Two smaller children hovered near the start of the jetty, one clutching a plastic bucket, the other dragging a stick through the sand in looping patterns. A skinny dog circled Tony cautiously, sniffed his ankle, then decided he wasn't worth the effort.
Tony crouched slightly to make himself seem less . . . large, or threatening. For the kids, and the dog.
'Morning,' he said gently.
The younger child hid immediately behind the bucket-holder's shoulder.
Jack was already moving up the path.
'C'mon,' he called lightly. 'They'll warm up eventually.'
Tony straightened and followed.
The path that led from the jetty was little more than packed sand and flattened grass. It curved upward towards the centre of the island, where the land rose just enough to catch the breeze.
As they climbed, Tony became aware of the sounds.
Not traffic. Not construction. Not the distant thud of bass from passing cars. Instead, there were different sounds; washing flapping against a line, a hammer striking metal somewhere out of sight, low voices carrying across open spaces, the rhythmic scrape of a broom on concrete.
The huts were scattered rather than aligned – some timber, some patched with corrugated iron, some painted in colours that had long since surrendered to salt and sun. None of it looked staged. It just looked . . . real.
'Do you get many visitors?' Tony asked quietly.
'Depends what you mean by visitors,' Jack replied.
Tony let that pass.
A woman in her thirties emerged from one of the houses carrying a laundry basket. She paused when she saw Tony.
Jack nodded once in greeting. 'Morning, Sal.'
She returned the nod, eyes flicking briefly over Tony, assessing.
'Morning.'
There was no sound of hostility, but no real warmth either. Just curiosity; or was that awareness.
As they continued uphill, the children began to follow again – never crowding, just orbiting at a distance. Tony was conscious of every step. Conscious of not wanting to stare. Conscious of not wanting to look away either.
'You can look,' Jack said mildly. 'They're looking at you.'
Tony glanced sideways. 'I wasn't . . .'
'Yeah, you were, but that's okay.'
Tony huffed a quiet laugh. 'I don't want to appear to be rude.'
'You're only rude if you pretend you don't see us.'
That landed solidly.
They reached the crest of the rise – the centre of the island – and from there the view opened up; the mainland stretched in a neat crescent before them, the marina small and orderly in the distance, the town beyond it tidy and deliberate.
From over there, Mission Island looked like a footnote, an empty inconvenience for the tourist trade. From the island, the town looked like something from a not-too-distant past. It didn't look like anything modern, just a settlement. At least it hadn't been excessively marked by progress.
Tony turned slowly, taking in the sweep of water between the two.
'You can see everything from up here,' he murmured.
'Yeah,' Jack said. 'That's kind of the point.'
Tony looked at him. Jack didn't elaborate.
At the far end of the clearing stood a slightly larger hut with a narrow verandah. Its timber posts leaned just enough to suggest age rather than neglect. Wind chimes made from shells and old cutlery tinkled softly.
Three figures stood outside, on the verandah. Watching. Two men, both older, both upright despite their years. And a woman in a cotton dress, covered in flowers, with silver hair pulled back from her face. Her skin was dark and fine-lined, her feet bare against the weathered timber floor.
She did not move as they approached. Jack slowed his pace instinctively.
'That's her,' he said quietly.
Tony felt an unexpected flicker of nerves. Not stage nerves. Not interview nerves. Something older.
They stopped a few paces away and Jack inclined his head slightly.
'Morning, Aunty.'
Her eyes never left Tony.
'Morning, Jack,' she replied.
Her voice was not frail. It was steady, textured by time but not weakened by it.
'This him?' she asked.
'Yeah.'
Tony stepped forward just enough to be respectful without invading space.
'Good morning,' he said.
She looked him up and down, not rudely, but thoroughly. Tony had the distinct sensation of being weighed up. Not his clothes. Not his profession. Him. Like this woman was looking inside him already.
'You the writer bloke, then?' she said at last.
'Yes, ma'am.'
A faint twitch touched the corner of her mouth.
'Don't ma'am me,' she said. 'Makes me sound dead, or worse . . . American . . . and I'm not either of those things!'
One of the elders chuckled softly.
Tony smiled. 'Sorry.'
She stepped down from the verandah then, closing the distance by a single measured pace. Up close, her eyes were sharper than he had expected. Not suspicious. Just clear.
'You know where you are?' she asked.
Tony hesitated. 'Mission Island.'
Her head tilted slightly. 'That's what the town calls it.'
He felt the correction without heat.
'I'm here because Jack said you keep stories,' he said carefully.
'Stories ain't things you keep in a cupboard, writer-man,' she replied. 'They're things you live with.'
Tony nodded. A small silence followed. The breeze shifted again, lifting the edge of her dress.
She glanced at Jack briefly, then back to Tony.
'He bunji-bunji?' she asked.
Tony blinked. Jack didn't.
'Yes, Aunty.'
Tony felt the word land in the open air between them. Aunty Pearl studied him a moment longer. Then she nodded once.
'Good,' she said.
Tony wasn't sure why that mattered. But it did.
She turned slightly towards the verandah.
'Well,' she said, 'you didn't come all this way to stand around looking at me.'
One of the elders shifted, stepping aside.
'Come and sit,' she said. 'Let's see what kind of listening you've got in you.'
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