Something In The Water
by Mark Peters
Act Seven - The Boat Ride Back
By the time Tony and Jack reached the jetty, the afternoon had shifted. The sun was lower now, turning the water burnished gold.
Neither of them spoke as Jack untied the rope.
The children had followed them halfway down the path, then peeled away one by one, called back by older voices or distracted by some new game.
Tony stepped carefully onto the aluminium boat, steadied himself, and sat on the narrow bench seat. The metal was warm from the sun. He rested his hands loosely on his thighs and looked back up towards the huts.
Aunty Pearl was still standing near her doorway.
She didn't wave. She didn't need to.
Jack pushed off, swung the motor down, and gave the cord a firm pull. The outboard coughed, then caught, the sudden mechanical sound feeling almost jarring after the stillness above.
They eased away from the jetty. The only sounds were the motor's steady thrum and the gentle slap of water against the hull.
Tony watched Mission Island recede.
'It's strange,' he said at last, raising his voice just enough to carry over the engine. 'I came here when I was sixteen years old . . .'
Jack kept his eyes forward. 'Yeah?'
'And I knew about this place, but I've never really seen it.'
Jack allowed himself a small sideways glance. 'Happens a lot.'
Tony gave a soft huff of breath – not quite a laugh. 'I always knew the settlement was there. Knew the history . . . at least in broad strokes. The Thompson brothers. The round-ups. The mission. It was always just . . . background noise.'
'Background to who?' Jack asked mildly.
Tony let that sit.
They were cutting across open water now, the island slipping behind them, the mainland stretching ahead – neat houses, the marina, the clean lines of the town.
'I suppose to people like me,' Tony admitted, 'and most of the folks in this place. We might have been taught the basics . . . dates, names, events. But not what it felt like. And certainly not the effect on the Woombara.'
Jack nodded once, as though that confirmed something he had long known.
'My pop used to say the town's built on two stories,' he said. 'The one in the brochures . . . the one under the ground.'
Tony looked at him.
'That's a good line.'
Jack shrugged. 'Didn't mean it to be.'
'You ever write any of this down?' Tony asked.
'Nah.'
'Why not?'
Jack adjusted the throttle slightly as a small swell rocked the boat. 'Because not all of it's mine to write.'
Tony absorbed that.
He thought of the question he had asked Aunty Pearl – about carrying versus telling.
'Fair enough,' he said quietly.
They travelled in silence again, but it was no longer awkward. It felt shared.
After a minute, Jack spoke.
'You weren't offended.'
'By what?'
'Aunty asking if you were bunji-bunji.'
Tony smiled faintly. 'I've been asked worse.'
Jack grinned. 'Some fellas get funny about it.'
Some fellas have spent their whole lives being told it's something to be funny about.'
Jack considered that, then nodded.
'You and your partner,' he said after a moment. 'Aaron, yeah?'
Tony's head turned slightly. 'Yeah.'
'You've been together a while?'
'Eight years, officially, since I came back to town after ten years away. But we were boyfriends before that. Before I went away for ten years.'
Jack whistled softly. 'That's solid.'
'It is.'
'You happy?'
The question wasn't intrusive. It was simple.
Tony didn't hesitate. 'Very.'
Jack seemed satisfied with that.
'Good,' he said. 'Woorabull didn't get his eight years. And neither did Aunty Pearl's brother.'
The words weren't heavy. Just fact.
Tony looked out over the water, where the river met the sea in a subtle shift of colour.
'No,' he said quietly. 'They didn't.'
The marina was closer now. The sounds of town drifted faintly towards them – a reversing truck, distant laughter, a dog barking.
'You think that story is why there's so many of us here?' Tony asked after a while.
Jack didn't answer immediately.
'I think stories can shape places,' he said eventually. 'And places shape people.'
He let the motor idle lower as they approached the wharf.
'Maybe it's not something in the water,' he added. 'Maybe the something is in the remembering.'
Tony felt that one land.
Jack brought the boat alongside the dock with the same deft touch as before. The hull bumped gently against timber.
The town looked the same as it had that morning.
But it didn't feel the same.
Tony stood carefully and stepped onto the wharf. When he turned back, Jack was already securing the rope.
'Thank you,' Tony said.
'For what?'
'For not telling me everything at once.'
Jack laughed softly. 'You wouldn't have heard it.'
Tony smiled.
'I'll come back,' he said.
'Yeah,' Jack replied. 'You will. And bring Aaron.'
Tony walked a few steps along the wharf, then paused and looked back.
Mission Island sat low on the horizon now, unremarkable to anyone who didn't know it.
But he did. And somewhere upriver, unseen, the current continued moving steadily towards the sea.
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