Fiction

Bailey

Bailey’s left ear flickers as he wearily raises his finely sculptured muzzle. Was there a slight movement from his master? The room is silent apart from the ticking of a large grandfather clock nestling tiredly in the corner and the obscene crackling of the logs in the fire grate. Flames provide the only colour and movement in the darkening room. Beyond the dusty window, boats are resting uneasily on the mud as they wait for the tide to claim them once again. Chain hawsers hang loosely, enjoying the momentary release from a life of tension and strain.  An elegant sailboat glides into view as small, indistinct wading birds hurriedly search for the final bounty of the day. As the grey of the mudflats slowly spreads to the still ribbon of the river and the darker grey of the sky, the sailboat comes to rest, putting down anchor close to the shore; a flurry of activity and then stillness once more. Lights begin to twinkle, the red and green of the marker buoys, the fierce piercing headlights of a quad bike as it lumbers towards the water’s edge. A small boat pulls silently away from the sailboat and draws close to the wooden jetty. In the fading light it appears to have little more substance than that of a ghostly shadow. Lights appear in the small window panes of a row of pale blue cottages, panes which now reflect the uniform grey, as they huddle together beneath a dark canopy of protective trees.

Inside one of the cottages, Bailey’s master, hands wrapped around a steaming mug, sits before the fire. His arms rest on the wooden table as he gazes into the far distance. The acrid smell of the wood smoke mingles with his thoughts until all becomes one. A log, displaced by the slow disintegration of its neighbour, crashes down onto the grimy hearth releasing a cascade of sparks. The man’s ears catch the sound, his eyes register the sparks but the log is neither seen nor heard. His thoughts are far away; the ground shakes as breathlessly they scramble, hand in hand up the last few yards of the boulder strewn mountain. They hurry to reach the summit. As they reach the rim of the crater they gaze in awe. Fountains of red-hot lava and boulders shoot high into the sky enveloped in clouds of white, black and grey smoke. They stand looking down into the mouth of the volcano. The air vibrates with sound as the two small craters spew out lava and billowing smoke. The ground heaves with the combined explosions. They cough, their throats irritated by the sulphurous fumes and the fine ash which manages to creep its way into everything. She turns to him and laughs with excitement, the red of the lava reflected in her velvety brown eyes as the wind blows a loose strand of unruly brown curls across her cheek.

The man sighs and tightens his grip on the mug. That is the way he will always remember her, laughing, vitally alive, a small smear of ash across her cheek as she pushes away the stray curl. That was the last time Henry ever saw her.

Henry Peters, for that is the name by which his neighbours know him, lives a solitary existence, his only companion being a retired greyhound. Bailey, as is often the case, holds a striking resemblance to Henry. Being a Blue Brindle, his coat reflects the silvery grey colours that now streak Henry’s shoulder length hair and both man and dog are slender with a wiry strength. Little, if anything, is known about Henry. He keeps very much to himself but is quietly civil on his occasional visits to the local pub. Anyone who chances to catch his eye is momentarily startled by the strength and intelligence that can be seen in the sparkling blue eyes and clear steady gaze. Later, as they watch the stooped, shambling figure walk slowly away they will put it down to nothing more than imagination.  Henry’s pride and joy is his boat. Most days, Henry and Bailey can be seen out on the river, never going very far except every now and then when they disappear for a few days at a time. No-one knows where they go and no-one asks but all wonder.

With the heady smell of frangipani flowers filling his nostrils, Henry carefully placed the fragrant garland over Maria’s head. The air was thick and humid with no hint of a breeze, the rays of the sun beating down relentlessly. In the hall, a large concrete building, the heat was even more oppressive. Talua Ministry Training Centre, surrounded by papayas and palms, was set on the top of a coral cliff on the Island of Espirito Santo one of the most northerly islands of the Island nation of Vanuatu. Henry, part of the welcoming party, had watched as the small procession, led by the principle of the college, had wound its way up the narrow path, surrounded by a group of students singing and dancing their welcome. He felt very privileged to be one of a team from Australia working on translating parts of the Bible into some of the many languages that were to be found in Vanuatu. His head full of the new alphabets he had been creating, Henry had abandoned his work for the day to join in the festivities before returning to the exciting task of writing a language down for the first time ever. Laughing, Maria offered her cheek for a kiss and then was moved on by the exuberance of the procession.

Palm fringed beaches, turquoise lagoons, stunning coral reefs. Exotic creatures, blue velvet starfish, praying mantis, rhino beetles. Perpetual sunshine, laughter, singing, dancing, feasting. Exploring the rain forest, getting to know each other, kayaking through the mangroves, sharing their growing attraction, beginning to understand their deep concern for the wonderful people who had brought them together. The growing realisation that their paths are going to take them in opposite directions. Sitting in silence with hands tightly clasped on the wooden swing under the palm tree, silhouetted against the backdrop of a deep orange sky. Listening to the restless grumbling of the waves as the sun slowly sets over the ocean amidst the desolation of knowing that their time together is drawing to a close. Pain, torn allegiances, vocation versus heart felt desire. Tears, despair, the final dawning that this is the way it is going to be and so to that final weekend together which ended at the top of the volcano. The final, tearing apart . . . and then emptiness.

Bailey stirs and glances at his master as Henry’s quiet smile fades and a single tear trickles slowly down his face as he relives their final moments together, the pain still as fresh and sharp. He slowly sips from the mug, still oblivious to his surroundings as another log settles in the grate, his thoughts trapped in the past.

Returning to Australia, his important task complete, Henry had found it impossible to settle back into his old life. Following weeks of desperation, unable to reach a state of acceptance, he decided to take time out, to return to a childhood place of peace. He journeyed to the Yukon, to Lake Teslin. Having purchased a skiff, some camping gear, a rifle and supplies, Henry slowly reacquainted himself with the lake. Initially feeling very alone and desperately lonely, he would lie awake listening to the gentle murmur of the lake straining to hear the sounds of the wild, the howl of a wolf, the call of a moose. In the morning he would search for tracks and on finding the spore of a grizzly mother and cub he would feel contented knowing that he was not alone.

As the days grew into weeks he began to settle into the solitude. Need would force him to restock with supplies but these times became less frequent as he became more able to support himself from the land. He slowly worked his way down the lake, staying in empty lodges, log cabins or under canvas. Personal hygiene no longer felt important, his hair and beard grew long and unkempt. On the rare occasion that he heard the faint sound of an approaching engine, his heart would beat faster, his breathing become shallower and quiet panic would cause him to flee. The day arrived when he was not able to escape and with horror he saw a small boat turn its prow towards the shore adjacent to his camp. In desperation he reached for his rifle, hands shaking, heart palpitating, and fired shots over the head of the intruder. The boat veered sharply away and disappeared quickly up the lake. Henry hurriedly broke camp and fled.

He finally stopped fleeing when he discovered a small side arm off the lake. Just beyond the entrance was an old log cabin set on a steep hillside, hidden by trees but with a clear view up the lake. From there he would have advance warning if anyone were to approach. The cabin was very basic containing only an old stove, a worn bench and small table. Grass was growing on the roof but the cabin was still sound and sturdy. Two of the main roof supports contained numerous carved initials and dates, a record of all who had taken shelter in the cabin over the years. Henry read the names and dates with interest and with a sense of camaraderie until he reached one name, Sheslay Free Mike.

Henry’s hands begin to shake, some drops of coffee spill onto the table. Bailey, sensing his master’s fear, whines softly but does not stir, eyes firmly fixed on his master.

The name reverberates around his head, growing ever louder and more persistent, Sheslay Mike, Sheslay Mike, SHESLAY MIKE! He clutches his head and rushes out of the cabin down to the lakeshore where he falls onto his knees, still holding his head in a vain attempt to make the clamouring voice stop. Was this how Sheslay felt before he started hallucinating, before his head started to get all mixed up, before he shot at the plane, before he killed Constable Buday, before he himself was killed? Is that what is happening to him? What has he become? He slowly looks up, his eyes proclaiming the horror that has engulfed him. The lake is very still, the gold of the cottonwoods and the dark green of the pines reflecting in its mirror-like surface. Overhead, a bald eagle slowly wheels on the thermals. All is beautiful, all is serene, the only thing marring the beauty is his presence. He is filled with despair and loathing and sinks into a stupor. Time passes and he slowly regains his senses.

Henry stirs and visibly straightens in the increasing gloom of the evening. Bailey lifts his head and senses the change in his master. Reassured he once more rests his muzzle on his paws.

Sheslay Free Mike’s name, carved into the wooden pillar twenty years before, saved Henry. Having slowly reintegrated himself into society, gradually rebuilding his life, he still lies awake at night, now listening to the soothing sound of the river lapping at the shore. Instead of the calls of the wild he hears the gentle sounds of civilization, the faint sound of an approaching engine bringing comfort rather than terror. Each day sees him on the river but he no longer uses his skiff as a means of escape, only leaving home on the few occasions when he delivers the newly translated texts that he studiously works on each evening.

Not for the first time, Henry wonders how things would have turned out if they had not both been so committed to their work. . . . . With a sad shake of his head, he slowly places the now cold mug on the table. Bailey, who for the last few minutes has sensed the steady approach of footsteps along the boardwalk from the jetty, rises, alert, as the footsteps approach the cottage door. Hearing a gentle knock, Henry slowly stands, perplexed. No one ever visits the cottage. He walks over to the door, Bailey close at his heals, and tentatively opens it. For a moment he stares at his visitor, silhouetted by the dim light of the moon, and then shakes his head in disbelief. He is looking into those velvety brown eyes that he remembers so clearly, a little older, but with the same sparkle of excitement and quiet laughter.

‘Maria?’

‘Hello Henry.’