Once there, he’d hover on the broad border of estuary and ocean. He’d become acquainted with the bar, the tide, the currents. He’d eat cold fish from the night before, try to snare a squid from a weedy reef. He’d float, drift, tack. And he’d look for the place he’d gone ten years earlier. He’d find the exact spot where the mad whale had erupted. He’d see it and know it and feel it, instantly, as certain as sunrise.

He’d stare at that field of water until all the things he could not handle were rinsed out of him, and all that remained within him was the memory of that night: the whale, the warmth of the coat, his brothers, his father, the starlight. Afterwards, he’d turn around and sail for home, which would take the rest of the day, probably some of the evening. With luck, he’d make it back to Limberlost before it was completely dark.

~

He was eager to get going. But the next day he woke to the first overcast morning in weeks. Clouds were thick in the sky, pale above the river yet dark on the horizon: premonitions of a summer storm. He put off the trip and helped his father in the orchard instead.

At midday, as they were eating lunch on the porch, a car came down the driveway. Two men got out. More curious townies, Ned thought. He was relieved to see them: an excuse to get out of work. He put down his sandwich and walked over to them.

‘Boatshed’s this way.’ He turned to the river, kept walking. Stopped when he realised they weren’t following him. He looked again. Saw that they were wearing jackets, and that one was carrying a cracked leather briefcase. They regarded him with confusion, then moved towards the porch, where his father had stood up, was brushing crumbs from his knees, straightening his hat.

‘Better go see to the last row of Coxes,’ he called to Ned.

Ned lingered. Watched the men wait, unsuited to the dry dirt, but patient. Two creased forms of patience.

‘Not a question, lad.’ His father’s voice, hard as chipped stone. Shoving him back into the orchard.

By the end of the afternoon he’d checked every branch. Had bent and searched every fruit for blemishes, rot, black spot and codling moth. Sweat plastered his body. It was tiring work, more work than usual, because the crop was strong. One of the strongest he could remember. He hoped that the men from the bank had noticed it. He hoped they’d been able to see the red-yellow glint of thousands of robust apples from the farmhouse. Had seen that most were the size of boxers’ fists. The obvious wealth in all that life. He hoped they’d accounted for it, and had left reassured.