THIRTY

VERNON MOORE

There were trees above their tent, rustling in the breeze. His wife dozed next to him on their blowup mattress as shadows of the branches passed over them like giant bats. There was one in particular near the corner of the tent backlit by the sun. He’d been careful not to camp directly beneath the trees but with the sun lower now in the afternoon they cast their shadows all the same. He kicked off his too-hot sleeping bag and looked at his wife. He sat up.

He rustled from their tent, careful with the zipper so as to avoid waking her, and gumbooted his feet. He squinted into the horizon. He hadn’t really slept. The sun was too bright. He was glad Penelope had managed. He left her there, traipsed over the boggy land and stood in the sand of the shore.

He looked at Port Napier in the distance, over the channel, over the murky blue. There were a few fishing boats dotted on the ocean. The tide was in. Vernon held his hand up to his eyes. He thought he could see one of the fishermen with his head in his hands. Like he was weeping. His fishing rod left idle, the line running into the water.

Vernon sat down and watched the tide lap at the shore, the mucky brown seaweed. He wriggled his toes, the warm sand a cocoon for his old joints. As the sun warmed him up he kicked off the gumboots. The sand was dense like that which had so mired the pelican. How long did it take for a body to become bones? That pelican might know. If the dead know anything.

He looked back at the tent—through the trees, the sound of his wife’s light snore reaching him. She had coated his back and arms in ointment the moment she’d seen his wounds. His face still ached with the gash in it. His ribs. His knees. Amazing he was still walking. He laughed then, mostly at himself.

He decided he’d walk through the bushland, so put his gumboots back on. He stood and eyed the fishermen one last time, who still seemed bowed with grief, before heading into the forest. The trees were thick and always surprised him with their number and as he passed the closest one he leaned out a hand and felt its smooth bark. There were possums out here he’d been told but he’d never seen one in all his years of camping. He looked up, trying to tell if there were scratch marks on the trunk. Snake Island wasn’t huge, but he’d heard stories before he’d moved here of early settlers shepherding their flocks across the channel to graze, a race when the tide was out. Lord knows where they found grass. If he climbed this tree he’d be able to see all sides of the island at once.

He came to a small clearing. The grass was thick and up to his knees. A magpie on a nearby branch reminded him of the one that had accused him at the Cahills’ farm. He thought on his actions of the previous night and found it difficult to manufacture guilt. He had been right in what he did, backed into a corner as he’d been.