Colleen McCullough - Morgan’s Run

Stephen rose to his feet. “Dinner time,” he said, extending a hand to pull Richard up. “If ye hear anything at all, tell me.”

The carpenterswere busy building a shelter for the sawpit the next morning, so as soon as he had eaten his leftover bread and a few mouthfuls of cress, Richard set off up Arthur’s Vale, keeping to the north side of the stream. Close to where Lieutenant King had indicated that he intended to build a large barn, a group of convicts were beginning to dig a new sawpit long enough to take a thirty-foot log. All the malcontents were on the job save the temporarily ruined Dyer, Stephen supervising-with two of the new marines off Golden Grove as guards, Richard was pleased to see.

Stephen does not wish more ardently than I do that I could call him by his name, Richard thought as he gave Donovan a wave. But I am a felon and he a free man. It is not fitting.

He continued around the north bluff to where the brook gushed down that slope where King wanted a dam. Standing on top of the rise, he could see why the Commandant considered a dam feasible, for there was indeed a big depression in the ground before the vale widened yet again.

Clearing of the trees had progressed some distance farther on and was creeping up the lower slopes of the hills, quite as steep as those along the back of Sydney Town. When he saw the plantains he recognized them for what they were from drawings in his books, and marveled at their height and maturity-such growth in a mere eight months? No, that was not possible. King had gotten into the vale only recently, which meant that the plantain grew in Norfolk Island naturally. A gift from God: the long bunches of a little green banana were already formed, so in months to come there would be fruit to eat-filling fruit at that.

As the vale narrowed again the clearing stopped abruptly, though a track continued into the forest alongside the stream, which here was some feet deep in places and so clear that Richard could see tiny, almost transparent shrimp swimming in it. Around the dinner camp-fire they had talked of large eels, but these he did not glimpse.

Brilliant green parrots flashed overhead and a weeny fantail fluttered twittering only inches from his face, as if trying to tell him something; it kept him company for at least a hundred yards, still trying to communicate. He thought he saw a quail, and then stumbled upon the most beautiful dove in the world, soft pink-brown and iridescent emerald green. So tame! It simply glanced at him and waddled off, head bobbing, quite indifferently. There were other birds too, one of which looked to be a blackbird save that its head was grey. The air was full of song unlike any he had heard in Port Jackson. Melodic except for the parrots, which screeched.

At no time since his arrival had he been able to stand back and take in the sight of a Norfolk pine, for the simplest of reasons: a lone Norfolk pine did not exist, and King’s clearing technique so far was to denude an area of every tree rather than to leave an odd one standing. He had discovered that the tails carpeting the floor of his hut were the leaves of the pine, if leaves they could be called. On either side of the track was the forest, an impenetrable wilderness he was not tempted to enter, though it bore no resemblance to what his reading had led him to believe was a jungle. Small plants did not exist, starved out by the pines, which grew very close together and must surely produce but few young; some were fifteen and more feet in diameter, most were about the size of the logs he had been sharpening the saws to cut, and a very few only were slender. Their roughish bark was brown with purple in it and they grew amazingly tall before they gave out branches. Occasional leafy green trees were sprinkled among them, but most of the space was taken up by a climbing vine the like of no vine anywhere. Its major trunks were as thick as a man’s thigh, and twisted, turned, ran back upon themselves, soared upward in gnarled humps and knees, were entangled in the thinner parts of the vine’s chaotic randomness. When it encountered a tree small enough to throttle, it did so, or else bent the hapless thing sideways and compelled it to continue its upward course feet from the place where its trunk left the ground.

The valley broadened a little to reveal more plantains having bunches of green fruit and showed him yet another bizarre tree which, like the plantains, confined itself to the watercourse area. This new plant had a round trunk a little like a palm’s-they were there too, with stiff, erect fronds rather than graceful ones-but plated with sharp-ended knobs; at the very top spread a canopy of what could only be fern leaves. A giant fern! A fern that grew as a forty-foot tree!

More birds arrived, among them a small kingfisher in cream, brown and a brilliant, iridescent blue-green exactly the color of the lagoon. The most mysterious bird he did not see until it moved, for it looked like a continuation of the mossy stump upon which it perched. The movement was sudden and startling: Richard jumped involuntarily. The thing was an enormous parrot.

“Hello,” he said. “How are you today?”

It cocked its head to one side and stalked toward him, but he had the wisdom not to hold his hand out; that huge, wicked black beak was powerful enough to take a finger off. Then, it seemed deciding that he was beneath contempt, it disappeared into the ferny or broad-leafed undergrowth along the banks of the brook.

On the way back he noticed a shrub which seemed able to compete with the forest giants, its trunk very smooth and rosy, its leafy branches loaded with bright red berries the size of small plums. Will I, or won’t I? Some weeks before he drowned, the unfortunate sawyer, Westbrook, had eaten a local fruit he mistook for a Windsor bean and nearly died. Richard pressed one of the berries to find it hard and unyielding; whatever it was, it was certainly not yet ripe. Later, he promised himself, I will try just one. I do not believe that eating one of anything can kill.

The sun was westering as he retraced his steps and emerged into Arthur’s Vale; time to join the others and eat. This place is unique, not to be compared with New South Wales in any way whatsoever. Different trees, different soil, different hills, different rocks, and not one single blade of any kind of grass. Perhaps this was God’s first attempt to create land out of the sea? Or perhaps it was His last attempt? If His last, then He gave it no people. Which might lead a man like Jem Thistlethwaite to say that God had come to the conclusion that Man was not a desirable addition to His menagerie.

“Are there any snakes?” he asked Nat Lucas, whom he liked very much, as he did old Dick Widdicombe, full seventy years old- why had London sent aged men to hew out a new place?

“If there are, they have remained invisible,” Nat said. “No one has seen a lizard, a frog or a leech either. Ground animals seem to be absent save for the rat, though it does not look like our rats. The Norfolk Island one is a soft grey with a white belly and is not enormously large.”

“But it eats anything,” said Ned Westlake. “A rat is a rat.”

At dawn on the morrow Richard turned his footsteps eastward, choosing to walk along the sand of Turtle Bay before scrambling up and over to yet another lovely beach, this one unprotected by a reef; here the sand had spread inland upon a raft of petrified logs, and beyond this beach some distance around the shore reared a massive cliff. Yet more pine forest; it truly was everywhere, and always impenetrable. The only way he could proceed was to hug the rocks, a dangerous alternative in the face of a heavy sea. Today, however, was perfect weather, and the brisk breeze blew from the northwest. The tide was on the ebb, so he must make sure that he returned before it reached half-flood. Two little brooks joined forces in a small flat area beyond which the water glowed an ethereal aquamarine. For a short while he tried to climb up the cleft which led to that mighty headland, but gave it up. Not sensible.