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Chapter 15: Jo Prepares
Past toetoe, over coarse grasses and coastal succulents – the last hundred metres approaching the tide margin, brings Jo to a tumble of driftwood. It is the upstream wreckage of branches carried by flood-swollen rivers to the open sea. Prevailing winds have moved it south from the river mouth, where the enmeshed coastal flotsam piles high up the steeply shelving beach. Climbing, wrestling her path, Jo is hand knitting…up, under and over she moves… pearl and two plain, knitted back into itself. Tumbled, jumbled, and piled in profusion lie the branches big and small. Willow and poplar from beside the river lie arm-in-arm with trees of the bush; all flood-swept to lie bleached and bruised on this wind-savaged, desolate, rocky west coast beach.
The sharply cut sandiness connects Jo intimately with the earth. Amid the profusion of vegetative debris are boulders of all sizes, creating random sculptures where Jo now moves. She smiles.
On the highest part of the ledge, cresting as if it were a wave above the beach, is a giant tree, looking like the transubstantiated tentacles and head of a deep-ocean, squid-like creature. Cartwheel-spoked roots spread metres across, rising skywards. This huge stump is a fine vantage point and Jo settles comfortably, facing into the freshening wind. The restless ocean fingers grey flannel-suit-coloured sand mixed with pebbles and shells. The rising wind from the north carries the pleasant briny smell to her, with a hint of iodine on the tang. She hears the low rumble of pebbles and shells working each other over in the tide’s surging dump.
Watching the waves march to the beach spilling, tumbling, running in retreat, she sees her family playing a game… the wolf edging forward… the followers asking, “What’s the time Mr Wolf?” “It’s four o’clock.” …The wolf moves forward. The question repeats. Mr Wolf decides it’s “dinner time,” and turns to pursue his supper with a rumbling growl. The kittens flee – as the tide rushes back down the beach.
While seeing the game inwardly, Jo is conscious of pipi, cockle, tuatua and toheroa shells moving in and out with the small rocks… forsaken shells slowly, certainly becoming sand on the beach of tomorrow. Shadows drift through her mind, and as shadows may, one becomes another, until without conscious thought the perspective has taken form, size, and substance. Jo is suddenly aware that the miniscule black dot on the horizon is a sturdy boat closing fast on the island.
Sitting back, Jo calmly washes… it’s a blind – she needs time to think… reflect… It seems the boat brings a presentiment of danger. Inexplicably she shudders. An uneasy shadow creeps into Jo’s mind and fills it with turmoil and tension.
Jo works to create and open a space in her mind. She pictures a ball of white light entering, suffusing her being. It surges, pulsing through her eyes narrowed and concentrating the emanating force. For an instant the air is motionless, shimmering, tense. Not a blade of grass moves in the paddock behind her, despite the fresh breeze. Silence permeates all. The sea stands suddenly, quiet and calm.
Behind her she half hears cattle mooing, and the unmistakeable “mooagh mooagha” call of a cow to her calf. Hearing this on the edge – in the vague distance – Jo turns south, where a flight of seagulls work for their meal. Gulls airlift shellfish dislodged from the sand around the low tide mark. A short run, a couple of pulls on strong wings, and they ride the wind, drop the bundle to smash it - and enjoy.
Jo watches bemused as smart gulls wait for enterprising foragers to complete this ritual, before darting in and stealing the prize. The victim, head down, neck forward, postures, scolds, and dances with a hiss full of menace.
Jo sees this pantomime with a detached gaze, her thoughts preoccupied with the vessel. Now she faces north on the log. The boat has moved much closer. Since she’s been by the sea the sky has changed. Cool overcast grey with high cirrus cloud has become a warm pastel sunset to the southwest. At the same time, the northern horizon, that was bright and clear just an hour ago, has become an ominous leaden grey, with a deep bank of cloud building directly behind the vessel. Which is a fishing boat of about forty tonnes. She imagines it is a mid-water trawler, carrying gear for single boat fishing or a pair working together. In the oncoming dusk, the wheelhouse is unlit and no navigation lights show. There is no one moving on deck. The vessel disappears behind the northern tip of the island.
Jo’s gaze fixes uneasily, steadfastly on the spot where the boat disappeared. Running through her from ear tip to tail end is an electrical tingle – a gentle pulse as her fur stands out.
Nausea and turmoil rigor her shivering body.