Of Ashes and Rivers that Run to the Sea Read Online Free PDF Page A

on the sand. We watch the waves. Each one that rolls in and away is taking me closer to the time when I can get the hell out of here.

3.
    The sun has just risen over the top of the trees and turned the sea a pearly pinky gold. My mum hands me a cup of black tea and my eyes water as the astringency of the tannin hits my tongue and makes it shrivel. As usual it tastes like the whole packet has been tossed into the billy and left to stew for a week. This is bad enough but the thought of all the powdered milk and piles of sugar that everyone else puts into theirs makes me cringe. I hold my breath and pour it down hoping once again that it won’t damage anything on its journey through my intestines. I’m still in a huff from the episode with the turtles the night before and I gather my bits and pieces together in silence while I listen to the chatter around me. Last night was the tipping point and I’m going home today as I can’t stand the thought of spending another minute here. Old AuntyBlanchie is still in a huff too after watching the turtles, her favourite food, swim off, and there is a tension between us as tight as a bow string. She shoots me a dirty look before turning her back on me. My mum says it’s just me and Aminay going to the airport and we need to be there by eight o’clock for the morning plane. I’m hurt that mummy isn’t going to see me off. She doesn’t even wave goodbye as we drive away, she just goes on chatting to Aunty Blanchie who turns to give me one last filthy glare before resuming their conversation.
    The bush looks different and not as vibrant as it had the day before. We pass the spot where my mum told me there was a native beehive they call sugarbag. What a stupid name I think, sugarbag, why don’t they call it a beehive with honey like everybody else? Thinking about that makes me feel even grumpier and I just want to get on that little plane and fly right on out of here back to my old life. I’ll write and send Christmas cards, I think magnanimously. I won’t give them up completely, after all they are family, but I know I don’t want to go putting myself through this again in a hurry. We pass the Tarntippi turn-off which cheers me up because I know we’re nearly there.
    But we have to go right back to Nguiu instead of stopping at the airport as we have to ring up to see if there’s a seat available for me on the plane. The thought hadn’t occurred to me that there mightn’t be and desperation paints pictures in my mind of me stealing someone’stinnie and boating back across that seventy kilometres of Arafura Sea where there are no whales but, according to my mum, lots of sharks and stingers and crocodiles. Aminay emerges from the telephone box and gives me the thumbs up and my knees go weak. I’ve got a seat, thank fuck for that.
    â€˜ Nimbungi ,’ says Aminay giving me a hug at the airport. And then he drives off down the road without even a backward glance while once again the sandflies and mosquitoes arrive in their thousands to feast on me.
    But something feels wrong about all this. I didn’t want it to end this way. Although I’ve had a crappy time I wanted these people to tell me they were sorry I didn’t grow up with them, and that they loved me, because that would have made all the crappiness of this strange place bearable. But no one did, not even mummy. I try to console myself with the thought of the bar waiting for me at Darwin Airport but my heart feels like it’s sitting on the bottom of the ocean.

4.
    By the time my plane reaches Darwin I have convinced myself that this is all for the best, after all, I’ve grown up in a different world to my new family and I’d never fit in there anyway. I snatch my luggage from the Airnorth pilot-cum-baggage handler and make a beeline for the Ansett check-in counter. It’s only been ten days since I was here but it feels like a lifetime.