We entered a lake. It shimmered and danced with refracted sunlight. I shuddered at the sight of glassy bubbles of jellyfish everywhere just beneath the surface.
“Agnes Basin,” he said. “From here smaller rivers lead off this basin in all directions . . .” Martin was pointing. Bronzed arms. Hair shining gold on his forearms. Handsome man I’d married, or was he ugly, too large . . . ? My thoughts were jumbling. I closed my eyes again.
“The estuary is like a maze. Can get really turned around and lost in these swamps if you don’t know your way about.” He steered the Abracadabra into a narrow channel. It was dark among trees that pressed close, the water an iron color. The boat slowed. Branches scratched at us. Water slapped against the hull. Thick reeds drifted with the tide. Martin angled up to a dock beneath a big gum. Behind the dock was a shallow bay. The bank of the bay was tangled with trees that sent gray, elephantine roots into the water. He dropped the anchor with a loud splash. Mosquitoes buzzed.
How long had it been since we’d left the jetty near the sales office? I’d lost all sense of time. It seemed to have gotten darker, or maybe it was just the somberness of the vegetation.
“Why are we stopping here?”
“Nice and private,” he said. “And listen.”
Strange noises came from the tangled mangroves—a scream of birds, fluttering sounds. A haunting call. Squabbles and cackles. A fish jumped next to the boat and slapped back into the water. I startled.
He laughed at me. “This is a dock we built. The abandoned farmhouse is along a trail from here. It’s where we’ll construct the eco-lodge. A network of boardwalks—interpretive trails—will fan out from the lodge into the swampier portions of the land. I’ll take you to the viewing platform near the old homestead after lunch.”
He opened the cooler, took out containers of cold chicken and potato salad. He dished the food onto plates, poured chilled wine into real glasses, added ice. He handed me a plate and a glass.
I blinked at him. I couldn’t quite believe I was actually here. I’d been plucked out of a wintry softness and dumped into this strange antipodean land that was hot and harsh and angular and filled with strange discordant sounds. Perhaps I’d wake up and still be on the plane . . .
“Cheers, El.” He held up his goblet. Light danced off the liquid. Ice clinked against the glass. Thirst gripped me by the throat.
We sipped. I sipped again, this strange thirst making me desperate. I drank deeper. He watched me. I took yet another big swallow. Clouds thickened in the sky above us, blotting out the blinding haze. The iron-dark water turned black. A brooding menace pressed down over the mangroves.
Light flashed in the sky. I glanced up. Thunder rumbled and folded into the faraway boom of surf. Wind stirred. It brought a fetid smell out of the forest. I was not seeing what Martin saw in this place. I did not see beauty. I could not imagine here what the brochures showed. A terrible fear rose inside me. I’d done something awful—made a big mistake.
“No worries, been thundering most afternoons lately,” Martin said. “Pressure systems building every day in this unseasonable hot spell. Should break and rain soon enough.”
He topped up my glass. I sipped more of the cold drink and ate a bit. I felt a little better. He put down the back seat and gave me a blanket to lie on, which I did, staring up at eucalyptus leaves. My eyes began to close, and I finally felt free to allow the fatigue to wash over me. The world began to fade with the gentle rock of the boat upon the turning of the tide.
I woke with a shock.
I was lying on the bottom of the boat. It was dusk. Massive bats swooped down on the boat and then back up into the tree above. More hung there, squabbling. Confusion flared through me. Then panic. I scrambled up onto my knees, pulled myself up onto my feet. Unsteady, I hung on to the boat’s awning support.
“Martin?” I called into the darkening mangrove shadows.
A scream sliced through the air. My heart beat fast. Some kind of bird. Prehistoric-sounding. I looked up. Beyond the twisted silhouette of the forest canopy, the sky was slashed with vermilion streaks and angry blades of orange. I dropped back to my knees. Limbs wouldn’t work. I retched over the side of boat, a dry heave. Bitter bile soured the back of my throat.
“Martin!” My voice was hoarse.
With a crashing sound, he appeared through the bushes at the end of the dock. He carried a flashlight and a stack of signboards. I read the words on the top placard as he clumped along the wooden dock toward the boat.
STOP AGNES MARINA! ACID WASH KILLS.
“Where have you been?” I demanded, trying to stand again. “Where did you go . . . where are those signs from?”
“Welcome back.” His voice was cool. Displeasure contorted his face. He climbed into the boat and dumped the signs with a clatter on the bottom of the boat.
I looked at them next to my bare feet. When had I taken my shoes off? The tops of my feet were red and swollen from mosquito bites. Next to my toes was an empty bottle of rosé. Hadn’t we been drinking white? A wine goblet lay on its side, rolling slightly back and forth with Martin’s movement on the boat. I touched my face. It was bitten and lumpy, too. Itchy. My lips were chapped.
“I wanted to show you the homestead,” he said brusquely as he climbed out of the boat to untie the yellow-and-blue ropes. “I wanted you to see the view over our land.” He angrily tossed in the ropes, climbed back into the boat, and positioned
