Chapter Thirty-Three
CHAPTER
33
Grandpa doesn’t have the breath to laugh in the full-bodied way he once did, but even from the nurse’s desk we can hear the way the sound rings out.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask Anna.
‘I helped Mr Henry take a call on his iPad.’ She smiles. ‘It’s Kit Thorsen.’
I don’t want to see Kit or interrupt Grandpa so I lean against the wall outside his room.
‘Mary Mackenzie! Is that you hovering?’
I look around the door. ‘I didn’t want to butt in.’
‘You could never do that.’ The iPad is propped against a plate on Grandpa’s tray. ‘Guess who I’ve got here? Come and say hello.’
Kit hasn’t shaved in days. His collar is half in and half out of his jacket and the buttons of his shirt don’t line up. The sun sets behind him and lightens his hair.
‘You’re away again.’ My tone should be factual, not unhappy. I clear my throat. ‘Where are you?’
He waits so long to answer that I’m not sure he will. And I can’t really blame him for being shirty after …
A convenient cock.
‘West of the escarpment.’
I unravel a knife and fork from a napkin, then lift the lid on Grandpa’s meal. ‘Right.’
‘Tuesday morning.’
The lid slips from my fingers and clatters on the plate. ‘What about it?’
‘We’ll collect you at six.’
***
‘Can you see in this light?’ Huffing and puffing, Dougie tramps up the incline to the clearing.
I lower my sketchbook, hold a finger to my lips. ‘Shhh.’
When Dougie lifts his camera and zeroes in on the wombat, she lifts her broad brown nose before scampering through the under-growth and disappearing into a burrow at the base of a gum.
Dougie grimaces. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘I was lucky she stayed put as long as she did.’ I stretch my arms above my head. ‘Did you get anything?’
‘Nothing useful, but …’ Camera trained on me, Dougie backs up a few steps. ‘I’ll make up for that now.’
‘What do you want me to talk about?’
‘Do you prefer to draw plants or animals?’
‘Flowers are more difficult to find in August but plants are my favourites.’
‘The goanna you drew this morning was great.’
‘He had skin, not fur. As a saddler …’ I grimace, ‘I find that easier.’
‘Show me the wombat.’
When I hold out the sketch my arm aches, hardly surprising given I’ve been sitting on the ground and propping up my sketchbook for an hour. ‘It needs work.’
Dougie whistles. ‘Would you ever do this professionally?’
‘Talking to the camera? Or drawing?’ I laugh. ‘No, to both.’
‘Your authenticity, Mac.’ He smiles as he lowers the camera. ‘It’s gold.’
As a flock of black cockatoos, tails fanned out behind them, fly over our heads, I gather up my pencils. My stomach rumbles. ‘I didn’t realise how late it’d got.’
‘Kit sent me on a search-and-retrieve mission.’
The Kit who has barely looked at me since I stepped on the bus at six this morning? The Kit who was so careful not to touch me when handing me my bag and laying out my ground sheet? The Kit who is gruff and crotchety and possibly hurt? My arm isn’t the only part of me that aches. My heart and—
‘Mac! I found you!’ Daniel Michaels, Astrid’s recently recruited assistant and drone operator, is about my age and brimming with confidence. ‘Time to head back to camp.’
***
Astrid, sitting at the table opposite Daniel, drums her fingers on the surface. ‘Mac wasn’t lost. She was waiting for dusk so she could find the wombat.’
There are ten of us at the dedicated camping area that Daniel has dubbed ‘base camp’. The facilities, a long-drop toilet and cold running water, are similar to the last camp. Kit is sitting on a chair a few metres away when Daniel, who used to climb competitively, asks me to put on my gear.
‘You’re climbing tomorrow. We’d better check the fittings.’
Daniel’s hand rests on my hip when he checks a buckle of the harness that winds around my waist and the tops of my thighs. His arm brushes mine as he tightens my belt. Even thinking about Kit’s hands on me warms my skin; with Daniel I feel nothing.
‘This fits okay.’
‘Try the backpack.’
The pack clinks with carabiners as I pull it on and adjust the strap around my middle. Daniel tightens the straps at my shoulders.
‘Ow.’
‘You don’t want it flapping around a hundred metres up. It’s gotta be tight, isn’t that right, Kit?’
When Kit walks towards me, my heart rate increases. ‘Release your breath,’ Kit says, even though I had no idea I was holding it.
I roll my shoulders. ‘It might be okay.’
‘You’re overloaded.’ He takes out ropes, a change of clothes and a second water bottle before throwing them on a chair. Then he stands back, puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me critically. He loosens a strap before indicating the one that sits at my hips. ‘Tighten it.’
After doing what he asks, I look up, meet his gaze. ‘Dad and I climbed the escarpment without ropes.’
‘This is a more direct route.’
‘The ropes are a precaution?’
‘You’ll be safe.’
In this, yes, but in other ways …
Astrid and the others are gathered around the campfire. Some have their backs to us, others are facing us. A murmur of chatter, a laugh. When I fumble with a strap, Kit’s hand closes over mine. Our eyes lock. Our fingers stiffen. Then, with a breath that’s as shaky as mine, he steps back. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walks away.
***
I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the sun is streaming through the tent and I smell bacon. I roll out of my sleeping bag and stretch before joining the others.
Dougie shuffles chairs. ‘What time do you call this?’
I yawn. ‘Seven o’clock.’
‘Big day ahead of us.’
Daniel rubs his hands together. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’
‘We’ll stop for an early lunch,’ Astrid says. ‘Kit and Mackenzie climb the escarpment and we meet you up there.’
Narrow ironstone ridges cross the escarpment, but there are wider ledges where it’s possible to sit and rest. I rely on my legs not my hands as I climb, and mostly keep to three points of contact, two feet and a hand, two hands and a foot. Halfway up, I spot what I’ve been searching for.
‘Kit. Wait.’
When I sit on a ledge, he crouches next to me. Pterostylis grandi-flora flowers are green and reddish brown—their lateral sepals curve up to points like Batman’s ears. I unfasten my pack.
‘Astrid said we could stop if I see something.’
He takes a camera and his phone out of his pack. ‘She told me to record it.’
‘Most orchid flowers are zygomorphic. That means they have bilateral symmetry—they’re mirrored halves. When I was little and drew orchids, I sometimes imagined …’ I pull back the words.
‘What, Mackenzie?’
‘When Mum fought Dad for access, I was afraid …’ I point to the gap between my teeth. ‘This would be my centre point and they’d split me down here.’
He’s so serious, I have to smile. ‘What?’
‘Tell me something else.’
‘The labellum of an orchid, the lip, is usually bigger and more colourful than the other petals.’
‘It attracts pollinators.’
I’m not sure how many photos and videos Kit takes because my focus is the flower. The species of orchid isn’t new to me, but the setting, the way the stems push through the cracks in the ledge and the way the moss and lichens cling to the dampness of the rock, takes time to capture. After forty minutes, I put my pencils away. My knee creaks.
‘Thank you.’
‘Can I see it?’
His gaze shifts from the drawing to the orchid growing out of the crevice and back again. ‘This is why you have to see it in the ground.’ There’s admiration in his gaze. My heart skips around.
‘Thank you for bringing me up here.’
Another long glance. He opens his mouth to speak and—
His phone rings.
‘N?r. Nei.’ A woman’s voice, speaking in Norwegian. Kit fires a lot of questions and the woman, sounding increasingly upset, answers them. A name comes up a number of times. Sebastien. After a while, Kit lowers his voice. I have no idea what he’s saying but his tone is gentle, reassuring. Frown distinct, he ends the call.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’ He’s still frowning as he pockets the phone. The drone appears, swooping above us. Two dark brown kites with long tapered wings fly beneath us, circling and wheeling into the thickly treed valley. Daniel must have seen them too; the drone spins around. When Kit’s phone pings with a text, he looks at the screen. His jaw locks up.
‘Kit? What is it?’
Distracted, he meets my gaze. ‘It was my mother on the phone. My brother, Sebastien. There’s a problem.’
‘What problem?’
He looks at the phone again, puts it back in his pocket. ‘Later.’
As a streaky pink cloud crosses the deep grey of the rest of the sky, we stop on a narrow strip of rock to catch our breaths. My legs are tired and my shoulder aches, but …
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
For an instant, his gaze softens. ‘A storm is coming.’
‘You have two brothers, don’t you? Is Sebastien the youngest?’
‘In the middle. Fin is younger.’
After finding another anchor, he secures our lines. The strip of ledge is wider here. In thirty minutes, maybe less, the crew will welcome us at the campsite and—
A crack of thunder crashes above us. Within seconds, golf ball– sized hailstones pummel our helmets and backs.
‘Ow!’
‘Don’t move!’ Kit is only a metre ahead but backs up as the clouds darken and thicken even more. The rain, an opaque sheet of white, is relentless. Cascades of water stream down the face of the rock. Kit moves close behind me, using his body to push me towards the wall until the rock digs into my hip.
‘Ow.’
He eases back a fraction. ‘We’re safe here.’ He’s shouting, but I can barely hear him.
‘Riding Phoenix would be safer.’
His laugh is a rumble at my back. ‘It will pass.’
My hands are flat on the wall; rain runs over my fingers and under my cuffs, it trickles down my collar and drips down my back. When I wiggle my fingers, trying to get the feeling back, Kit leans over my shoulder and I press back against him.
He stiffens. ‘No?’
‘Stay.’
How long are we slotted together? When the rain finally eases and he steps back, I miss his warmth, the reassuring press of his body. I shiver, wrap my arms around my middle.
‘You took my spare clothes out of my pack.’ My voice is croaky.
‘I put them in mine.’
The storm clouds have moved on, but the sky is grey with dusk. ‘There’s a guide rope above us,’ he says. ‘Stay here and I’ll—’
When a tumble of stones falls from above, he shields my body again. The gravel-like pieces bounce off my arms and ping off my helmet.
‘Fuck!’ Kit mutters a string of curses.
‘What?’
‘Keep your head down!’
Heart thumping, I do as I’m told. And within a few moments, besides the wind and the squarks of birds, it’s quiet again. When Kit stands back, I turn to face him. He has an arm across his face.
‘I got hit.’
‘What?’ I grab his forearm. ‘Show me.’