Sanctuary Read online

  Benny Hitono was one of those commonly referred to as ‘the scum of the earth’.

  Rassen and Hala recognised this fact the moment they laid eyes on the old wooden vessel they were being herded towards like sheep. But by then it was too late. Australia had become their destiny. Australia, or death.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They didn’t build their fire that afternoon. Ominous clouds were gathering, and given the threat of rain Rassen decided it safer to collect whatever wood they could find while conditions remained dry.

  The women set about gathering kindling, dead bushes for the most part, while Hany and Karim, carrying an axe and a saw respectively, travelled north to hack off several of the drier branches from the mangroves. With the knowledge that timber was in short supply on the island, Rassen and Massoud remained at the settlement scavenging whatever extraneous material they could from the huts; a damaged chair here, some broken fence palings there, odd planks and cuts of wood presumably leftovers from building repairs.

  Eventually, between them, they’d amassed a healthy supply, which they stored under cover on the verandah of one of the unoccupied huts, safe from the downpour that threatened. Beneath a canopy of grey cloud, the island landscape was now bleak, drained of all colour and surrounded by a black sea.

  The weather did break that night, while they were having dinner. Not an electrical storm, as they might have expected, but rather a deluge of rain that bucketed down upon the hut’s tin roof so loudly it drowned out their voices. Amazingly, little Hamid, asleep in the corner of the room, was oblivious to the cacophony, which had he been awake he might have found frightening. The sound was not at all fearsome to the others, however. On the contrary they welcomed it, knowing their water tanks were being filled to the brim. They had been very protective of their fresh water supply and sparing in its use.

  No one bothered to speak, there was no point, but minds were running rampant.

  Perhaps I’ll be able to wash my hair in fresh water, Hala thought longingly. Just the once. It mustn’t become a habit.

  Sanaa’s and Azra’s thoughts were along similar lines. Perhaps we’ll be able to wash our clothes in fresh water, they were thinking. Not on a regular basis, but perhaps just this once.

  Since they’d been on the island, all washing and bathing had been done in sea water, the men carting bucket loads up from the shore to the laundry tubs where the women scrubbed away at the clothes as best they could, despite the fact the last of the soap was gone – not that soap worked particularly well in sea water, they’d discovered. From the healthy yield of blankets and bedspreads and tablecloths at their disposal, they had fashioned rough, kaftan-style garments, tied at the waist with twine or rope, and these they wore, the men also, while their own clothes quickly dried on the lines in the backyards, flapping about in the ever-constant wind. Separate male and female bathing areas had been established too, in small protected bays with white coral sand. Here they washed their bodies in the sea, allowing the women in particular the privacy they needed.

  Now, listening to the downpour and feeling the prickliness of their salt-stiffened clothes and the dry itch of salt in their hair and upon their skin, the women could think of nothing more welcome than a thorough cleansing in fresh water.

  The men did not ponder such domestic issues. The men merely shared grateful smiles that nature, or fate, or God, or whichever particular power they saw fit to recognise, was so favouring them.

  It was Hala who had the bright idea, wondering even as she did why the notion hadn’t occurred earlier. Why on earth, she thought, have I been sitting here for the past hour simply listening to the rain? What a terrible waste.

  She stood. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ she said, ‘anyone else interested?’

  Massoud was the first to jump to his feet. ‘What an excellent idea,’ he said.

  Rassen laughed as he, too, rose from his chair. How very like my wife, he thought with pride; unconventional, outrageous even, yet eminently sensible.

  With the exception of Azra, they all trooped outside, even Jalila who, while fulfilling her duties, continued to remain uninterested in any activity that didn’t include the child.

  Azra had wanted to join them, but Hala would not allow it.

  ‘No, no, it would be foolish,’ she said. Azra’s ribs remained painful as they would for some time, but her strength had grown immeasurably over the past week and Hala no longer believed pneumonia to be a danger. There was still her bronchial condition, however, which must be kept under observation. Standing in the rain was hardly a good idea. ‘Stay here and keep warm and look after Hamid,’ she instructed. ‘If he wakes he might be frightened on his own.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Azra was quick to obey. Nurse Hala was always right.

  Out in the blackness of the night, silhouetted by the kerosene lamp light that shone through the hut’s windows, they stood in silence, fully clothed, eyes closed, faces upturned to the downpour, relishing the experience, despite the fact that the evening was quite chill. To an outsider they would have looked for all the world as if they were practising a bizarre form of worship, which in a way they were, even the non-believers amongst them. Little more than two weeks earlier they’d been dying from dehydration.

  The next day they awoke to find the weather had cleared. The rainstorm had come and gone, the sky was newly washed, and within only an hour or so, as they continued to wander around rugged up in their home-made garments, the sun was steadily drying their clothes, saturated from the previous night.

  While the others tended to their customary chores, Rassen spent an hour or so of the morning huddled over the supply of paper and the miscellany of pencils and pens he’d gathered, drawing up a roster for the daily watch.

  Then in the afternoon they built their fire.

  They chose the location with care, clearing the site, ensuring it was nestled as much out of the wind as was possible, and when they had completed erecting the fire itself, they covered it with a tarpaulin in case of more rain and placed beside it a can of kerosene. All that was needed now was the sight of a ship. Their fire, one of impressive proportion, was ready to be instantly ignited, a beacon that would be seen for miles and could not be ignored.

  As they stood back admiring their work, the symbolism was not lost on them. To some, the towering bonfire represented escape; to others, fear and uncertainty, possibly even terror, but there was no denying that, to every single one of them, it signified an end to their life on the island. Be it sooner or later, the fire was bound to lead to their discovery.

  Are we ready? Rassen wondered, Hala beside him feeling exactly the same way. Both were aware of the authority they had over the others and it aroused in them a distinctly parental concern. They could sense the vulnerability surrounding them. Even Azra and Karim, for all their desire to lead a normal existence with their son, appeared insecure at the thought of breaking the ties that bonded them to the family they had come to know and trust.

  What lies ahead? Rassen asked himself, gazing at the fire they had so painstakingly erected. Are we ready?

  He glanced over at Massoud who, upon meeting his eye, responded in a way that was typical. The slightest raise of his eyebrows, the smallest shrug of his shoulders simply said, ‘Who knows?’

  Were they ready to be discovered? Only one thing was certain. They would not know until they had lit the fire.

  But as fate would have it, they did not light the fire. They had no need to announce their presence, nor to seek discovery at all. It was they who were discovered, and surprisingly enough, just the very next day.

  Seventy-two-year-old Luigi Panuzza, retired fisherman, still held an amateur fisher’s licence. With the two pots he was allowed, he enjoyed supplying fresh rock lobsters for his family and friends. He enjoyed keeping them supplied also with fine table fish: baldchin groper and snapper, the highly sought-after dhufish and even the occasional red emperor. Lou, as he was known by all, was not only an expert fisherman,
but very generous with his catch. The truth of the matter was Luigi Panuzza loved the sea. He loved the sea and he loved his boat and he loved everything about the life he’d lived from the age of sixteen, when he started serving as a deckhand aboard his father’s professional fishing vessel. And during the past two years, since he’d handed his own business on to his adored young grandson, Paolo, in a deal that was mutually beneficial, he enjoyed even more the freedom of his existence as a recreational fisher. Lou was not only a man of the sea; he was a man with a true zest for life.

  Today, he’d been out on the water since dawn, as was often the case when the weather was inviting, and a fine catch sat in the boat’s freezer. He could have continued to fish on a lot longer, he knew all the best patches for prize table fish, but he never took more than he needed, so it was time to head home.

  Following the previous night’s rainstorm, however, the sea was particularly tranquil and he was enjoying cruising around on Principessa, taking in the beauty of the day. ‘The old Princess’, as he referred to her, was getting on in years, but remained a comfortable vessel nonetheless. A thirty-foot hard-chine bondwood boat with a single marine diesel motor, he’d bought her several years previously from another Italian fisher who was upgrading, and she reminded him very much of the vessel he’d started out with himself all those years ago. She was a far cry, certainly, from the fifty-foot Palermo Miss he’d handed down to Paolo, complete with twin three-fifty-horsepower Cat diesel motors and a licence for sixty lobster pots. But since his retirement, the old Princess, modest as she was, suited Lou to perfection.

  Now, cruising along at a comfortable eleven knots, he decided he’d visit the island. He’d tie up at the jetty and pop ashore, he thought, perhaps even make himself a cup of tea there.

  Inside the blue hut, with the exception of Azra, the group was just finishing lunch. Azra had dined earlier than the others as she was allotted the midday watch. Intent upon sharing in all duties, she had insisted she be included in the roster, and Hala had insisted with equal force that she only take part when the weather was fine, only at the warmest time of day, and even then she was to rug herself up against the wind. So having eaten the bowl of rice Sanaa had served up for her, and with a blanket-kaftan obediently over her clothes, Azra had set off for the communal benches several hundred metres from the huts. The site where the benches were situated offered the best views of the surrounding waters and had been elected the official lookout.

  Little Hamid gobbled up his final spoonful of rice with relish. Tadig was a favourite of his, particularly with sultanas the way Sanaa cooked it. She’d announced to them that this was the last of the sultanas from the packet they’d discovered, and that they were nearing the end of their rice supply also. All of which was a pity, but with his belly now full Hamid wasn’t about to dwell on the fact. He wanted to go outside and play.

  He snuck away quietly, convinced that as everyone was still eating no one would notice him go, but of course someone did. Jalila was watching, as she knew Azra would expect her to; the two women had an ongoing understanding. She would venture outside herself shortly and check on Hamid, perhaps play a game with the boy if he wished. She had become very much an aunty figure to him.

  Hamid walked down toward the shore, intent upon exploring for more shells and strangely shaped pieces of coral. He had an excellent collection, which he added to daily.

  But when he saw the man he came to an abrupt halt, his little jaw dropping, his eyes, large and expressive at the best of times, growing wide in bulbous amazement.

  Barely ten metres away, the man was inspecting their dinghy anchored at the shore. He was an old man with a big round stomach and a shock of white hair. Hamid couldn’t see his face as he bent over the dinghy.

  The boy remained frozen, a tiny comical figure gob-smacked at the sight. Then, unable to contain his curiosity any further …

  ‘Hello,’ he said loudly, ‘who are you?’ He spoke instinctively in Arabic rather than his Hazaragi mother tongue. Everyone on the island spoke Arabic, as they had on the boat also and at the halfway houses in Indonesia. Little Hamid, quick to learn, had become even more fluent than his parents in his newly adopted language.

  Lou looked up. He, too, was amazed at the sight that met his eyes. A small boy was standing only metres away; he couldn’t have been more than three years old. A small foreign boy. Where had he come from? Who was with him? Lou was suddenly wary. The child’s presence explained the shabby, wooden dinghy, which was certainly not Australian-made. There must be other foreigners here on the island, he thought. Will they be hostile?

  ‘Hello there.’ He offered a smile, careful not to scare the child, although the child appeared more curious than frightened. ‘Who are you, young fella?’ he asked. He’d not understood a word the boy had said, nor even recognised the language he’d spoken.

  Hamid didn’t understand what the old man was saying either, although he suspected it was English, for he knew the English greeting ‘hello’. But he liked the look of the old man’s face. It was a jolly face, crinkly and leather-brown with button-black eyes beneath bushy grey eyebrows, and a bushy grey moustache beneath a generous nose.

  ‘How did you get here?’ Hamid asked, closely studying the old man’s every feature.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ It was Lou’s turn to enquire.

  Neither had any idea that each time they’d communicated they’d asked each other virtually the same question. Then Lou’s gaze shifted slightly as he looked beyond the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘Hello there,’ he called to the figure that had appeared.

  Hamid turned. Jalila was standing there.

  ‘Are you the child’s mother?’ the man queried.

  Jalila paused for a moment. Then she shook her head.

  Hamid was most impressed. Jalila had understood what the man was saying. The man had asked her a question and she had replied.

  ‘What is your name?’ the man asked. No answer. He pushed a little further, very gently, without demand, an enquiry no more. ‘What is the boy’s name?’

  Again she hesitated. Then … ‘My name is Jalila,’ she replied haltingly in English. ‘The boy, his name is Hamid.’

  ‘Ah, good, good. Nice to meet you, Jalila; nice to meet you, Hamid.’ Lou gave another smile to both, hoping to appear as affable as possible. The girl did not seem frightened in any way, but she was extraordinarily solemn for one so young and beautiful. ‘My name is Lou.’

  Jalila passed the news on to Hamid. ‘His name is Lou,’ she said in Arabic.

  Hamid gave an enthusiastic nod and grinned back at the friendly old man. Things were becoming very exciting.

  ‘Are there other people here on the island?’ Lou asked. What language are they speaking? he wondered. Where have they come from?

  ‘Yes,’ Jalila replied.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Come.’ She gestured for him to follow, and Lou tentatively obeyed, still wary of what might lie ahead, but determined nonetheless to unravel the mystery. Surely a group travelling with young women and kids would be safe?

  As Jalila led the way up to the blue hut, Hamid sped eagerly on ahead. This was now a great adventure and he wanted to be the one to make the announcement.

  He did. Most dramatically. Racing through the open door of the hut, where inside Sanaa and Hala were collecting the dishes from the men who remained seated, he came to an immediate halt drawing the instant attention of all.

  ‘There is a man outside,’ he proclaimed at the top of his voice. ‘He is an old man and his name is Lou, and Jalila has been speaking with him.’

  All eyes turned to the door, where Jalila appeared, the man beside her.

  Jalila stepped inside first, and then the man followed.

  The silence in the room was palpable, everyone, not least of all Lou, in a state of shock, the scene being so unexpected.

  Lou wasn’t at all sure what he’d anticipated, but it certainly wasn’t this. A group was comforta
bly settled in the hut. Several were dressed in odd kaftan-style garments made from old grey army blankets, the sort left year-round in many of the huts on the island, but apart from that they were gathered about peacefully sharing a meal as if this were their very own home. Thoughts tumbled through his mind. They’re refugees, he told himself, they must be, but from where? They look Middle Eastern. The language the girl and the child had been speaking might have been Arabic.

  In the unbearable stillness, all eyes upon him awaiting his reaction, no doubt fearing what it might be, Lou couldn’t help thinking how vulnerable they looked.

  In Rassen’s mind was one thought only: We have been discovered.

  Then Karim sprang to his feet. ‘Azra,’ he said, panic in his voice. ‘This man must have arrived by boat. She is on the watch – how is it that she did not see him?’

  The question rhetorical and fearing for his wife’s safety, Karim fled the hut without waiting for an answer, in his haste brushing rudely past the stranger standing by the door, nearly knocking the man over.

  Rassen stood, prepared to act as spokesperson for the group, as the group expected of him. He briefly appraised the man, who was older certainly, as the child had said, probably in his seventies, but burly of build, a strong man for his years. To Rassen’s eyes, he did not appear of Middle Eastern appearance, rather more Mediterranean. But little Hamid had said Jalila had communicated with him, in which case the man must speak Arabic.