hot shells up to the patient. In the end I use my T-shirt as an oven mitt and push the shell into the sand near Natalie.
“Don’t you think the stream must come out on the beach somewhere, Mrs. Campbell? We can’t climb to the Gorge of Gloom for water all the time.”
“Oh, Bonnie, stop nagging!” Mrs. Campbell shouts at me, and I cringe at her sudden change of mood. She carries on tending to the sick child, and I hide my red face under my hair.
Mrs. Campbell tests the warm water with her elbow, like seeing if the bath is too hot for a baby. It is, and her jerking arm knocks the coconut shell over, and all the water spills onto the sand.
I start again from scratch, but don’t leave it to heat for so long. This time it is the right temperature and Mrs. Campbell bathes Natalie’s leg. She hardly makes a sound.
“Why does it smell so bad, Mrs. Campbell?” I ask.
“It’s the infection, Bonnie. It’s not looking good. I think it’s gangrene.”
The leg is swollen all the way up. I hold my nose. I can’t help it.
“You don’t have to stay. I can manage now.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
The sun has come out at last and the bigger girls are swimming in the fishing pool, the juniors splashing in the shallows. I run back to the edge of the sea and stare out at the laughing girls. There’s a huge black cloud on the horizon.
I look back and see Mrs. Campbell sitting and smoking, six feet of sand between her and Natalie.
eight
DAY 7
Cried myself to sleep last night. Mrs. Campbell’s useless as a cadet leader, useless as a caretaker, useless as friend. I hate her.
Rain all night, and we didn’t get much sleep, what with the hooting of the gibbons and the unidentified screams and coughs.
This morning the rain’s stopped and the wind has dropped, thank goodness. Little spots of silver dance on the sea and it almost makes me forget the awfulness of the past few days, though I’m worn out from crying.
“You okay, Bonz?” Jas looks worriedly at me. “You don’t look so good this morning.”
“Think you’re a better sight, do you?” I snap. Don’t know what’s the matter with me. I never yell at Jas. She wanders off to wash. I ought to run after her. Apologize. But I’m too tired and sore and miserable. I sit on a tall rock at the water’s edge. On my own.
The lagoon has all the colors of a peacock’s feather. Pink coral heads are visible, and red and purple seaweed swirls, lifts, and falls on the gentle waves. The palms’ feathery heads quiver in the breeze, and huge butterflies flutter on the suddenly brilliant flowers at the top of the beach.
It is paradise
, I tell myself. Or it would be, if it weren’t for the dead birds rotting on the tide line, hundreds of them. Fat flies swarm over the broken gulls, parakeets, bush turkeys, even peacocks. I catch sight of a rat moving among the carcasses. That’ll freak out the Glossies.
Hope and Jas come down the beach armed with plastic bags.
“We can’t let anyone swim until we’ve cleared the birds,” Jas calls over to me, a kind of
Can we be friends again?
tone to her voice, and I’m glad. I swing down from my rock and make enough of a commotion to send the marauding rats back to where they came from.
Hope, Jas, and I spend the whole morning gathering the corpses in a stinking heap, intending to bury them atthe other end of the beach, but it’s a disgusting job. We bind the plastic bags around our hands and wrap T-shirts over our mouths and noses.
Once the beach is mostly clear of rotting creatures, Carly and Jody paddle around. They have taken off all their clothes and seem happy enough, though Carly still hasn’t spoken as far as I know. Hope and I are washing their things in a freshwater spring that Jas and I found on the way back from the burial site. It was only a matter of searching along the top of the beach. It bubbles up by rocks just inside the bordering trees, and then disappears again under the sand.
“It’s a happy
“Don’t you think the stream must come out on the beach somewhere, Mrs. Campbell? We can’t climb to the Gorge of Gloom for water all the time.”
“Oh, Bonnie, stop nagging!” Mrs. Campbell shouts at me, and I cringe at her sudden change of mood. She carries on tending to the sick child, and I hide my red face under my hair.
Mrs. Campbell tests the warm water with her elbow, like seeing if the bath is too hot for a baby. It is, and her jerking arm knocks the coconut shell over, and all the water spills onto the sand.
I start again from scratch, but don’t leave it to heat for so long. This time it is the right temperature and Mrs. Campbell bathes Natalie’s leg. She hardly makes a sound.
“Why does it smell so bad, Mrs. Campbell?” I ask.
“It’s the infection, Bonnie. It’s not looking good. I think it’s gangrene.”
The leg is swollen all the way up. I hold my nose. I can’t help it.
“You don’t have to stay. I can manage now.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
The sun has come out at last and the bigger girls are swimming in the fishing pool, the juniors splashing in the shallows. I run back to the edge of the sea and stare out at the laughing girls. There’s a huge black cloud on the horizon.
I look back and see Mrs. Campbell sitting and smoking, six feet of sand between her and Natalie.
eight
DAY 7
Cried myself to sleep last night. Mrs. Campbell’s useless as a cadet leader, useless as a caretaker, useless as friend. I hate her.
Rain all night, and we didn’t get much sleep, what with the hooting of the gibbons and the unidentified screams and coughs.
This morning the rain’s stopped and the wind has dropped, thank goodness. Little spots of silver dance on the sea and it almost makes me forget the awfulness of the past few days, though I’m worn out from crying.
“You okay, Bonz?” Jas looks worriedly at me. “You don’t look so good this morning.”
“Think you’re a better sight, do you?” I snap. Don’t know what’s the matter with me. I never yell at Jas. She wanders off to wash. I ought to run after her. Apologize. But I’m too tired and sore and miserable. I sit on a tall rock at the water’s edge. On my own.
The lagoon has all the colors of a peacock’s feather. Pink coral heads are visible, and red and purple seaweed swirls, lifts, and falls on the gentle waves. The palms’ feathery heads quiver in the breeze, and huge butterflies flutter on the suddenly brilliant flowers at the top of the beach.
It is paradise
, I tell myself. Or it would be, if it weren’t for the dead birds rotting on the tide line, hundreds of them. Fat flies swarm over the broken gulls, parakeets, bush turkeys, even peacocks. I catch sight of a rat moving among the carcasses. That’ll freak out the Glossies.
Hope and Jas come down the beach armed with plastic bags.
“We can’t let anyone swim until we’ve cleared the birds,” Jas calls over to me, a kind of
Can we be friends again?
tone to her voice, and I’m glad. I swing down from my rock and make enough of a commotion to send the marauding rats back to where they came from.
Hope, Jas, and I spend the whole morning gathering the corpses in a stinking heap, intending to bury them atthe other end of the beach, but it’s a disgusting job. We bind the plastic bags around our hands and wrap T-shirts over our mouths and noses.
Once the beach is mostly clear of rotting creatures, Carly and Jody paddle around. They have taken off all their clothes and seem happy enough, though Carly still hasn’t spoken as far as I know. Hope and I are washing their things in a freshwater spring that Jas and I found on the way back from the burial site. It was only a matter of searching along the top of the beach. It bubbles up by rocks just inside the bordering trees, and then disappears again under the sand.
“It’s a happy
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