Girra: The Wild Earth

Part One

CRESSWELL

- One -

Secret Landing

Dawn was still hours away and with no moon it was almost impossible to see where the sea ended and the shoreline began. Wei Feng was huddled in the stern of the fishing boat. Above him the black sail hung limp in the light breeze. Stars winked in and out, muffled by scudding clouds. The four oarswomen, two on each side, pulled slowly towards the gentle sound of surf, their oars muffled with cloth to keep them silent. The Captain, Chunhau, stood beside the mast, looking for the first sign of the white water that would mark the shore. A pistol was slung on her hip, a sign of her authority, although Feng wondered if it would even fire, or if Chunhau had any ammunition left for it.

There, a whispered voice was raised by one of the deckhands. She pointed ahead to the port side. Feng could just make out the smear of white water as a wave broke over a rocky outcrop. They were approaching the north end of Cresswell Island; a treacherous path that forced them to glide over a shallow and dangerous reef. They had chosen a moonless night and were lucky that it was also a calm one, with almost no swell. If they took it carefully, Feng thought, they might just avoid running aground.

Get ready, Chunhau turned towards Feng, barely breathing the words above the sound of the water. She indicated his equipment with a wave of her hand. Turning to the rowers, she whispered, Hold there. They shipped their oars with barely a sound.

Slipping back to the stern, she muttered to the helmswoman at the tiller, Watch our drift, Daiyu. She pointed. Use that as a marker. Feng could just make out the darker shape she was indicating, either a rock or some protrusion from the ruins below. Kneeling at his side, Chunhau said, You'll swim from here, we can't risk getting any closer, even with this tide. Stay in line with the bow and you'll hit land.

Feng looked forward into the darkness, seeing nothing ahead of them. You sure? he whispered.

Of course, idiot child, she snarled, her weathered face just visible. He could smell her breath, ripe with garlic and fish - nothing like her namesake, Chunhau or 'spring flower'. Now remember, we'll be back here in four nights. Be ready, and make sure you have something for us when we see you again. Her tone left him in no doubt that she was implying, "or don't bother coming back."

Feng tried not to flinch as Chunhau put her hand roughly on his forehead, drawing a circle with her thumb. He barely heard her whisper the blessing, Stay to the task, for the task is all.

Standing, Feng grabbed his pack and swung it onto a small wooden raft that was slung just below the railing at the stern. He added his crossbow, wrapped in oiled cloth to protect it from the water, and his quiver of bolts, securing it all with two lengths of rope. He checked the straps that held his fins to his calves.

With a wave of her hand, the motion almost hidden in the gloom, Chunhau indicated to a deckhand to lower the raft. There was a small splash as it hit the surface of the water. Feng felt a slap on his back, indicating it was time to go. Stepping over the rail, he held onto the edge and lowered his body until his feet touched the water. Releasing his grip on the rail, he slid into the cool water without a splash. The water was cold through his heavily patched wetsuit, chilling him to the core. Carefully, so he didn't drop them into the depths, he unstrapped each fin in turn, slipping them onto his feet as he did so. After unhooking the raft from the ropes that had been used to lower it, he pushed it towards the starboard side of the hull that loomed above him. Looking up, he could just see the ropes snaking upwards and the dark shape of the deckhand outlined against a patch of stars. With the raft in front of him, he swam alongside the boat until he reached the bow. Then, checking the star pattern above to keep his bearings, he struck out in a straight line towards the hidden shore that was supposedly directly ahead. Behind him he heard the muffled sounds as the oarswomen began to slowly turn the boat to make their escape.

- Two -

Girra~Girra

It was definitely orange, that flash in the depths, at least fifteen metres down. It was something not natural - not that colour. Girra-Girra pulled the mask down onto her face, slipped the mouthpiece of the snorkel between her teeth and slid off the kayak into the water. She felt the familiar rush of water through the zip at the back of her wetsuit - the initial cold thrill fading away as her body adjusted. Checking the tools on her weight belt with her fingers, she ducked under the wooden aka that supported the outrigger. The old town of Vincentia stretched up the hills on the shore to the west, with burnt out shells of houses peaking through the gum trees and wattles that now dominated the area. The cleansing fires had been particularly fierce on the north-eastern section of the island and she knew from experience that there was little left to salvage amongst the old town. Her kayak was anchored about three hundred metres off shore, above the old streets that had run along the original shoreline.

As she swam away from the boat, she could see down to the bottom over twenty metres below her. The weather had been calm for days and she had rarely seen the water so clear. Through the waving strands of weed she could see the roofs of several houses, their trusses long gone and the remains collapsed into piles of ceramic roof tiles framed by brick walls in various stages of subsidence. Clouds of fish in shades of silver, blue and green swirled amongst the ruins. Most of Vincentia had being reclaimed by the sea in the fifty or so years since Judgement.

She spied the flash of orange again. She could see it through a gash in a metal roof far below her. It was beside a house that had been built of white bricks. She guessed that it had been some sort of garage or shed. She calmed her breathing, relaxed her body to lower her heart rate, and prepared to dive. Jack-knifing her body at the waist she bent head-down. Straightening her legs above her, she let their weight slip her under the water before slowly finning her way downwards. She held her nose as she went down, breathing into her blocked nostrils to clear her ears. Schools of small silver baitfish were everywhere, forming spiralling tunnels in response to her passing, opening before her and closing again behind.

She reached the metal roof and ducked under the lip, using her gloved hands to grip the edge. She concentrated on keeping her heart-rate steady and her movements economical. The roof was held up by four rusting metal supports and underneath were the remains of a car. It had decayed to an almost unrecognisable shell, with crustaceans and red-tentacled sea anemones covering the frame. Schools of small fish swam through the twisted wreckage, including the upright majesty of a school of Old Wives and the quick, eye-catching yellow Stripeys. Weed had claimed the remains, with long green tendrils growing through the rusted holes in the floor and caressing the sides. The most arresting sight in this vista was the bullet shape of a short kayak, still attached to the rusting shell. Girra estimated it was around two and a half metres long. It was mostly covered in green slime, but one small section had been rubbed clear, showing the bright unnatural orange colour underneath. The colour, and the intact shape of the kayak, indicated that it was made of plastic.

Girra pulled her way under the roof, careful not to catch any part of herself on the jagged edges of the metal. A small school of dark Rock Cale were startled by her movement and dashed past her. The craft looked completely intact. Girra could see no hatches along its length or any fittings at all. It was moulded in one piece - designed to be sat on rather than in - with no rubber seals or metal fittings that would have compromised its buoyancy long since. Where her gloved hand rubbed the surface, the green slime revealed a mottled orange pattern underneath. It had been attached to the roof of the car with straps that had a metal core. The webbing of the straps was long gone, but the rusted strands of the core remained and were still holding the kayak down. They flexed upwards indicating that the craft was buoyant. Girra felt her excitement rising and worked hard to keep herself calm so that she could keep holding her breath.

After inspecting the length of the kayak, Girra flicked her fins and swam out the side of the structure, heading back towards the surface. As she calmly made her way topside, she noticed several large schools of fish, including a group of Snapper, sweeping amongst the houses below her. At the very edge of her visibility she thought she saw a large group of Trevally just visible in the deep blue, although she wasn't sure. As she neared the surface, the familiar darting of Garfish with their spiked bills, just below the waterline, flicked across her vision. She twirled to watch their progress, delighted in their effortless motion.

Breaking the surface, Girra cleared her snorkel with a sharp exhalation and took a welcome breath. She considered her options to recover the kayak, or, as her father would call it, the 'pug'. He referred to anything that size as a pug. She had no idea why and always assumed it was an old navy term.

Diving again, she descended to examine the roof of the structure in more detail. If she freed the pug, it would immediately bob up and hit the underside of the roof. It could be damaged if it hit with sufficient force. The roof, although extensively rusted, was mostly intact. With a bit of pressure from her glove she could break off pieces around the edges, but it was still solid in the centre. After a careful examination, she ascended.

She swam back to her own kayak - the Devil - so named because it was red in colour and a real handful to sail in heavy seas. It was about five metres long with two short outriggers, or amas, to provide stability when sailing, or climbing in and out while diving. Like the pug, it was designed to be sat on rather than in. It had a well behind the stern bulkhead that contained most of her equipment. There was also a storage hatch on the foredeck, in front of the mast, but, as her father had repeatedly drilled into her, she avoided opening that whenever she was in open water. An unexpected wave could sink her - with little prospect of rescue. The hatch contained mostly emergency camping gear in case she needed to beach somewhere around the island.

Approaching the Devil, she dived underneath, bringing herself back up at the stern. She searched the equipment well until she found a length of heavy corded line. She coiled it and attached it to a carabiner on her belt. Looking around, she checked the conditions. It was still calm. The swell was slight, with slow rollers running through the glassy surface at regular intervals. There were no clouds in the sky and the trees on the shore were still, with almost no wind to stir them. Further out to sea she saw the limp sails of one of the Cresswell fishing boats. With insufficient wind to use the nets, they would be limited to line fishing today, she thought. Even further out to the southeast, towards the Knife Rocks that marked the eastern-most point of Cresswell Island and the original entrance to the old bay, she spotted another, darker sail. Not one of theirs. It was probably one of the Curra mob, she thought. Even if it was a stranger, it would be travelling so slowly in this wind that it would be picked off long before it presented any sort of threat to the island settlement.

She turned her attention back to the view below her, diving again with slow lazy kicks of her long fibreglass fins. Her father had fashioned the fins from salvaged parts that she had found and she was very proud of them.

She found a carry handle that was moulded into the front of the pug and twisted the rope into a buntline hitch to attach it. She then payed out the line as she swam deeper, looking for an anchor point. She found one in the form of a large paving stone and wrapped the line around it, tensioning it before tying it off. The line now formed a taut angled tether that would hold the pug down when she released it from the car - at least that's what she hoped it would do. If all went to plan it would stop the boat from hitting the roof of the garage. By now, she was desperate for breath and headed quickly back to the surface.

On her next dive, she dragged herself back under the roof structure and pulled a pair of wire cutters from her belt pouch. She began work on the rear metal cord holding the pug to the car. It was tougher than she had anticipated and it took both hands and much longer than expected to cut the line. She had her back braced against the underside of the roof when the line finally snapped. Immediately the rear of the pug bounced up, almost knocking the cutters from her hand. It stopped just short of the roof, arrested by the front metal cord and the rope she had attached. She had to surface again before tackling the front cord. She managed to cut this one much faster and the pug bobbed higher, the stern hitting the roof with a gentle thump. The majority of the pug was held away from the jagged metal at a forty-five degree angle by the rope. Her plan appeared to be working.

Girra ascended again and this time stayed on the surface while she caught her breath. Her five dives had stretched her capacity and she had a metallic tang in her mouth that told her that she needed to take a break or risk blacking out on the next dive. As she rested, she watched the schools of fish below her. A larger shape emerged from around the ruins of a two-story building that thrust out of the weed bed to the south. It had the distinctive shape of a shark. Girra tensed but quickly relaxed when she realised it was a Dusky Whaler. It would only be dangerous if she bothered it. At about one and a half metres, it was still a juvenile and no threat to her. Another, even smaller shape followed it out into the open, swimming with that distinctive side-to-side motion that clearly identified it as another shark.

She considered her next move. Knowing that she would struggle to get enough leverage to drag the pug out from under the roof, she decided to try and counterbalance it. She returned to the Devil and searched through her gear. She came up with the string bag that she normally used for her dive gear and another short section of rope. She attached the rope to the top of the string bag with a midshipman's hitch and pulled it tight. Tucking the rope and the bag into a ball in her fist, she dived again.

When she reached the pug, she pulled out the rope and, with a quick-release tumble hitch, tied it to the middle of the line holding the pug to the sea floor. Then she dived to the bottom, grabbed a loose paving stone and swam back to place it in the string bag. It took another five dives before she had shifted enough rocks into the bag to drag the pug down slightly from the roof of the garage.

After another rest on the surface, Girra dived again; ready this time to move the pug. Her dives were getting shorter each time as she tired. Her biggest concern now was black-out and she knew she only had a few dives left before she would have to rest properly. Pulling herself under the roof once more, she grabbed the stern of the pug and, using powerful strokes of her fins, moved it out to the edge of the roof. At this point, the rope attached to the counterbalance was not long enough for her to get the kayak out any further. Returning to the front of the pug she reached down and prepared to release the tumble hitch by pulling on the loose end.

Just as she did so, a shadow fell over her and she quickly looked up. A Hammerhead shark had drifted just overhead, passing over the roof. There was no mistaking the species, with its hammer shaped front sweeping from side to side. It was almost as big as she was. As she turned to follow its path, she forgot she was holding the rope and the hitch suddenly released. The pug shot upwards, the bow smacking into the side of her head as it rose, knocking her mask askew. Water flooded her vision as the mask filled and she flailed backwards.

Instinctively she knew she had to calm her movements. The shark would interpret any flailing as a sign of injury or distress and would likely come in for a closer look. Unable to see clearly, she aligned herself with the sunlight coming from the surface so she would know which way was up and started to swim towards it. She pushed her mask back into place with one hand and holding the top tight against her face, she breathed rapidly out of her nose to drive the water out the bottom. The first attempt got half the water out. The second cleared the mask completely, but left her without any air in her lungs at all. She knew immediately that she had made a mistake. She was still a good ten metres from the surface and finning hard. At about five metres to go, her torso started to convulse from the lack of oxygen - trying to fight her instinct not to breathe. The spear fishers called it Samba and it usually preceded a black-out. In a panic, she finned harder, her vision closing in on her. Her lungs were on fire and the convulsions in her chest were getting stronger, her body trying to force her to breathe. As she hit the surface, she was finning so hard her shoulders and chest came fully out of the water. She sucked in a mouthful of air, filling her lungs, but in the back of her mind, she knew that she may still black out. It could take almost twenty seconds or so for a breath to get oxygen to her brain. She rolled onto her back in case, hoping her face would stay above the water if she passed out.

After two or three breaths her peripheral vision started to come back and she knew she was out of danger. Girra immediately held her breath, rolled over and looked down. The hammerhead was coming directly up at her from below. The bubbles from her attempts to clear her mask, along with her thrashing on the surface were attracting it towards her. Its front pectoral fins were standing straight down from its body, an aggressive posture and a possible prelude to an attack. She kicked her fins at it, hoping to hit it with the fibreglass part and upset its attack run. Its whole body swept from side to side as it picked up speed. It was coming at her so fast! Her fins churned the water beneath her in her frantic attempts to head off the attack. At the last moment, it turned, its eyes open. It wasn't attacking - at least not yet. It would have closed its eyes to protect them if it was seriously going to bite her.

She dragged her snorkel back into her mouth, cleared it and started to breathe again. Lying on the surface she watched as the hammerhead cruised about ten metres below her in a large circuit. It did not appear to be focussed on her at the moment. She tried to relax and calm her racing heart. She could see the pug standing vertically upright from its mooring below her, ready for its explosive rush to the surface when it was released.

After a few minutes, the shark seemed to lose interest and drifted down, heading into deeper water to the east. Once she lost sight of it, she prepared to dive again. She reached the pug once more and realised from the pain behind her eyes and the tingling in her face that this would have to be the last dive, and that it had to be a short one. She couldn't risk taking the time to untie the rope so she dived directly to the mooring point, pulling her knife out of her ankle scabbard as she did so. As she reached to cut the rope, she saw that the hammerhead was returning. She sawed at the rope until, with an explosive rush, the pug rocketed upwards. She tried to grab the line as it took off, hoping to hitch a ride, but missed. She watched as it raced towards the surface.

With the knife still in her hand she started her ascent, trying to remain calm to conserve her oxygen. From the deeper water to the east came two more shapes, no three, all the distinctive hammerhead shape. There were more shadows behind them in the gloom. By the time she was half way back up, the school was over eight strong. All mature hammerheads of two metres or more in length, all cruising with that distinctive shark side-to-side swivel. She knew that hammerheads could form large schools but she had never seen one. They seemed to be moving towards the pug; probably more interested in the disturbance on the surface rather than her. She thought she was probably still safe if she could get to her kayak, but that rational voice was starting to get swamped by rising panic.

The spears always said that sharks only attack if they don't think there is any risk to them. If you can intimidate them, they usually keep their distance. She didn't think that she would look very intimidating to a school of eight hammerheads, most of whom were considerably bigger than she was. She finned strongly, but carefully at an angle that would allow her to surface well away from the pug. When she finally made it topside, she struck out strongly for the Devil, watching the school all the time. As she neared the boat, several of the school turned up towards her and with quick flicks of their tails they started to rapidly close the distance. She saw even more sharks appearing out of the depths in the distance.

Now in a real panic, she frantically tried to close the distance to the Devil. The sharks were considerably faster than her. She reached the boat and dived under the ama, aiming to surface directly up in the gap between the hull and the outrigger. Misjudging slightly because she was trying to keep the sharks in sight, she smacked the top of her head against the aka as she surfaced. The unexpected hit knocked her back under the surface and she almost took a mouthful of water. Ignoring the lancing pain from the hit, she turned, sputtering, to grab the gunwale. With a tremendous heave, assisted with a powerful kick from her fins, she pulled herself halfway onto the kayak, lying face down across the seat. She immediately tried to lift her legs out of the water but her ankles and fins still trailed just below the surface. She felt a sudden pressure against her fins from below. Frantically she rolled over, sitting upright and bringing her fins up to rest on the ama. She was now fully out of the water. That had to be the fastest exit from the water she had ever done. Her arms were shaking from the effort and the panic that had given her the strength to do it. Looking down, she could make out several dark shapes directly below her, but none broke the surface. She knew that they could have caught her if they were seriously trying.

She swung around to sit in the seat properly, her legs in front of her and her fins rising vertically above the deck. She lay back, looking up at the cloudless blue of the sky through the glass of her mask. Her pulse was slowly fading in her ears and the trembling of her limbs slowly eased. That was far too close, she thought. The fact that those big schools of Trevally and Snapper were so close in to shore should have warned her that there might be sharks about. After a moment, she raised her mask over her head, dropping it into the well behind her. Closing her eyes, she thought she would rest a while before getting the pug.

- Three -

Wei Feng

Feng watched as the red sailboat made its way slowly southward. It was towing a small brightly-coloured craft behind it. He had spotted the boat earlier as he made his way carefully through the burnt-out ruins. It had been anchored offshore with nobody on board at the time. He adjusted his position and reached into his pack for his binoculars. He was just below the crest of the hill, the highest point on the island, sitting at the edge of a cracked and overgrown road. He was careful to keep to the dappled shadows thrown by a large spreading paperbark tree so that the sun wouldn't catch the lenses of his binoculars, potentially giving away his position.

Through the binoculars he saw that it was a long, narrow craft, with two short outriggers; no doubt needed to keep it stable when under sail. It had a single square-cut white mainsail with a blue and white pennant flying from the mast-top indicating that the boat was from the Cresswell settlement. With a light breeze coming from the east, he was on the leeward side of the boat so his view of the occupant was masked by the sail. It was making good progress despite the light breeze.

From his vantage point, Feng could see the southern tip of Curra Island to the north-east, with its white lighthouse rising above the cliff-tops. The lighthouse no longer operated of course, but it provided a lookout for any boats approaching the islands from the seaward side. Through the binoculars, he saw a tall pole right on the edge of the cliff. It had a crossbeam at the top with ropes hanging from it to form a triangle. Two flags flew from the ropes on either side of the pole, although his binoculars were not strong enough to make out any details. It was clearly a signalling device of some sort. Pulling his notebook out of his trouser pocket he made a careful note.

Sweeping the glasses across to the north-eastern tip of Cresswell Island, he could see white water breaking just off-shore. That must be the notorious Knife Rocks that protected that approach to the island. The remains of a submerged island, those shoals were difficult to navigate and had claimed many unwary boats over the years. There were a couple of sails in the distance to the east. Fishing boats most likely from Cresswell or Curra.

Through the trees to the south-east he caught glimpses of the grey rusting hulk of the Leeuwin. From this vantage point, it would normally have been difficult to work out what it was, but he was aware of the stories of Cresswell's sentinel. The Leeuwin was an old warship, run aground close to the settlement. A relic of Cresswell's past as a naval base, the ship was rumoured to have working armaments that could shred any hostile vessel stupid enough to approach the port unannounced. The threat of its power was one of the things that made Cresswell such a formidable player in the area. One of his tasks was to find out if the stories were true.

It was just after mid-day and Feng's stomach rumbled. He had been travelling cautiously through the ruined town all morning after a bruising, but uneventful landing. The Captain had proved as good as her word and he had managed to drag himself ashore amidst the ruins that peppered the northern end of the island just before dawn. Dark bruises on both his legs testified to the hidden dangers under the water, but he was pleased that he had managed the landing without any worse injuries. Any open wounds or cuts could have attracted predators, both in the water and on land.

The Judgement fires had obviously been fierce in this area and the houses that remained were simply burnt out shells, with no real structure left standing. A heavy understory of wattles and banksias under the towering gum trees would have made the going tough except for a network of cracked, decaying roads that ran through the town. Feng was cautious of these as they were the most exposed areas and the most likely to be trapped or watched. However, he had encountered no difficulties and seen no evidence of any recent visitors to the area. This entire northern end of the island appeared to be unused and unprotected, except by the treacherous shoals formed by the ruins that surrounded the shoreline.

He could not see the Cresswell settlement from his current position so he would have to move further south if he was to fulfil his mission. He decided to eat first, dipping into his backpack for supplies. He sat munching on some dried apple and nuts as he watched the red boat sail out of sight behind the trees.

- Four -

Red

The Devil approached the area of sand next to the main slip and pier. Girra had raised the centreboard and feathered the rudder while still fifty metres out in order to avoid any chance of catching on anything. There were many obstacles under the water on this side of the pier, left over when the lower town was flooded. She slackened the main sheet and pulled on the furling line. The mast spun in place, furling the sail neatly along its length. The housing for the mast locked the mast vertically while allowing it to spin freely using a ball-bearing ringed collar. When the sail was deployed, the furling line wound around the base of the mast. It could then be used to spin it back the opposite direction to re-furl the sail. It was pre-Judgement technology that her father had maintained and repaired over the years.

The boat crunched gently onto the sand and she climbed out. The Devil sat so low in the water that spray and waves made the seating area constantly wet when under sail. As a result, she was soaking wet from the waist down and the water dripping down her legs was making her a little cold. She pulled the craft above the waves. The tide was almost at its highest point so she didn't have to move the boat far to secure it. Walking over to the plethora of boxes and nets piled next to the slip, she picked up a large plastic container and placed it on top of a trolley with large wire-spoked wheels, pulling it back to the Devil. She began to load her diving gear and any removable fittings, such as her tether ropes, into the container.

She had just finished loading the equipment when she was startled by a man's voice behind her. Saw you come in. Nice craft. It was a voice she didn't recognise.

Without turning Girra nodded curtly and replied, Yeah.

You've got a furling system on the mast. How's that work with the boom? I couldn't see from up the hill.

It has no boom, she responded. The mainsheet attaches to the trailing edge of the sail and goes back through a block on the rear transom. That keeps the sail shape. She pointed to the mainsheet block.

Yeah, clever. The man said. So you must have some battens or something to stop deformation. How do they work with the furling system?

Curious about who this knowledgeable man was, she turned. The man was a giant. Even taller than her mother, the broad expanse of his chest seemed to eclipse the sky.

You're huge, she said, not realising that she had spoken the thought until it was too late. She felt like putting her hand over her mouth to stop any more inane comments bursting forth.

He grinned at her, a flash of white in the depths of his scraggly beard.

It's the beard. It makes me look taller.

She was annoyed at herself for being caught off guard. He must think her a child. Her annoyance translated to a flash of anger.

Who are you? The words came out more harshly than she wanted.

He tilted his head to