Zero

Chapter 1

COUNTING: 10 DAYS-07 HOURS-00 MINUTES-56 SECONDS-ACCURACY AFFIRMED

Hand me that ring spanner, please, Matt! a straining voice called from Esau’s engine cowl. With his head buried deep inside the floatplane’s solitary radial power plant, he balanced his wiry elderly body over the aircraft’s stubby nose with his feet dangling in mid-air. Floatplane repairs were Beaver Jack’s life, but he was getting older and the gymnastics required to reach the engine bay of a moored aircraft were telling on the old body, nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to retire. Awkwardly suspended two metres above the waterline and teetering on his stomach, all it needed for Beaver Jack Marshall to plunge into Morgan Lagoon’s crystal clear tarn was a sudden unintended move.

It’d happened before!

Once when a determined fastener resisted the mechanic’s attempts to crack its stubborn hold to the point it refused to budge, things changed abruptly when the resistance churlishly gave way under Beaver Jack’s aggressive shove. The elderly licensed aircraft mechanic groaned as he realised what was coming, slipped and suddenly plunged from the cowl and dropped spread-eagled into the clear and deep water. Things only got worse for Beaver Jack when, safely confined to the floatplane’s mooring wharf and not more than a metre away from the action, waiting passengers and flabbergasted onlookers erupted with such hilarity, obviously enjoying the consequences of an intensely bad decision. Turning abruptly from mirth to protest, the spectators bitterly complained when they shared the chilling aftereffects as the mechanic’s demise showered an unrepentant audience with cold lake water. Shaking off the deluge with loud squeals, the audience’s laughter burgeoned when Jack disappeared under the water’s surface, and intensified out of control seconds later as Jack bobbed up victoriously, showcasing his shining spanner still grasped firmly in his wiry hand.

So when are you taking a trip into the big city, Matt? Jack’s voice distorted, partially blocked by Esau’s metal frame and sounding like his speech emanated from a well.

Matt reached up from the dock where Esau was securely moored and pushed the spanner into Jack’s blindly grasping hand, but winced when Jack’s question drifted down to assault his ears. You never give up, do you, Jack?! Matt sighed good naturedly, yet loud enough, giving the elderly mechanic an indication he’d hit a raw nerve... the same nerve. I’ve told you before, Jack! Girls just don’t go for blue eyes, pale skin, freckles and red hair!

Beaver Jack’s head suddenly appeared over Esau’s engine cowl. A greasy smudge ran down his cheek, giving him the appearance of an Indian brave about to go on the warpath. With the spanner being used as a teacher’s pointer directed straight at the younger man, Jack began the recital Matt had heard a thousand times before. A woman who’s worth her salt looks past the exterior box and sees the heart of a man. Character and soul are far more valuable to the Lord than fading temporary looks that disappear with increasing age.

Character and soul may be valuable to the Lord, Jack, but try offering it to one of today’s women without the handsome exterior and see how far you get. Not everyone’s as wise and discerning as your Nancy! Matt smiled to himself in victory, knowing Jack’s adoration for his long time wife, Nancy, would easily distract the lecture and send the elderly aircraft mechanic on a tangent.

"Now there’s a woman to be admired. She was the prettiest gal on the block and I was just a mangy mongrel, but she married... me! Don’t know what she was thinking and a finer woman you’d never find..."

Matt grinned as Beaver Jack successfully sidetracked onto his familiar rave, but left Matt’s personal life smarting from the assault. As usual, Jack’s constant hints had found its mark, prompting a mellow mood to drift over Matt, hopeless of ever finding a decent lady to call his own. Even if a pretty girl with character came within shouting distance of his ruddy features, nothing he had would convince her to take a second look.

There you go, all finished, Jack’s adoring rave came to a sudden end with this latest piece of news. Now all we need is that part from the city to complete the job and hopefully it should arrive today or tomorrow on the supply plane.

The abrupt change of topic and Jack’s unexpected tone interrupted Matt’s sombre thoughts while the elderly mechanic precariously replaced Esau’s engine panels and wiped the gleaming paintwork with a rag before sidling off Esau’s stubby nose. Better start the cantankerous old man and give his engine a test.

Will it be alright to start with the old part still in place, Jack? Matt appeared a little concerned.

"Yeah, it’s just a precaution replacing it, anyway. Considering the country you fly over, we don’t want to take any chances."

Once again, Matt obeyed Jack’s spanner-pointing directive and climbed behind the pilot’s seat, making sure the older man was well clear of Esau’s propeller range. With Jack safely on the dock stretching his arthritic frame and ironing out his bony stiffness, Esau’s radial motor burst quickly into life, showering the old mechanic and the dock in a healthy blue cloud. Grinning from ear to ear and satisfied with the engine’s growling tone, Matt quickly shut down the galumphing machine and gratefully bounced from the plane’s cockpit and onto the dock.

I don’t know how I would’ve managed without your help, Jack. The tourist season opens in two days. Can I pay you when I get my first cheque?

Jack nodded, but knew Matt’s tours weren’t very popular with patrons, especially with Mason Brand’s charismatic and handsome features muscling in on the tourist traffic. It seemed Brand had a successful advertising regime in the distant cities showcasing his blond, athletic good looks and his sleek, late model floatplane all neatly pasted to a poster of Morgan Lagoon’s invigorating picture backdrop and the untouched wilderness beyond. Brand’s shameless charm verged deceptively on white lies, but had captured the attention and restlessness of pampered and wealthy, middle-class tourists looking for a dangerous new adventure... all from the air-conditioned safety and comfort of a flying picture theatre.

Some operators, intent on challenging Mason Brand for business, had ignited an advertising war and the once unknown isolated lagoon had become a household word, drawing the complaining stench of idle riches to the settlement in ever-increasing droves. Unfortunately, an undesirable knock-on effect developed out of the attention, with Morgan Lagoon becoming crowded by itinerant floatplanes and less than honourable operators hoping to capitalise on the tantalising and free television publicity.

According to Jack’s often repeated legend, the small lagoon had been formed overnight and long ago when a large, spherical chunk of space rock took umbrage to the earth blocking its determined trajectory, hurtling through space and prompting the two stellar opponents to lock horns in a destructive battle. The audacious streaking comet plunged into the obstinate globe, hoping to inflict a mortal wound and gore the planet away from blocking the heavens, but only managed to achieve an open fissure in its dense forest and a blackened gaping hole in the ground. Within a heartbeat, the spectacular smoking conflict had been settled and the earth declared victory, leaving the comet’s legacy and final resting place to fill with pure water in one torrential rainstorm as Morgan Lagoon was born.

No one, not even Jack, knew—or cared—who Morgan was or whether he was the first to discover the pristine lake carved into the intense forest. The comet’s scar, however, offered a natural approach through the dense tree line and onto the small waterway, making it possible to land a floatplane onto the restrictive tarn. Without it, the lagoon would be too small even for the legendary and fabled Beaver floatplane. Left for eons undisturbed, Morgan Lagoon had been unofficially discovered by Jack and Nancy twenty years ago on a chance floatplane adventure, and soon after leasing the land, they’d retired to the remote and isolated paradise. The thought of visitors or restricting strangers from enjoying their discovery had never crossed their minds, but now the small but picturesque hamlet bordering the high wilderness’ southern boundary had become insufferably busy.

In the pleasant, dry and mild tropical winter months, the warm and clear winter days offered the perfect ambience as Morgan Lagoon became the base and springboard into one of the world’s last true open and unexplored natural rainforest playgrounds. Accessing the remote village was a bone-jarring, week-long trek on dishevelled, unpaved and maze-like wilderness roads, traversable only in the dry season by all-terrain vehicles or a tedious four-hour journey onboard a rattling supply plane. During the wet, hot and humid summer months, Morgan Lagoon’s itinerant population disbanded and disappeared with the tourists, unable to cope with the unpleasant monsoon season; although a handful of die-hards remained with their floatplanes, keeping a stake on their rented caravan accommodation and privileged mooring spot for the coming season. This circumvented the angry fights which easily erupted when the squabbling squadron and the tourists returned.

To survive as a successful floatplane tour operator in Morgan Lagoon’s crowded, stiff and highly competitive winter market required a handful of specialist skills. First and foremost, a handsome face and rippling physique, coupled with charisma and a smooth and flattering voice. Then to tie the performance together, an intimate knowledge of the intense wilderness’ outer extremities and a cowboy-pilot attitude, impressing the audience with extreme aircraft acrobatics that would put any circus clown to shame.

The ruthless and vigorously successful pilots had a predictable approach—teasing, lady-killer instincts tickling the plain-featured and wealthy, middle-aged women passengers with unashamed flattery. Then separating the unsuspecting married couple and placing the narcissistic female victim in the co-pilot seat while their unaware male partner languished stupidly somewhere in the back... completely blind to the game. As the flight skimmed over untouched lakes and squeezed through impossibly tight canyons—exhilarating his prey with delighted squeals—the pilot flirted shamelessly, igniting and toying with long forgotten emotions trapped in the dull repetition of pampered domestic boredom. The experience not only provoked a sense of mystery and strong attraction within the elated quarry toward the handsome pilot, but ensured the unscrupulous businessman would have a ready source of income as word of mouth spread among the well-to-do middle class and likeminded women looking for a dangerous spark.

On the contrary, shy and polite Matthew Hayes couldn’t stoop to such lows, and for his stance, his tour operation struggled to survive. But the business he’d managed to secure was a small, select group of satisfied and compatible customers that shared Matt’s desire to keep Morgan Lagoon’s secretive face... secret. Esau, Matt’s beloved 1956 Beaver floatplane was an immediate hit among his limited and peculiar clientele. Not one tour was complete without a group photograph in front of Esau’s brightly painted scarlet fuselage and an effigy depicting a scruffy, red-hairy warrior of Biblical proportions painted on both sides of the plane. Along with Matt’s shock of red hair, the tour wasn’t easily forgotten, with most people able to recall Matt and Esau’s names, even if Morgan Lagoon’s identity escaped their memory.

For the members of Matt’s enthusiastic but meagre clientele, the wilderness experience included a breathtaking picnic and swim at Surprise Eden, the drawcard and jewel in Matt’s invigorating wilderness experience. On a clear approach to the clandestine and mysterious, well-hidden utopia, the view left his exclusive guests speechless as Esau shoehorned along a stretch of tight and heavily forested river canyons snaking just above the waterline and immediately below the impenetrable plateau’s jungle canopy. Then as the river widened and the floatplane landed, Esau bumped along until he reached the obscure entrance.

Although the fabled Eden’s existence had become somewhat of a taunting folklore among Morgan Lagoon’s competitive floatplane operators and their clientele, no one could actually weasel its location from Esau’s tight-lipped, redheaded pilot or his guests. To maintain the secretive ambiguity, Matt shut down all positioning instruments just before entering a fifty-kilometre radius, depriving any astute passenger a clue to its whereabouts and foil any attempt to sell the coordinates to a rival.

Standing on the jetty next to Matt and busy cleaning up the remnants of Esau’s repair, Jack stole a sideways glance at the young pilot, suspecting the presence of a familiar emotion and the distant fire of unwise adventure burning furiously in a faraway look. "You haven’t got any cockamamy ideas of the deep wilderness again, have you, Matt?!" Without looking up, Beaver Jack’s voice competed with the tinkling spanners while his hands worked furiously, cleaning his tools of trade before placing them meticulously back into their specific home within the well loved kit.

Matt seemed amused at Jack’s perceptiveness. Am I that easy to read?

Jack’s leathery old hands froze in mid-polishing and turned to face the starry-eyed twenty-five year old. "Trying to gain an advantage over the other operators by expanding deep within the wilderness and leaving the other tours to skirt the fringes isn’t a smart idea, Matt."

Matt became concerned at the rebuke and remembered Jack warning against the prospect before, but considered the elderly mechanic was simply kidding. It was true. No one had ventured deep within the wilderness and lived to tell the tale, especially since the unexplored region had an uncanny knack of throwing up unpredictable dry season storms and exhausting an aircraft’s fuel resources fighting the melee. Some had foolishly attempted the feat but had never returned, with the thick jungle perfectly hiding a suspected crash site in an expansive tangle of constantly changing vegetative conspiracy.

The secretive wilderness was a shy and foreboding place to modern man and his contrivances, pulling the curtain closed against his conquering efforts with a defining clunk and sealing the mysterious disappearances into man’s imagination and the constricting and sticky goo of legend. The fact none of the other tour operators would even consider the deep wilderness had almost become an obsession with Matt. Secretly deciding at some point to push Esau to his limits, Matt was intent on challenging the absurd fairy tales surrounding the legend and conquer the fabled yarn with practical truth.

Do you really think it’s inconceivable to venture inside the deepest parts of the wilderness and also survive, Jack?

I told you about Surprise Eden, Matt. Just be happy with that and leave well enough alone. Eden’s far enough into the wilderness to be adventurous, but close enough to be safe, Jack seemed less than amused at Matt’s probing.

"Yes, you did and I’m very grateful, Jack. If you hadn’t, I doubt Esau and I would still be here. Matt unexpectedly laughed, drawing Jack’s attention while recalling the tricks of other operators trying to pry the coordinates from his grasp—or worse, soliciting information from his elated but stoic passengers. The competition are still trying to work out whether Eden exists, and if so, where it is. I’m sure they will find it eventually, but there’s a big difference between the other operators venturing the four hours to Eden and a full day’s travel into the deep wilderness. As far as I know, nobody’s ever gone in and come out to tell the story. But if I could..."

"Yeah, they have and trust me, you don’t wanna go there, boy!"

Jack’s accidental disclosure and matter-of-fact statement caught Matt off-guard, interrupting his euphoria and causing the young pilot to stare intensely at the elderly mechanic’s back as he finished packing away his kit. Matt hadn’t heard this story before and Jack’s casual statement broadsided the redhead, igniting a storm of curiosity.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 2

COUNTING: 10 DAYS-02 HOURS-34 MINUTES-06 SECONDS-ACCURACY AFFIRMED

Standing on Esau’s float, Matt stooped to avoid a collision with the cockpit door while he hinged it past his head. Balanced on the correct side of the closing barrier, he slammed it shut, reached up and slid the key into the lock and sealed his pride and joy closed, denying people with less than honourable intentions admission into his aircraft partner’s interior. Standing beside the charismatic Beaver and scanning the crowded floatplane flotilla, Matt considered the breathtaking changes he’d seen in the four short years since his unusual arrival. Back then, locking a floatplane in such a remote location would bring a bout of ridicule from the locals, but since the dubious flood of tourism contenders had swelled the population to incredible levels, locking up was now a crucial part of each day.

When he had a tour, Matt and Esau were usually the last to leave Morgan Lagoon and the last to arrive back, and with more and more floatplanes arriving daily for the winter season, he and Esau had been pushed to the only remaining space on the furthest point from the semicircular dock’s entry. Most of the operators claimed a specific space on the mooring pecking order and woe betide anyone who dared to challenge the status quo. Usually the offence ended with a verbal slanging match and if the culprit still refused to move, the dispute escalated until the shouting disintegrated into physical blows. Matt had no such philosophy and couldn’t see the sense in a fight for a parking space, simply because he’d be continually fighting and challenging, as most of the testosterone-filled pilots were. Esau’s mooring position generally didn’t bother Matt and if he had to walk an extra few hundred metres to reach his aircraft, so be it.

Although, with the growing number of suspect pilots and their dubious craft arriving daily, he worried that Esau was tethered a bit too close to the hapless action if a floatplane misjudged a takeoff or landing. The young pilot’s instincts were so finely honed that he could tell whether a pilot had botched their approach or takeoff simply by the tone of the aircraft’s engine in relation to the aircraft’s position. Hearing the nauseating sounds of a troubled and bungled setup, he held his breath and cringed, willing safety for Esau, only relaxing after the floatplane and pilot had somehow fumbled through the crisis. When Jack built the initial floatplane landing, he’d never considered it would be necessary to add to it every year, but even with the high volume of new arrivals, he was determined there would only ever be one entry point to the makeshift mooring dock.

Guided by a nagging prophetic voice but unsure of the reason, Jack and Nancy obeyed its intuitive suggestion and purposely built their two-storey wooden home just across the road from the lagoon, which would give an unhindered view of the mooring entry point. Now, twenty years later and with a substantial unscreened and itinerant population of floatplane operators coming and going, Jack could keep a wary eye on all traffic—aircraft or people—entering and leaving Morgan Lagoon from the only entrance to the aircraft moorings. Semicircular in shape and taking up almost half of Morgan Lagoon’s heavily treed foreshore, the dock was now almost obscured from the house, overgrown by heavy vegetation with only a passing glimpse available from the second-floor bedroom.

Swamped by an ever-increasing tide of floatplanes and people, accommodation became a necessity in the isolated outpost. At Nancy’s instigation, a neat and sprawling mobile home park sprang up behind Beaver Jack’s two-storey home, the single permanent structure in Morgan Lagoon and located on the only open and flat ground for hundreds of kilometres. Unforeseen, their retirement dream had become both home and work for Jack and Nancy, kept busy almost 7 days a week supplying essentials such as fuel, food and power to the ordered camping ground, supplemented by Jack’s floatplane repairs. The unexpected boon had provided the elderly couple with a ready stream of income sustaining their unusual and remote lifestyle.

"You coming home for lunch, Matt?!" Jack called from down the jetty, his heavy toolkit weighing down his hand and giving his wiry old body a lopsided saunter.

Shaken from his thoughts and waving to Jack, Matt reached over Esau’s float, kissed the richly painted red fuselage and bid his mistress a fond goodnight. Catching up with Beaver Jack, Matt couldn’t help recalling the earlier conversation and the strange story the old mechanic had alluded to. So who do you know that took a journey into the wilderness and returned to tell the story, Jack?

I thought I told you to abandon that foolishness, boy, Jack glanced sideways at Matt, but left the warning to marinate for a few more minutes, hoping he would drop the subject.

As the two men walked from the landing entry and across a dirt street to the tidy, two-storey wooden structure, Matt glanced towards an open space to a neat array of caravans parked in the campground behind Jack and Nancy’s home. The caravan closest to the house and defying the orderly regimented rows caught Matt’s attention. It was Jack and Nancy’s first home while the house was being built, but now it was Matt’s and had been ever since his unconventional arrival when Esau ran out of fuel and forced the adventurous young man into a fuel-critical emergency landing. Jack and Nancy had been the only mum and dad he’d ever known, with their kindness and love holding Matt to Morgan Lagoon like a magnet.

Forced to live on the streets as a very young teen and fend for himself, Matt had decided to make something of his life, and while the other street kids stole and dissipated into drugs, he hung around an aircraft hangar day after day, pestering people in the hope someone would give him a chance at a job. Soon Matt’s persistence paid off, with the boss noticing the bedraggled and freckle-faced redhead kid, eventually offering him the distinguished position of hangar rat. As hangar rat, Matt did all the mundane jobs: washing aircraft, sweeping floors and every demeaning dirty task no one else wanted to stoop down to.

Matt’s fervour and tenacity to his work didn’t go unnoticed and when the boss saw him sitting in a parked aircraft playing with the controls and making noises as if he was flying, he took the youngster on a joy flight. When the controls were offered to the wide-eyed boy in mid-air, Matt knew he’d found his heart’s desire, with the aircraft immediately becoming an extension of the boy’s unusual personality. The boss watched the teen as he flew the craft, quickly realising he was sitting in the cockpit with a gifted future pilot, able to anticipate and feel every movement the small plane made.

At fifteen, Matt had been presented with his aircraft operator’s licence and promoted to cargo delivery pilot, flying the boss’ small aircraft fleet into remote and dangerous mountain airstrips; while at sixteen, he’d mastered the art of floatplanes, taking the youngster further into isolated territory.

Just after his twentieth birthday, Matt found Esau for sale, looking sad and unkempt, moored to a small jetty and forgotten as life slowly left the floatplane to rot. With Esau’s price inexplicably falling to a level Matt could afford, he spent his meagre savings to purchase the antique de Havilland Beaver, bravely flying the faltering old timer back to the hangar, and with the permission and participation of his boss, they lovingly restored the tired machine together. Esau’s paint job and effigy was a reflection of Matt’s life story: a ruddy survivor, often despised and rejected simply because of his hair colour, freckles and pale skin. Quickly finding disharmony among his peers, Matt would often unwittingly walk into a tense situation as a 'hero' looked for a way to pick a fight, belittling the smaller boy and bolstering his own effluent esteem at Matt’s expense. Girls were even more brutal with Matt’s character assassination, and he learnt to avoid people altogether, teaming up with Esau instead.

Pulling the front door open and placing his toolkit on the floor, Jack called out, forcing Matt to refocus. We’re back, Nan. Everything under control?!

The intensely pleasant odour of baking bread wafted into the entry and made Matt’s stomach growl, closely followed by the appearance of a familiar yet small and agreeable elderly woman whose face was flushed with the heat of cooking. "Hello, honey... Matt! Have you boys finished already? You’re just in time. Fresh bread’s just come out of the oven and lunch is waiting. You are staying for something to eat, Matt?"

As Matt scanned the kitchen table, he noticed three places already prepared. Nancy always asked, but she made no secret she was expecting Matt’s presence. If it’s no imposition, Nancy, Matt responded to the routine question, being polite but thankful for the invitation.

Always good to have a handsome young man at the meal table with my handsome older man, Nancy’s eyes glistened in fondness and then the elderly couple embraced. Pulling out of Jack’s cuddle, Nancy remembered an important issue, sure her husband would have an allergic reaction to her request. Oh, honey, while I think about it. There’s a young writer coming to stay with us for a couple of months, and so the upstairs room needs to be cleaned up. They wanted a quiet room with a view of the lagoon to help with writing ambience, so you’ll need to find somewhere else to store your floatplane parts.

With agitated spots appearing on Jack’s leathery skin, the implications of his beloved wife’s request began to sink in. Darn it, Nan! It’ll take me a month to shift all that stuff!

Nancy sidled up to her husband and threw her arms over his neck while Matt watched Beaver Jack turn into spotted putty in his woman’s embrace. For me?! she sealed his fate with a smooch.

Matt began to squirm, shifting on his feet, uncomfortable with the play. I’ll give you a hand, Jack, the young pilot offered, hoping to put an end to the torture.

Once the three people had settled around the meal table and Jack had offered a brief prayer of thanksgiving, the atmosphere erupted in a ballet of clanking dishes and cutlery.

With his fork halfway to his mouth, Matt remembered his curious question which Jack had expertly sidestepped. So who made the journey into the wilderness, Jack, and lived to return and how come I’ve never heard this story before?

Jack and Nancy exchanged guarded glances, as if Matt was standing in the presence of some great family skeleton.

Without a hint of interrupting his first salivating sample of hot bread and melting butter, Jack bit down heavily and chewed the delightful brew. Mmmmurblelgrumplemumplee, Jack replied, trying to swallow heavily and almost choking.

Nancy stared at Jack, unimpressed, while an amused Matt asked for clarification. Say again, Jack?

Swallowing the last remnants of piping hot bread, Jack tried again. "It was me, boy!"

*~*~*~*

Chapter 3

COUNTING: 09 DAYS-23 HOURS-14 MINUTES-22 SECONDS-ADJUSTMENT-5 NANOSECONDS

Staring down at his plate, Matt had fallen deep into contemplation trying to process Jack’s bombshell while Nancy berated her husband by means of a voiceless stare, communicating volumes and her displeasure at Jack’s cryptic explanation to Matt with a look that only a beloved wife can deliver. Glimpsing Matt’s confused expression, and dissatisfied with Jack’s continued lack of clarification, Nancy’s fork dropped deliberately to her plate, making it clang as the evidence of her annoyance increased. Jack glanced up from rendering another large chunk of hot bread with a layer of butter, in time to catch two fiery grey eyes boring into his and leaving no doubt of their intention.

"What?!" Jack’s sudden exclamation wafted over the meal table, realising he’d somehow drifted innocently into an ambush and was surrounded.

Matt’s astonished thoughts evaporated with the unexpected plate-rattling-din from Nancy’s fork and Jack’s defensive response. With his head still bowed and his eyes hidden by a wild, thick red fringe, Matt stole a quick, guarded peek up from his meal in time to intercept the tense expressions of a husband and wife locked deep in a wordless battle. It was obvious Nancy had some kind of crucial private communication she expected Jack to interpret, but the older man was having difficulty with the code—until Nancy broke communication’s blackout and made her attack plan clear for all to hear.

"Beaver Jack Marshall... you’re incorrigible! You can tune into the unwritten silent language of Beaver floatplanes and their problems with a sixth sense, but when it comes to your wife, it seems you’re illiterate!"

Jack’s face flushed red with embarrassment, knowing he’d missed an important cue and Matt had been dragged into the fray. What was worse, he still had no idea what he’d done wrong or why Nancy was so passionate.

Turning from her husband, Nancy’s turbulent eyes settled on Matt but immediately softened before she began to speak. We ...! Nancy paused for effect and glanced at Jack. We... have ventured into the deep wilderness, but it was only by God’s grace we returned safely!

As if a dark curtain had been pulled back from Jack’s mind, he sighed with relief, suddenly realising why he’d been berated as his highly expressive face spoke a soundless and extremely unwise utterance. Is that what you were upset about? Having processed the story for so many years, Jack had neatly filed the pieces into faraway places of his mind, labelling the hidden crevices with a dire warning: Do not enter. Under confinement of a mental lock and key, the recital no longer affected Jack, but Nancy had the same reaction every time the tale came to light.

Feeling as if she was being minimised, Nancy had read and interpreted Jack’s casual, undeclared communication with uncanny accuracy, and the hapless, unspoken slip had almost ignited a very private world war three.

Can you tell me about it? Matt’s calm and incredulous voice interrupted the comedic interplay with his simple need for understanding, fusing the warring factions together immediately in an unbreakable bond of spousal solidarity.

Realising Matt’s curiosity wasn’t going away and that he was expecting an explanation, Nancy and Jack paused for a moment, amalgamating the story and discussing the details with a flash of eye contact and mentally setting the boundaries of the incredible tale with a knowing and unspoken nod. It seemed the elderly couple were finally on the same page and when Jack mumbled, Are you okay with it, Nan? Nancy took a breath and slowly nodded, releasing the air trapped in her lungs as if she was preparing for some kind of forgotten trauma.

But before the first enlightening words had a chance to form in either Jack’s or Nancy’s imagination, a heavy, Morse-code-like interruption drifted into the kitchen from the front door... tat-tatta-tat...tat-tat. It wasn’t unusual to receive a visitor to the house from the mobile home tenants seeking Jack’s advice or whether he had a certain difficult-to-locate Beaver part in his expansive collection. Nancy’s homemade bread was a big attraction, too, drawing many to the front door just by the heavenly scent wafting enticingly over the vast mobile home park. Paying accounts or obtaining supplies at the front door was an accepted form of business transaction and could be negotiated at any time of the day or night, and today was no different.

I’ll go, Nancy excused herself, setting her napkin on the tablecloth, abandoning her place at the table and happy for an excuse to escape the discussion. She loved people and being around them, so an interruption at any time was seen as a gift and not an unwanted burden. The sound of the wire door opening and Nancy’s cheerful greeting set the tone for the conversation, with a familiar and infamous voice drifting back into the kitchen, causing Matt and Jack to exchange a wary glance.

Lovely afternoon, isn’t it, Nancy.

Hello, Mason. Yes, it is. What can I do for you? Nancy’s pleasant demeanour mimicked the charismatic and handsome Mason Brand’s.

The conversation continued, but the tone had quieted and become indistinguishable until Nancy’s giggles found a delighted path back into the kitchen, alerting the two men to the fact that Brand was flirting again. As if he was making sure the unseen and obviously listening occupants of the house heard his intentions, Brand’s volume deliberately increased, but Nancy hadn’t noticed. She was still revelling in the smooth, flattering talk endlessly rolling off Brand’s tongue and toying with her vanity.

I’ve just come to pay my dues for the next week and pick up some of your scrumptious fresh bread, Nancy. I’m flying down to Mongoose Point this afternoon to have a navigation upgrade done on my aircraft and I won’t be back until my first group of tourists arrive day after tomorrow. I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can get you while I’m in town? It must be awfully difficult for a handsome woman like yourself to be isolated and away from the nice things of life.

Having just sold two loaves of hot bread and collected mobile home dues, Nancy had a beaming smile painted across her face when she floated into the kitchen, rejoining the two men at the table, but her cheerful expression fell immediately, as if someone had poured cold water on her joy, noticing the stern faces. She found her seat and pulled her chair up to the table, quickly moving to lubricate the tense and dry atmosphere. "Such a delightful man!" Nancy offered, starry-eyed.

"He’s a snake, Nancy, and you fall for his ego grease every time!" Jack growled.

A navigation upgrade?! Matt absentmindedly interjected, drawing the elderly couple away from their rapidly escalating discussion and onto Matt’s concerned communication.

"That’s all hot air, Matt! His late model Cessna has all the latest upgrades already fitted. I would say that’s just his way of making you aware he’s going after Eden and trying to steal the business you already have," Jack hotly reported.

"You’re such a tease, Jack Marshall! Mason wouldn’t stoop to such lows, and you should be ashamed planting these treacherous ideas in Matt’s head," Nancy defended, replaying Brand’s enervating flattery with an enchanting sense of pleasure.

"Yeah, Nancy! Then why is he needing an upgrade that doesn’t exist and why is he really going down to Mongoose Point? Brand sweet-talks you and your good sense turns to mud when he’s around," Jack remembered the muffled giggles with displeasure, indignant that such a man could easily hoodwink his usually astute bride.

Nancy had drawn in a deep breath, intent on firing a broadside at her suspicious husband when Matt re-entered the battle.

See. This is why I have to find a way to expand my tours into the deep wilderness and offer something others can’t easily match.

Mason Brand’s awkward character study came to an abrupt halt, reuniting Jack and Nancy’s cohesion and turning their attention back to Matt.

It’s not as easy as all that, Matt, Jack reloaded. "There’s a lot of considerations to take into the calculation. If you think the canopy’s thick on the edge of the wilderness, then the interior is five times as impenetrable, and landing sites are rare. If you have an emergency, Mongoose Point can’t hear your radio transmissions, and a floatplane like Esau, although he’s solid and has five fuel tanks, would be fuel-critical by the time you approached Morgan Lagoon. And if you run into one of those frequent and violent storms out there... Jack stole a quick glance at Nancy, seeing the tide of panic rising in her eyes, silently hoping he wasn’t about to divulge a dreadful secret. There is something..."

"J...Jack!" Nancy’s voice quavered, trying to hide her trembling fear from Matt while giving a pleading warning to her husband.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 4

COUNTING: 09 DAYS-19 HOURS-10 MINUTES-00 SECONDS-ACCURACY AFFIRMED

Nancy climbed the steep, wooden staircase to the second-floor bedroom, closely followed by Jack and then Matt. Standing in front of a doorway and with the men curiously watching her faltering movements, Nancy paused for a few seconds as if she was praying for protection before twisting the door knob. As the door creaked open, the trio were confronted with a mountain of haphazard clutter and a small, dark passage defined by the chaos leading deep into the breezeless room.

"Whoa! You don’t do things by halves, Jack!" Matt peered around Nancy into the crowded space, astonished by the pandemonium and wondered what his idle promise to help had gotten him into.

Fifty years of collecting there, Matt, and I know where every little bit is, too! Jack reported proudly. There’s probably enough parts in here to rebuild three complete Beavers, short of a few highly consumable items, of course.

"Where are we going to put it?!" Matt complained, scratching his head and scrutinising the unruliness with a sobering eye.

In the basement under the house, Nancy quickly interjected, "where it was supposed to go in the first place!" With her arms folded across her chest and a playfully stern expression painted to her face, Nancy glanced sideways at her man, knowing this day would eventually come.

Jack opened his mouth to defend himself, but conceded if he’d followed his wife’s advice, they wouldn’t be attempting such a mammoth task now.

This writer dude must be loaded with money, demanding the only room overlooking the lagoon? Matt directed his uninformed conclusion to Nancy, hoping she would shed some light on the peculiar individual who’d insisted Jack and Nancy rearrange their home.

"Could be, Matt. I don’t rightly know and I’m not sure who the writer is. His agent arranged it all, requiring complete anonymity and quiet, paying a month in advance to secure the room," Nancy seemed pleased to have a potentially famous and lucrative creative artist in the house among a sea of hands-on men well versed in the things of practicality. As far as she was concerned, it would be nice to talk the language of literature around the meal table for once, instead of the intimate workings of a floatplane’s magneto.

Bored with the small talk, Jack sidled around Nancy and then wriggled his way into the musty, second-storey room amid a sea of frenzied torn-open boxes and itinerant parts which had surreptitiously tried to escape along the cluttered floor. Patiently reciting an exacting list of instructions to the sluggish and overwhelmed boys, Nancy then climbed down two flights of stairs until she found the cellar door. As the stiffly resisting access slowly stuttered open and came to a rest against its jamb, she reached around the door frame into the gloomy room, flicking on the light switch and exposing every hiding place. Matt’s pounding boots signalled the willing mule was about to make the first of many deliveries from upstairs, while Nancy quickly formed a plan, resolutely directing the relocation effort from the basement and determined to see order restored to her home and her man.

Matt ferried armfuls of Beaver parts between the second floor and the basement, with Nancy supervising the stacks into neat, recognisable piles. When the flood of parts abruptly slowed to a trickle, she climbed the staircase to discover the cause, finding Jack sitting on the dusty wooden floorboards, his hands lovingly sorting through a tattered box. Lost in a past world of nostalgia and babbling to himself, I didn’t know I had that!

Nancy abruptly re-established order with a tapping foot and her arms crossed against her chest. With the roadblock suitably chastised, Nancy returned to the basement while Matt lifted the last box from Jack’s wistful hands. Stiffly staggering to his feet, Jack dusted down his work clothes and glanced around the empty space, the bare room resonating under the hollow thudding of Matt’s boots as the young pilot stepped down the last few stairs and onto the lower floor. A gentle lagoon breeze found the open window and for the first time in years explored the empty room, playfully taunting a thick layer of dust covering the bedroom floor while ancient fluff balls scurried for cover, seeking shelter in an undisturbed corner.

An unexpected... v-a-r-o-o-m... drew Jack sharply to the room’s now uncluttered pane giving an eagle’s eye view of the lagoon and wondering who would be attempting a late afternoon flight. Recognising Mason Brand’s flashy yellow Cessna skim the trees and disappear from view only a hundred metres from the house, Jack puzzled at Brand’s strange schedule. The sun was sinking low and if indeed Mason was intending to fly to Mongoose Point, he would be arriving late into the night with the assistance of the control tower long shut down. Jack shook his head at Brand’s audacity and although he didn’t like the man, he was good for business, with every move slyly calculated. Very few took on the blond athlete and left with their integrity or wit intact. Losing interest in Brand’s escaping plane, Jack sauntered to the door, intent on organising the new basement storeroom and the stack of boxes he expected to see scattered all across the lowest point of the house.

Meanwhile, Matt had arrived at the basement to transport the last delivery, to find the room’s light had been obscured by mountains of neatly repaired and taped up boxes and Nancy appeared to be nowhere in sight. Nancy! Last box, Matt’s worried voice drifted into the narrow passage created by a wall of packaged parts. Although the room was ordered, it appeared as if the clutter had migrated from the second floor and with a great sigh, dropped two storeys, creating a near carbon copy of itself in the basement.

"I hope Jack doesn’t find any more parts or we’ll have to move out," Nancy’s voice announced from a dark corner before she appeared with dusty smudges covering her apron and streaking her face. At least he should be able to find everything now. A clipboard appeared in the elderly lady’s hands with each box logically numbered and a map of its location marked exactly where it had been placed. A fleeting paradox worried Nancy’s mind. Her husband was every bit as pedantic and maybe more so than she, especially when floatplane repairs were involved, but when it came to a simple charge like keeping a spare room organized and tidy, the task overwhelmed him and chaos reigned supreme while only a closed door could separate entropy from order.

Expecting to find a stack of boxes waiting to be organised when he arrived outside the cellar door, Jack was taken aback as he scrutinised the cellar’s neatly aligned rows with a number clearly etched onto every cardboard face. Although Nancy was efficient and everything had to be numbered and documented, Jack couldn’t follow the logic of her ordered world and it usually led to an intense discussion, with the logistically-challenged elderly man constantly asking where this or that was stored.

Smiling broadly at her logical system and expecting thankful accolades, Nancy grinned at her man, handing Jack the clipboard full of numbers and a brief description beside each digit. However, her face dropped immediately when the elderly man read the first numeral and then the