IVAN THE HERMIT

IVAN THE HERMIT             

They called him the hermit. He hadn’t left the island for twenty-two years except to sail tonight to the Cleveland Jetty with his unmarried younger sister.

The cream sails filled with the breeze and the yacht was on a reach as if on rails. Ivan’s hand gripped the tiller, his eyes searching the coastline for the two massive Bunya pines that were said to mark the entrance to the settlement. The sound of water gurgling along the gunwales was music to his ears as the boat heeled to the pressure of the sails.

        A scream brought him back to the urgency. He flicked the mainsheet out of the cleat and the boat slowed, levelling the angle of the deck. Another scream and he stared into the darkness, the hairs standing up on his arms, his mouth dry.

Emma writhed on the deck; her cotton pinafore stained with her waters. Struggling, she lay on her back staring at the navy sky, mumbling the name of the constellations in between contractions. Her body was swathed in sweat. Her dark hair plastered to her head by the early dew. A gust of wind, and Ivan tacked the boat and brought the ‘Vade’ alongside Black’s Jetty.

        “Come, Emma. You have to get on the jetty.” He cleared his throat, spitting phlegm into the sea.

        “I can’t.” The words were grunts as she panted, her shoulders forcing her body to roll forward onto her knees. “I caaan’t.”

He lifted her in one swoop. Landed her sitting on the jetty. His hands working now to properly secure the lines.

Below, the high tide lapped at the worm holed pylons, with each wave creating a back eddy against the rocky foreshore. The glow from the Vade’s mast-light lit up the overhanging cottonwood trees, their leaves catching the light turning them from green to white.

        Ivan ran towards the road, his bare feet slapping on the wooden planks and setting the jetty into a swaying motion. The ti-tree railings creaked. Emma grasped at them, struggling to stand, her legs apart, her feet stained from the red Macleay Island farmland.

        She screeched, “Ivan”. The baby pressed lower. Its head threatening to emerge. “Ivan, I can’t. Come back. The baby’s coming.”  

        The stars reflected in the sea between the wide slats of the jetty platform. Emmy panted and with each breath the stars seemed to rise from their watery depths to greet her. She concentrated to keep rhythm with them until once again the pressure from her unborn child forced her to lose control. Her scream rented the still air.

The jetty swayed with the weight of people running. Ivan was the first to arrive. He cradled his sister’s limp head, his croaky voice telling her that help was coming. A guttural groan burst from her and she reached between her legs to pull the baby free.

        The jetty boards bounced again as a young woman in nurse’s uniform and the local buggy driver ran to her side.

“Christ, she’s had it already,” he said, and then, “Excuse me, madam,” to the nurse. She roughly tore Emma’s dress open, baring her body to the men.

“Keep still. I’ve got it,” she lifted the baby, so pink and pure and held it upside down by its ankles.

        There was a second or two’s hesitation and then a strong wail, the curlews set up screeching and Emma reached out for her newborn. In the morning gloom, she searched its face, ran her fingers over the doughy softness of its body, arms, legs.

        Bill and the driver lit smokes and leant on the railing looking at the swathe of the sun’s golden rays stretching across the water from Stradbroke Island.

        Emmy caught the reflection of the sunrise between the jetty boards and whispered, “Hello, my sunrise girl.” She rubbed her cheek against the soft black down crowning the baby’s head, smelling the warm scent of new life.

        The nurse busied herself with cleaning her hands on a sterilized cloth. She held up a shiny instrument and a clamp.

        “Hold still.” She was aware of the closeness and the acrid smell of the nurse’s body as the baby’s end of the cord was clamped.

With one cut the umbilical cord lay against Emma’s thigh.

Through the next set of contractions, Emma bit into her bottom lip, breathing deeply until the afterbirth emerged. The nurse placed it into a calico bag, dripping red, then in a metal tin, pressing the lid down tightly. 

        “You. Ivan, is it?”

        “Yes Miss.” Ivan looked down at her pale freckled face.

        “Well, you and Jake carry her to the buggy. I’ll keep the baby. Ward of the State.”

        “What is it? Boy, girl?” Ivan flicked his smoke into the water.

        “It’s no business of yours or anyone’s now.” Her mouth was set in a grim line. She wrapped the baby tightly in a flannelette square, its ankles folded over each other and arms firmly crossed on its chest. Its cry alarmed the early oystermen walking to their punt anchored off the beach. They crowded around the buggy and stared at Emma now shivering uncontrollably under a blanket. She squeezed her eyes shut.

The nurse pushed past them. “Nothing to see here. Be on your way.” They grumbled and the youngest one, his rubber boots way too big as they squelched with each step, held back. Ivan struck a flint, the rolley damp on his lip, he inhaled, and the smoke curled blue as he exhaled.

        “You from that cutter?” The young man asked looking up at the weather-beaten face, chapped lips sucking on the cigarette and eyes restlessly moving, watching everything.

Ivan stepped closer, “Who’s asking?”

The fellow saw Ivan’s threadbare collar on the once white shirt. The flannel grey trousers rolled to the calf and held at the waist by a cracked brown leather belt. He watched Ivan’s jaw twitch and his chest rise with deep breaths as the big man stared down at him.

        “I’m Fischer’s nephew. Stan. Stan Fischer’s nephew. He… they live on Macleay and said you had the ‘Vade. That you were born on the island and were a hermit.’ When there was no answer, he looked at his boots.

Ivan turned towards the buggy with his sister on board. The nurse clutched the baby as she sat erect in the jockey seat next to Jake.

He called over his shoulder to the fellow,

        “’Vade’s’ mine. Twice my sister and I have left Macleay. This is the first time and the last time.” He jumped onto the back of the cart.

End