By Lelita Baldock
A loud knock sounded on Edward’s door just before midday. Percy stood in the hallway. ‘Mr. Harbinger wishes to show you the town and requests your presence.’
His message delivered, the looming young man glided away. Irritated, Edward turned back into the room. Rosalind smiled to herself, observing the set of his face.
‘My love,’ she whispered from her couch by the window. ‘He is playing host. One would expect no less.’ Edward smiled at her and nodded his acceptance. He knew she was right but the knowledge did little to curb his annoyance. Dressed in traveling clothes, Edward headed down the stairs to meet his host.
‘Mr. Harbinger,’ he greeted the ageing gentleman, alert and seemingly unaffected by the heavy drinking of the previous evening. ‘Nice day for a tour, I expect.’
‘Perfect,’ Alistair replied. ‘Glad you could spare me the time.’
‘Of course,’ Edward lied. Alistair smiled knowingly.
‘I am a man of action,’ Alistair began, ‘I love this place, this beautiful place. I want that passion to be described. For that you need to know the passion. You need to live it. I thought I would take you on a tour, show you the township, the place we call home. So that you are well situated. I like to know my guests are comfortable.’
‘Of course,’ Edward repeated, ‘I am delighted and honoured that you have found the time for such a personal excursion.’ With that the two men set off towards the river, Alistair setting a brisk pace.
Almost immediately the smells of the night before, mud and water, filled Edward’s nose. The track on which they walked was of simple dirt, dug out from nature. Unlike the same roads from home, in which wheels became regularly bogged, here the earth seemed perpetually dry. Coming out from behind a small rise, the waterway opened before him. A small group of cottages nestled above the water wore a sandy sheen that emphasised the cream stone of their construction. Green only really began at the waterfront. Overlooked by the squat stone Customs House, the banks of the river were lush with grasses coloured a yellowish hue but thick and wild, giving way to reeds before the brown of murky water emerged. Located on the bend of the river, where it turned to sweep inland, was the port dock. Heavy, blackened timber formed the wharf, a train line right beside it.
Alistair pointed, ‘That line runs all the way to Victor Harbor, a short journey. First railway in South Australia. The business here is to transport the wool and grains of the farms up the river to the cities and townships. The Mighty Murray River,’ he announced proudly. ‘She’s a special river. Runs all the way to New South Wales and links in with the Darling River system up there. Powerful and beautiful, but temperamental.’
They came to the water and the dark grey wood of the dock. It was short when compared to those at home, but its construction was sound. Around him workers buzzed, stacking bales of wool and grain into large storage sheds that lined the wharf. Off to the side stood more large sheds, their open doors revealing what appeared to be ships in various states of construction and repair.
‘We are the leading port for ship repair,’ Alistair said, noting the direction of Edward’s attention. ‘Been a growing industry for some years now, and one we are mighty proud of.’
Suddenly, a loud horn sounded in the distance, its dull boom reflecting off the water and up into Edward’s unaccustomed ears. He jumped slightly and looked out towards the inland bend of the river.
‘We run one major paddle steamer out of here. Used to be more but nowadays there isn’t the same need, or volume of work. She ferries wool mostly, up to a port at Mannum, that’s where it’s really the river…here she’s a mixture of fresh water and the ocean.’
Edward looked at him, confusion on his face.
Alistair smiled, ‘Around that bend, to the right and up, is what we call the Mouth of the Murray. where the river flows to the sea. The river water and the ocean mix, so along here it’s quite salty.’
Edward watched as a large, flat-bottomed vessel paddled into view. Black smoke puffed from the Florence Annie’s large central chimney as it slowly rounded the river curve. Its design was very different from the boats back home. Thick like the floor of a homestead, its deck, empty on the return voyage, would soon be stacked with supplies for the upper river township trade. The vision was impressive. The Florence Annie’s slow progress created a majestic air of timelessness that seemed out of place in the world Edward knew yet in this place was entirely correct.
‘Now sir, if you will indulge me,’ Alistair smiled, gesturing to a small steamboat tied to the far end of the wharf. It was perhaps ten metres long, with almost the whole front half filled with an outside steam engine. Because of the tidal nature of the river system, the dock was built high, so that it would still be operational at any point in the river’s routine. At this time that meant that the water was low, the large greying pylons which supported the blackened deck standing proudly out of the water. Edward would have to navigate a ladder down to the small steamboat. Following Alistair’s lead, Edward tried to step down onto the boat with grace. The unstable rocking of the water beneath him however, was determined to undermine him and pitched the small boat to the side. Edward stumbled, but Alistair was there to catch and support his inexperienced footing. Unsteady, Edward pushed his body onto the panel seats that ran along the sides of the vessel, hands gripping the edges. His mind decided, he disliked water travel.
An old man dressed in light cotton pants and a shirt, with a thick woollen beanie pushed down low over his eyebrows, fired the steam engine. It spluttered to life and pulled stutteringly away from the wharf that now loomed over Edward’s head, almost in time with the arrival of the paddle steamer. The size of the paddle boat from water level was unsettling, its large paddles frothing the river water and splashing salty droplets all over Edward’s well groomed jacket and pants. Edward filled his eyes with the water that lapped against the wooden pylons holding the dock up high, the mark of high tide etched across their tips. On the steamer deck workers scurried, hauling a large bridge over to act as a link between the lowered paddle steamer and themselves for loading. He was pleased as distance was placed between them and himself in the small steamer.
Out on the river the water reflected the intense sunlight directly into Edward’s pale, English face. The winds seemed to whip around him, scolding his skin, but as they went further into the middle of the waterway, the waters cooled the heat until there was almost a chill. Welcome relief from the relentless heat of this new country.
A small island sat still and close before him, within swimming distance, its sides brown rolling hills. The desert, merely metres inland, was clearly visible.
Edward stared at the muddy waters. The steamer came up alongside the sandy hills that formed the edge of the township, Edward could now see they were covered with short, tattered-looking spiky bushes, long thin fingers of foliage spread low along the sand, as if trying to hold their roots in place. Salty winds whipped at the small plants and filled Edward’s nose with a sharp reminder of the proximity of the sea. They traveled on, the noise of crashing waves rising around them.
‘Slow here,’Alistair called to the old captain, before pointing to a gap in the dunes.
Between them Edward could see the ocean. Luminous and expansive, the water stretched uninterrupted to the horizon. Alistair pointed to the river of water that swept from the ocean through a channel into the river system along which they now bobbed. The Mouth of the Murray.
Edward felt the breath taken from his lungs. The air of the ocean slapped against his chest and arms, forcing his eyes to squint. Where the fresh and salt waters mixed the force of the ocean currents bubbled and churned, Edward could almost feel himself being dragged into its depths.
‘It changes constantly,’Alistair was saying, though Edward was only half listening, ‘The original plan was to traffic all of South Australia’s supplies through here, but the channel keeps shifting. Too unreliable. That’s why we focus on the river trade now. Immense isn’t it?’
Edward did not turn to look at him. His eyes were encapsulated by the power of the sea. On The Orient he had witnessed this kind of expanse, but somehow, in juxtaposition with land so vast and remote, it felt even more unstable and awesome.
Edward glanced back towards the peaceful town of Goolwa. Safe in the curve of a river, protected from the spiteful sea by hills of sand. The port town seemed almost sleepy, as if it rested, unaware of the power which resided so close to its shores. A sense of fear, perhaps natural in the face of such unrestrained power, tugged at Edward’s insides. This country, so vast, so unrefined, represented thrilling possibility and terrifying challenge; it held none of the safe calm synonymous with the English hills and cultivated gardens of his memory. Here, everything was wild and untamed, even the ocean at the end of this land seemed more dangerous, more ready to threaten, than the pebble-lined coasts of home. Edward felt his hands begin to shake, adrenaline coursing through his limbs, exciting an unknown passion. It was as if in the face of the threat, when you realise just how small you are, anything becomes possible. The terror was enlivening; it set Edward free, unleashing his inner self, his craving to explore.
Thank you so much for hosting today's blog tour stop!
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