Page 76 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

Oh… I’ve never felt such relief. The cabin is small and single story, but it’s off the ground and approached by a set of wooden steps. It has a slanted, corrugated-iron roof, and I can see windows with shutters, and a sturdy wooden door. A rainwater tank standing next to the cabin is full to the brim. A solar camping light hangs out the front, shining in the gloom. To one side, near the trees, is what I assume is the composting toilet that Joel mentioned.

We approach the hut, and Joel goes up the steps, lifts down the solar light, and tries the door handle. It opens, and he goes inside. I follow him in, closing the door behind me. He hangs the light from a hook on the wall, and it just gives off enough light to illuminate the cabin.

It’s small, with two sets of bunk beds that appear to have plastic-covered mattresses, a wood-burning stove, a table withfour basic chairs, a few shelves, and a scatter of basic items like a bucket, candle holders, a pile of dry wood, and a broom.

It’s not Buckingham Palace. But it’s clean, dry, and safe.

Joel lowers the bag onto the floor and turns to me, I walk up to him and slide my arms around his waist, and we stand there like that for a long, long time.

Chapter Seventeen

Joel

Eventually, I kiss the top of Zoe’s head and say, “Come on, let’s get ourselves sorted.”

She peels herself away from me tiredly. The two of us are soaked to the skin and covered in scratches and bruises. But we got here.

I kept her safe. She’s going to be okay. I feel such a sense of relief that it almost takes my breath away.

We’re not completely out of the woods yet, though. We still have no way of contacting anyone. We’re still in the path of the storm, and it’s raging overhead, furious and vindictive, apparently determined to rip the roof of the cabin off and tear us limb from limb. Rain hammers on the tin roof and the windows, and the panels of the roof rattle as the wind whips beneath the eaves. The thunder is so loud that each crash is deafening, and when lightning strikes, it lights up the whole room, as if Tangaroa is taking a photo of us with a flash.

“I’m going to visit the toilet,” Zoe says. “I need a pee.”

“Want me to come with you?”

She rolls her eyes. “I can manage.”

“I meant because of the weather.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “When I get back, we’ll sort out your leg.”

I look down at it; it’s still bleeding. “Yeah, okay.”

She takes the flashlight, goes to the door, opens it and peers out, then slips out and closes it behind her.

I stand in the center of the room for a moment. I’m tempted to crash out on one of the mattresses. I feel absolutely exhausted. It took every ounce of strength and willpower I possess to get us here. Swimming from the boat, towing thewaterproof bag, and repeatedly making sure that Zoe wasn’t drowning, were the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I did it.

They say that every man cries out for his mother in his time of need, but for some reason I thought of my father repeatedly while I fought the waves, quoting Scripture at me. “Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord,” Romans 12:11. “If you faint in the day of adversity, your strength is small.” Proverbs 24:10. Always accusations; never words meant to reassure and lift.

Against my will, my eyes prick with tears. Even now, in my hour of need, he can’t offer me comfort.

I rub my nose, take a deep breath, and blow it out. I’m just tired. There’s no time for self-pity. I need to get the cabin ready for when Zoe gets back.

I open the waterproof bag and start taking out the contents and putting them on the table. The bag did its job well; the towels and thermal blankets are mostly dry. I toss them on the nearest bunk. At the bottom of the bag, I find what I was looking for—matches.

It’s not freezing in the cabin, but we’re both soaked and exhausted, and a fire is always comforting, plus we’ll be able to dry our clothing. I went camping often with Fraser, Linc, and other friends when I was at Greenfield, and Dad taught us the basics of making a fire and other survival skills.

There’s a pile of newspaper by the logs, as well as kindling. I start with two smallish logs, then crumple newspaper and stuff it between them. I pile kindling on top, and then more logs on top of that, leaving plenty of air to circulate. Finally, I open the damper to make sure air is flowing, hope to God a possum or other creature hasn’t crawled into the chimney to get away from the rain, then strike a match and light the newspaper at the bottom, and the fire leaps to life.

I wait until the kindling has caught, then close the stove door.

At that moment, Zoe opens the front door and enters with a gust of wind and a spray of rain.

“Ooh,” she says, “it’s still bad out there.” She fights with the door, gets it shut, and puts the latch across. “Oh, Joel, a fire!” She rushes over and bends to look at it. “You are clever.”

“No magic about it,” I say, conscious of how awkward I feel when she gives me compliments.

“Even so.” She straightens and gives me a hug. “You’re so smart and resourceful.” She looks up at me. Her hair is plastered to her head, and she looks exhausted, but she’s still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. “Thank you,” she says. “For saving me again.”

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