Page 51 of The Vanishing Place
“Here.” June held up the keys to her ute. “Let’s get the two of you where you need to go.”
“What about Lewis?”
“Oh, he’ll be mad when he finds out.” June’s face softened. “But he’ll forgive you. Now, come on, there are spare clothes and food in the ute. Which, by the way, wasnotin my driveway this morning.”
“Oh god. Sorry, I—”
“Stole it,” June offered. “And left the keys in the ignition.” She raised an eyebrow. “There’s a backpack too, with enough stuff for a few days.”
“June, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Her eyes darkened. “We don’t know what you’re going to find out there.” She looked over Effie’s shoulder. “We’ve no idea what that poor kid was running from.”
Effie turned and looked at Anya, who was still covering her ears, then she held out her hand and the girl walked toward her.
“No,” Effie whispered. “We don’t.”
—
June parked the ute and Effie jumped out.
She didn’t know what she was meant to be feeling. The gurgling sound of the river filled the air, sucking the oxygen from it, and she touched a hand to her chest, her skin suddenly too tight.
After seventeen years, she was going back.
They started to untie the ropes looped around the roof. They’d picked up a raft from a friend of June’s, then they’d driven the rest of the way in silence, with the raft whistling on the roof of the car. Anya had stared out the window the entire way, lost in a silent sanctuary of her own. Her body had stiffened when they’d pulled in to get the raft, but Effie had reached across the back seat and placed a hand between them. Not touching. Not invading her space. Just letting the girl know.
A soft breeze blew across from the other side of the river, bringing the smells and memories of the bush with it. The first time it had happened, Effie hadn’t done anything. She’d stood silent as his little body was lowered into the dirt. Her insides had screamed, hot with anger and hurt, but Dad had apologized over and over. He told her that it would never happen again, that he hated himself for it. The second time, Effie had run until her legs had folded, then she’d picked herself up, her body bruised and bloody, and she’d kept running, for almost two decades.
Effie’s fingers trembled as she undid the knot, and the raft slipped forward. She swore as she lunged to catch it.
“You ready?” asked June.
This time, she wasn’t going to stand silent.
“I need to do this.”
“I know, love.”
Effie glanced back at the ute, at the small vacant face pressed against the window, and took a breath.
What did you see? What did he do to you?
After setting the raft in the water, Effie and Anya got in. The inflatable boat had two seats, but Anya sat on the floor in the middle, her knees tucked to her chest, and watched as Effie paddled away from the shore. June stood on the bank until they were safely on the other side, then she waved and drove off.
It’s just us now, kid.
They walked up the steep unmarked terrain without talking, Effie leading the way. Her eyes darted from one tree to the next, following some ingrained map. The sounds and smells of the bush illuminated a dark spot in her memory, and her feet moved by instinct, finding the decades-old markers, the scraps of pink plastic that Dad had hung from trees. It was as though the path had been carved beneath the surface of her skin and the hut was pulling her closer, whispering through the wall of trees. A weak sunlight filtered through the hanging silver ferns, splintering into long misty shafts, and the fronds draped high above their heads, forming a ceiling of hexagons. When Effie glanced up, it was like looking through a green kaleidoscope.
Every now and then, she turned and checked, but the girl was always there, following a few meters behind. The sound of her pushing through branches and snapping twigs was dwarfed by the high-pitched singing and ticking of birds and insects.
When Dad had walked them out, he used to distract them with Maori legends, and he always kept candy in his pockets. He’d hide them, like a Hansel and Gretel trail, under ferns and on tree stumps, and the young ones would forget their tired legs. But Anya hadn’t said a word in three hours; she hadn’t moaned once. She walked without slowing, pausing only to untangle a scrap of linen that hung from a tree, a stray ribbon of white in a world of green. Effie’s chest stung as she glanced back at her. At the child who hadn’t complained about her tired legs—the pain nothing to the girl with ligature marks around her ankles.
Anya looked up, her eyes burrowing into Effie, and Effie pointed ahead.
We’ll stop up there.
They walked on for another ten minutes, the steep terrain leveling out, and Anya found a second scrap of material. She teased itfree from the branch and pocketed it without a word. Old markers for hunters, most likely. Effie pushed the draping ponga aside and stepped over the vines and ferns that carpeted the forest floor. In every direction, the air was thick with trees, making it impossible to see more than a few meters ahead. The spines of kahikatea and totara twisted and towered above them, and Effie’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath, as though suddenly, in the middle of the bush, there wasn’t enough air.
