Page 69 of Lizzie’s Spirit

I’m blind.

I cannot see anything. Just darkness. Salt and sand on my lips.

Sand?

Boondi—could it be? Oh, William, now I know why you hate having your head underwater. So do I. A great wave dumping me once again, pushing me down.

Oh, so painful. My shoulder thrown hard against the seabed.

Eyes stuck together by the encrusted salt, past sore, past stinging. On my knees, surf rolling over me. Then I remember—the deck of the Grosvenor , clutching Eleanor as that towering behemoth tore us away. Hold her; don’t ever let go.

A thin, frothy surf swirling around us. Eleanor, clinging to the top of the guitar case. Her eyes scrunched shut, her small white hands wrapped around the straps, locked in place. The Crusoe Keg pulling at her, bobbing recklessly on the foaming water, small rills flowing past.

Still on my knees, we’re cast onto a shallow, sea-swept sandbar.

Just a piece of flotsam, discarded by the raging sea.

Except, it isn’t. There’s the roaring of the surf, so familiar, the same as Boondi, beloved Boondi.

But the wind is gone, no howling through the rigging.

Eleanor and I are alone on a strange shore that looms beyond the shallow lagoon.

My shift clings to me—but that is all. No spencer, day dress torn away, stockings gone.

My feet are unfeeling; they’ve lost all sensation.

I can hardly stand; my legs, oh so tired.

I fall to my knees beside Eleanor, gently pry her hands free.

She stirs, hits out at me, desperately holding onto the straps of the case.

It takes all of my effort to break her grip.

She must stand, because I don’t have the strength to carry her.

Ahead, there’s a sandy beach, dark trees and bushes crowding the debris-littered shore.

But it means safety, no fear of drowning.

“Come on, Ellie, you have to stand…” I mutter, though my own legs can scarcely hold me. Angrily, I pull her to her feet. Roughly taking her hand, I begin walking, dragging her along beside me. She says not a word, numb, past caring.

Abruptly, the trees and the hills beyond shimmer—the most welcome sight I’ve ever beheld, illuminated by the gilded sun, just risen above the horizon.

Turning, I watch its arc grow, golden, as the dawn turns the grey night into day.

All around, the sea is empty, the storm dissipated—we’re truly alone.

There’s nothing for us that way, to the east. We must stumble as best we can to the shore.

The warmth of the sun strikes my water-darkened hair; its rays reflect off Eleanor’s fair locks.

She, too, has lost her linen shift, clad only in her sodden muslin night-rail.

When was I last unclothed with the sea swirling around me?—William! Enfolded in his arms. Tears fight to escape my eyes; Eleanor, too, is crying, inconsolable tears sliding down her cold white cheeks.

I drag the keg and guitar case up the beach.

Between it and the dark, forbidding foliage, we come to a narrow grassy strip.

Lying down, cradling Eleanor in my arms. Without stirring, she falls asleep, allowing me to cry uncontrollably.

I look out to the indifferent sea, tears blurring my vision.

Wretched world—oh, to be safe once again in the bosom of my family, in William’s arms.

***

Her mind awoke before her aching body, which fought to remain asleep.

Reluctantly, Elizabeth opened her eyes, awakening memories of the storm, the violent sea, fighting a roiling surf, staggering towards land.

Such memories threatened to overwhelm her.

She could deny it no longer: it was not a dream—she and Eleanor were cast carelessly from the Grosvenor and washed to some unknown shore.

Where? Not Madagascar; that was days behind them.

Were there other islands between it and the Cape?

Her father’s atlas sprang to mind—no, just the dark, lonely coast of Africa.

She let out a strangled laugh: hic sunt leones! The thought terrified her.

Sitting up, her damp shift felt stiff, the entrained salt abrading her skin. Her mouth was dry, lips chapped. She must find water. But Eleanor still slept—she couldn’t leave her, couldn’t allow the child to wake alone in this place.

Still tied to them was the Crusoe Keg , their faithful companion.

A child’s game, now all that lay between despair and survival.

Finding a sharp stick amongst the debris littering the beach, she began scraping away the hard wax seal.

Finally, using a water-smoothed stone to hammer down one side, she managed to lever off the wooden lid.

The contents were dry, undamaged. But there was no relief.

“I hate it, I hate it!” The girl’s face scrunched up, tears filling her eyes.

“Oh, Eleanor, you always hate it; you’ve told me time and time again. We must be quiet, because there may be lions or tigers.”

A piercing scream—if the tigers had been asleep, they were certainly awake now. Her anger dissipated; she took the girl in her arms. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.” Gently rocking her, stroking her hair, which had dried, salt-hardened.

We shall, both of us, very soon, be out of tears. For she was also crying. To where had her indomitable spirit fled? No, it was always a lie. She, Lizzie Darcy , was that child, once curled up inside, now exposed, no longer safe in William’s arms.

They both calmed. Carefully, they sorted through the contents of the keg.

Taking the waterskin, they walked the hot sand towards a small lagoon, formed where a stream that cut through the steep hills surrounding the beach tumbled to the sea.

There was a slight tang of salt, but fresh enough to drink.

She took a small sip. Impulsively, she waded into the water, washing the sand and sea off her body.

She dived, as she had done so many times at Boondi, soaking her hair, pulling off her shift.

Eleanor looked to her in consternation.

“Oh, Eleanor, ‘tis just a bath. Surely you have seen unclothed women before. And my hair feels so much better—‘twas gone hard from the seawater.”

“It’s so improper…”

“Oh, my darling, just the two of us. We’ll wash our shifts, then hang them on the bushes—but in the keg, we’ve dry chemises to wear.”

Reluctantly, Eleanor stepped into the water, but relished the pleasure of feeling truly clean, rid of the cloying salt. She let herself sink to her neck, then swiftly plunged her head under the water, as she would have in the bath at home, at Tarala.

“Cursed flint! Eleanor, can you strike a light? I’ve no experience, and the tinder won’t ignite!”

“Oh, ‘tis not so difficult. Here, let me, for there’s a knack— Leela showed me how.”

“Leela was your nurse?”

Eleanor concentrated on striking the flint. A memory of Leela holding her, just after her mother had died. But she was needed—Mrs. Darcy needed her to light the fire…

There was tea, sugar, and hulled millet.

They made gruel in the fire pot and carefully spooned it into their bowls.

Afterwards, sweet tea warmed them as the shadows lengthened, the sun disappearing over the hills to the west. Methodically, they replaced the contents of the keg.

The grass was surprisingly soft, and with their fire built up from the driftwood littering the beach, they were sufficiently warm to contemplate sleeping the night.

Elizabeth hoped that the glowing embers and flames would keep inquisitive animals and insects away.

In the distance, she heard the lowing of wild cattle and the high-pitched shrieks of some animal in the trees beyond.

Once again, tiredness overwhelmed them. They fell asleep, and, as before, Eleanor lay cradled in Elizabeth’s arms.

***

This is all so tedious. Are the tigers now awake and prowling?—for sure they are aware of Eleanor’s shrieks. Elizabeth was pulled from a deep sleep. Just dawn, the sun cleaving the horizon, light glinting off the white spray of the waves rolling in from the Indian Ocean. More panicked shrieks,

“Mrs. Darcy! Look, our shifts have been eaten—there really are tigers!”

The bushes were, indeed, bare; their cotton shifts disappeared.

Perhaps blown away, but they had been secured on the long thorns of the brush.

There was no wind. She felt a primordial fear; not even the great waves of the South East Cape terrified her as those bare branches did now.

It wasn’t tigers—someone, or someones, had taken them in the night.

Reluctantly, she struggled to her feet. Many trampled footprints surrounded where they had slept. How many people? Did it matter? But nearby, on the ground, lay a mat of woven reeds, set like a picnick spread with three wooden bowls.

Tears of relief flooded her eyes. “Come, sweetling, there are no tigers—tigers don’t leave gifts of milk and millet cakes.”

The milk was creamy and fresh, the millet cakes so much better than the thin gruel they had eaten the previous evening.

She felt as though she could face the day.

But to what purpose? Time to take stock, to find where they were.

Was there a town or village nearby? Looking around their little oasis, she saw another mat near the place where their shifts had been hung to dry.

Laid upon it were two simple aprons, each formed of white and black beads, threaded closely together.

One of a size for her, though scarcely modest, the other for Eleanor.

An exchange—cotton shifts swapped for beadwork aprons, together with beaded necklaces also placed on the mat.

The gift of clothing held significance—cultural, spiritual, status, or friendship?

White beads often symbolised purity, new beginnings.

Clearly, they would have seen she was with child. Did that signify?