cold to the core

I am so cold and frozen to my very heart.  Through every layer of my body the cold has crept.  It is impossible to sleep.  I shiver, I scratch, I try to wrap the bark around me and creep as close as possible to the campfire embers as i can.  I am barred from the native’s huts, I sleep with the dogs and the fleas.  I wait for the dawn and wonder if it will be my last… am I the last of our crew to survive?  Mr Brown, the First Mate has gone and who knows the fate of Mr Baxter. And yes, my husband has passed from this world to join Our Lord and Saviour.  It gladdens my heart to think that he is no longer suffering and I envision him at the Lord’s table, dressed in his finest captain’s accoutrements. He is healthy and happy,  enjoying the most sumptuous feast and celebration.  Friends congratulate him on his life’s work and Jesus smiles as he welcomes him into the heavenly kingdom.   Angels sing, harps ripple and my dear, sweet James is honoured and at peace.

Make me to understand the way of thy precepts:
So shall I talk of thy wondrous works.

My soul melteth for heaviness:
Strengthen me according under thy word.  Psalm 119.

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a woman’s work

A child lies in my arms, he drinks from my breast and grips my right thumb.  You may think I am dreaming, or delirious perhaps, but this time you’d be wrong.  He is real flesh and bones, dark of skin and eye.  For some days after I became attached to this clan, the women insisted I accompany them on their foraging forays.  They laughed at my inadequacies and seemed incredulous when I knew not how to prepare certain roots for consumption.  Some of the women tired of my failings and their laughter turned to distain and derision. One of the women, I shall call her K’gari after this place, showed some compassion though.

When first she led me away from the others, I expected the worst.  I thought she was perhaps trading me to another group… but then she sat me down and took my hands.  She began to point to the bites and swellings on my arms and there was concern in her eyes, not contempt.  When she began to rub a fetid substance on my arms, I pulled away at first.  What was this paste that smelt of smoldering fats, herbs and charcoal?  She continued in her ministrations and I had to admit there was some relief to be found with its application.

Since then she has shown me favour on multiple occasion.  Morsels of food, soft bark to sleep on, bright coloured feathers and necklaces of shells.  These simple gifts, virtual treasures within this meagre existence.  When she first brought the child to me I was not sure what she expected.  He was a sickly child, crying and whimpering, ill-nourished and sad.  It then became evident that my work was to mind the child, for much of the day passed into my care.  I can not say I relished the task, it was enough to maintain my own equilibrium.  There was such strangeness and familiarity in the holding of a child in my arms, memories of my own three children overwhelmed me and so …I felt urged to find comfort in the body of another.  When he sought comfort at my breast, I resisted initially, felt sure he would find no nourishment there.  He clung on though, demanding and persisting, and the crying ceased.  To my amazement my body responded, with a powerful rippling and surging which exhausted me.  How could this be so, it was weeks since I had bound my chest, attempting to stem the flow.  I was embarrassed yet proud when K’gari returned.  Here was a babe in my arms where one should have been.  Had she known, had she sensed, had she seen?

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what is most precious?

As a child did you ever engage in that exercise where you had to list what you would take with you to a desert island?  This assumes that you would have some choice in the matter if you were to experience such an event.  I now know what the answer to that question is.  A wedding ring, a set of ear-rings and an old sou’wester.  The ring and earrings are now hidden beneath a tangle of vines.  These surround my waist, tied there by my husband after all our clothes were stripped from our bodies and carried away.  The natives involved were a different group from the first that we met, and I fear that the benign interest shown by the first is not matched by the second. 

Sou'wester

We are now reduced in number as several of our party left some days past, intending to walk south to Moreton Bay.  Whilst my nemisis is among that group, so too is the coloured man Joseph Corralis.  I now wonder whether his presence may have previously influenced some of the natives to behave favourably towards us.  He is also missed because of his considerable kindness towards me.  I pray they reach their destination swiftly and can raise a search party, as I doubt we can survive in this place much longer.  We have no food, no clothes and now, I no longer have the comfort of my husband’s presence.   There is no one I can speak to, to encourage or to consort with.  Whether it is to share us around like trophies or to prolong our lives, I can not fathom the reasoning, but our remaining party has been  divided between several small native groups. Now my daily life is reduced to the most alien and basic existence.  My hope remains alive as the most feeble of flickers,  sustained by my few precious things.

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my naked self

View from Indian Head by Sand Down Under

The men who appeared on the beach that day could have killed us if they had chosen.  Could have stripped us, beat us, abused and tortured us.  That is a tale I later told, and some of this did come to pass.  That first day, these black, naked men came to watch us, drawn by curiosity not bloodlust.  Their presence was not something that all in our party objected to.  The demand for us to land was driven by the hope that such contact could prove fruitful.  I hung back as those initial hesitant communications began, not wishing to draw attention to my female form, yet hopeful that in some way it might serve as a manner of protection.  My clothing also providing a layer of protection, shielding my womanly shape and signalling a last vestige of dignity.  From such a position I could gaze unbidden at the naked forms of the local inhabitants.  Naked, but seemingly not unclothed, the black, sleek skin a shield in itself… so unlike the half-baked pastiness of my own nakedness.  Feathers in their hair and raised markings on their bodies also created this sense that they were in fact attired.  I, on the other hand, was aware of how exposed I was, vulnerable and at the mercy of others.  Hoping that these strange creatures, so different in conduct and utterance, could still be swayed by other than the most base of human desires.  As indeed, it appeared they were…

Our men offered up novelties and items of clothing, pantomiming our desparate need for food and water.  One of the native men in turn pointed towards a place signalling the presence of water.  Another man left for a time, returning with two fish which were thrown towards our party.   With that they turned and left, showing no indication of whether we should follow, whether they would come back, or if this was all the communion there was to be.  Two fish, not exactly a feast, and not much to sustain us with.  Yet somehow the people who lived here were able to survive and thrive.  This land was not hostile and offensive to them, for them it offered protection and sustenance.  We were at the mercy of the land and these people… we were the ones who were exposed.

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Ungainly ghosts

It is ironic that the land on which we landed was later named after my husband, when he was so insistent we should not land.  Irony also in the thought that we were originally viewed as visitors from the after-life and that several of our party later passed on to that very life.  The landing was forced upon us, in the end the boat was leaking so much, and the hunger and thirst had driven most of the men to prefer the uncertain welcome on those shores to what seemed inevitable if we stayed at sea.  Smoke rising had suggested human habitation and the hope was that some sympathetic souls might provide sustenance for us while the boat was repaired yet again.

Farewell to all that was precious

We straggled ashore, stumbling as if drunken after the weeks at sea.  My heart beat wildly from the physical exertion and sheer terror at what might confront us.  We secured the boat and began unloading the possessions that had survived.  I am not sure if I should be proud or embarrassed to say that these included several trunks of my possessions… including what remained of my clothes and crockery.   There was also a small wooden box I had forgotten about, and inside I found what I had hoped to clothe my newborn babe.  All these precious remnants of a former life.  I could not quite imagine how I could hold these objects close to me but I felt that I must.

Clutching that small box to my chest I tried to take in the landscape and make sense of it.  White sands, dunes, trees unlike any I had ever seen before.  So different from the seascape of Stromness and the Scottish coast.  That was not all that was different though.  Feeling eyes upon me I turned to see people coming towards us… but people unlike any others I had ever encountered before.

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the taste of something sweet

I’ve tasted my own blood on occasion as I’ve soothed my bleeding hands.  It tastes of salt, strangely sweet and hints at the presence of metal.  It is neither pleasant nor repulsive, but there ends my encounters with tasting human flesh and blood.  There are others among us who would contemplate such, and I am not talking about partaking in the communion with the body and blood of our Lord!  They whisper in the night and I’ve heard their tales of other shipwrecks, where starving desparation addles the mind and depletes the body, and the crew have drawn lots.  The loser sacrificed to provide sustenance for the living.  I believe there is little holding back some in this crew from such barbarities.  If I were to falter they would toss me overboard and butcher my husband in a twinkling, with little remorse.  They have disobeyed him from well before the time of the shipwreck and question his every directive.  He insists we shall soon reach Moreton Bay settlement and quotes the miraculous journey of Captain Bligh in 1789.  After most unfortunate events involving another disgruntled crew, Bligh charted a vessel of not much more than 7 yards in length.  He navigated this boat on an epic journey from the Pacific near Tahiti to the European outpost on Timor.  This journey of several thousand miles began with little in the way of food and water and Bligh reached his destination with only one man lost.

Captain Fraser believes that if we continue on, we too will reach our goal.  His mission has been discredited somewhat as we have now made our way along several significant bays, only to find they are not that which we seek.  There has been no white settlement, no matter how debased (as the Moreton colony is reputed to be).  The Captain has sometimes shared with me his fear that perhaps we have missed Moreton Bay and now will have to sail to Sydney town.  There is little to inspire the confidence needed.  The food we have been able to catch or locate has been far less than anticipated.  The occasional fish or bird, some oysters on a rocky outcrop, but not enough to sustain our number.  So that is how we have now arrived at our present predicament.   Some argue that we should land the vessel upon these cursed shores, find food, perhaps communicate with natives who might help us.  Accounts of tales from castaways and runaways in this region include a number that are not so grim.  Some have lived among the natives and been sustained.  Could we be that fortunate?  There are many other tales less agreeable, of skirmishes and hostilities.  And then there are these whispered, desparate tales.  Of blood, of flesh, of bones, of taste, of suspicion and survival…

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hankering/hungering

Bonnets on display

Today  I dreamt of new bonnets and babies… of fresh rasberries and cream, and embroidered silk scarves.  Every day I make myself think of something beautiful, of something simply perfect.  At first I would pretend to be asleep and let my mind slip away, but now there is no need.  We all drift, hardly speak and exist in our collective isolation.  I believe we have been at sea again for perhaps two weeks, I can not be sure.  We landed for a time on an island, searched for food and water, found a little… but not enough to keep us long.  The men attempted to repair the boat and I searched and escaped for a time.  Found a trickle of water, and a sign that other humans had been here before us.  A cup with some initials … it reminded me that others have possibly perished on these shores in the past … could we avert this fate? 

Our rations have now reduced to a little brandy, the salted meats, the sea biscuit and jellies now long gone.  The empty ale cask we use to try and catch water when it rains.  I also lay out my skirts to soak up the dew throughout the night.  I find that I can mix it with some sea water and it serves to slake my thirst.  Others have attempted drinking the sea water alone but their health has not been sustained.  There is so little to share around and we are still confined with several of the malcontents whose natures are less than generous. Why,when I first found the water on the island and attempted to attend to my husband who was most in need, Youlden grabbed the cup from my hand and spilled half in his eagerness!  He is the spawn of  the very devil I swear.  I only wish he had gone with the rest who now appear to have deserted us, the crew of the pinnace now parted company from us some days past.  At first we hoped they would return, perhaps with news or sustenance, but I am sure they have decieved us.  Their boat more seaworthy than ours, I can only hope they will reach Moreton Bay and send a rescue party to our aid.  But who knows if they they can be trusted.  God willing the older ones look after our nephew and do not take out their resentment on him.  There is of course another threat I fear, but I can not yet bring myself to contemplate it… not when there are oranges cut into eight … pudding with nutmeg and raisins … and a bright pink bonnet with a silk satin ribbon ….    

The boat - seaworthy for a time

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Weep no more

My eyes are dry, salt-encrusted but not with tears.  The salt coats my eyes, my skin, my hair, my clothes.  My lips and hands are blistered and the skin peels from my face.  My throat is parched, at first with grief but now, just thirst.  But my body weeps.  The milk seeps from my breast, my womb weeps for its lost encumbrance.  The babe – a bundle cast afloat one dark and dismal night.  I tried not to look, knew such a sight would haunt me still, but could not drag my eyes away.  It barely took one breath, in the struggle to clear the waters from its chest, born into a sinking boat, launched from a sinking ship.  What hope could there possibly be for life to flourish in such a watery confine? Its mother bearing the burden of both parents, rowing and bailing, rowing and bailing, hour after endless hour.  At first some respite between shifts, my husband accepting his load… but he could not sustain it… and the waters forever rising.  At first I wept with fear, then with the pain of the bleeding blisters on my hands, but then the pain from deep within became more primal still.  Four days after I think it was…. from when the Stirling Castle struck a reef, in an area where our maps indicated none should be.  But there is no arguing with a sinking ship, nor with a babe whose time has come, untimely though it be.   And so I bore the babe, there in a longboat, lost at sea, surrounded by 11 men, in a damaged boat.  That’s when the weeping stopped.  The soul withers and the body endures – that is how to survive such a time.  How long will it last, I can not say.

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Neo Memoria Technica

A new project and a new blog!  So what does it stand for?  A memoria technica is a method or device for assisting the memory.  Neo refers to the forms that are new and different. So in this case we’re referring to the various forms of online and digitised technologies that may be utilised to help create, devise or recall memories.

With this blog I’m particularly interested in memories of the region where I currently live (the Sunshine Coast in Queensland), recording, regenerating, reworking, refocussing, redefining, recontextualising. It’s not just about documenting, but creating and inventing too!

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