Tears of the Moon - Di Morrissey [153]
Amy soon became aware that an almost permanent confusion of thoughts was sapping her energy. Gunther had told her the boat would be adequately provisioned and ready for sea in a few days, but he needed time to wrap up some unspecified business deals, and to receive telegraph messages from Sydney.
Now that she had the situation under control there was time on her hands, time to think, and time to wonder what she had done and what she had to do. And she knew, too, that she had Tyndall’s life in her hands. It was that power, the power of life and death, that at once exhilarated and appalled her, that kept her awake for hours when she desperately wanted to sleep. And in the loneliness and dark one sleepless night she found herself pondering on what advantages would accrue if Tyndall died. She could perhaps have a claim on everything. There would be no need to put to sea with Gunther. But then the robbery bound her to Gunther, didn’t it? That could not be undone.
She felt the pearls against her body but her mind wandered elsewhere and images of death filled her mind. But he won’t die … unless … and she found herself thinking of an overdose of medicine. That could kill him … morphine … an overdose … but that would be murder. She pushed the thought from her mind, then was disturbed when it came back, again and again, and haunted her until she fell into a sleep of utter emotional and physical exhaustion.
She awoke shivering in the pre-dawn coolness and pulled a cotton sheet up to her shoulders. She looked over at Tyndall, who was now tossing restlessly. Her eyes drifted to the bedside table and locked onto the bottle of medicine and those terrible thoughts came back, and soon she found herself weeping silently, and praying for daylight in the hope that it would expunge the dark thoughts that festered in the night.
In the early morning came a note from Gunther delivered by one of his crew.
My dear partner,
Everything will be ready in two days. The evening tide will be right and there’s a little Jap festival to keep everyone occupied. Have your bags packed.
Karl
Amy collapsed into a chair. But it was not the awareness that there was no turning back now that caused her reaction, but rather the note’s reminder of the festival, a festival devoted to the dead. She found herself once again crying uncontrollably while looking at the stirring Tyndall and his medicine by the bed.
Two days later at the edge of town the O-Bon Matsuri festival got under way. This Japanese ceremony to honour their ancestors was a major event in the town and began at twilight at the Japanese section of the cemetery, which was segregated from the white section. In a solemn procession the Japanese community gathered by the graves with offerings of food and sake. Incense sticks burned and the graves were decorated with origami flowers or fresh blooms. A small blue lantern illuminated the name on each headstone. Following prayers, a ceremonial dance, O-Bon Odori, was performed by the Japanese women. These were the night ladies of Sheba Lane who rarely appeared in public, but on this night, dressed in traditional satin kimonos and with lacquered hair, they delicately swayed and turned on their high wooden zori sandals. Hands like white doves fluttered from the long folds of their gilded and coloured robes in the movements of an ancient dance. The crowd of spectators watched in silence, the haunting high pitched wailing of the women’s voices and strings of the samisens rising into the night air.
The Aborigines watching in the background nodded, recognising the meaning of ceremonial connection with ancestors being played out on the red pindan dirt beneath the starry sky.
Very much later, after the feast in a park in town, the crowd followed the Japanese community down to the shores of the bay. Here the specially made little