Free Thirteen Pearls by Melaina Faranda Page B

about Uncle Redmond that I didn’t know . . .
    Aran clutched his stuffed elephant closer and kept his lips mutinously sealed.
    â€˜Because I like elephants,’ I said, ploughing on with this thrilling one-sided conversation. ‘When my grandmother was little, she lived near a zoo and there was an elephant you could ride.’
    Perhaps I was imagining it but there was a momentary spark in his eyes before they went flat and black again.
    â€˜The elephant escaped and galloped down to the harbour to swim in the local sea pool. There were all these kids in there swimming with it.’
    A nanosecond of a smile. I definitely wasn’t imagining it.
    â€˜Do you know they say that elephants have fantastic memories? They never forget, and if a mother gets separated from her baby . . . ’
    The shadow crept back into Aran’s eyes.
    Good one. Call me Miss Sensitivity. I grabbed Aran’s free hand and tugged him after me. ‘I think I can see a place to build a cubby. Have you ever built a cubby before?’
    Aran shook his head.
    I led him onto a defunct concrete jetty that projected out through the mangroves. The mangroves here were huge and the leaves dark glossy green. The sea breeze and shade made it feel like the coolest spot on the island.
    A big white pigeon cooed from a branch above. Sunshine sifted through the thick screen of mangroves, sending little chinks of light flying, illuminating the water so that it flashed sepia and gold like an old-fashioned photograph. Dark, sea-polished roots arced down into the water, creating a maze of tunnels.
    I breathed in the cool, salty air and squatted beside Aran. ‘This is magical place,’ I whispered, squeezing his hand. ‘I think there are fairies living here. Salt-water fairies. We don’t even need to build our cubby – they’ve built it for us.’
    Aran’s dark eyes shone in the shadowy light. He looked up at me and smiled.
    The effect was instantaneous and I grinned back like an idiot. There was something hushed and forever about this spot, a little oasis. From here, all we could hear was lapping water and birds rustling in the leaves.
    A sudden flash and the silvery glint of a baby shark sped between an arching root, with another shark in close pursuit. We sat cross-legged on the jetty to watch the sharks playing tag until snapping twigs and the slap of thongs on cement broke the spell.
    Kaito ambled along the jetty carrying his bamboo flute. The black pearl dangled in the hollow of his neck above his T-shirt. He smiled. ‘You found my spot.’
    â€˜This is your spot?’
    â€˜It’s okay; I share it with special people.’
    â€˜How did it go down at the plant?’
    â€˜Good. Hard work. My shoulders are aching.’
    As far as I knew, oysters made pearls out of bits of grit and people extracted them. How hard could that be?
    â€˜What do you actually do? How do you get the pearls out?’
    Kaito laughed. ‘Red would have a fit to hear you simplify it like that. Harvest time isn’t for months. What Leon and I do now is turn and clean the oysters in their racks, check to make sure they’re healthy and clean all the gear. We ’re also getting ready to collect the wild shells. Red has to apply for licences and prepare his boat for a dive crew. That’s basically Leon and me. It’s intense though – we harvest west of Badu Island and usually do about ten dives a day.’
    I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for anyone who got to do ten dives a day. ‘But you love it, right?’
    Kaito shrugged and toyed with the flute. ‘My mum’s from a pearling family in Broome, and Dad worked on my grandfather’s pearl farm in Japan since he was old enough to swim. Then he started cultivating pearls in Australia. It’s in my blood.’
    â€˜So why aren’t you working on your family farm then?’
    Kaito seemed embarrassed. ‘They own quite