Two strange things happened that day. A real girl disappeared - one. But there was another in the story, unaccounted for. That detail would become part of the fabric of the town for decades to come. It would become part of the psychogeographica of the country, where tourists would come looking for drama, and reporters would attempt to find new details in the riverbed and ghost gums that had stood sentry yet never talked about what they had seen.
She had given all the details to the authorities, of course, or as much as she felt was necessary. She felt it important to explain as much as possible, and at times, lost in the details, she noticed the detectives pencil tapdance impatiently on the pad.
'I don't know why they force teenage girls to share a tent', she began. She didn't. Teenagehood was a time when allegiances are formed and broken in minutes, where extreme feelings simmer and pop like bubbles in a murky pond, and cruelty lashes out at any moment. The Barstow-Kahlo Art School for Young Woman, however, insisted on particular formulas for school camps that were time honoured, and with a limited budget raised from scant donations in a terrible economic climate that did not favour the arts, there was only a certain amount of tents to share around. Still, the yearly hike had gone ahead. Old backpacks stitched with school insignia were repaired, trangiers were cleaned, bottles were filled with fuel. Lists were made, boots were waterproofed, and food was dehydrated.
'Could we move straight to the night in question, Miss Ulverstone', the detective firmly urged.
'I was keeping a close eye on the girls', Miss Ulverstone insisted. It would not to for them to think she wasn't doing her job. She did watch them every night as they hammered pegs into the hard ground, their skin shining with sweat and muted with the dirt they had collected coming up the rocky paths. The sound of tent fabric billowing and being threaded onto poles ripped through their gossip and shrieks, and occasional song as one remembered a lyric they loved or a tune they revered. Her thighs burned. It had been three days since they had left campus. She had tailed behind the girls, sometimes walking with the slowest pair, whilst Eddy had lead the way, expert, sturdy, experienced and stern. Her older colleague was not the kind of teacher who enjoyed small talk.
It was hard not to notice Shari, on the edges of the small circles that the girls had made since the school year had begun. She was alert in the way birds were, constantly assessing their surroundings for danger. Her thin fingers, each nail coloured another shade of blue, tugged tendrils of hair behind her ears, a nervous tic that Ulverstone imagined her mother would have chastised her for, had she had one. It was not even Ulverstone's role to be motherly, she was sternly told. Just make sure they don't die, the principal had instructed. Observe, but let them sort it out for themselves.
Through adversity, art!
She could see Shari laughing with the the rest, yet hers was a mistimed twitter that set her apart. Ulverstone grimaced as she watched Else whisper in Aleisha's ear, her eyes facing Shari. Within minutes the plot was hatched, and Shari took her place firmly on the outer. It did not matter what she did - offer her pudding, proffer pencils when a colour was asked for, move over on the log to make room, she was still the outsider, and Ulverstone's heart broke to watch it. There was nothing to be done: girls would be girls, she had to defer to Eddy, who was much older than her, and knew best.
Remember, Ulvers, she had advised, they are here to sort themselves out, and to give birth to art.
At what cost, she wondered, seeing the girl scratch her forearms til they bled. 'Mosquitos, miss', she said when asked, and accepted the ointment offered, blinking away a tear at the kindness. In the trees, the gang gang cockatoos cawed, the sound like a rusty door opening in a murder house. Instead, Ulverstone thought, it was tents and girls intent on killing the spirit of the weakness amongst them.
By day three it seemed some of the problem was solved anyway - one girl went home with a broken ankle, and another had an anaphylactic reaction to a bullant bite. Both were Shari's tent fellows, and so the girl was left alone in her tent, which appeared to make her happier.
Perhaps her happiness had something to do with her new friend. It seemed another girl had joined Shari in her tent, and their whispers would wake Ulverstone in the wee hours. Thank goodness, she remembered thinking. No one deserves to be so alone. Eddy had said nothing about the new sleeping arrangement, but perhaps she did not hear her over her own snoring. Ulverstone could previously not imagine anything more unsettling than the growls of koalas mating, but goodness, Eddy gave them a run for their money.
The detective stifled a smile. 'Did you know which girl she was sharing a tent with?' she asked.
'I'm sorry' she said. 'With the busy mornings, it was hard to keep an eye on all of them at once', she stumbled, knowing that it was her job to know just that. But Eddy hadn't seen either. In fact, she had sworn to them that Ulverstone was making it up. She didn't snore, and nor did she notice Shari with anyone. Nor did the girls, who were embarrassed for not including her, and regretted it. In fact, they would claim Shari was a friend, and happily soaked up the forthcoming sympathy for their loss.
'It's okay'. she said. 'I understand. My own mother was a teacher'. Ulverstone smiled at her gratefully.
The last evening was a hot one, and they camped uphill from a trickle of water that ran along the rocky riverbed. Gnarled redgums told quiet stories whilst the girls sat by the bank and sketched, or sat in the water and splashed each other with cupped handfuls. Shari left her pad on the bank and swam, her hair running down her back wetly and her bathers smudged with red earth. Ulverstone noticed these details because it was paired with the arrival of another girl who waded down barefoot from upstream. It was the first time she had seen another girl seek out Shari's company, so she was wary at first, and then comforted as she realised it must be Shari's new tent companion.
'So the last time you saw Shari she was with this - other girl?' the detective confirmed, her pencil hovering over her pad.
The late afternoon light was turning the red earth aglow. The greens and white of the gums were brighter and richer, and Ulverstone had wondered what crayon or pen could capture the magic that was the bush at dusk. Cockatoos were coming down to settle in the trees, deafeningly loud and garish, joining the girls as they squealed and splashed and chattered in the water. Eddy was taking a rest in her tent, suffering from the long walk and the heat. Ulverstone had taken off her boots and had dipped her toes into the cool water, envying the students their ability to strip to bathers so unselfconciously.
'Yes - I...' It was hard to explain. She had done the headcount, twice,, before calling them to dress and return to camp. Fourteen girls, but she was sure there was only meant to be thirteen. They had started with fifteen, but two had left. Three times she counted - twelve up river, Shari, and her friend. She rose and walked to the larger group, firmly ordering them to get out of the water before she called Eddy. That was enough - they were scared somewhat of the older teacher. Twelve girls moved reluctantly from the river's embrace. Twelve wet girls pulling on tshirts. Twelve.
When she turned upstream to call for Shari, presuming the other girl had joined the larger group, she was gone. Her artists pad fluttered like the white wings of the cockatoos on the bank.
'I counted fourteen girls' Ulverstone insisted. 'Twelve downriver, Shari and the other girl'. She felt stupid, again. Why didn't she know the other girls name? She knew all the others. Else, the bully. Jemima that screamed when the bullant found it's way into her sleeping bag. Bessie, who'd broken her ankle tripping over a tree root walking up track alone with Shari.
Many years later, Shari's artist pad would find it's way out of police evidence and into an online forum about missing children in Australia. An old colleague had sent Ulverstone the link, knowing she used to teach up country at Barstow-Kahlo, which had since closed it's doors. Shari had quite the talent, capturing the beauty of the big horizons and claustrophobic gorges, the magnificent river bed. There was a poignant self portrait of Shari alone, capturing a little of how sad and isolated she must have felt. She would have made a wonderful artist. On the last page, startingly, the other girl came to life just as she was in the river that day, her hair tumbling over a round face, beads of water on her skin.
The last sketch was placed next to a group photograph of the girls, and the caption read: 'Who is the mystery girl of Barstow Kahlo?'. Thirteen girls in the photograph. None of them the girl in the sketch.
No one would ever know, of course. That was the mystery of the bush for you, since white man settled her and their offspring went exploring. Lost children everywhere. But Ulverstone would see them in her dreams, sometimes, playing in the water in the golden sunlight, laughing.
It wasn't a bad dream to have, until she started counting heads.
This is written in response to the Inkwell prompt of the week. Images are co-created in Midjourney by me.
