The Best Australian Stories 2014 by Amanda Lohrey

of that mud sinks dangerously. You’ll do your part to grow that swamp on the east side and plant’em mangrove trees to keep the ocean back.’
    Grandpa’s talk of the mangroves and combating the ocean was an echo the boys had heard time and again.
    While they sipped their milk, Grandpa told a tale of an ancestor who called turtles to the boat. It was said he would feed the entire village in a single outing.
    â€˜One day, however,’ his voice hushed, ‘he called too many, and turtles of all kinds: leatherbacks, greens, browns, leapt from the water onto the craft. Their shells cuttin’ into calves and feet. Others yelled at him to stop, eventually pushin’ ’im down and wrappin’ their hands round his mouth, but it was too late, they kept leapin’ on board until the craft sank, drownin’ the Turtle Caller and all the crew. Some say they’re still on that ocean bed and if you fish that spot you’ll know’cause you can still hear his ghost callin’ for’em turtles.’
    The boys shared the mattress, feet to head. ‘You’ll be okay tomorrow,’ said Caleb. ‘It’s just a dance.’
    â€˜Yeah.’ Sam said as he lay there, sleeplessly awaiting the grey light of dawn.
    *
    A throng of people gathered around the three pigs smoking on spits in the foyer of the whitewashed hall. The boys formed two lines with gaps so that everyone could see. It would be better if the girls weren’t watching; their brown eyes swallowed him. Grandpa, with an encouraging smile, stood behind Seth the instructor. Sam imagined Seth as his grandpa’s younger reflection. Muscular, able.
    Caleb turned round in front of him with a wink that said it’d be fine. When they began the chant, Sam felt okay as his first knee bent but then the smoke from the spits floated over, almost choking him. He lost rhythm. Seth called a halt. ‘Sam, hit that leg, let your knee tremble and your body will follow.’
    â€˜It’s the smoke,’ his voice quavered.
    â€˜Don’t blame the smoke. Watch.’ And Seth shifted from one bent knee to the other, his chest shaking in response. ‘See?’
    Sam gulped some phlegm and fought to hold back tears. There was too much shame in crying.
    They started again. In the background, fat dripped onto the coals, striking it in sharp sizzles. The air was heavy, leaden in the heat. Once more, he missed the step. Everything buzzed. Sounds blurred and amplified: the laughter, the hissing and crackling, the dull thud of their feet on the pavement. He hung his head. His eyes watered a little, surely from the smoke. He was not some crybaby.
    He pushed past one dancer, then another and another. Girls pointed at him; the crowd pointed too as he shoved his way clear through them all.
    â€˜Sam!’ Grandpa called.
    Grandpa wouldn’t catch him. Only Sam’s toes hit the ground as he sprinted through the village. Past the few tiny shops joined together by common walls. Past the sole asphalt road and the fenceless homes with overgrown beach shrubs. His mind emptied as the wind cooled his face and his heart drove blood to all parts of his body. He held his head straight and pumped his muscles, even when his calves ached and his thighs trembled.
    Once out of the village he still ran, now more measured. One, two. One, two. At the slower pace he thought of isolated places. The caves? Too damp. Too dark. The beaches? Too open. He decided on the mangroves. This is my island. No one can steal it from me. Not the dance, not the rising ocean, not my father in Brisbane, and not the people drawn to the mainland that blinds them .
    One, two, one, two . Across the island he ran. Around the small bracken lake that had held fresh water in his grandpa’s youth. Past the scrubland and the crumbling house of some former English governor. He ran until his breath wheezed and all that could move him were the numbers: one, two, one,