Redemption

Eight

He woke up in an empty camp. Sitting up, worry began to creep into his mind as he looked around. Where was she? Last night had... it made his heart pound to think about it.

"Harmony?" Calling to her, he stood, pulling on his trousers before it abruptly occurred to him.

She was gone, their passionate night together had been her goodbye.

"Harmony!" His echo bounced back to him, the only sound nearby. Last night, wrapped in her arms, had been the first time he'd not thought about who he was. Who he'd been. With the scent of her hair in his nostrils, her skin against his, all he'd cared about was her.

"Bugger it."

For a brief moment, he wavered. Was trying to regain his memories so important? He already knew the answer. If he did not at least try, he would never be satisfied with not knowing. Going back to the map, he knelt, staring at the drawing in the dust, committing every detail to memory.

It brought her forcefully to mind. How her dark, silken skin had glowed in the firelight. How it had felt under his fingertips. How, when he had gotten comfortable, she had let him take control.

"God's blood," shaking his head, Lane stood, feeling cross with himself. "Fantasizing about her will change nothing."

Without much by way of supplies, breaking camp meant doing little more than dousing the fire and spreading sand over the area. Carefully he erased the map Harmony had drawn, smoothing the earth over until no trace remained. Satisfied, he took the sling she'd left behind, along with a bowl, a water pouch made from tightly woven reeds, and a crudely fashioned knife knapped from flint. Climbing out of the canyon, he took a long look around the country, seeing nothing moving.

The breeze flapped the edge of his tunic, carrying the faint scent of vegetation and eucalyptus. Already hot, the air was tolerable because of the wind, blazing sun beating down on anything daring, or foolish, enough to be out. Settling himself in for the unknown, he started walking in the direction of where the map had indicated a settlement was. With his course set, there was no point in altering it.

His thoughts came into clear focus as he moved across the empty landscape. If he'd been in a prison camp that meant he had a life somewhere else, been something other than a convict. Frowning, he tried to gather what knowledge he was certain of. It was the year seventeen hundred and ninety-five he recalled suddenly. If he was right about his age of mid-forty that made his birth year roughly seventeen hundred and fifty-two.

The date meant absolutely nothing to him, so he let his mind move on. His physical condition told him nothing since working in a penal colony would develop hard muscles from the brutal labor. His thoughts searched through all manners of occupations, rummaging for any touch of familiarity.

With a loose, easy stride, the position of his shoulders and back, he walked with the confidence and ease of a man accustomed to it. He was used to walking, not riding, or sailing, so what? Dozens of vocations could fit that requirement. Harmony had told him he'd been in prison, and unhappy, so perhaps-

A vague image of white leggings with a crimson jacket floated across his mind and he paused mid-step. Yes... a scarlet coat made from broadcloth, lined, with buttonholes looped with worsted lace. A soldier then? That fit with his earlier thoughts, but what country did he serve? It all remained fuzzy.

"Think, Lane," he admonished himself. "What do you know of the world?"

Britain was the world power, the colonies having made their stand with the war beginning in the mid seventeen hundred and seventies. They were protesting taxation by the English monarchy... yes, the more he thought about it, the more certain he became. Was he a British soldier, or a rebel?

Distant thunder echoed in his ears; the acrid scent of gunpowder blown into his nostrils by dim memory. A bloody conflict that left bodies scattered across the earth like grass, many good and decent men never to return home again. Over eight hundred were wounded, more than two hundred killed, the battle was a waste of human life, doing little to turn the tide of the war.

Pausing, his mind churned over facts that he could not account for. Angry voices raised in argument, a feeling of betrayal, disillusionment... What kind of man had he been, what life had he led, and how did it end him here? Shaking his head dispelled the thought. Right now, he needed to have a plan ready when he came face to face with those who wanted him dead.

Twilight found him camped in a large outcropping of ochre-colored rock. He'd found a flat wide shelf that would serve as shelter for the night and climbed up, carefully keeping an eye out for current residents. He'd not forgotten his close encounter with the mulga serpent. The shelf was clear and free of dust, made of hard flat rock and he set his meager supplies down in a corner.

Not quite a hundred feet away was a small stand of rough-looking desert bloodwood trees. Harmony had shown him such a tree before, and he smiled, happy to have such a resource close at hand. The plump, green grubs from the gall, or 'bush coconut' and grubs that live under the bark were edible, as was the 'sugarbag' or honey produced by the hives of stingless native bees. The bark was good for making bowls. The red sap had medicinal properties should he need it, and drinking water could be collected from the hollows and the roots. As for firewood, the dead wood was one of the most favored, as it burned with a steady, hot flame.

Not yet hungry enough to try the grubs, the firewood appealed to him. Despite the heat of the day, the nights were uncomfortably cool. He made several short trips back and forth, collecting just enough to burn a small fire through the night. He was not cooking anything, only needing to be aware of any predators roaming the wild country with him.

Bending over to his task, Lane set his small pile of tinder up and picked up his tools, primitive though they were. Harmony had taught him the fire saw method. This involved running a hardwood stick across a notched softwood stick. The friction caused by rubbing the two pieces of wood together created heat which ignited the kindling.

He was starting to feel the slight rise of a forming blister when a faint tendril of smoke wisped from the kindling. Letting out a soft sigh he breathed across the smoke, encouraging the flame to spark. Once the fire was going, he sat for a long while staring out at the vastness of the landscape, the deep blackness surrounding him as the moon rose over the horizon. Millions of stars appeared overhead, consuming the sky until the blackness of the heavens seemed to peer through the twinkling celestial bodies.

His gaze swept across the skies until he realized he was searching for something, something familiar in the stars. A moment later he saw it. The Southern Cross was a prominent constellation that made navigation possible below the equator. That Lane knew that fact surprised him, but at the same time, it felt comforting and soothing. His keen eyes picked out the dotted lines of Centaurus and Phoenix, a faint feeling of security wrapping around him. Small bits of his life were returning.