Neptune's Fingers Read Online Free

of the waves onto the dry sand above the tide line. Exhausted, he flung himself down on the sand and took in huge gulps of air. His heart was racing and his head pounded.
    â€˜A galah,’ his dad would call him, referring to the pink and gray parrots not renowned for their common sense. ‘A mug,’ another expression well-worn in times of exasperation.
    Jack was not about to argue. He was both of those things. He knew he was in for a tongue-lashing when he got home. His father would be frantic if he lost Jack. These expressions were his way of showing he cared. Jack learnt this early in the piece. He would take his punishment. He knew he deserved it. He was too busy being relieved he escaped a worse experience.
    When his breathing was back to normal, he sat up and looked back at the channel. Any later and it would have been impossible. Waves covered the spit and to the naked eye, there was no spit at all. It had vanished. There was no evidence of its ever being in existence. Slowly he got to his feet, dragging his fingers though his hair, which was lying flat on his skull, plastered down with water. He succeeded in making it stand up in spikes, like a rooster’s comb. He could feel it there, rearing up from his head and drooping over at the top with the weight of the water.
    â€œMore like a galah than ever,” he laughed as visions of the ruffled feathers on the parrots head came into his mind. “Gawd a bloke thinks of stupid thing at times.”
    He mussed up his hair again as if to eradicate silly thoughts that might linger beneath it, shrugged his shoulders and was about to head for the track and home. He stopped midstride, looking out across the water, now thrashing over the spit. Someone else was over there. Surely he wasn’t going to cross over. Who on earth would be so stupid? At least he lived here. He had little choice in the matter. The stranger must have followed him.
    Dripping wet, cold and stunned, he stood watching. The person wore long pants. His chest was bare, as were his feet. A boy, he thought. The figure stopped, raised an arm and waved at Jack. Stupidly, Jack waved back, returning his arm self-consciously to his side. What did he think he was doing? It was madness to wave. The boy might be tempted to cross the spit and that would end in disaster.
    Suddenly, the figure vanished. One minute he was there waving and the next he was gone. He simply vanished. Jack started, shocked and dismayed as his mind rationalized this scene as best it could. He blinked several times to refocus his unreliable eyes. He was imagining things, surely. Must have swallowed too much water or something, he decided.
    When the figure did not reappear, Jack didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. Who was he? Where was he? He watched for a while, in the hope the boy would re-appear. He didn’t. The waves continued to buffet the spit, each huge gulp submerging it deeper and deeper until it was deep enough to flow smoothly over the top.
    Jack shrugged. “Dreaming!” he thought. “Better get going.” Scratching his head, bewildered, he turned towards the track. Trees grew on this side of the island, hiding the lighthouse from view. A gray sandy track led through it and over the hill to the rocky land on the other side. Now his shock was over, he was surprised his father was not in sight looking for him. Once before when he was late, his father stood on the beach and signaled for him to stay where he was in much the same way as the mysterious boy had done. He spent the night at Bill’s place. Mrs. Tarrant hadn’t minded but there was little room for visitors in the shanties. His father told him never to be so dense again. He could see for himself when he could cross safely. He was not allowed over the spit for a week as punishment. His absence from school was noted but ignored as foul weather kept him a prisoner at Narrowgut at times, especially in winter, just as surely