March 2014, a group of writers from far-flung parts of the country were meeting up for their eighth or ninth writers’ retreat … The first retreat originated when four of us got together for the Crocodile Creek series of books, and with other friends invited it became a yearly event—a week somewhere near a beach, for brainstorming, writing, an occasional sip of wine and, recently, great lobster for lunch at a nearby restaurant.
So there we were, Marion Lennox, Alison Roberts and myself, amongst our other friends, with a vague idea of doing something together again—a series … six books … a tropical island. We threw some ideas around, wrote notes, drew island pictures and then went home—thousands of kilometres from each other but still in touch. About halfway through that year we got serious enough to actually work out a few overall continuity ideas, and each of us decided on our characters and the bare bones of a plot for our own story.
I think it was Marion who put it all together and sent if off for editorial approval—which we got, with a few stipulations. Then began the fun of fitting the books in with already scheduled books and getting the stories written. My workload at the time was lightest, so I said I would do the first book—setting up the island itself, introducing the characters who would be in most of the books and generally getting started.
So here, lucky reader, is the first of six books set on Wildfire Island, a small island in the M’Langi group, way out in the Pacific Ocean. Privately owned, the island is falling on hard times and in need of rescue—so rescuing it and rescues of another kind are a thread running through the books.
Enjoy!
Meredith Webber
MEREDITH WEBBER lives on the sunny Gold Coast in Queensland, Australia, but takes regular trips west into the Outback, fossicking for gold or opals. These breaks in the beautiful and sometimes cruel red earth country provide an escape from the writing desk and a chance for the mind to roam free—not to mention getting some much needed exercise. They also supply the kernels of so many stories she finds it’s hard to stop writing!
To Linda and Alison and the writing friends
we share and love—long may Maytone survive!
AS THE SMALL plane circled above the island, the hard lumps of pain and worry that had been lodged in Caroline Lockhart’s chest for the past months dissolved in the delight of seeing her home.
From the air, the island looked like a precious jewel set in an emerald-green sea. The white coral sand of the beaches at the northern end gleamed like a ribbon tying a very special parcel, the lush tropical forest providing the green wrapping paper.
Coming in from the west, they passed over the red cliffs that lit up so brilliantly at sunset that early sailors had called the island Wildfire.
As they flew closer, she could pick out the buildings.
The easiest to find was the palatial Lockhart mansion, built by her great-grandfather on a plateau on the southern tip of the island after he’d bought it from the M’Langi people who had found it too rough to settle.
Lockhart House—her home for so many years—the only real home she’d known as a child.
The house sat at the very highest point on the plateau, with views out over the sea, ocean waves breaking against the encircling reef, and beyond them the dots of other islands, big and small, settled and uninhabited, that, with Wildfire, made up the M’Langi group.
Immediately below the house and almost hidden by the thick rainforest surrounding it was the lagoon—its colour dependent on the sky above, so today it was a deep, dark blue.
Grandma’s lagoon.
In truth it was a crater lake from the days of volcanic action in the area, but Grandma had loved her lagoon and had refused to call it anything else.
Below the house and lagoon was the hospital her father, Max Lockhart, had given his life to building, a memorial to his dead wife—Caroline’s mother.
Around the main hospital building its cluster of staff villas crowded like chickens around a mother hen. And below that again lay the airstrip.
Farther north, where the plateau flattened as it reached the sea, sat the research station with the big laboratory building, the kitchen and recreation hut, small cabins dotted along the beach to accommodate visiting scientists.
The research station catered to any scientists interested in studying health issues unique to this group of isolated islands, and the tropical diseases prevalent here.
The most intensive research had been on the effects of M’Langi tea—made from the bark of a particular tree—and why the islanders who drank this concoction regularly seemed to be less affected by the mosquitos, which carried a unique strain of encephalitis.
As she frowned at what appeared to be changes to the research station, she wondered if anyone was still working there. Keanu’s father had been the first to show interest in the tea—
Keanu.
She shook her head as if to dislodge memories of Keanu from her head and tried to think who might be there now. According to her father, a man she knew only as Luke had been working there for a short time but that had been four or five years ago.
Circling back to the southern end of the island, past the little village that had grown up after Opuru Island had been evacuated after a tsunami, she could just pick out the entrance to the gold mine that tunnelled deep beneath the plateau.
The mine had brought wealth not only to her family but to the islanders as well, but the only sign of it was a huge yellow bulldozer, though it, too, was partly hidden beneath a cluster of Norfolk pines and what looked like a tangle of vines.
Weird.
Dropping lower now, the sea was multicoloured, the coral reefs beneath its surface visible like wavy patterns on a fine silk scarf. Images of herself and Keanu snorkelling in those crystal-clear waters, marvelling at the colours of the reef and the tiny fish that lived among the coral, flashed through her mind.
An ache of longing—for her carefree past, her childhood home—filled Caroline’s heart, and she had to blink tears from her eyes.
How could she have stayed away so long?
Because Keanu was no longer here?
Or because she’d been afraid he might be …
‘Are you okay?’ Jill asked, and Caroline turned to her friend—her best friend—who, from seven hundred miles away, had heard the unhappiness in Caroline’s voice just a short week ago and had told her she should go home.
Insisted on it, in fact, although Caroline suspected Jill had wanted to show off her new little plane, and her ability as a pilot.
‘I’m fine, just sorry I’ve stayed away so long.’
‘In recent times it’s been because you were worried that rat Steve would take up with someone
