The Flyer by Marjorie Jones Page A

surreal.”
    Paul suddenly appeared at her side, taking the bag from her and hoisting it over his shoulder. She hadn’t expected him to come with her, and a tiny spark of something hot and molten raced from her shoulder, where he’d barely brushed her, to the pit of her stomach. “Not so surreal. It’s been like this for thousands of years. A boy meets a girl, marries her, they have babies. Simple.”
    “Sure, simple for you, mate. You don’t have a swarm of oldies planning out which ones, and how many, now do you?”
    Paul laughed. The sound was warm and friendly, despite the obvious seriousness of his friend’s situation. When they arrived in a shaded glen a few feet away from the water’s edge, Paul sobered. “Your next patient, I reckon.” He pointed to an old woman sitting beneath a tree, her left eye swollen shut.
    Helen had already seen her and approached carefully. “I’m Dr. Stanwood. May I have a look at your eye?”
    Djuru knelt beside the woman. “Call her mother.
    Everyone does. Every women here is your mother, and every older man, your father. Those in your age group would be more like cousins, but you get the idea. She’s an elder. You could call her grandmother, if you like, as well.”
    “Mother,” Helen whispered, more to herself than anyone.
    Her would-be patient lifted a crippled hand and brushed several flies away from her injury. She mumbled something Helen couldn’t understand, piercing Djuru with a lethal stare.
    “She says you can look, but she’s old and has no desire for you to treat her. She hopes the infection will take her to visit the Ancestors soon, and wishes her husband had left her behind at their last encampment.”
    “It’s a simple infection to treat. Hardly life threatening. Can you explain that to her, please? Once the infection has cleared, she may feel better about things.”
    Djuru translated, and the woman sighed. She would allow the treatment, even though she wasn’t happy about it. Helen opened her bag and withdrew a vial of antibiotics, a syringe, and a roll of gauze. “Who is her husband?”
    “A man named Thomas Becky, if I’m not mistaken, but it’s been a while. If he’s passed, she’d be married to one of his brothers.”
    “Thomas is still alive and well. Should I get him?” Paul asked.
    “Yes, please. I’ll need to show him how to drain the infection for the next few days.”
    “I’ll fetch her daughter then. Thomas would have no part of that.” Paul jogged to a group of young women, naked above the waist, who sat in a circle around a small fire while they ground something with stone mortars and pestles.
    Now that Helen had had the opportunity to see more of the encampment, the entire scene seemed almost prehistoric. If it weren’t for the fact many of the younger Aborigines, like Djuru, spoke perfect English and wore modern clothing, she would have thought she’d stepped back in time. Primitive tools and weaponry surrounded her everywhere she looked. In a clearing to her left, a gathering of men practiced with spears. Most of them were naked, or close to it.
    She forced her attention back to the old woman. “Will you tell her this might sting a bit?”
    Djuru spoke in his odd language, and the woman tensed. Without giving her time to refuse, Helen plunged the antibiotic syringe into the muscles of the woman’s fleshy, bare upper arm. The woman cried and swatted Helen’s hands away.
    Just then, a young girl knelt and tossed long, neatly braided black hair out of her face. She was exotically beautiful, with wide, expressive features and eyes that reminded Helen of the ocean at night. Helen turned to Djuru, intending to ask him to translate for her, but he’d vanished. Scanning the area, she found him among the men with the spears. He glanced over his shoulder, then quickly averted his gaze.
    The girl tapped her on the shoulder. “I’m Nanara. Paul said you needed me?”
    Helen grinned. So that’s why Djuru had run off as if the