Tasmanian Writers’ Prize 2021 Winner

The grass grew wild and wiry on the southern side of the island. Agnes waded through it, stepping cautiously on the rocky ground. She pulled her scarf across her face in an attempt to block out the blast of cold wind that blew up from the Arctic mass sitting just below the horizon. It was a lonely, solitary place, inaccessible by road and thought by most to be inaccessible by sea. At that time of year, and that time of day, no sun yet. A distant sketch of light in the east indicated the exact place at which the sun would rise, but mist and cloud cover made precise sunrises a rare thing. Most inhabitants of the island were still asleep or perhaps rising to sit in front of warm fires or cooked breakfasts. She knew the town, clustered in the north, gathered around the wide, expansive blue of the harbour, sheltered from the worst of the southerly winds, would be all but silent, all but still. Not to wake for another hour at least. By then she hoped to be back by her own fire.