Shadowlands

tw. war themes, dead bodies, violence

I follow him across the old railway bridge. It spans a stony abyss. Between the sleepers, in the rotted out sections, I see that there is no water to fall into. Fantastic.

His shoulder blades stick sharply out of his t shirt, what's left of it. My dress is ragged and mud-splattered too. Soon we'll all be naked, or sewing skins together, I guess. But I try not to think about Then, only Now. I watch his leonine movements hungrily. Those deft movements promise safety, certainty.

We're working our way across like Paul Atreides on a dune. Sidestepping, crawling.

The air feels thin at this height, and fear is a quick penknife in my gut.

He's taking me to the shadowlands. Its safer there; there are Others.

When I was young, Pop had told me about a viaduct up in these hills. He'd worked on felling timber for it in his twenties. This must be the one. There were still trains in his day too. I only knew them as derelict machines, clawed onto sections of track outside town like cicada husks. Soon they were all collected for scrap, except the coal hoppers.

We've reached the far side and he's picking a trail through the blonde grasses around the tunnel. We ascend towards the ridge although keeping below the crest. An hour passes. Now the scrub's over our heads, we're lizard crawling to the top. Its gotten steep, like being on a wave. My heads dizzy but I don't look back.

Ahead he is creeping under a disc of rock. Beyond, colossal tumbled boulders block a passage between shoulders of stone like blocks of flats. We follow the path of the rock wallabies. Over, beneath, around. The odd leap of faith. How does he know his way? He always knows his way. How long did he live here by himself after the Scourge?

It seems a good cool quiet place to stay for a bit. Its a lost world. There's semi-caves created by the proximity of giant fragmented granite, even dewy beds of moss with tiny pools. It feels ancient, yet fresher than the smoking world I left behind. No human remains, no sad reminders of what was.

I miss the place I grew up in. The quaint weatherboard buildings of the primary school and civic hall, the glorious ramshackle cinema where the silent films were once shown, the lovable Victory Cafe. My beloved family. Mrs Dory's ham n cheese toasties. My art teacher Bob. So many ghosts now, crowding in. I have to shut down the film tape that's whirring in my head. Who is left alive?

He stoops and splashes his face, splashes me. That grin flashes out, scours the memory out of me in a fierce sweet rush. There's no use for memory here. Fear comes in handy though.

He's on his feet again, dropping over the other side, away from the railway valley, where every 'cooee' carries clean to town, against the granite walls, and the petrified creek bed. But now there's no one left to hear it. No one that we could trust, anyhow.

Another hour, on bellies. Behind us the shape of the Brontosaurus emerges, a fantastically shaped ridgeline that meets the bleached sky. We're descending from about the neck, head to the southwest, her flaring stone spine curling to the northeast.

Here's the 'Pot', murmurs Kai. We're home.

I haven't seen this hideout, just heard it whispered. Below us a crevice opens up beyond a lone stringy bark gum, yawning evilly in the shadow-slanted light. I can't see any 'pots'. In answer to my frown he motions behind us. A house sized boulder rests on the steep slope, in pure defiance of gravity. From its side grows a sapling gum, at a pot-handle angle.

I turn back, Kai's disappearing into the crevice, I gape in horror. Then a scrawny brown hand extends to me. I inch foward, take hold..

Legs first he hisses.

I obey. Leg extends into the void, he guides my foot to a decent hold. Ok. From then a natural ladder makes itself known ledge by tiny ledge. I faceplant the unkind rock wall and find what fingerholds I can. This must be what a corpse smells like I remark, getting a whiff of my fresh craven sweat. Heights aren't my strong point.

Yep, dead on. You're feral.

Well lead me to the hot shower you promised.

Promised nothing; just, keep you alive, better than you were doing for yourself.

I can't argue that point. If it weren't for him I'd still be trussed up in that potato sack in the coal hopper. But I can't think about that now. The bodies crushed next to me, I didn't know whose they were. I was too busy playing dead. They were busy being properly dead, so I may never know.

Or this could be the afterlife, I tell myself. And maybe I'll see them all again here. My family, that is. My best friend Brie. Mrs Dory, all the others. Maybe they are waiting in the shadows.

I reach the last step. Find my balance. The grounds uneven but solid. He pulls me by the hand into the darkness, as my eyes are adjusting. My sight's no good at short range. I left my glasses on my bedside table at home, the old silky oak dresser dad had restored for me.

Then home burnt down. In the bunkers, it was hot, but we survived. It would have been better for some if the blast had taken us all out then and there. I guess where he'd came from, they'd been prepared. But even the most sophisticated back-yard preppers were blasted or starved out this time. He'd already taken to the rocks and ridges, the wild devil lands between places.

We have to work sidewise down the narrow passage at the base of the crevice. It opens out into a large cavern. A few golden beams of sunlight pour in from high above and remind me of the cinema with its long projector beam. Instead of rows of chairs and faces there's an inky black pool, sandy floor and a blackened camp fire ring.

Tears are running down my face, I touch the moisture, rub it away.

He's still holding my hand and that's ok.