THE CALL OF A DISTANT TREE
The train would take six laborious days to traverse the vast emptiness. A parched, unpopulated wilderness. On day four, the train broke down. After hours or boredom and suffocating heat, the boy stepped off the train while his father slept. In the near distance stood a wiry, withered old tree. He had been observing it for some time. Its stubborn existence there, seemed to defy an environment in which no other vegetation could survive. The tree stood alone and appeared small - about the size of a 10yr old boy - but as he approached it, it seemed to grow in size. Finally he stood beneath its dry, twisted branches and saw it was big enough to climb. From its stiff upper limbs he surveyed the shimmering horizon in all directions. Vultures soared above. Scheming.
He did not attempt to climb down
as he saw the train pulling away. It seemed entirely right to him that he was
left behind. Somehow he knew the train was a part of his father’s destiny, but
that it was in no way a part of his own.
In the shadow of the tree the boy sat calmly. Awaiting inspiration. He had never been considered adventurous. Neither was he worldly, but he listened well. Slowly he surveyed the terrain. Bare distant mountains to what he felt was the north. Rain fell in the mountains. Mountains provided shelter and cooler air. They also served as a vantage point and perhaps supported plants and wildlife. These mountains spoke to him of good fortune and even a sense of home, despite him having only ever lived in a town without a single hill to speak of.
Having had no plan to set out into the blistering wilderness, the boy was ill-equipped. He wore no hat and carried no shoulder bag, no food or water. If he was aware that he couldn’t survive for long, he did not show it. The mountains had called him. The word of a mountain could be trusted. Fortune would favour him. And so he was unsurprised when presently he came upon a stiff and ragged sheet of canvas caught by a small thorn bush. Worn as a shawl, it provided a lifesaving amount of protection from the baking sun. Looking ahead there was not a sign of civilisation and yet after barely half an hour of steady walking, a large plastic bottle presented itself directly in his chosen path. Retrieving it, he tied it to a guy-rope attached to one corner of the canvas. Eventually he would find water, he told himself.
It took the remainder of the day and a full night before the boy reached the foothills of the mountains. Already there was a soft breeze and a hint of fresh air. He was tired and sorely in need of a drink but there was neither sight nor sound of water. He sat on a large rock and then rolled back, lying against the cool of the rock, staring up at the stars in the clear night sky. It was the first really solid thing he’d made contact with since he left the train. The train… He pictured it in his mind, climbing a slow gradient within an endlessly widening landscape. The sound of metal upon metal. Would his father understand? Might he think his son dead, and how would he explain to his wife? His mind floated and almost immediately he slid into a deep sleep. He was in the mountains. Ahead of where he now lay. He found himself drawn through a small gorge, between tight gaps in the rocks until he saw before him a building. Eagerly he approached it and made for the door, but stopped short to read the faded words painted on it in blistered red paint. “Death Awaits You”.
In the shadow of the tree the boy sat calmly. Awaiting inspiration. He had never been considered adventurous. Neither was he worldly, but he listened well. Slowly he surveyed the terrain. Bare distant mountains to what he felt was the north. Rain fell in the mountains. Mountains provided shelter and cooler air. They also served as a vantage point and perhaps supported plants and wildlife. These mountains spoke to him of good fortune and even a sense of home, despite him having only ever lived in a town without a single hill to speak of.
Having had no plan to set out into the blistering wilderness, the boy was ill-equipped. He wore no hat and carried no shoulder bag, no food or water. If he was aware that he couldn’t survive for long, he did not show it. The mountains had called him. The word of a mountain could be trusted. Fortune would favour him. And so he was unsurprised when presently he came upon a stiff and ragged sheet of canvas caught by a small thorn bush. Worn as a shawl, it provided a lifesaving amount of protection from the baking sun. Looking ahead there was not a sign of civilisation and yet after barely half an hour of steady walking, a large plastic bottle presented itself directly in his chosen path. Retrieving it, he tied it to a guy-rope attached to one corner of the canvas. Eventually he would find water, he told himself.
It took the remainder of the day and a full night before the boy reached the foothills of the mountains. Already there was a soft breeze and a hint of fresh air. He was tired and sorely in need of a drink but there was neither sight nor sound of water. He sat on a large rock and then rolled back, lying against the cool of the rock, staring up at the stars in the clear night sky. It was the first really solid thing he’d made contact with since he left the train. The train… He pictured it in his mind, climbing a slow gradient within an endlessly widening landscape. The sound of metal upon metal. Would his father understand? Might he think his son dead, and how would he explain to his wife? His mind floated and almost immediately he slid into a deep sleep. He was in the mountains. Ahead of where he now lay. He found himself drawn through a small gorge, between tight gaps in the rocks until he saw before him a building. Eagerly he approached it and made for the door, but stopped short to read the faded words painted on it in blistered red paint. “Death Awaits You”.
The screech of a bird marked the first sound of life for nearly
two days. He raised his head and then sat up. An egret. Several of them. He
knew so little of the world but he knew birds. And an egret rarely strayed far
from water. Rising to his aching feet, he walked quickly in the half-light
towards the birds. Over the rise he caught sight of the glow of early dawn on
the horizon and soon after, the shape of a wooden structure.
Lengthening his pace, he began to make out the details of a small
shack with a roughly thatched roof. Not a house but certainly something man
made. Coming closer he hesitated as he noticed something small beneath his
feet. Bending to pick it up he saw an empty shotgun cartridge, and then another. He
crouched nervously and looked about him listening carefully, but he heard only
the egrets' cries. Approaching the hut he saw the door was left ajar. He stared
long and hard at the door. “Hello” he
called, “is anyone there?”
Cautiously he pulled the door open and peered inside. The door creaked loudly. The hut was empty. On one side he could make out openings covered by closed shutters. Stepping inside, he lifted one to allow light in and slowly began to recognise the place as a hunting hide, similar to places he had been on expeditions with his father. A small stove sat in one corner and a large rough timber cupboard in another. A large water container stood by the back wall. Sadly, he found it empty. He opened the cupboard. An empty cartridge box and some dusty tin mugs sat on one shelf. His heart lifted as he spotted a knife, a can opener, a large glass jar of fruit and three tins. Hastily he took the jar. It was tight but he had often done this for his mother. Crouching down and placing it between his knees, he spread his small hands evenly around the lid and applied enough pressure to gently open it. He felt the lid give. Sniffing it first he drank the juice before eating some of the pears and replacing the lid. He had always disliked pears. An image of his mother's sister slowly painting her toenails in their kitchen inexplicably came into his head. His mother always said she was a rebel, but she had been a fun babysitter. He was still very thirsty. Quite severely dehydrated in fact. His head had begun to spin and he thought he might be sick. He shook the tins. Nothing liquid. The words “sausage and beans,” were written on one of them, “Rat Poison” on another.
A cool breeze woke the boy as he lay on the cabin floor. His head ached. Remembering where he was, he slowly raised himself to his aching feet. Looking out of the open shutter, something silver-bright caught his eye which had not been visible before. A reflection. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision, then moved closer and peered out. Thinking at first wishful thinking and sickness might have caused him to imagine it, he slowly formed a conviction that he was looking out onto water. His heart raced but his emotion was one of fear rather than elation. A large lake of gently rippling water. And on the water, dozens, perhaps hundreds of birds. Egrets.
Cautiously he pulled the door open and peered inside. The door creaked loudly. The hut was empty. On one side he could make out openings covered by closed shutters. Stepping inside, he lifted one to allow light in and slowly began to recognise the place as a hunting hide, similar to places he had been on expeditions with his father. A small stove sat in one corner and a large rough timber cupboard in another. A large water container stood by the back wall. Sadly, he found it empty. He opened the cupboard. An empty cartridge box and some dusty tin mugs sat on one shelf. His heart lifted as he spotted a knife, a can opener, a large glass jar of fruit and three tins. Hastily he took the jar. It was tight but he had often done this for his mother. Crouching down and placing it between his knees, he spread his small hands evenly around the lid and applied enough pressure to gently open it. He felt the lid give. Sniffing it first he drank the juice before eating some of the pears and replacing the lid. He had always disliked pears. An image of his mother's sister slowly painting her toenails in their kitchen inexplicably came into his head. His mother always said she was a rebel, but she had been a fun babysitter. He was still very thirsty. Quite severely dehydrated in fact. His head had begun to spin and he thought he might be sick. He shook the tins. Nothing liquid. The words “sausage and beans,” were written on one of them, “Rat Poison” on another.
A cool breeze woke the boy as he lay on the cabin floor. His head ached. Remembering where he was, he slowly raised himself to his aching feet. Looking out of the open shutter, something silver-bright caught his eye which had not been visible before. A reflection. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurred vision, then moved closer and peered out. Thinking at first wishful thinking and sickness might have caused him to imagine it, he slowly formed a conviction that he was looking out onto water. His heart raced but his emotion was one of fear rather than elation. A large lake of gently rippling water. And on the water, dozens, perhaps hundreds of birds. Egrets.
