Thread: Survival; the stakes of Imagination (3k) (Language)

Last night I barely slept a wink on account of the vicious little windstorm that swept across our grounds. Picture, if you would, a snappy little terrier snarling up at you, feigning ferocity. You’d probably think it cute - a mild threat, perhaps, but nothing to seriously fret about. Nothing in comparison to, say, a feral Bloodhound or a rabid St. Bernard. Well, this little wind storm was that hostile terrier, a little shit-kicker; the sort of storm you’d hear howling outside your window as you drift off to sleep, wreaking all manner of minor havoc on your petunias but faltering against your brick wall shelter. Nothing too serious, you’d say. Nothing of any real concern. Out here, down on nature’s level, it’s a whole other playing field. Out here in the Australian bush you’re completely exposed, left at the mercy of the fickle elements.

I recall how frightened I was, how I’d buried my face and entire body inside my sleeping bag and prayed for it to pass. I remember sobbing into my pillow (“Pathetic,” Charlie had said), thinking of home and missing those creature comforts. I remember, now with some disdain, thinking of that Springsteen song, Cover Me - ‘This whole world is rough, it’s just getting rougher. Shut the door and cover me. Wrap your arms around me, cover me,’ - and reaching the sudden realization that those once harmless pop lyrics had become a foreboding description of how I felt. Charlie - he’s my buddy, it’s just me and him out here, he’d called me an idiot and slept right through the storm.
I guess I should’ve listened ‘cause eventually it passed us by with no serious consequences, y’know, other than a bit of scattered debris and a urine-soaked sleeping bag. Gee, I hope you don’t think less of me for divulging that. It was the roughest night of the week...

Anyway, when morning arrived I felt like a damn fool. I looked over at Charlie’s sleeping bag, empty. I wiped sleep from the corner of my eyes, stumbled out of our tent, and exposed myself to the clear morning. I shirked at the razorblades of sunlight pouring in, bleaching our surroundings and washing away all the childish fear from the night before. I found Charlie by the water’s edge, two minutes from where we’d set up camp. He was sitting, crossed-legged, next to my fishing rod. He looked impatient.
“Good morning,” I said politely, hoping he had forgotten all about my performance last night.

“This is the third morning in a row you’ve overslept,” he said without looking up.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” I hadn’t believed I would make it through the night, so sleep was not my greatest concern.

“You know Mangrove Jack only surface here at dawn after heavy rain.”

“Yes,” I said with genuine remorse.

Charlie craned his neck up; his eyes, black like coal, met mine. “I’ve been up since five a.m.”

“Did you catch anything?” Obviously he had not. I felt foolish for asking.

“I am not here to catch your breakfast.” he stated. “Tomorrow you should make more of an effort. A full-grown Mangrove Jack would feed us for a few days.”

“Yes, Charlie, I will. Promise!”

Charlie nodded and looked out across the water. In the distance I saw a majestic pelican fraternizing with a gaggle of grey herons. I picked up a small stone and lobbed it in the opposing direction. It hit the water’s surface with a dull thunk.

*

Later that day Charlie and I scourged the area, collecting large sticks which we planned to burn when the sun set. As usual Charlie refused to carry any. He just pointed out sticks that would burn real good and called me a heap of names. I didn’t really mind. Charlie’s a grouchy guy, a lot like my father in many ways. I figured he was just trying to motivate me, or teach me a lesson.
“Over here,” he said, pointing at a loose branch that had most likely been amputated during last night’s storm. “Can you identify this?”

“It’s from a... Red River Gum?”

“Wrong.”


“An Acacia?”

“It’s a Coolabah branch,” Charlie corrected. I made a mental note of it. I hated to let him down.

We spent well over an hour marching back and forth through the bushland, collecting as much seasoned firewood as possible. I clamped an open palm across my head, to where a dull headache had forced its way in and taken roost. Then I worked my fingers into a tentative massage. It provided no relief. My back ached, my shoulders were tired, and my moral was weakening.
I consoled myself with the wonderful sight that lay just ahead: an uprooted tree stump that would serve as a fine seat. I spaced my feet shoulder-width apart and planted them firm in the dirt. Then I braced myself and heaved, severing the few roots that were still submerged under soil. Charlie watched me lug the stump back to our grounds; my body trembled with exhaustion but I refrained from complaining. I knew Charlie would think it weak.

That night we had our fire. It sure was a sight to behold. I think knowing that it was the culmination of a long day’s work made it all the more rewarding. I studied it with intent, fascinated by the loose, renegade embers tossed aside with an elegant flicker (as though they were too insignificant to be part of the grander inferno). I sat hypnotized by the miracle of fire, watching the flames rise and fall like the deep breathing of a sleeping lion. So gentle and unassuming, yet, at the same time, with such potential for danger. A shiver ran down my spine, and for some reason the feeling drew me to thoughts of my mother.

She’d died giving birth to me, but I still liked to pretend that we’d had this elaborate connection. Sometimes I saw her in acts of nature, moving about with all the imagined mannerisms that I’d granted her. She was nature, really; my family had always lived in the remote Australian bushland, so it seemed obvious that she would eventually join and become part of it when she died. This was, in my limited understanding of death, the natural order of things.
My mother’s actions were often complex and beautiful, but sometimes they could be cruel, too. Last night’s storm was a great example. I was certain she’d sent it as a test, perhaps as a part of my journey to become a man. She had this geyser of fury that was impossible to predict. It was every random phenomena that ever occurred; a small part of me felt that it was my penance, that I somehow deserved to be punished. I knew that if I hadn’t of been born she would still be here. This realization bore such relentless guilt. I wore it, like a heavy crown, every single day. I knew that my father blamed me for my mother’s death. I’d grown up questioning his inherent hostility, but, as I eventually reached adolescence, I began to understand. Fifteen years and he still hadn’t gotten over it. I doubted he ever would. This was why I ran away from home.

The burning wood crackled and popped. I watched the tip of an old branch grow so hot it turned white. Our campsite was enveloped in the safe orange glow. All this warmth and visibility made me feel like whatever danger that was out there had declared a truce. How could it not? Tonight our actions had no visible intent. We were just hanging out, just getting by. We meant no harm to anyone, and in some weird, intangible way, these humble flames seemed to reflect this.

Charlie had gone quiet. He did this most nights. Sometimes the lack of acknowledgement made me feel painfully alone. For the sake of distraction I set myself a little project. I took out my camping knife and dug it repeatedly into a thick little piece of wood. This separated it into two smaller rectangles. I then carved out the centre, hollowing it out until it was concave. From where I sat I leant over and retrieved a stray tree branch. I stripped the fallen branch of its large, star-shaped leaves. They were valuable to me because of their abrasive texture. Using them as an alternative to sandpaper, I ran them over the wood’s exterior, one at a time, sanding down and smoothing out the edges until they were slightly spherical in shape. Finally, I pierced tiny holes into the ends of the wood and threaded them together using a handful of loose reed. I bound them carefully, so that they’d be tight and secure, then I held up my finished prize.

Charlie looked over at my work. “The hell is that?”

“They’re castanets,” I said, smiling.

“What do they do?”

I clicked the shells together in a short, repetitive rat-a-tat-tat rhythm. “They’re a Spanish instrument. Well, these ones are pretty crappy. Real ones are made from chestnuts.”

Charlie turned away, unimpressed. He stared solemnly into the flames. In that moment a flash of anger swelled inside me, then subsided as quick as it had come. I wished Charlie would show an interest, but that just wasn’t the way he was wired. I’d met him the day I ran away from home, out here in the endless sprawling bushland (though, curiously, the details of this meeting elude me). He’s a few years older than me, and doesn’t like to talk much. I don’t really know anything about him - why he’s here, what he wants with me - but I stick with him because he helps me out. He seems to know everything there is to know about surviving in the wilderness. I wondered if he’d ran away from home, too?
The fire showed signs of weakening, so I heaved in an old branch to stoke it back up. The flames suddenly roared and lurched up, as if in gratitude. This was my mother praising me, using the magnanimous personality that I’d invented for her. I backed away when the smoke made it difficult to breath, clapping my castanets together, pretending that Charlie and I were part of some great, liturgical dance. I imagined a bongo rhythm and a mass of half-naked tribal folk bounding around our great fire.

“Knock it off,” snapped Charlie, always in the present moment, always afraid of imagination. He was so much like my father. I hated those parts of him.

“C’mon Charlie! I’m really bored.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re Dame Edna’s make-up artist, I want peace and quiet!”

The fire suddenly flared up. I stared at it, my anger rising with the flames. “No...” I said, weakly. “You’re not the boss of me...”

Charlie looked at me with a murderous glint in his eye. “What did you say?”

“Y-you heard me. I’m the one that collected all this firewood... I should be allowed to unwind in... in whatever way I see fit.” My voice sounded artificial. I rarely had use for such an enraged tone, so it felt foreign and unpracticed.

“Throw that fucking thing in the fire. Now.”

“N-no,” I said. “I won’t.”

“Throw it in there right now, or so help me god I will beat your fucking skull in with it.” His voice was fierce and harsh - just like my father’s. He didn’t need to shout to inspire absolute terror; the fact that he didn’t shout was, in itself, deeply unnerving.

He stared at me, and I stared back. I looked into those black, predator’s eyes and... I buckled. My newfound confidence caved in and balled up like an obsolete piece of paper. I raised my castanets, then cast them into the fire. They did not burn efficiently; the wood was too young. I felt disgusted in myself for abiding. I felt weak, oppressed - exactly the sensations I’d left home to escape.

“Wise decision, dipshit,” said Charlie.

I climbed to my feet, taking deep, labored breaths.

Charlie wasn’t finished yet. “Don’t you ever answer back to me again, ya hear? You are an insignificant bug, and as long as we’re out here, you’ll do exactly what I tell you. Understand?”

I gritted my teeth, suddenly possessed by blind rage.

“I said do you fucking hear me, dipshit?”

That was it. I surged forward, lunging at Charlie like a rolling flame. Two steps before a collision I launched myself off the ground, like a swimmer would launch off the halfway wall. I anticipated the crunch of our colliding bodies, but it did not come. I sailed through the air and landed in the dirt with a heavy thud. My upper-body swelled with electric agony. I lay, defeated, at Charlie’s feet.

“You ballsy little mother-fucker,” he said, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

I rolled myself over, taking the pressure off my damaged ribs. “I went right through you...”

“You sure did. Guess my time here is over.”

“Y-you’re leaving?”

“No,” he said, “wasn’t ever here to begin with.”

I looked over at the flames. They had grown weaker. “Charlie,” I said, looking back at him, “I don’t understa-”

He was gone.

*

The next morning I sat at the water’s edge, fishing rod in hand, patiently awaiting a response. Not one minute after the bobber had struck the water did I receive a bite. I clutched the pole with all my might, then drew it towards me and started the process of reeling in. The battle was heated and intense: man versus nature. My adversary and I had great respect for one another, though, of course, the stakes were far greater for my aquatic friend. I pushed myself into a state of mental lockdown; my muscles ached and wished to concede, but my mind would not allow it.
I persisted for nigh on twenty-five minutes, half expecting to either lose my entire rig, or pull in a killer whale. Eventually I saw it, the distinctive reddish-brown form of a Mangrove Jack. I had dragged it to the surface. It thrashed and flailed, hoping I might succumb to the pressure of battle and make a fatal mistake. I didn’t. I dragged it out of the water and onto dry land, then watched it meet a swift, dignified end. It fought its fate, tooth and scale, until the very last ounce of life had left its body. After that it continued to twitch sporadically, but I knew that these were just the ghost impulses of its dying nerves.

For a moment I wished, half with spite, half longing, that my father could’ve seen me. I wondered if the scenario would’ve brought him any assurance. I didn’t believe he was a bad man, and, contrary to the beliefs I’d had as a child, he certainly wasn’t evil.
I realized now that he must’ve had his fair share of demons, stuff I’ll probably never even know about. What I knew for sure was that he was a tortured man, tormented by his inability to fill the immense hole in his heart. I couldn’t really begrudge him for something like that, even if it was exactly what prevented him from loving his own son. I think the important thing to remember was that his bitterness was not my fault. What an immense relief this realization was.

From across the water I noticed a young family of plovers emerging from the thick reeds. The sight comforted me and drew out my smile. I could hear my latest catch flopping about inside its styrofoam tomb. Its flails had grown weaker, like it were close to accepting death. Death. Such finality. I drew in a deep breath and sighed. I really did wish that my father could see me out here, alone, not acting, but being a man, having just recently reeled in the most challenging of fish. Then all that guilt he’d surely carried would dissipate. Then he would know that his neglect had not stunted my development.
It’s funny, I’d always hated him for being the way he was. I’d resented his pivotal position in my life (‘Why him?’ I’d asked myself growing up. ‘Why couldn’t I have had one of those kind, TV dads?’). For all these years he’d been such a institute in my life; I’d grown afraid to leave him behind, even though I knew it was ultimately for the best. I’d hated the way I craved for him to be nurturing, and I’d hated the way he’d robbed me of the courage to be myself, but now, as is always the way, I recognize that it was this exact lack of emotional support that has granted me this newfound strength.

The sun began to rise as I scaled my latest catch. It was hard work, the fish was enormous and weighed a great deal, but an indescribable sensation of peace prevailed as I toiled away. I felt as though I’d crossed a curious threshold and now stood taller, braver than ever, on the crest of some great wave. The feeling was strange and new to me. I imagined that it was quite like the warm prosperity that sets in at the close of war.

In my mind I had made a new pair of castanets. I clicked them together and danced. The image made me smile and laugh out loud. I couldn’t help it, it was just so funny. Escapism had gotten me this far, that much was apparent, but still I found it genuinely surprising to learn that my treasured imagination, too, had crossed this threshold. I’d debunked another of my father’s myths: one could become an adult, with all the complications that entailed, yet still remain as free as a child.