Isabel's Online Journal

By Isabel Chalmers

The bus engine strains in the heat, pleading with Charlie to stop driving. He doesn’t. The gravel under the tires crackles, tiny explosions of stone and old stories being agitated, bringing life back to the road. A cloud of red forms as the bus goes, as if the water-starved earth is breathing again, disturbed by their passing.

The air is heavy and hard to breathe, a weight felt by the passengers; the sound of their breathing is constant but irregular and unnerving. It has been three hours of heat and sweat. The woman at the front fans herself with her son’s comic book. He watches her, desperate to have it, to look at something that isn’t dirt or the odd spinifex in passing. The conversation has stopped; nobody dares speak as the heat hums around them. Interrupting feels like challenging some unspoken authority.

Time passes and the landscape changes with it. Limestone rocks scatter across the desolate red desert, an introduction to the gorge. Charlie turns to the passengers, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “We’re here.”

She finds that she’s been holding her breath. She lets it out, but the sound doesn’t go far; the gorge ahead swallows it. The limestone walls of the Windjana Gorge stand tall, swallowing the bus in darkness. The sun cracks through gaps in the looming walls, blinding passengers every so often, a warning perhaps. Charlie laughs, nobody seems to have heard, it is taken by the gorge as well.

The bus doors open and the sound of metal grinding against metal set off a flight of birds. Passengers spill out. Sighs of relief rise thin quickly in the heat; laughter and cameras clicking fill the space. The woman adjusts her son’s hat and tells him not to run far; her voice sounds dry, she licks her lips. He’s staring at the ants gathering around the spinifex, poking at them with a stick. The plant pricks his fair, dough-like skin, drawing blood. The blood doesn’t have time to trickle down his leg before the heat sticks it in place. He leaves the ants alone.

The warning sign is old and wind-torn, barely readable, but Charlie points it out. “Stay within sight”. Everyone murmurs in response, distracted by the gorge around them. Charlie walks ahead. She’s the last in the group, silently plodding along. Her boots are stained red from the dirt; flies lick at her legs and sweat forms at her brow. The gorge is vast, with fig trees, boab trees, and cajeput trees scattered alongside the winding riverbank, rustling and creaking with the wind, as if in conversation. Their branches reach out above one another, tangled in a fight for the sun’s attention. Shadows gather around the rockface, thick with intention to block out the rays of light that already feel rationed. The heat presses in, not wanting to be forgotten about, folding the thick air against her ribs.

As the trail stretches ahead, a small oasis comes into view. The green of the trees stands out sharply against the stone as the sun paints the rock orange. She walks toward the shade, running her fingers over the leaves, taking a seat by the bank. The river seems slower here, as if not wanting to disturb the silence. The water from her flask feels like a reward, not a necessity, as she takes it from her backpack. It disappears down her throat too quickly.

She writes about the trees in her journal, the pages trembling slightly from either the breeze or from herself. She cannot tell. She takes the leaves from the ground and flattens them against one another in her leather-bound book. But the leaves are brittle from the dry season, and they flake into the pages. She sighs and wipes her hand against the backs of her knees, the sweat making her uncomfortable. The fragments of leaves crumbled out of her journal, leaving no trace that they were ever there.

She listens; the sound of footsteps has thinned; she strains her ears. A dry rustle climbs across the gorge walls, but she can’t tell if it’s the wind or someone nearby. The shadows pinned against the rocks have moved. The breeze picks up and hurries the river, rushing the water around the bend, consuming any other noise in the ravine. The wind nips at her skin, snatching at her sleeves.

Dust has settled on her skin as she gets up from the bank, sticking like glue to her legs and arms. Twisting between trees and serrated rock, the trail is narrower than before. Her feet feel like lead. She looks to the ground, no other footsteps are visible but hers. No camera clicks or talking can be heard. She pauses. A low hum drifts through the gorge. The bus’s engine. Running back along the trail, she follows the noise, but the gorge echoes the sound, it bounces off the rockfaces. Closer, distant, behind her. Charlie is laughing; she can hear it.

She turns around, following his laughter deeper into the gorge, the hum of the engine no longer present. She is back at the oasis. She is panting, gasping for air that sits thick and stubborn; her labouring breaths do not phase the ravine. She stares over the riverbank, a cajeput tree stands alone and merciless. Its spindly branches long and naked against the darkening dirt. A tear runs down her face, the salt of it wetting her cracking lips. A kookaburra is perched on the branch of the cajeput tree, laughing at her. Its sound echoes off the gorge, almost mocking, almost human.

The sun dips lower, and the heat leaves with it. As the warmth of the day leaves, the gorge exhales a different air, cold and sharp. The chill of the evening wraps around her bones and seeps into her spine. She sets down her backpack, shivering. She doesn’t have much. A long sleeve, a granola bar, a flashlight, her phone, and the bus pamphlet. She tugs the long-sleeve on over her shirt. It offers little comfort.

A rustle jerks her attention away from the cold. Across the river, there are now two kookaburras perched on the branch. Heads tilted, they stare at her. Their eyes, distant, mirror-like balls of light, matching the change in atmosphere. The evening makes the gorge seem older, more cautious with whoever comes in out. Curiosity keeps the birds lingering. She realizes she is completely alone

The phone number on the back of the bus pamphlet dials out again and again, the ringing so artificial in a space that seems so alive. She hugs her knees as she leans up against a boab tree, the cold licks at her limbs. The darkness now wraps the gorge, the colour and vibrancy of the landscape shrinks to a memory. The crickets start singing and fireflies dance around the surface of the silver river. The river still runs, carrying whispers that might be voices, might be nothing. Her flashlight sits idle beside her; she stalls, not wanting to reveal herself. But the gorge knows she’s here. She unwraps the granola bar. Her teeth feel brittle against the cold. She only eats half.

The crickets have stopped; a shuffle across the bank makes her freeze. Her wild eyes dart across the gorge, the breeze seeming to halt alongside her breathing. A shape moves in the darkness, low to the ground – hesitant. Two eyes stare at her, the same silver as the river reflecting the moon. Everything is still, the body is long and four legs pad along the bank. A soft panting carries over the river. A dog. She still doesn’t move; the cold is no longer the only thing gnawing at her bones. Fear takes precedence.

It is cautious, sniffing the air and padding up and down his side of the river. She looks up at the sky, seeking a safe haven, but the stars are covered by clouds and the moon is hidden from her. The gorge controls her comfort. She feels the weight of the night pressing down, her body sore from her frozen position against the boab tree.

She exhales, the sound so little the gorge doesn’t even swallow it. She sinks further into the ground and the tree. The river demands attention; its whispering is never-ending. The dog across the bank now rests under the cajeput tree, staring at her. She wonders if the gorge has taken them both prisoners. Her bag on her chest is a welcome weight that aids her discomfort. She closes her eyes. The gravel pokes at her legs; sleep won’t come tonight.