THE ROAD TRIP

 Here is another little story that resulted when a prompt offered by a member of our writing group fell into my memories and came up up with something briefly glimpsed along a highway one damp day.....

THE ROAD TRIP

Richard Slade

July, 2017

Liz stepped back a few paces when the young policewoman began questioning Neville. He had his arms folded, his shoulders back, chin up, and back straight. It was that look that she had mistaken, forty five years ago, for manly determination and courage.

Was it that long ago? Forty five years of wifely duties – of raising children, hosting dinner parties for his work colleagues, running the household (as best she could, given Neville's tight reign on all matters financial), and supporting him during his relentless climb up the various corporate ladders he had latched onto.

Somehow, the forty five years did not seem as long as the first six months of Neville's retirement had. What would two years of travelling round Australia with him feel like – a century? It would have to be two years, at the least. That's how long a lease they had granted the new occupants of their lovely, tree-shaded, St Ives home. Two years, minus the two long days since they had driven away from it. She could still see the smiles on the faces of their tenants, as they directed the removalists and savoured the gardens.

Now, home was an eight metre long caravan, The caravan was luxurious, as was the brand new Landcruiser that Neville had purchased to tow it with.

Had that policewoman noticed the way Liz's head had jerked up, and her raised eyebrows, as Neville wove a detailed description of the fast moving, non-descript, silver sedan that had cut in front of him, forcing the evasive manoeuvre that had caused their sudden departure from that tight bend in the highway? A very badly made bend, in Neville's opinion; one that shared the blame equally, along with the miscreant driver – now long gone from the scene of his crime – for what had happened next. The car was mythical, but Liz wasn’t going to argue the point.

Neville had not noticed anything. Chin jutting, arms crossed, gazing into the distance, he was unaware of anything Liz said or did until it directly affected his wallet or his prestige. The policewoman slipped a few more glances at Liz, even as she kept jotting Neville's utterances in her notebook. Liz rolled her eyes and looked at the caravan. It was on its side in the long grass between the north and south-bound lanes of the highway. The tow-truck driver had connected a steel cable somewhere under the front of the Cruiser, which was, miraculously, still upright, though pointing the wrong way. He had shaken his head when Neville had declared that vehicle and van would be "right as rain in no time at all"

The towie had tried to explain just how badly damaged both vehicles were, but his words had fallen into the well of silence, while Neville droned on.

He thought she had been asleep when the crash had happened, but she had only closed her right eye. Neville's confidence in his own driving skills was not shared by Liz, who had, for decades, done all the driving, whether of children to sport, school, or events, or of a tipsy Neville, coming home from another corporate function. So Liz kept one eye open, hoping she would see the end coming and have time to offer up one final, brief prayer. In this case, she had time for quite a bit of praying before the Cruiser and van finished sliding across the wet grass, but all that came out were a handful of expletives she had not realised she knew. Neville chastised her for her language, several times, before the police arrived.

She smiled, just a little, and clutched her handbag tightly to her aching ribs. It contained something that she had never before owned; a card that gave her access to their bank account – his account.

Neville had agreed to provide her with one just before their departure, swayed by her vivid evocation of what might happen to him if he suffered a medical emergency in some far outback place, and she was unable to access the finances they might need for the provision of quality care.

She smiled again. Taree would have the right brand of bank, and an airport, or a train station. A few scotches at the end of a stressful day like this and Neville would sleep until morning tea time tomorrow. It might take hours after that for Neville to realise that she was gone, days before he worked out how she had done it, and weeks more for him to believe it.

Look Again

 Our Writing Group retreated to a sort of electronic arm's length during 2021, and was just beginning to meet in person again in the latter part of the year.  It was suggested that we put together a series of short pieces based on several prompts that focused on a family, and this was my first response.... the actual prompt is the heading.

 

BUT WHEN SHE TURNED AND LOOKED AGAIN....

When I moved into the house where I hoped to rebuild my dreams, and my life, at 32 Swanson St (a true “renovator's delight” - long vacant while its previous owner faded away in aged care) my first encounters with the neighbours left me fearing my dream was really the opening act in a nightmare.

The friends helping me move were quick to spot the old man wandering in the front yard of number 34. He was a balding, lopsided, stooped shape that, if straightened out and rejuvenated, would have given any opposing rugby opponents pause. His crooked face was in constant motion. His eyes darted like pin-balls while a constellation of expressions that danced from delight to grimaces, and back again, with detours through anger, terror, and confusion as he muttered constantly, declaiming to some invisible audience, or demanding answers from the same unseen person, except when his eyes were fixed on me as I carried the detritus of my broken marriage from the footpath into my house of new hopes. Unsettled, I left the ferrying of goods to my friends and began to unpack the kitchenware and prepare a morning tea for the workers.

A tumbling flash of red and white outside my kitchen window became a football soaring over the fence from the back yard of number 30 and vanishing in the weeds of what I hoped would one day be my perfect garden. Seconds later, three boys threw themselves over the paling fence in pursuit of the ball, while other little heads popped up above the palings to watch their progress.

Now I knew where the background noise of yelling, shouting, screaming, and laughter had been coming from. Dust rose where tall weeds shook and the smallest of the boys burst into sight, ball clutched fiercely to his chest, his shirt-tails firmly in the clutches of one of the larger boys. His mouth fell open when he saw me staring at him through the glass. He pointed, and the others froze for a moment, before charging back to the fence and scrambling up and over. The silence was ominous, and soon broken by the angry voice a woman somewhere inside number 30, and the indignant arguments of children. Not a word was comprehensible, but the tone was fierce, and soon only the woman's voice remained.

As I stood listening, the backyard came into focus, and I saw things I hadn't noticed when the agent had shown me the house, weeks earlier. Planks and sticks and dead leaves were piled up in the furthest corner, and I realized that I was looking at a tepee, made by small hands. When I walked down and peered inside, there were toy cars, a home made bow and some arrows, and a home made ladder leading to the top of the fence overlooking the back corner of number 34. Movement and muttering again – the old man was now wandering his back yard, his head just visible above the fence.

What had I let myself in for? I went back into my new abode and supervised the placing of the few pieces of furniture I owned, opened a bottle of wine and thanked my friends for their help. Their toasts of good luck fell into a murky, troubled pool of apprehension, and I was sorry to see them drive away. Number 30 was back to full volume; what were they fighting about now.? As I stood at my front door, cheering broke out from my right, while on my left, the battered old man was pacing back and forth between his letterbox and his front porch, more agitated than ever.

Suddenly, a horde of children, ranging from teen to toddler swept down the front path at number 30 and clattered along the footpath to where the old man had, paused at his gate. As I watched in fearful anticipation, he smiled, patted the smallest girl on the head, and then suffered himself to be led into his house by two teenage girls. A tall boy cradled a foam vegetable box as he followed them, and I realized I could smell cooked meat – was that roast lamb? Did one of those girls call the old man Poppy? I jumped as a throat cleared itself behind my right shoulder, and as I turned to look again in the direction of my letter box, I found myself face to face with two of the fence jumpers.

They were standing just outside my gate, looking much cleaner than they had earlier, one of them holding something covered in a tea towel. As my brain grappled with the sight, my nose clutched at the scent of warm, fresh baked cake. I blinked, and looked from them to the empty front yard of number 34, and back to them. The bigger boy spoke.

“That's Pop” he said “He's mum's grandpa – he's really old. We take him dinner every night” he added, shuffling his feet “Mum sent us to say we're sorry about jumping the fence, and we'll come after school tomorrow and clean up our fort in the back yard, if that's alright, and she said you would like this cake. She just made it. It's our favourite” 

A babble of voices announced the return of the party from number 34, and I looked again at the two earnest faces in front of me. I had to swallow before I could speak, and by then the other children were waiting quietly by my letterbox, gazing at their siblings and the stranger who had taken over their playground.

“I haven't unpacked my plates or cutlery properly yet” I said, finding my voice “Do you think it would be alright if I came in and shared the cake with you guys and your parents? I can bring some drinks”

“There's just Mum, and she loves visitors” the younger boy said, and grinned “and she loves white wine”

“Give me half a minute and I'll be right in – save a slice of cake for me”

The Final Miles

I did say, when first posting on this blog, that writing would be one of the main topics, but lately I have been diverted by flowers, birds, and weather; escaping, possibly, from that part of the writing process I have always found most difficult - polishing the first draft into something that might be worthy of showing to a publisher.

Could that be the attraction of short stories, especially when done in a rush, as per time-limited, prompt based, writing group exercises?  The idea appears - a spark in the dark - and flares like a freshly struck match.  The words pour from the end of the pen, and, minutes later, it is done.  A story sits, entire, on a few sheets of paper.

Complete in itself, it can still benefit from a half an hour of revision - of shifting or cutting words, pulling synomyms from the depths of memory to shift the tone of the writing to better match the story's content.

But a novel.........  after that first spark has faded, and the work has been laid down on the desk to sleep for the night, the spark has to be rekindled the next day, and the day after.  What a victory it is when finally, after so many distractions and side-trips have been negotiated, the first draft rests, complete.

"Put it aside for a while" recommend so many of the books and courses on this topic - and you do, but lurking at the back of your mind are the little discrepancies, anomalies, and contradictions that you know, or suspect, have crept into the narrative as the original idea unfolded from seed to fully grown shrub.  Eventually the author is going to have look again at the tangles and confusion that have crept in as ideas, plot twists, and new characters attached themselves to the original sprout.

Which branches are true grafts, and which merely mistletoe, sucking life from the original?  Where to prune?  Where to twist and redirect so as to let in more light, and where to add extra shade?

And all the while the author is living still in that wider world - the one full of people, politics, and incidents that are calling out for their share of the author's attention.  Many will repay the time they steal with fresh inspiration and source material for new stories.......   and there's the rub.  The world contained in that first draft requires much repair and fine tuning, and all the while, other possible worlds are crying out for space on their own fresh, clean pages.

A friend of mine, years ago, would respond to my harried cries of "I haven't got time!" with a stern admonishment "Well, make time!"  Easier said than done, I sometimes said, but that got me nowhere - it was up to me to decide and act on my priorities. 

How do people manage to live busy lives and still achieve creative goals?  How do you?

Tortoise and Hare

When our little group of writers meet to share ideas and practice our craft, we often use "prompt based" exercises to get the creativity moving.  A word, a phrase, a setting, or an object - or several of each - is placed on the table and the a timer is set running.  The pens and pencils set off in hot pursuit and, after fifteen or twenty minutes has passed, an end is reached.

An end, I say, because that's where we stop, even though the finish that each writer was aiming at, if indeed they knew for certain what their target was, might have needed many more minutes or hours to achieve.  After a brief examination of each work by the group, another prompt is chosen, and the race begins anew.  I tend to leave these sessions in an uplifted and enthusiastic mood.  I seem to be one of those people who finds it easier to begin a work with some costraints in place - such as theme, setting, and a time limit for completion. 

I also leave with a collection of short pieces that need further work - sometimes they merely need tidying up, but more often the ending has to be written, and the middle properly fleshed out.  Then, of course, the beginning will often need a bit of a re-write as well.  Occasionally, I find myself with a page or two that could turn into much more than a short story.

Some teachers of writing insist that this is the best way to write - pick up the pen and set out on the journey, never looking back until the destination is reached, and only then commence the task of perfecting the work.

Is it better to rush forward, spilling words across the paper until the conclusion has been attained, and then go back to begin the painstaking review and reconstruction of paragraphs and chapters - or to shape each word, phrase, sentence, and paragraph into a perfect form before moving onto the next?

Is that even possible if the writer does not yet know the ending?

For the writer, though God of the Universe that is flowing from the Authorial Pen, is not - cannot be- Omniscient until the final word is on the page, and the new universe has taken its full shape.  Only then can the true relevance and aptness of each word and phrase be known.

Others advise that, instead of reviewing and reworking, the author take the first draft and hurl it into the fire, before starting afresh and producing a new body of work from the ghost of the old. Finding the "best way" to write is a question that is always lurking in the background - whether I am at my desk or not.

I recently read Annie Dillard's "The Writing Life"  In it, she examines the alternatives, and gives reasons why each method is good, without selecting one above the others - which left me wondering if Professor Tolkien had been having a dig at teachers of writing when he had Frodo say "And it is also said, 'Go not to the elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.'"

I will just have to keep wondering, I guess - and keep that pen scratching across the page while I do so.

Lunch in The Piazza - Where the Mind Wanders

Here is another of the products of our little writing group.  I love writing to other people's prompts - they offer a chance to head off in a direction I would not otherwise have chosen.  Generally, I am not sure where I am going when I write the prompt on the blank page, but within a moment or two, some image, or perhaps a first line, will present itself.  That's enough to get the story started, and I can be sure if I begin writing at that point, the rest of the story will appear in good time.  Will it be any good? How can I know if I don't start scribbling?

In this case, I was puzzled for a minute - what sort of wishing well, and where?  At some time in the past I must have read something, or perhaps heard a song, that suggested a Roman setting for the well, and thus, a Roman observer of the well, and the coin-tosser was in the prompt - and so it grew from there. 

Generally we time these sessions - somewhere between 15 and 30 minutes is normal.  That was enough to get most of the story into shape, and another hour at home, polishing and fiddling with it, has brought it to completion.  Is it complete, or should I be using it as the foundation of a larger edifice?

Where do these stories come from?  Now that I look at it, having played with words and sentences for a while, and having read it through several times, I am suddenly hearing in the back of my head a famous old song about Rome and fountains and coins - could that have been it?  I wasn't consciously thinking of that song when my pen first hit the page.

The prompt was – Someone throws a coin in a wishing well, what is their story?

I normally take my lunch in a small piazza behind the Palazzo Grimaldi.  It's quieter, and better sheltered from the hot winds, than the larger, more popular spots.  There is an ancient bougainvillea that reaches out of a tiny garden to cast its shade across an ancient stone bench.

It's comfortable and private, and peaceful, away from my co-workers and clients alike.  Almost no one else ever comes here, which is why I was so surprised to see a young woman from the office adjacent to mine.  She entered the piazza from the narrow lane that once allowed those wishing to remain unseen to gain discrete access to the rear entrance to the Palazzo.

She paused and looked around.  I waited for her to greet me – Suzanna, I remembered her name at last – but the bright sunlight must have dazzled her.  My black robes and weathered face remained un-noticed in my little patch of shadow as she tentatively advanced across the hot stones towards the ancient well.  Her eyes were lowered, and her hands were clasped, as if in prayer.  A tiny gem crawled down her cheek, and I realised that she was crying.

She stopped a pace short of the ancient stonework and its time-worn carvings that might have been satyrs and fauns.  There was a legend associated with that well, I knew – but what was it?  I ransacked my aging memory in search of the story.  The water that trickled from the mouth of what might have been a wolf had been filling that well since before the Emperors usurped the Roman Republic, and filled it still, long after the Popes had taken Imperial rights into their hands.

Healing, that was it – there was some legend of healing.  Very good, I thought, my memory is not yet completely washed away by the tides of the years.  Though I felt that did not fully answer my query, and so I dipped deeper into the well of memory.  Suzanna took two short steps and stopped again at the lip of the well.  Her lips were moving, as if in speech.  She unclasped her hands, reached into the  purse that hung from her shoulder, and, with a small gesture, cast three gold coins into the well.

They were gold, most certainly, and large.  I have seen gold sparkle in the sunlight, more than once, and the splashes as they entered the water were heavy – far heavier than any of those shoddy, modern, aluminium coins would have made.  Not just healing, I remembered, but childbirth in particular – that was the story around this well.  Speak a wish, offer a gift, and the boon would be granted.  But not by any god known to modern man – this font was truly ancient.  Even the Roman historians spoke of it as old beyond measure, and claimed that its waters flowed from the hands of the nymph Egeria.

Suzanna straightened, so I lowered my head to hide my face with the brim of my hat, and sat still, as if dozing.  Her shoes pointed at me for a moment, as her skirt swirled around her ankles, and then she marched briskly out of sight.  I kept my head down until the tapping of her shoes had faded from the piazza, and thought about the young woman and her three gold coins.  She had made a sincere offering, and deserved her benefit, but from where had she obtained such wealth?

I recalled her now – plainly pretty, the sort of girl I might have flirted with, thirty or fifty years ago.  She was always quiet and reserved, dressed in clothes of quality that showed both careful maintenance and long use.  Her shoes, too, were always polished, but never replaced – she was poor, I was sure of it, and did not wear a ring of any sort on her left hand, nor any other jewellery for that matter.   

This would be mystery far worthier of my talents than the venal mundanities that trickled across my desk each day, and those three coins would be the first clue in the process of its solution.  I looked up and scanned the piazza; it was empty. I rose and walked across the cobble stones to the fountain; the water was not deep - the coins were cold and heavy.

Filling the Shoes.....

Another Man's Shoes - only a three word prompt, but it is always interesting to see where such a simple thing can take you, if you let the pen have its way.....  And, no, I have never been ordained, or even studied for such a vocation.

Edward hurried along the uneven paving stones towards the arched wooden door.  Ahead, Mrs Tompkins and Miss Bray were waiting stoically where the morning sum warmed the angle between the stone wall and its flying buttress.

Edward fossicked in his trouser pocket for his key ring, and had to snatch to stop his robes from sliding off his other arm.  He didn't need the ostentatiously neutral looks the two women hurled at him to know that he was late.

"Morning ladies; lovely morning, isn't it?  Too nice to be inside" 

He regretted saying it before the last syllable had passed his lips.  Mrs Tompkins's eyes narrowed.  The corners of Miss Bray's mouth turned downwards.

"Good Morning Father" was all the reply he got as he fumbled at the lock.  The key went home and he turned it.  The old wooden door seemed stiffer on its hinges than ever.

A bump from his shoulder set it moving.  He stood, feeling his ears burn, as two bundles of flowers were carried past him.  Both women had their noses ever so slightly in the air and Miss Bray's eyes had swept across him, lingering briefly on the shirt he knew was not tucked in properly, and the tie that was too loosely knotted.

He slipped into the vestry as the two old ladies began placing the flowers.  They were silent at the altar, but by the time they reached the middle pews, low murmurings were drifting back to him.

Father Jenkins had owned this church for almost four decades, and was now buried in the adjacent graveyard.  Edward felt certain that more than a few of his dour, aging congregation would happily sign up if the Devil offered to swap the old priest for the new.

By rights, he should have had a few years as an assistant curate to an experienced minister at some larger church.  He was finding out the hard way that Honours in Divinities and Theology did little to prepare a young priest for pastoral work.

"Hallooo?"  The round tones of Harald, the organist, echoed through a space meant for hundreds. The greying, stooped old man had come quietly in through the open door, wearing his usual shabby suit, and clutching an armful of sheet music.

Edward wondered if there would even be dozens to hear Harald's heavy handed renditions of the ancient hymns and psalms.

Not so ancient, Edward supposed, to someone as grey and antique as Harald.  He gave himself a mental rap over the knuckles.  How could he entertain such thoughts when he was about to present a sermon on charity?  And Harald at least brought a few extra bums on pews, a couple of them quite shapely – how did that man produce such pretty daughters?  Edward ordered himself to take a longer penance after the service was over, and waited for the organist to shuffle through his papers.

Which raised another question, would Harald have managed to pick the right music for this week's readings and lessons, or would he be a month out, again?  And, would asking to preview the music selection result in Edward having to endure another cloud of last night's whisky fumes?  Edward wondered, as the old man suddenly dropped half his papers on the floor, if there was a way to tell the difference between the whisky fumes of last night, and those of more recent origin.

Christmas Prompt - Sensing Christmas

Rhys woke to full alertness and complete silence.  He lay very still, straining to understand what had jerked him out of his dreams.  The house was still dark and, next to him, Lyssa's soft, steady breathing seemed to say that all was well.

A blissfully cool breeze was drifting in through the open window, carrying a faint whiff of eucalyptus smoke – a reminder of the illegal burn off he'd had to take his brigade to yesterday.  It had taken most of the afternoon of Christmas Eve to extinguish and black out.

He eased himself out of bed without waking his wife, and walked carefully through the darkness to the kitchen window.  He could see only starlight, and that was good – there was no orange glow to warn of a re-ignition of yesterday's fire beyond the west ridge.

He stood, luxuriating in the early morning chill – a chill that would evaporate when the cicadas woke.  The chooks and the livestock were silent, and the dog had not stirred, but something had woken him.

There was an unidentifiable whisper of sound that seemed to be coming from inside the house.  He tip-toed back to the bedroom and found the torch that lived beside his bed.  Without switching it on, he crept back into the living room.  Faint scents of last night's supper - bolognaise sauce, garlic bread, and souring red wine – reminded him that they had not cleaned up before retiring.

There was another smell lurking behind the rich perfume of the ripening mangoes that nested on the dining table.  It took a few seconds to work out what it was.  Chocolate – it was chocolate.  The soft noise came again, from the direction of William's bedroom.  He shuffled slowly across the open space, feeling carefully with his toes, dodging leftover toys, and almost walked into a closed door, only a shade less dark than the walls.

The smell of chocolate was stronger, and he could hear soft rustling from beyond the door.  For a minute he stood still, remembering his childhood Christmases – the intense efforts to quietly unpack the pillowcase full of Santa's gifts that hung from the end of each bed, and the surreptitious chocolate "breakfasts" before the parents arose.  Outside, a Kookaburra laughed, and Rhyss knew that the first hint of light was creeping up from the eastern horizon.  He opened the door and switched on the torch. 

"Merry Christmas" he whispered to the three lamp-lit, chocolate smeared faces.

Who knows where the words will take you?

Here is another little offering from a prompt-based session of our library writer's group.  This is the prompt that was offered to us for inspiration..................

 Someone throws a coin in a wishing well, what is their story?

I had no idea where this story was going at first.  It seemed important to establish an observer and a setting to be observed, so, after a few moments wondering where I might find an interesting wishing well, fragments of old stories and movies gave me the idea of a small square somewhere in Rome. I have tidied it up a little, and added a paragraph to round it out - it may yet act as the core of a longer story, or a scene in some larger work.  I keep all these little pieces - I often don't know from what dark corner of my mind they have emerged, and can never be certain that they may not come in handy one day.

We work to a time limit - from ten to twenty minutes is typical - so the pen needs to hit the paper fairly quickly.  During my first session at a writing group, the time limit seemed like a choke-collar around my neck, but it soon turned into a useful spur - I learned to start scribbling and see what words flowed onto the page.  

It is one of the most useful lessons I have thus far been given.  When the ink is not flowing, the story is not moving.  The following story was my response to this prompt -

The Well.

I normally take my lunch in a small piazza behind the Palazzo Grimaldi.  It's quieter, and more sheltered from the hot winds, than the larger, more popular spots.  There is an ancient bougainvillea that reaches out of a tiny garden to stretch its thick shade across a little stone bench.

It's comfortable, private, and peaceful - away from my co-workers and clients alike.  Almost no one else ever comes here, which is why I was so surprised to see a young woman from an adjacent office appear in the little square.  She had entered the piazza from the narrow lane that once allowed covert access to the Palazzo.

She paused and looked around.  I waited for her to greet me – Suzanna, I remembered her name at last – but the bright sunlight must have dazzled her.  I remained unseen in my little patch of shadow as she slowly advanced across the hot paving towards the ancient well.  Her eyes were lowered, and hands were clasped, as if in prayer.  A tiny gem crawled down her cheek, and I realised that she was crying.

She stopped a pace short of the ancient stonework, with its time-worn carvings that might have been satyrs and fauns.  There was a legend associated with that well, I knew – but what was it?  I ransacked my aging memory in search of the story.  The fountain that trickled from the mouth of what might have been a wolf had been filling that well since before the Emperors usurped the Roman Republic.

Healing, that was it – there was some legend of healing.  Very good, I thought, my memory is not yet completely washed away by the ebbing tide of years.  Though I felt that did not fully answer my query, and I dug deeper into my memory.   

Suzanna took two short steps and stopped again at the lip of the well.  Her lips were moving, as if in speech.  She unclasped her hands, reached into her purse, and, with a small gesture, cast three gold coins into the well.

They were gold, most certainly.  I have seen gold sparkle in the sunlight, more than once during my long years, and the splashes as they entered the water were heavy – far heavier than any splash our shoddy, modern, aluminium coins would have made.  Not just healing, I remembered, but childbirth in particular – that was the story around this well.   

Speak a wish, offer a gift, and the boon would be granted.  But not by any god known to modern man – this well was truly ancient.  Even the Roman historians spoke of it as old beyond measure, and claimed that its waters flowed from the hands of the nymph Egeria.

Frozen Fire

Another offering from a prompt based writing session - we had ten minutes to work off the two words and this, with a little tidying, is what resulted.

"Frozen Fire"

Harry Porter was missing again.  When his darts team lost the final they cursed him.  Clint wished upon him the grandfather of all hangovers as retribution for his dereliction.  When Harry wasn't at the Thursday night all-you-can-eat-for-ten-dollars buffet at the bowling club, his mates began to worry.

On Friday morning, tired, cranky, and almost sober, Clint, Joe, and Martin walked across the runway of the airstrip to the cluster of old claims on the south side of the ridge.  When they reached Harry's claim they found Snapper, his dog, chained to the front of the caravan.  Clint filled his empty water bowl and food dish while the others checked inside, and around the back.

"Not in the dunny, either" Joe called as he walked back from the outhouse, zipping up his fly.  It was Clint who spotted the open shaft, its rusty grating lying to one side of the dark hole.  Leaving a shaft open and unattended was a serious sin around the fields, as well as being a criminal offence.

The generator by the hole was cold, its fuel tank empty.  A heavy power cord ran from it into the darkness.  They found a neighbour with a car that worked, and sent for the rescue crew.  No one had bought a torch with them and none of them felt steady enough to be clambering down into the darkness.  They had called Harry's name a few times, but only Snapper answered.

Two hours later, the last of the fallen rock was lifted from Harry Porter's shoulders and back.  His hands were still clutching the largest piece of black opal that any of them had ever seen – a huge swirl of red and black fire, frozen in stone.  Harry had at last found what he'd searched for most of his adult life.