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Last night’s whisky sits sour in Professor Duncan Tiller’s stomach as he steps onto the university minibus. His head pounds and his mouth is as dry as the outback town he’s en route to. The eight-hour trip west from Cairns to the dig at Richmond should be enough to sleep it off, as long as Emily doesn’t keep him awake with her incessant chatter and ridiculous meme-sharing. He’d been smart with this one though, suggesting an open relationship from the start. If only he’d thought of that back in Birmingham. Maybe he’d still be there, heading the Palaeontology Department.
Easing into his seat, guarding his head from bumps and jolts, he sighs. He should’ve controlled himself last night, but losing out on the research grant was a kick to the teeth he hadn’t seen coming, and his old friend Chivas Regal had called.
“This is gonna be so much fun,” chirps Emily, plonking into the seat across the aisle.
Tiller’s smile is half-hearted as he leans towards her. “Mightn’t be such a good idea to sit together though, hey?” he whispers. “We don’t want people to get the wrong idea.” He nods in the direction of the other students, then grimaces at the reverberating thud the movement creates.
Emily pouts and shrugs. “Sure, whatever.” She saunters towards the back of the bus and Tiller sighs with relief. He doesn’t need another ‘situation’ right now, one more black mark against his academic record.
She’s right though. The trip will be fun, given the recent fossil find out in Richmond—the lower jawbone of a huge pterosaur with an estimated seven metre wingspan; a veritable giant of the Cretaceous inland sea, found by a local fossicker and handed into the museum in town. Christ! If only he’d been given the inside information on that find, instead of it going to a rival uni. Would’ve made his career.
Still, where there’s one, there’ll be others—other fossil species and other academic-stature cash-cows. The trick is to be in the right place at the right time, looking over the shoulder of some witless second year who wouldn’t know the difference between a fossil and a concretion.
“Is that everyone?” asks PhD student Phil Everett, consulting his clipboard. Tiller had strongarmed him and his fellow PhD candidate, Marta Deimel, into coming along to help. Who else was going to cook, clean and organise the rabble? Of course, neither wanted to come, both asserting the field trip didn’t align with their areas of doctoral research, and that they were flat out with work, study and tutoring. But Tiller flexed his doctoral-committee muscle and like magic, commitments were shuffled, diary spaces opened up. Funny that, thinks Tiller with a smirk.
“One more!” calls a voice at the door. The minibus rocks as a newcomer mounts the steps, and Tiller groans. It’s Jonathan Baumgart. What’s he doing here?
“Hey, Prof B,” says Everett, fist-bumping Baumgart in far too familiar a fashion for Tiller’s liking. “Thanks for stepping up at such short notice. Marta said to say thanks too.” Tiller fumes, noticing Marta is indeed missing. Why hadn’t she rung? He could have arranged someone else. Anyone else.
“Yeah, sorry to hear about her gran,” says Baumgart, and the men exchange a grim nod. “Terrible news.”
“That’s it then,” says Everett as Professor Baumgart makes his way down the narrow aisle. “All twelve of us, present and accounted for.”
“Howdy partner.” Baumgart tips his Akubra hat to Tiller. “S’pose Marta’s told you I’m her substitute?”
Tiller clears his throat. “Yes . . . of course. Thanks for agreeing to help out.”
“No problem.” Baumgart winks, kicking off the throb in Tiller’s head once more.
He hates to say it, but it wouldn’t look good to come across as a sore loser. “Oh, congratulations, by the way.” He stretches his dry lips into something resembling a smile.
“Cheers,” says Baumgart. “And commiserations for missing out. Better luck next time, huh?”
Tiller nods and Baumgart gives him a patronising pat on the shoulder, then continues on down the aisle.
Must he stick the boot in?
“Anyone sitting here, young lady?”
Emily awards Baumgart the same coquettish giggle she normally reserves for him. “All yours, Prof B.”
What the devil?
As the bus winds its way up through the rainforest corridors of the Kuranda Range and on to the Atherton Tablelands, Tiller keeps his attention focussed to the front. Every sound from behind rankles, plunging daggers into already gaping wounds. Perhaps he should have endured Emily’s inane chatter, after all. But it’s too late to change all that, so he sinks low in his seat, closes his eyes, and hopes for sweet, sweet oblivion.
***
When the bus pulls up in Ravenshoe, Tiller visits the bakery, lured by the smell. Hmmm, pastries, coffee, ham and cheese toasties. He buys a flat white for zing, and a cheese and bacon pie to line his queasy stomach, then heads to the tables outside.
“Highest town in Queensland, this is,” says Baumgart. He’s at an adjacent table, sitting amongst students. Pulling on a pretend-smoke, finger and thumb to his lips, he winks and adds, “If you know what I mean.” He gets a few cheap laughs for his effort. Juvenile!
“It’s a reference to geology, Baumgart,” says Tiller. “Not pharmacology.”
“It’s a joke, Tills,” Baumgart shoots back. “Lighten up, would you. Ha ha—get it?”
“Once you’ve eaten, get back on the bus,” Everett announces before Tiller can respond. He’s sticking to the planned itinerary.
Next stop: a dip in Innot Hot Springs. It sounded good on paper, but now Tiller wishes they could keep driving. Plunging his pasty white body into piping hot mineral springs, with gym junkie Baumgart prancing about in tight swimming trunks—or dick-togs in the colonial parlance—isn’t so appealing.
Still, maybe Emily will see him for the poser he is!
Still, the mineral springs are refreshing. Patches of cool mix in amongst the warmth, and Tiller finds it restorative. He splashes his face and feels almost human again. It’s a surprising whisky-night reset, and he’s gifted with a whole new outlook. Even better, Emily chooses to join him, dressed in her red bikini that covers only the important bits.
“It’s so nice, isn’t it?” she says, reclining on the sand, leaning on her forearms. Her head falls back and the ends of her long blonde hair dip beneath the water. She closes her eyes, basking in the sun. Tiller’s gaze traces shadows and curves, from the gracefulness of her neck to the sweet protrusion of clavicle and further down to the dewy skin that plumps out from—
“Mind if I join you?” says Baumgart, lowering into the pool without waiting for an answer.
“Ummm, sure,” says Tiller with reluctance. He splashes his face once more, and inhales.
“What the hell’s that, Tills?” asks Baumgart, using the overly familiar nickname Tiller abhors. “What?”
“There! On your forehead.” Baumgart leans forward, squinting, and then snorts. “Is that . . . hair dye?” He laughs loud, as Tiller swipes and checks his hand. Black dye stains his fingers, and he jumps out of the pool in search of his towel, as embarrassed as a schoolboy at a swimming carnival, caught with a sneaky erection.
***
The bus rolls into the Lakeview Caravan Park in Richmond around 5pm, after a stop in Charters Towers, an outback town with a history in gold mining. It’s a fleeting stop but Tiller makes a mental note to come back, to linger longer at a later date. Maybe with Emily?
The caravan park sits on a grassy expanse that overlooks a lake—Lake Fred Tritton—and is surprisingly busy, packed with grey nomads and young families in camper trailers. Everett and Baumgart set to organising tents and sleeping gear, while Tiller heads off to the local hotel.
“I need to square things away with the catering,” he explains.
“Aaah, so you’re a blister then?” Baumgart shares an eyebrow raise with Everett.
“A blister?”
“They turn up after the work’s done.”
Everett fails to stifle a laugh, and Tiller shoots him a warning glare. He wants his doctorate awarded, doesn’t he?
When he gets to the Federal Palace Hotel, a huge double-storey colonial timber structure that houses a large horseshoe-shaped bar, beer garden, restaurant lounge and accommodation, he marvels at the difference between English and Australian pubs. No fox, goose, hare or hound to be seen in a name here. No beautiful old stonework or exposed wooden beams either, at least not out in the rural towns. Still, the lager’s cold and flowing and that’s all that matters right now.
“I’ll take a pint of Great Northern please,” says Tiller, ordering the beer favoured by the locals.
“How ya goin’?” asks an older gent dressed in a flannelette shirt, jeans, a worn-out Akubra. He’s a barfly, thinks Tiller, going by the impressive bulge of his keg-sized beer belly.
“Evening,” says Tiller.
“Ah, you’re a Pom, hey?” says Keg-belly.
“Yes, yes I am.” Tiller wipes the frothy head off his upper lip and nods. “Living in Cairns right now though.”
“Shit, that musta been a culture shock, climate-wise I mean. Good ole hot and humid FNQ. Melted your lily white arse when ya landed, I’ll bet.”
“Yes . . . it was a bit of a shock,” says Tiller, the man’s vernacular causing his teeth to ache. “But I’m getting used to it now.”
“This always helps,” says Keg-belly, lifting his pint of beer. “Keeps ya hydrated.” He drains the glass, places it on the counter and winks at Tiller. “Still a tad thirsty. Might need to get meself another, I reckon.”
“Indeed,” says Tiller, assembling a smile of sorts. Call him a cultural snob and a phonological pedant, but to hear the Queen’s English mangled so upset him. He’d had this discussion with expats before. They’d argue on the side of the local ocker, calling them ‘quaint’ and ‘salt-of-the-earth’, the type to give you the shirt off their back, despite their languid labourer lingo. But Tiller would respond with a treatise about maintaining standards and not letting one rotten apple spoil the barrel.
“Whatcha doin’ out here then?” asks Keg-belly.
“I’m a professor of palaeontology,” Tiller spouts. “Taking students on a field trip.” Informing others of his credentials never got old, and he enjoyed delivering them to plebs like this one, if only to watch the subsequent look of awe veer towards intimidation.
“Aw yeah?” says the man. “Ya checkin’ out the quarry where Len found the pterosaur fossil, are ya?”
“Len?”
“Yeah, he’s me mate. We fossick together from time to time. Found quite a few treasures over the years, we have, but Len struck gold on this one. Lucky bugger.”
“Have you found anything interesting yourself?”
“Shit yeah,” says Keg-belly. “Found some belemnites and parts of an ichthyosaur—a Platypterygius australis, would you believe? Probably nothing compared to what you’ve found though, hey? Bein’ a professor and all.”
Tiller chuckles to cover his embarrassment, not wanting to admit that he’s never discovered anything of significance himself, has only ever assisted others with their finds. That this barfly has done so jars him more than any mangling of language ever could.
“I’ve had my share,” he lies.
Keg-belly sculls the refill placed before him and sets the empty glass down on the bar-mat, then gets up to go. “Well, good luck out there. But watch yourselves. Things can go south pretty quick, and you’re a long way from help.”
“This isn’t my first field trip,” blurts Tiller, not even bothering to hide his disdain.
“You’ve come prepared then, have ya?”
“I know all about the dangers of the outback: the snakes, the spiders, the dingos and such.”
“Aw yeah, fair enough.” Keg-belly crosses his arms over his chest with an amused nod.
“Flash flooding,” adds Tiller, as though expecting it to be pointed out.
“Yep,” says Keg-belly, his expression sobering. “There’s that. And maybe a few other things too.”
***
After dinner at the pub, Tiller retires early. The others have stayed on for a few more drinks, but with Baumgart lurking, ready to one-up him at any opportunity, Tiller wants to be fresh and on his game when the sun peeks over the horizon in the morning. On his return to the park he finds his tent still in its bag, a note rubber-banded around it: Enjoy your night-time erection, Tills. He snorts, imagining Everett and Baumgart sniggering like schoolboys as they wrote it. Tossers!
Undeterred, he grabs the spare keys to the minibus, tosses the tent-bag inside and stretches out on the backseat, laying his sleeping bag out like a blanket.
***
The morning hits hot, the first rays of sun spearing in through the minibus windows, and Tiller jumps up, ready to roll. As he exits the bus, a spike of irritation harpoons—Baumgart is up and about already, sipping coffee at a picnic table.
“Morning Princess,” he says with a mocking salute.
Tiller refuses to react; he nods then does the rounds of the tents, waking everyone up.
After a quick breakfast of tinned fruit, instant coffee and breakfast bars, tents are dismantled and the group are on their way, Tiller barking orders.
“Talk about militant,” jokes Baumgart, as he climbs on the bus. “Should we call Prof Tills The Supreme Leader?” He looks around and is rewarded with sniggers and nods.
Tiller doesn’t bite back. Instead, he turns to address Everett. “Let’s go, before the day disappears altogether.”
Out at the dig site, an hour and a half north-west of Richmond, the bus pulls up and Tiller gets cracking. He scouts the sparse vegetation for a suitable area to make camp. “Tents, kitchen annexe, chairs, tables, shower and toilet cubicle, let’s get it all up and ready to go. Baumgart, you can dig the long-drop.” He revels in the joy of handing over the post-hole digger, but Baumgart doesn’t flinch; he grabs the implement and heads away in search of soft ground.
When the camp is up, Everett—with the help of a few students—makes ham and salad sandwiches. They take camp chairs over to the steep embankment to catch a breeze and look down onto the murky brown river below. It’s a fair way from the camp site, but Tiller wants to forestall any chance of being caught in a flash flood. Baumgart had argued with him about it, scoffing at the idea of a flash flood at this time of year, but Tiller stood firm. Obtaining clearance to camp at the dig site had been tough enough without needing to call for rescue.
“Let’s get to it,” says Tiller, once lunch is over.
The students have an assignment to complete while digging for fossils, and all Tiller has to do is look over shoulders and provide academic advice.
“Is this anything, Dunc?” asks Emily. She’s kneeling by sheared off plates of limestone dug from the dry clay, pointing to a depression.
Tiller glances around. Has anyone heard her? “No,” says Tiller. “Keep digging.” And in a whisper, “Call me Professor out here, Em. We don’t want any problems now, do we?”
“Oh, soz, babes.” Emily flashes that smile of hers and he feels ridiculous, like a lecherous old man.
***
There’s little to show at the end of Day One, apart from sore muscles and sunburn. Tiller calls it a night after dinner, unable to listen to Baumgart’s posturing any longer.
He’d monopolised the entire conversation, droning on about dig sites he’s worked at—in South Africa and Mexico—and is now spruiking about his grant win. The students ask Baumgart questions with a hero-worship gaze, and disregard Tiller altogether; he’s an old man at a nightclub, annoying and irrelevant, and he’s had enough. He winks at Emily, and she smiles. They’d shared a moment earlier, while collecting washing-up water, Tiller dropping a hint about hating to have to sleep alone. He hopes she’s picked it up.
Emily doesn’t visit that night though, and even worse, he hears her giggles coming from a tent nearby. He sticks his head out to listen. Baumgart’s tent! His self-absorbed drone is followed by Emily’s muffled reply. Zipping up the tent flap, Tiller slumps back down on his stretcher but the noise filters through. He grabs his earplugs and shoves them in. Emily hasn’t taken his hint, or perhaps disregarded it altogether. But then, he’s got no right to be angry. They’ve agreed on an open relationship. She can see whomever she chooses, whenever she chooses. But a poser like Baumgart? Out here? Come on.
***
On Day Three, Emily and her field-trip partner, Mei, make a significant discovery. Baumgart is first on the scene, strutting over before Tiller can get there.
“Tooth sockets!” he exclaims. “Be careful girls. We don’t want to ruin anything. Step back, step back!”
“They’re small.” Tiller kneels to assess the situation. “A baby of some sort.”
“It’s a pterosaur!” says Baumgart. “Can’t you see? It’s the skull of a baby pterosaur.”
“I don’t think we should jump to conclusions.” His obnoxious rival is right but Tiller doesn’t want him anywhere near this, trying to claim ownership.
“I’m telling you, man, that’s what it is!”
Baumgart gathers tools to excavate the area, ordering students around and overstepping his bounds. Tiller wants to rein him in, but the horse has already bolted, taken off with the cart, and he’s in danger of being tipped out of the driver’s seat altogether.
“What a find, hey?” he says, trying to regain a semblance of control. “A baby pterosaur. Emily, you and Mei will co-author my paper.” He nods at the girls and flashes them a magnanimous smile
Baumgart ignores him, jotting in a notebook, then begins to take photos.
“I’ll sort that, thanks Baumgart,” says Tiller. “You go help Everett make lunch.”
“No, no, my expertise is needed here,” he replies.
“I’d rather document it, since it’s my field trip group. My course, my discovery, my paper. You know how it is, old chap.”
“It’s science, man. No-one owns it.” He gestures at the group. “In fact, if anything, we all own it. Isn’t that right, guys?”
“Interesting point,” says Emily, and Mei nods. The other students make noises of agreement and stare at Tiller.
“We should all be co-authors,” says Mei. “It’s only fair.”
Tiller frowns. “But that’s not really how things—"
“Unless, of course, you feel the need to take all the glory,” says Baumgart, with a derisive snort.
Tiller wants to punch him. Baumgart has taken the moral high ground, inciting mutiny to boot. He won’t stand for it, not from a bell-end like Baumgart! “This discovery must be revealed at the right time, and in the right manner. It must be given the respect it deserves.” He nods at the gathered group and focuses on Baumgart. “Shall we call this a gentleman’s agreement then?”
Mei snorts and glances at Emily. “Well that rules us out then.”
“Huh?” Tiller frowns, confused.
“Yes, good point, Mei. Let’s call it a gentleperson’s agreement,” says Baumgart, extending his hand to Tiller.
“Right . . . gentleperson . . . yes,” says Tiller. He shakes on it, then addresses the group. “Let’s get this baby out of the ground then.”
They set to task, scraping with claw hammer and brush, unearthing the fossil from the layers of limestone, sandstone and clay.
It takes all day for the skull to emerge, and boy, is it a sight to behold. It’s a major find, one Tiller doesn’t want to share with Baumgart, and in his tent that night, he considers how best to play this.
***
Around 3am, Tiller gets up to relieve himself and bumps into Everett, who looks shaken.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Didn’t you hear that?” Everett glances around, staring in the direction of the granite hills that line the basin plain.
“Hear what?”
“That high-pitched screech.” Everett shudders. “A godawful sound.”
“Dingoes?”
“It wasn’t a howl though. It was a definite screech. And I saw lights, too.”
“What sort of lights. Headlights?” Tiller then scoffs. “Or Min-Min lights?”
“No . . . it was more like . . . I don’t know . . . an aurora.”
“Don’t be daft, Everett. We’re in the tropics. That only happens near the poles.”
“I know, I know . . . I . . .” He rubs his arms, despite the mild temperature. “Something’s wrong, Professor. I don’t know what but . . . something seems off.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t explain it. It’s just a feeling I get. That maybe we shouldn’t be here.”
Tiller snorts. “Might be time to lay off the mushrooms, hey?”
Everett stares at Tiller for a long moment. “Forget it,” he mutters, as he turns and wanders off in the direction of his tent. Tiller smiles and shakes his head. What nonsense.
Under the bright full moon, he picks a spot to water the vegetation, then heads back to bed.
***
At the end of Day Five, as the last rays of sun dip beneath the volcanic hills, darkening the orange-pink sky, Tiller plants his hands on his hips and surveys the dig.
“This is big!” he says. “Huge!”
The baby pterosaur fossil has been unearthed, pristine from crest to toothy jaw.
Baumgart pulls the sat phone from his back pocket, then struts away from the spotlit dig-zone.
“What are you doing? Who gave you permission to use the sat phone? It’s only for emergencies,” Tiller yells, but Baumgart doesn’t answer. “Baumgart, who are you calling? I hope you’re not going back on our agreement.”
“. . . yes, a significant fossil find . . . it’s the skull of a baby pterosaur.”
“Baumgart! Who the fuck are you talking to?”
Baumgart chuckles, and turns his back on Tiller. “. . . yeah, I guess it could be the baby of the adult that was found . . . who can really say? But it’d make an emotive angle for your story, for sure.”
“You’re talking to the press?”
“That’s right, Professor Jonathan Baumgart, spelt B . . . A . . . U . . .”
“You selfish prick!” Tiller lunges, tackling him to the ground.
“Oomph!” The phone flies from Baumgart’s hand.
Fists find their mark, landing in Baumgart’s face and ribs. Baumgart grabs Tiller around the middle and they roll about in the dusty ground. Kicking. Punching. Wrestling. Emily screams.
“Stop it, you two!” Everett drops his torch and jumps in to pull Tiller off Baumgart. A student steps in to create a barrier.
“Okay, okay!” Tiller pushes out of Everett’s grasp, brushing dust and dried clay off his pants. “I’ll stop, all right.”
By the light of the LED lamps, Tiller eyes Baumgart, waiting for him to make another move. Baumgart squints, then turns and runs towards the fossilised skull. He picks it up, cradling it like a football.
“No, you fucking don’t!” yells Tiller, launching at Baumgart. Baumgart turns and runs for goal, but trips and falls. The skull hits hard rock and smashes.
Before Tiller or Baumgart, or any of the others can react, a terrifying sound—a piercing screech like no other—echoes around the basin. It’s followed by a deep rumble and roar, like that of a jumbo jet, and Tiller peers in the direction of the granite hills. What the hell’s going on? His heart hammers, and his mouth goes bone dry, as the demonic screech sounds again.
“What the fuck is that?” yells Baumgart. He turns in circles, searching for the source.
“It’s the same noise I heard the other night,” Everett cries. “I told you, Tiller . . . I fucking told you something wasn’t right . . .”
The rumble gets louder and water rushes in, gushing forth from between the hills in a translucent spectral mass.
“Run!” yells Tiller. “Run for higher ground.”
The flap of wings beats down from above and the dreadful screeching grows louder. The sound rips through him like a thousand fingernails scraped down a blackboard. He runs towards the embankment, lost in the dark shadow of whatever coasts overhead. A few metres in front, Baumgart screams; he’s been scooped up, captured in the jaws of a dragon-like creature. Tiller gapes, squinting at the massive beast. Surely not? It can’t be! It looks like an adult pterosaur, glowing golden, the image flickering in and out. It lifts Baumgart high in the sky then flings him away, dashing his body against a mound of granite rock. I must be going mad, thinks Tiller. This can’t be happening.
The raging water continues to rise, whisking screaming students away. Tiller is swept up too, and swims hard against the pull, struggling to keep his head above the surface. Where’s Emily? He can’t see her anywhere. He glances about, and cops a mouthful. It’s salty, like gulping the sea. Nearby, Everett slips under and struggles, caught in the slashing metre-long jaws of an ichthyosaur. Fuck me!
Salty water fills Tiller’s lungs as he submerges. He’s a long way down, kicking his way to the surface, surrounded by glowing dinosaurs of the deep. Large cephalopodic ancestors of squid and octopus dart and scurry about, as schools of elongated armoured fish—Richmondichthys sweeti, he notes—swim by. Shark-like predators with luminescent teeth gulp giant clams and crunch on neon green turtles, while iridescent ichthyosaurs and plesiosaurs glide past on either side. Coral shimmers and swirls, mesmerising Tiller with rich colour—fluorescing pink, purple, orange and green—and alien shapes of tubes and rings. But he has to get out of the water, before he becomes fish food.
Where the hell is Emily? He should try to help her, help the others too. But he can’t think about that. Not right now. It’s everyone for themselves.
He fights his way to the surface, the glow of ancient creatures guiding him in the right direction. They don’t touch him. They leave him alone. Is it a sign? A sign that he’s favoured? That he’s the rightful owner of the fossil? That he was all along? The baby skull was broken, by Baumgart and his selfishness, but the rest of the skeleton is no doubt still intact, hidden beneath the clay. If he survives, he can excavate, unearth the treasure and take a bow. After enduring all this, he deserves every second of the success coming his way.
Breaking through, he scrambles onto a rocky escarpment and gasps for air. He splutters and coughs as he surveys the landscape. Near the top of a granite hill bordering the basin, he gazes down onto the luminous inland sea, scanning for survivors. There are bodies washed up on rocks, one draped in a tree. God, Emily must be dead too. Maybe they all are? He needs to call for help, a search party to look for survivors and find the bodies scattered along the length of the plain.
It seems a lot right now. Far too much to process. He rests for a moment and wonders how he’s going to explain it all, until his thoughts are banished by the beat of wings from behind. A hellish screech precedes the swooping attack and Tiller is lifted up, right leg trapped in the mouth of the pterosaur. Sharp teeth spear through the flesh of his thigh, delivering hot searing pain. It’s excruciating, worsened by him flailing and jolting about. Screams fly from his mouth. He doesn’t recognise them as his own—so high-pitched and helpless; so child-like and insignificant. They echo and taunt as the crested pterosaur glides over the sea, tossing him about like a play-toy. He falls and tumbles; snapshots of stars, moon and sky flicker through his field of vision.
This is it, he thinks. This is how it ends.
Waves and rocky outcrops rise to meet him and he welcomes the prospect of a quick release. But the pterosaur circles and snaps him up once more, catching him around the middle. Heavy jaws crunch through vertebrae as though they’re nothing but fragile bird bones. Tiller sobs and whispers to a God he’s never bothered to get to know. But it’s too late for introductions now. It’s over. As he fades in and out, at last able to let go, he marvels at the calls of the plesiosaurs that breach the ghostly waters far below.
About the Author:
Geraldine Borella writes fiction for children, young adults and adults. She lives in Yungaburra, Far North Queensland, Australia, on Ngadjon-Jii land. Her stories and poems have been published by Deadset Press, IFWG Publishing, Busybird Publishing, Celapene Press, Wombat Books/Rhiza Edge, AHWA/Midnight Echo, Antipodean SF (online and in podcast), and Raven & Drake Books. She has a story published in Spawn – Weird Horror Tales About Pregnancy, Birth and Babies, a horror anthology that won the 2021 AHWA Shadows Award for Best Edited Work.
You can find more about her at https://geraldineborella.com/about/ https://www.facebook.com/geraldineb4/ and at https://mobile.twitter.com/geraldineborel2
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Between Ridgehaven and Paradise lies the Hope Valley Reservoir. More than big enough to get lost in.
