Rip

Rip stares at his bare feet and the dirty concrete beneath them. Kai holds up his skateboard, Rip shakes his head and leans against the pole outside the takeaway shop.

You need to snap out of it, mate, Kai says.

There’s nothing I can do. I’m just like this.

Kai sets his skateboard down and steps onto it, manoeuvring his hips so it glides down the pavement. Come on, have a go.

I don’t feel like it, okay? You can’t do anything to make me better, so quit trying. Gratefully, Rip steps into the shop and takes the two paper bags and milkshakes from the counter.

They walk up Jonson Street to the grass overlooking main beach where they sit and peel their bacon and egg rolls from the bags.

How good is this? Kai asks, sucking barbecue sauce off his hand.

Rip gives his friend a smile, even though the taste of food is lacklustre these days—one-dimensional, like licking a page in a recipe book.

Look, mate, Kai says, scrunching up the foil from his roll. You need to find a way out of this. It’s pretty hard seeing you moping about.

Rip stuffs the food back into the bag and squashes it. I don’t need a lecture from you, he says.

But you do, bro. I know you must be feeling like dog’s balls, and I get it. Life stinks for you right now but you gotta get a grip.

Rip slurps his chocolate milkshake. Don’t you think I try? Shit, man, I’m not choosing to be like this, it’s just how it is. I’d do anything to feel normal. I wake up every morning hoping this blackness is gone, but it’s always the same.

Kai points to a lone surfer catching a wave in the blustery surf. Okay, he says, eyes to the ocean. If that’s how it is, what are you gonna do to change it?

I just told you. There’s nothing I can do, Rip says. He smears a hand across his mouth and stands up.

Don’t be a dick, Kai says. I’m older than you and I’ve been around. This shit with Sahara is ruining your life and you can’t see it. She’s just a chick, not the whole fucken universe. Don’t you think you’ve wasted enough time losing the plot over her? Jesus, mate, she left you and I can tell you there’s no way she’ll come back if you don’t get your shit together.

Rip’s arms are folded, he hears the soft strumming of a guitar behind him and raucous laughter coming from the beach where a soccer ball is being kicked around. I want to let her go, but she’s not just some chick, okay?

She is mate, Kai says, and there’s plenty more out there.

No, listen. Me and her, it’s like we’re … I don’t know. We’re bonded or something. Rip looks down at his sandy-haired friend, wondering if he should keep talking. I’ve never told anyone this, but the day my mother died, Sahara was there.

And?

And this weird thing happened, Rip says. Like I went up into space or somewhere high, and I wanted to go with Mum, but this voice kind of took over my head and told me I couldn’t because of Sahara.

The winter wind blows over them, lifting the salt off the sea.

Rip shivers and tucks his hands under his arms. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. It’s like we’re meant to be together and I can’t get that out of my head.

Whoa, that’s hectic, Kai says. He spins the wheels of his skateboard. I don’t believe in all that stuff but whatever floats your boat. So, if you reckon that’s how it is then you should be trying even harder to get out of this funk and make a plan because she won’t want you like this. She’s ballsy and she wants a lot from life, everyone knows that. She won’t want you feeling all sorry for yourself.

Rip’s eyes are wet, his stomach a bubbling mess of milkshake, bacon and the hospital drugs that are still working their way out of his system. You’re right, but I’m screwed. I have no money, my dad won’t let me work with him again. I should just give up now.

Say that again and you’ll be wearing this milkshake, Kai says. I’m serious, I’ll help you any way I can, but I’m not letting you beat up on yourself. You’ll get through this, yeah?

Yeah, Rip says, with an unconvincing smile.

He leaves Kai to skate and heads back into town. He rubs his temples. There’s a strange quality to this day and the ones that have passed since the hospital. Something not quite real, like his head is filled with foam. Another morning whiled away on the streets searching for an answer, a sign, a reason to keep going, but there’s nothing for him to hold onto. Looking around, it’s the same as always—travellers climbing in and out of vans, buses dropping hopeful backpackers in town opposite the Rails pub where drunks hang about shouting or drinking in the sun, the Hare Krishnas chanting blissfully in a small white tent and a constant stream in and out of Fundies Wholefoods, canvas and calico bags full of veggies, nuts, tofu, young coconuts and handmade soap.

Fuck it, Rip mutters as cars stop for him on either side of the zebra crossing. A dark thought cloud forms: ‘I wish they’d just run me over.’ He crosses reluctantly and continues down Jonson Street, avoiding eye contact with those who walk by.

Rip turns the corner and stares up at the noticeboard overwhelmed with papers stuck over each other advertising houses, jobs, cars, babysitting, furniture for sale, a rabbit free to a good home. He sighs, scanning the handwritten notes. His eyes settle on a scrap of yellow paper tacked right in the middle of the board:

WILLING WORKERS WANTED for an organic farm in the Byron Hills. All food plus accommodation plus $$$$ in exchange for work. Come and experience paradise! Call Asha 0408 997 364.

He scoffs at the ad but can’t pull his attention away. Rip tears it off the wall and stuffs it in his pocket.

Jan is sitting quietly in the garden when Rip gets back to the house. He joins her on a wooden bench under a sprawling fig tree.

How was it out there today? she asks.

Shit, he says. I don’t know if I’m getting better or worse or what, but it’s shit.

Jan pats his leg. I learned this secret long ago, Rip, before you were even born. Do you want to hear it?

He nods.

I learned that you got to have enough reserves inside you to withstand anything. You got to be in touch with yourself and your own faith in life so you don’t get tossed about in the storms. Does that make sense?

Rip avoids looking in her eyes. Sort of.

What I mean is you never had nothing inside you but love for my daughter. That’s not real, darl, that’s just an illusion, see? That’s what got you trapped. You put all your love out on her, and kept nothing inside for yourself. So when she went, it was like you lost everything. We can’t let it be that way. That’s what I learned. We’ve got to know the life inside us, not just the things outside we love.

So everyone keeps telling me, Rip says. You’re all saying the same things and I know it’s right, but it’s not making me feel any better.

Jan jangles her bracelets. Pet, I know you’re a sceptic, but will you let me help you? Just let go a little and see what might happen.

Rip leans into the bench. It’s nice under this tree, he says.

It is. So why don’t you and I have a good old chat to some friends on the other side who can help us? Let’s just sit under this big wise old tree and get some clarity for you.

Rip clenches his teeth. He wants to get up and go, but the weight of the pain inside has him glued to the spot. I wish life was as rosy as you think, Jan, full of fairies and angels and whatever else you believe, but I just don’t buy it.

That’s okay, you don’t have to. All I need is your permission and your willingness to have a go. She unwinds the white scarf from her head and spreads it on her lap.

The afternoon sun dances a mottled dance around them and something in the way it skims her face makes him say yes.

Okay, love, so this isn’t about forcing anything on you, I promise. I’m just going to tune into your guardian angels and see who’s with you and if they have any messages for you. Does that sound okay?

I guess. Do I close my eyes? He half-closes them, so he can watch her through his lashes.

You can leave them open just keep taking in the beautiful garden. She rubs her palms together. Okay, so what I see is a man. He says he’s been with you for many lifetimes, he’s your protector. He’s a shaman, very powerful. He has long wiry hair and he’s old. Lots of rings on all his fingers. He’s a wise man.

What else? Rip asks.

He’s saying over and over again that if two people are meant to be together they will. He wants you to understand this. It is very important to him. He wants you to know nothing can come in the way.

Rip leans inwards to Jan. Ask him about Sahara, how is she?

Jan snorts. I’ve already told you that one, she’s in Sydney and you don’t be worrying about her right now. She repositions herself. Okay, yes, he says she’s in Sydney but he says it’s not in your highest good to receive any more information at this time. But he says she’s okay. She’s learning. And he’s fading into the background and another figure is coming closer. Okay, hang on a sec. Jan closes her eyes and looks away as if deep in thought. Oh, Rip, it’s your mother, it’s India. Darling, she’s here with us and she’s as beautiful as she ever was. She’s friends with the other one, the old man. She wants to speak with us, is that okay?

Rip’s eyes are flooded with tears, he tries to hold them in but they roll out down his cheeks.

It’s your heart, she says, isn’t it? Yes, she’s saying it’s time to let go of all that greyness inside. You don’t need it anymore. Jan pulls a tissue from her pocket and offers it to Rip. She’s saying, and I can hear her voice clear as day, she’s saying she loves you and she never left. She says when you hear music on the breeze like you do and you don’t know where it’s coming from, that’s her, singing to you.

Please stop, Rip sputters, tears overwhelming his face.

You poor love. Jan moves closer to him and shuffles her arm around his shoulders. You and me, we’re just going to sit here for as long as you like and feel the sun on our faces, okay? I’m not going anywhere.

They sit in silence listening to the ocean behind the trees and the puppy yapping away next door. Rip notices that the special light has stopped dancing, but he can hear the faintest echo of a song on the wind, soothing the parts of him that ache.

Thank you, he says. His words are so soft they hardly slip out at all, but Jan hears them and smiles.

***

A new day. Rip rises early and makes tea in the kitchen. He smears a piece of toast with peanut butter and eats it on the front porch in the sun.

There’s something you need to do today, kid, Jan says, coming home from a walk up to the lighthouse.

Rip squints into the sun, his mouth full of toast.

You need to go and say goodbye to that horse. He’s going tomorrow. Jan bends to pull weeds from a crack between the paving stones.

Going where? Rip asks, shocked.

Well, I sold him last week and the new owners are coming to get him in the morning. And don’t look at me like that. It had to be done.

But he’s Sahara’s! Rip’s voice is louder than he intended.

Well, I don’t see her around here do you? I’m done taking care of him. Jan raises her eyebrows. That’s it. I’ve fed that horse every day since she went, you know I’ve done my best to look after him but the time has come.

Rip’s hand is shaking from the weight of the cup. Damn it, he says, as tea spills.

I know you like to go down there to visit him and all, but this is how it is.

But I can—

No, Jan says, shaking a finger at him. Don’t you go getting any funny ideas about looking after him. You can’t even look after yourself right now. The last thing you need is that horse on your hands.

Please, Jan, don’t do this. Please, I’ll think of something, just give me a little time, Rip says, desperate.

Decisions made, the truck’s coming for him. Go and say goodbye if you want, but there’s nothing you can do. It’s for the best, kid. You need a purpose in your life, I’ll give you that, but he ain’t it.

Rip leaves Jan to do her morning stretches on the grass. He slams the door to Sahara’s bedroom, seeking refuge that isn’t there. Familiar paintings and photos of Zephyr on the walls tug at him. As bile rises in his throat he remembers Sahara galloping across the paddock, Zephyr’s black mane flying in her hair. He lunges for Sahara’s small school desk; lashing out with his hands he wipes the books, pens and photo frames to the floor. Glass smashes, a porcelain horse lies broken and a photo of Sahara and him kissing is upturned. Rip picks up a pink hair band from the rubble of Sahara’s belongings and uses it to finally secure his hair in a knot at the back of his head. His wayward fringe springs out and flops into his eyes.

Why aren’t you here? he calls out. Your mother’s sending Zephyr away and I have no idea how to stop her. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Rip waits for something—a voice, a word. But reality is as devoid of her as ever. Rip beats the carpet with his hands, crying out in agony at the pressure on his wrists. I need a fucking break!

Deflated, he falls to the floor. Something’s digging into his left hip and he pulls at his jeans to empty the pocket. The small black horse figurine tumbles out with a piece of crumpled yellow paper. The room lights up as the sun moves higher in the sky the same way it used to shine on Rip and Sahara mid-morning in this room. He looks at her single bed and catches a glimpse of the past: the two of them tangled in sheets and each other, bathed in light that lit up her cheeks, rosy and glistening as he stroked her skin.

I can’t give up on you, he whispers.

Rip puts the toy horse upright on its feet and smoothes out the yellow paper against his palm.

Streetlights cast a yellow fluorescence at intervals along the pavement like a hand trawling in shallow waters. Rip waits, flattened behind the fence of Jan’s house. She’s asleep and his bag lies at his feet. Rip lifts his eyes over the fence to check his father’s house next door; only the porch light is on. The horse float is just behind him, backed up to the left of the house. He clocks the distance between his van parked on the road and the old white float: fifteen metres at least. Rip’s guts are churning, he bends his head and punches the air. He stalls, palms sweating.

Then, it’s on; the plan that’s germinated all day sprouts and Rip creeps over to the van parked up on the grass. He’s left the keys somewhere in his father’s house, so he fumbles with a piece of wire, sticking it in the gap over the driver’s window and down to the knob pushed into the door. He works deftly, a trick Kai taught him years earlier. This is real, and as Rip hooks the wire around the knob and lifts it he gasps for breath. He starts the car and gets in behind the wheel, edges back onto the road then reverses carefully into Jan’s driveway. Her bedroom is at the back of the house, he purses his lips, hoping she won’t wake up.

He hops out and attaches the trailer coupling to the towbar on the van that’s full of surfboards. He secures the bolt in the hole and glances next door for a sign of movement inside. Nothing. He jumps back in, turns the key in the ignition and slowly pulls out onto the road. He sees a light flick on in Jan’s house and slams his foot on the accelerator. The van lurches onto Bangalow Road, there’s no traffic at this time of night and Rip’s hands grip the steering wheel. He keeps checking his mirrors for signs of his father or Jan coming after him as he screeches through the fifty-kilometre zone at ninety.

Rip turns down a dirt road and comes to a stop at a wide, flat paddock; the float is too heavy for his vehicle, but it’s the only way. He takes the rope and torch off the seat next to him, adrenalin pumping. He dips under the wire fence, he hasn’t been back here since he was pulled out of the shed unconscious, blood spilling out of him. He walks out across the dry pasture, dead grass crunching underfoot, passes an empty feed bucket and water trough and peers into the dark towards the tree line at the back fence.

Zephyr, come here, boy, he calls, breath visible in the cold air. Rip turns on the torch and scans the paddock. He hears movement in the long grass then two glowing eyes catch in the torchlight. Rip trudges towards the eyes, his feet slipping on the uneven ground. The eyes snap out of the light and suddenly the horse is galloping towards him. Rip spins back as Zephyr races past him, a flash of black, deeper than the night.

Rip drops the torch, spooked, his legs like jelly now. Shit, he says, trying to steady his breathing. He hadn’t factored this into his plan. He doesn’t understand horses and he’s always been scared to get too close to the beast that’s now running in huge, loping circles around him. Zephyr’s nostrils are flared, his taut muscles extending and contracting as he whips his body smoothly into a canter.

Rip hears the pounding hooves beating into the earth and crouches down, his head between his knees to stop feeling dizzy. Zephyr runs closer then stops. Rip’s world is still spinning as the horse walks over and sniffs the air next to Rip’s head. Rip flinches and this sets the horse off; Zephyr disappears into the blackness.

Rip checks his watch, there’s no more time to waste. Zephyr! he calls. Come back, we need to get out of here. In desperation he marches to the back line of trees, swallowing his fear.

He finds Zephyr behind a cluster of tall bushes, his powerful chest heaving from exertion. Rip sticks the torch into his pocket. Zephyr, you have to come with me or you’re done for, mate. This is your only option. Me or something way worse.

Zephyr sniffs the air.

With all the courage in him, Rip walks forward. He clutches the rope and holds it out to the horse. Two steps forward, then three. Zephyr stays still. Rip gets right up to the animal and, holding his breath, loops the rope around his neck. Thank God, he says, patting the horse. Right, let’s go.

Rip leads Zephyr alongside him away from the scrub and trees and out across the open paddock. The horse is trembling in a way he’s never seen before. Rip feels the sudden weight of responsibility bear down on him; there’s another life in his hands now.

The van snakes along the pot-holed road out of Byron, the engine straining with the weight of Zephyr and the float. Trees hang low in places over the road, causing Rip to hold the wheel even tighter. Claustrophobia creeps through him, his skin tingles with goose- bumps that he tries to ignore; it’s the first time he’s left the ocean and beaches of his birth. The road winds upwards over a crest and the truck slows. Rip floors it, but there’s not enough strength. He feels the vehicle slip backwards for a moment. Zephyr whinnies loudly.

Don’t do this to me, come on! He shouts, shifting gears.

They just make it the last few metres over the hill and Rip swears. He’s lost his hand-drawn map and the directions are a scrambled mess in his head. He imagines Zephyr in the float, tense, pent-up and frightened. Hold on, boy, he says, trying to remember the way.

Two hours have passed and he’s still driving. The moon is bright but they’re further inland now and no closer to their destination. Rip checks his phone again—no reception. The roads have no street signs around here, just bush and the occasional sign of civilisation. Each post box, glint of farm machinery in the distance or burned out car on the side of the road brings a disconcerting mix of relief and fear. Who lives out here? Midnight comes and goes. Without a map or phone he’s driving aimlessly and Zephyr’s silence in the float is worrying. Rip pulls over and stops the van. He releases his hands from the steering wheel and they stay frozen, curled up like claws. He stretches them out in his lap. Woosh, an owl swoops down into his vision and lands on the bonnet of the van. Rip flicks the headlight off but the bird stays, staring intently at him through the windscreen. Rip claps his hands, shouts and shoos the owl away; it flaps off into the night. Jesus, he says, wishing he could lock the doors and stay inside. Rip smacks at his cheeks, takes a deep breath and opens the door. The night is absolutely motionless now, no crickets or frogs, just a cavernous quiet.

He goes around to the float where Zephyr is uncharacteristically still. Rip clicks his tongue to rouse the horse; he doesn’t react. He lets down the tailgate and Zephyr calmly walks backwards down the metal ramp.

You’re pretty chilled, buddy, Rip says, unlike me. It’s a bit goddamn spooky out here. He keeps talking to the horse as he leads him away from the float to a patch of grass.

Zephyr bends to eat hungrily and Rip breathes in the smell of him. As always, the heady mix of horse skin and sweat casts his thoughts to Sahara. I’m doing this for her, he says, reminding himself there’s a purpose to what’s fast becoming a bad idea. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up and Rip regrets everything about the last twenty-four hours.

There’s a clearing to the right, off from the road. Rip wants to put Zephyr back into the float and lock himself in the van, but the horse can’t stand all night in that box without food. Damn it. He tightens the length of rope in his hand and pulls Zephyr off to the grass clearing; the horse walks on willingly. Rip sits on a fallen log, holding the rope so that Zephyr can graze. He watches him, perplexed. What happened to the highly-strung, wound-up horse he’s always known?

He can’t see the van out on the road. Out here they’re surrounded by tall white ghost gums and Rip can’t shift the crawling feeling skipping up his spine. Things are murky grey around them, shadow edges blur and seep into the night. There’s no real physical threat but the suffocating closeness of the forest threatens to suck him in. People disappear out here in places like this, don’t they?

We’re sitting ducks, but lucky we’re in Australia, no big predators to get us, Zephyr, he says to calm himself. He thinks about dingoes and whether a pack of those wild canines could take down a horse as big as Zephyr. A horror movie springs to mind and Rip shakes his head. All those weird freaks who nab backpackers?Jesus. Phew, okay. It’s okay, Zephyr, we’re okay.

Rip pulls the horse closer to him. Nothing wrong with being out here. He starts whistling ‘Waltzing Matilda’. Focussing on the song distracts him from the fear and his body unclenches.

Then bang! A crack shatters the stillness as the van door slams shut. Zephyr freaks, rears back and pulls the rope from Rip’s hands. He bolts off into the thick forest, black tail streaming behind him.

Zephyr! Rip screams. His eyes dart between the direction of the truck and the forest ahead. I swear I closed that door, he thinks. Shit. He runs towards the road, then spins and goes the other way. He runs all the way to the edge of the forest, and stops. He turns back to the clearing, eyes straining to see in the inky haze. ‘Maybe I left the front door open and the wind blew it shut. Fuck, maybe not.’ He listens for footsteps but doesn’t hear them. He scours the ground around his feet for a stick or a rock, any sort of weapon but there’s only twigs and leaf litter. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. Zephyr, come back, please come back.’

Clouds part in the sky forming a slit that beams moonlight down onto the clearing. Rip looks down at his old white T-shirt that’s now glowing brightly. He hops backwards into the forest, fast, to get out of the light of the moon. A couple of metres in, the forest closes around him. He can hardly see his hands, but that feels safer than glowing like a beacon in the dead of this strange, strange night. The horse made him feel more secure and he’s now utterly alone without his companion. Rip contemplates the wind again and if it’s powerful to blow a car door closed. ‘It wasn’t even windy though, was it?’

Rip walks further into the bush, calling for the horse. Here Zephyr, come on, good horse, it’s okay, he coos. Come on, there’s nothing to be scared of. It’s nearly sunrise, just come over here and we’ll wait it out together. He can’t judge the depth of the forest, it feels impenetrable, but somehow the eight-hundred kilogram horse has disappeared into the depths of it. Rip walks slowly forward, one step at a time, his hands outstretched to feel for obstacles. A branch scratches at his elbow and he shifts his path to the right. Zephyr, please make a noise or something.

Rip keeps walking. The further into the forest he goes, the darker it gets. Soon he is walking into complete blackness. He hears a noise up ahead and jolts forward towards it, crashing into a tree. Rip smacks his head straight into the hard wood and falls back. He rocks himself up to sitting. Agh, piss off! He swats a mosquito off his back, jamming his wrist. He grimaces and holds the bandaged arm out; the wounds are still only partially healed.

Moonlight finds its way into the forest and Rip sees the tall tree that he smacked into. It looks like a fig tree or something, not too tall but with long spreading branches. Rip stands and hurries to the tree, finds a foothold and pulls himself upwards to get out of the way of the light. It passes over him and the forest is dark again. Rip nestles into a cluster of branches, hoping they’re strong enough to hold his weight until morning. Please be okay Zephyr, he murmurs, as he buries his head in his hands.

Dawn. A tinkling of bird calls across the forest, some sharp, others soft like wind chimes. Rip jolts awake and quickly grabs hold of the branches on either side. He wobbles then steadies himself. I fell asleep, he says with a yawn. Looking down, the ominous forest of last night has transformed into gentle woodland. ‘Shit, Zephyr.’ Rip remembers his last sighting of the black horse and groans.

He slips over a branch and dangles, body below it. He lets go and lands on his feet in the undergrowth. He looks around for clues of Zephyr—snapped branches or hoof prints in the mud—but there’s nothing obvious. Rip sniffs under his armpits and baulks at the stench.

Bush-bashing for hours hoping to find Zephyr seems like a lost cause, and he decides to head back to the truck. The fear of last night has dissipated and it’s the only option left. His stomach rumbles, it’s the first time in months he’s felt hunger in his body and he’s suddenly ravenous, he could murder a burger and chips. Rip pats the tree and heads off for the clearing. He walks for a few minutes, ambling along, his thoughts still on breakfast and it takes him a while to realise he’s no closer to the clearing. In fact, he seems to be further into the forest than before. In every direction there’s only forest with no break in the heavy canopy above. He jogs back, trying to retrace his steps but as he runs he notices the trees are different than before. They’re closer together and greener, more lush. There are small palms alongside him and he can see flecks of colour up high. A flock of crimson rosellas flies overhead, swerving together in a noisy group. Rip spots a bright feather spiralling through the air and catches it before it lands. It is downy and soft—a feather from under a wing. Rip puts the feather in his pocket and clasps his hands. This is super weird, he says.

His phone and wallet are in the car, he has nothing, not even a bottle of water and the panic of last night returns. Rip throws his head back and bellows, Zephyr! Zephyr! He listens. Nothing. He calls out again, Zephyr! Zephyr! Zephyr! A cold reality sinks in. He can’t find his way back to the car, the horse is long gone and he’s stranded out here alone. Epic fail.

Rip turns in a circle, judging the best route. He has no idea where north is, or which part of Byron Shire he’s in. He’s somewhere way back in the hills. His destination is somewhere over a river or across a valley, he’s lost all orientation. ‘May as well take a wild guess and start walking,’ he thinks, just as something catches his eye. Rip peers forward and whoops as he identifies a strand of Zephyr’s mane or tail stuck on a shrub to his right. He pulls the coarse black hair off the branch and winds it around his bicep, using his teeth to fasten it in place with a knot. Right, let’s go.

Rip walks for hours, grateful for the trees sheltering him from the sun. He stops at every creek he comes to, drinking thirstily from the cool, clear water. He thinks of nothing but making it out of the bush alive. He knows with water he can survive for days, but it’s not a reality he wants to face. Surely there are enough people living on the land out here that he’ll come to a house soon enough. Or a hiker or a farmer. Or a bunch of hippies tripped out on mushrooms in a field. There are no more signs of Zephyr, but as Rip walks he scans the bush as if he were the horse, looking for the biggest gaps in the brush that Zephyr could’ve gone through. This is his guide and the question that runs repetitively in his mind: could Zephyr fit through here?

By afternoon his strength is fading and the forest is cooler and damper. The air is moist and a thin mist begins to fall. There’s no way a horse could navigate this terrain, but he keeps walking, climbing over giant moss-covered boulders and weaving his way between massive trees bearing the weight of robust epiphyte ferns that cling to the trunks up high. Keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going, he says to himself with each step. He pushes through thick foliage that sticks into his limbs. He shuts his eyes and protects his face with his hands, letting the thorns scratch into his palms as he advances. He bursts out the other side and falls onto soft ground. Grass—green and luscious. Rip scrambles to his feet. He’s on the edge of cleared land that stretches to a dwelling in the distance. Rip runs, forgetting the tiredness in his legs. He bounds across the field and a house comes clearer into view. There’s a woman, too, walking down from the house and across the grass. He slows down, tentative now. His half wave is sheepish and unsure. The woman keeps on walking towards him like a mirage in the desert, the layers of her long red skirt fluttering about her. Rip stops and she comes right up to him.

I’m sorry, I got lost somewhere, I’m—Wait, do I know you? You look so familiar.

You’re Rip, she says.

So we have met before, I thought so. I don’t remember where, though. He looks at her face, trying to place the feeling of déjà vu.

The woman nods, her face breaking into a wide smile. I’m Asha. I am so happy to see you.

Rip notices tears in her eyes. I’m sorry if you were worried, I got lost and had no reception on my phone. It’s actually crazy I ended up here, I thought I’d be bashing through bush for days before I found anyone, let alone the exact place I needed to get to. This is crazy, Rip says again, his mouth still open.

All’s well that ends well, as they say. She holds his elbows. It’s just wonderful that you are here. Now, she looks down at his wrists, what have we here?

He clasps his hands behind his back. It’s nothing, just an accident. Something silly.

You didn’t mention that accident to me on the phone. Asha turns to walk back to the house.

I’m sorry, he says, rushing after her. Please, I didn’t mean to lie, I just badly needed a job and I thought you’d tell me to take a hike if I mentioned it. Doesn’t really give the best impression.

Asha stops and composes herself. Please forgive me. I should not be reacting this way. It’s just a shock to see what you have done to yourself.

It’s all good, trust me. I’m fine. Rip follows her to the end of the field.

Asha stays silent and they come to a gate and she unlatches it. What about him? She points to the corner of a big paddock.

Zephyr? Hang on, how did he get here?

He came out of the forest, same way you did. As soon as I saw him I knew he was connected to you. I guessed you were bringing him with you.

Rip steps back. He gets the same chill up his spine from the forest. What’s going on here? This doesn’t make sense, it can’t be.

I was worried about you last night when you didn’t turn up, so Yiska—he lives here too—he called for you. I guess the horse just heard the message before you did.

Uh. Rip shakes his head. I don’t even know what that means. I feel like I’m hallucinating or something.

Simple telepathy, that’s all, she says.