Rip stands next to the old man, breathing in the smell of wood smoke that’s embedded into his alpaca poncho. You talk, Yiska says, pointing to the horse grazing a few metres away from them.
Talk how? Rip asks.
Just talk, like a man to a horse, Yiska says.
Rip snorts and pats Yiska on the back. No thanks mate. Me and him, we’ve got nothing to say.
Don’t go away, Yiska says, bending the cramp out of his fingers.
Rip pushes his boot against the fence and leans back, stretching out his arms.
Tell him what you are thinking, Yiska says, pointing again to the horse.
Rip frowns.
Inside, go inside and sit and you talk, Yiska says, opening the gate.
Rip moves begrudgingly into the paddock and Yiska closes the gate behind him. He walks loosely, kicking turf and his arms flop at his sides. He walks a circle around Zephyr who keeps eating, his ears follow Rip’s footsteps, but he keeps his head in the grass. Feeling foolish, Rip looks back to the fence but Yiska is gone.
This is lame, he says, squatting to the left of the horse. So, it’s been a long time now, and you still hate the sight of me. I don’t understand why you were so calm that night we came out here and now you won’t let me near you and I’ve got these people on my case and I feel like a fool. The muscle tone in his calves and thighs is deteriorating without the daily surfing and he has to sit to stop them burning. I don’t know why I brought you here, honestly. And the truth, the real truth is I’m terrified of you. Every time I’m around you my hands shake and my legs turn to jelly. You’re a brute and I’m scared you could knock me down and kill me.
Stay in there, Yiska calls over the fence.
‘How does he do that?’ Rip wonders, seeing him back near the gate.
Stay and make your eyes closed, Yiska says, indicating for Rip to turn back around to face Zephyr.
No, he’ll step on my face or something, Rip says, edging further away.
You safe. Your eyes … close them, Yiska says, coming into the paddock. If he kick you, I kick him.
Although Yiska’s old and rickety, Rip feels reassured. He puts his hands on his knees and shuts his eyes. He half opens them again, convinced that Zephyr will make the most of the opportunity to get him, but he sees Yiska behind the horse and he closes his eyes again.
You stay and you breathe, Yiska says, his voice sounding bigger and huskier than usual.
Rip stays seated, but he’s not comfortable. He feels antsy and jangly at the thought of the horse coming any closer. He bites his bottom lip and scratches his knee, desperate to open his eyes. Has he moved? Rip calls out.
Trust the horse, Yiska says.
Rip tries to feel what that would be like. He imagines Zephyr is a close friend and he’s happy to see him. He forces a smile.
No, think, feel it, Rip. The time in the forest when he was your friend. Remember this.
I can’t, I can’t, Rip says, panicking. His palms are sweaty, his underarms start to itch and heat prickles up his neck. He hears a sound, a movement and he jumps to his feet, eyes wide open. I don’t trust you, Rip barks at Zephyr, who is grazing near Yiska, further away than before. I just don’t trust you.
Yiska walks over to Rip. You no trust yourself, is not the horse. In the world you don’t trust yourself to do the right things. That’s why he won’t come to you, he can see you no good leader for him.
But that night, Rip says, before he ran away, he was calm and following me around.
So what’s different?
I guess I was different. I was scared, but I felt powerful.
Yiska unthreads a black feather from his long, curly dark hair. He hands it over. You good, he says.
The fire is blisteringly hot. Rip throws another metre-long log on and watches it catch alight. Flames lick the end of the brittle bark, sparking blue and purple. Rip and Asha have collected dry wood for weeks now in preparation for the first fire in the pit he built with river stones. Rip steps back to give his hands and legs a break from the heat. He listens to the fire crackle and hiccup as the flames grow taller than him, shooting up into the air. The powder-puff blooms of the wattle drop in the heat at their feet.
His eyes are fixed on something in the distance, moving towards them. A girl in yellow dungarees and a yellow woollen beanie.
You came back, he says, leaning in to hug the girl from the markets.
Great fire pit, she says.
Thanks, I built it. Hey, you never told me your name.
I’m Dream, she says. Mind if I just hang out here for a while? She strips off her dungarees, revealing a tight pink body suit. From her bag she takes some things out and dips the ends of two long stretchy objects into the fire; they flame up. She swings the burning poi around her in rhythmic circles. The flares paint a trail through the sky.
Rip is transfixed, hypnotised by the amber glow of the flame balls flashing past Dream’s face, defined by the play of light and shadow and the pulse of a silent rhythm moving through her. She swings her arms high and wide, spinning the whizzing flames of long striped material until she tires and the balls slow down. She stops moving, blows out the fire balls and bows to Rip.
Wow, that was amazing, he says. Do you always carry those around with you?
Always be prepared, she says with a laugh.
They’re high up in the branches of a magnificent fig tree.
I just realised, Rip says, I’ve been so tired from working outdoors that I’ve been asleep before sunset every day.
The girl pokes him in the side. The sun doesn’t set here, you know that.
No, I’m serious, Rip says. Sounds so lame doesn’t it? I’m really living the high life out here, asleep before dark.
I’m serious too. There is no night out here.
Rip shakes his head, You’re pretty wild, Dream.
That’s how it is in the Wilderness. We progress. We heal. We get lighter. And there is no night.
Rip looks from the tops of the trees to her face. What are you on about? What’s the wilderness?
This place, the gap between worlds. She stretches out a hand and squints so her palm is cradling the sun in her vision.
Did you inhale some of that lighter fluid? Please tell me you’re messing around and you don’t actually believe what you’re saying.
Dream stares at her feet dangling over the branch. So they haven’t told you yet?
Told me what?
Why you’re here. They should have told you by now. I thought you knew.
Knew what? I’m here to help Asha build her retreat or whatever it is. I’m here working, and you’re kind of freaking me out right now.
Right, okay, she says. Her eyes darken.
What is it?
I can’t be the one to tell you, it’s not my role. She holds onto the trunk of the tree, ready to climb down.
Rip grabs her wrist. What role?
She breaks free of his grip. Speak to Asha. If you ask her she has to tell you the truth. I have to go. She jumps, twenty metres down, her arms spread like eagle’s wings.
Rip watches her land silently as if she’d jumped a log. His skin is prickling, buzzing. What the hell is going on? Rip shoves over to the trunk of the tree and hugs it, desperate to get down and find Asha.
He sprints up the driveway, but Dream is already gone. He runs into the house, calling for Asha and finds her on the deck in the rocking chair.
Do you know that girl that came to the markets? he says urgently.
Hmm? What girl? Asha gaze stays fixed on the forest.
Dream, the one I spoke to at the markets. Red curly hair, wears really bright lipstick. She was just here. You must have seen her.
Asha does not look at him. Why are you asking?
I’m asking because she was saying some pretty strange stuff and it rattled me. He stands in front of Asha. I don’t know if she’s just crazy or what, but she said I should ask you about it.
Asha sighs. Oh dear, I wish you hadn’t asked me that, Rip. Now we have to find Yiska. She gets up and heads for the stairs.
Wait, where are you going?
Rip tries to stop Asha, but she’s down the stairs and out of sight. He hears her calling for Yiska, then he hears Yiska calling loudly for him. He comes around the house and spots them among the tipis. He steps past the trellises of wild jasmine and stops.
Come inside the circle, Yiska says, his head crowned with elk horns.
Rip walks into the ring of tipis. What the hell is this?
Asha’s kneeling in the dirt around a small burned-out fire and Yiska beckons him forward.
This is not the way we envisaged this conversation, Asha says, but now that you’ve questioned, we must answer. She twirls a polished blue crystal in her hand. Dream spoke the truth. You’re in the Wilderness, Rip. It’s the halfway place—a crack, if you like, between worlds.
Rip steps back. Why are you wearing those horns, Yiska? You guys have lost the plot. If this is some tripped-out cult or something, you’ve got the wrong guy.
It’s normal to feel the way you do, everyone who passes through has their own unique reaction. It’s hard to fathom, to accept, but there’s no way out. It’s your spiritual destiny to be here now, with us, in the Wilderness. Asha picks up a round kangaroo-skin drum and begins to beat it with her left hand. She hits the skin of the drum softly, in a rhythm like a heartbeat.
What the fuck are you doing now?
I’m playing to your soul to help it through this transition of awareness.
Holy shit, Rip says. This has all been some bizarre way to suck me in, has it? Well fuck that. He kicks the charcoaled wood, spraying white ash into the air. That’s what I think of your twisted plan.
Whatever happens we’re here for you. We are your guides for this part of your journey, Yiska says.
No, you’re an old man with elk horns on your head, trying to pull some creepy shit in the hills of Byron Bay. Get a grip, dude. Rip glances into the tipi next to him and sees an altar, spread with flowers and a single lit candle. Behind the altar there’s a bed of sorts in the middle of the dirt floor, and a cushion next to it.
It’s not what it looks like, Asha says, standing. I know you’re confused and I was, too, when I first came here, but you can’t fight this.
You don’t know anything about me. I’m leaving so you can just cut the crap.
There no way back, Yiska says.
Rip notices a string of animal teeth around Yiska’s neck and an ornately woven poncho, finely striped in red and orange. I don’t know who you think you are, but just leave me alone, okay? It’s been great, so thanks for everything. Sorry for getting a bit heated, it’s all good, I’ll just get my stuff and go.
No way back, Yiska says again.
Cheers for that, Rip says with a wave. He turns and bolts past the fragrant jasmine and races up the stairs. At the veranda door he finds his boots and pushes them onto his feet as he walks. He scans the edge of the forest for a gap, a sound distracts him. Shit, Zephyr.
If you try to leave it will set you back, Asha calls out as she turns the corner of the house. She’s at the bottom of the stairs now, blocking his path.
It’s time for me to leave and it’s no big deal, just not my scene, okay? He jogs down the stairs and pushes Asha aside as he goes.
Yiska is at the fence, Rip ducks past him and runs into the field.
The horse will not go with you, Yiska says, in a booming voice that carries the length of the field. This is part of his journey too and he long ago accepted it.
Rip turns to Yiska and throws his hands in the air. Just listen to yourself! You are spinning some crazy shit, old man!
In a second, Yiska appears in front of Rip, his feet haven’t left the ground but his face is now only inches from Rip’s.
How did you do that?
Forget how, Yiska says. I tell you no run because it hurt you. Your choice is free but you will end up back here.
Rip gulps. Yiska’s eyes seem to be changing colour from brown to a searing indigo blue. Stop messing with my mind! he yells. He runs towards the horse in the far corner of the field.
As he nears, Zephyr gallops away, heading for Yiska, who is staring straight up at the sky. Rip catches his breath. Sorry mate, he utters, his chest heaving, as he backs into the bush.
It’s suddenly dark and the temperature has dropped below zero. Rip scrabbles through a thicket of bush, but the branches are entwined, like they’ve been knitted together. He kicks out, but his foot is snared and he falls. He tears the branches away but his boot won’t budge. He slips out of the boot and scrambles up. His hands and arms are covered in cat-claw scratches; some are deep gouges quickly filling with blood. He feels his insides constricting against the cold, when he looks down again his flesh is deflating, sucking back to the bone. He feels a hand on his shoulder and falls forward, losing consciousness before his body hits the ground.
Asha’s tear-stained face is the first thing Rip sees. It comes into focus slowly, against the backdrop of sloping walls.
Please just be still, she says, blowing her nose into a tissue.
Is all this real? His voice comes out scratchy and broken.
It’s as real as the real we knew before, she says. There is no single reality, just parallel versions of it and the truth is far more than we can perceive. Asha wipes a damp cloth across his forehead.
The last thing he remembers is the blood-clotting closeness of the forest and the way it folded in around him. I feel like I fell asleep and someone rearranged me inside and I’m here, but I don’t know where here is.
Coming through the veil is like this for everyone. No one’s ever quite ready to be here, but it’s the only place for us. The disorientation will pass, it always does. It’s one of the gifts we’re given.
Rip shakes his head. Does this mean I’m dead? Is this heaven?
It hasn’t been decided yet, that’s why you’re here.
But I don’t get it, what about the ad I found, was that in the real world or wherever the hell this is? Rip tries to sit up, but his head falls back to the pillow.
They are one and the same, simultaneously existing. We all have different hooks that bring us here, whatever is needed to get us through.
Rip’s eyes mist over. I feel like I’m trapped in a sci-fi movie.
Asha laughs. Well, life is a bit science fiction, don’t you think? I mean us women, we grow other humans in our bodies. How weird is that? Her attempt at lightening his mood falls short.
I was just in a hospital bed, and then I thought I left and came here, but now I’m lying on this mattress in a tipi, of all things and my head is pounding. Rip’s eyes widen and he bites his top lip. I need to sleep. Maybe when I wake up this will all be a dream.
What if everything’s a dream? Asha says. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you fall asleep. We must push on, there are guidelines that must be followed. I know you’re in shock, but there is a process to this and I need to ask your permission to begin.
Begin what?
Yiska comes into the tipi. He sits quietly behind Asha, with the small kangaroo-skin drum.
It is time for you to witness yourself, she says. Yiska and I will be your guides.
Rip tries to get up, but the roof of the tipi spirals in his vision. The poles shoot down at him, then bend back to hold the structure together. Aagh, it’s all … mmmm…
Try and relax, Rip. Just close your eyes. You are safe. You are loved by all that is. You are a sacred aspect of the universe. Just breathe in, and release. Let go of all of that fear. See it floating out of you like a black cloud. And again, breathe in clean, fresh air and let out all the stress and fear.
Yiska picks up a squat implement, carved from the wood of a sapote tree, and beats it on the drum. Rip squirms against the power of the trance enveloping him. His arms stiffen then release and his body goes still. He feels a rush of wind on his face, then a vertigo that pulls at his stomach as his eyes open.
He’s high up against a ceiling in a brightly lit room. Down below is his body, hitched up to machines on either side of a bed. The beat of the drum recedes as the noises of the room overtake electronic beeping, a clock ticking and strange ventilated breathing sounds. He is tucked tightly under sheets, his arms exposed and wrapped at the wrists in thick bandages. There are other beds in the ward, but as he tries to look down to them he feels like he might fall and presses up against the ceiling. A nurse in white enters and Rip watches her make notes on a flipchart in her hands. She lifts his eyelids, they fall closed. She rolls his body to the right, straightens the sheet underneath it and the body falls gently down again. Rip calls out to the nurse but as soon as his mouth opens he shoots upwards again in a vortex that shakes him like clothes in a washing machine.
Rip, come back, it’s okay. You are safe and unharmed. Here you are, Rip, in this peaceful room of healing. You are totally relaxed and calm.
His eyes pop open and he manages to sit straight up. He sees Asha, Yiska and the tipi walls. They stop spinning. He heaves forward and retches violently. He holds his ankles, shaking as the pit of his guts spasms. Bent over, he screeches as the next wave of cramps comes, pushing upwards and out of his mouth. He barely sees the fluid frothing out of him and he’s overcome with the savage sensations inside. He sees flashes of the blade at his wrists and his own hand cutting into his skin. Oh god! he cries out, falling onto his side as the flashes intensify. He sees blood, oozing around him and feels a searing pain stabbing at his wrists. Make it stop, make it stop! Rip screams, but the scene of his suicide attempt continues until he surrenders and collapses.
Asha pours scented oil from a jug over his head, it runs down his back, his chest and face and pools on the floor around the thin mattress. The oil cools the heat in Rip’s skin and seeps into his body. The convulsions slow, he lies forward, shuddering.
That’s the last of it, I promise, Asha says. I’m sorry it was so harsh. You were just experiencing the full extent of your final act. It’s over now.
Rip looks down at his wrists and the scars that are etched in the skin. I want to go home, he sobs.
Always you are home, Yiska says, bending to pat Rip on the forehead. Rest now, you need strength.
Rip totters around like a sleepwalker on a night mission. His eyes are open but he can’t find the button to turn on his brain. It’s shrouded in a terrifying fog that he can’t see through or escape. He passes time with the rituals of a day: waking, eating, washing his face with cold water. All of these actions are performed on autopilot. His thoughts are the shimmering heat that burns off a road in summer. They rise and hover but disappear before he can put a finger to them. He is vaguely aware that something is working through him but every time he’s about to link it to a word, it escapes him.
Then, after slipping through the hours in an absent state, Rip recognises the crumbling stuff in his mouth as bread. He looks at the brown slice in his hand and forms an image of a loaf of bread. It happens suddenly; he can now locate his senses and connect them to what’s happening around him, like he’s been parachuting through the sky, he’s just pulled the string so the noise and speed have stopped and he’s floating, looking down with clarity at the world below. He swallows. Is there more bread?
Asha piles his plate high with bread, orange segments and broccoli. I see you’ve come back to us.
Rip looks at the blur of new colours on his plate. Orange. Green. His eyes are still glazed over, not quite focusing, but he nods. The raw broccoli is crunchy and surprisingly sweet. He likes the way the small grainy florets break apart in his mouth.
Let’s go for a walk, Asha says, when his plate is empty.
They walk down the hill from the house and into the field. The grass is moving slowly in the evening breeze, a lemon tree buzzes with insects. Rip feels the earth beneath his feet.
I’m sad, he says. I had no idea what would happen after, but I thought it would all just be over.
But it’s not.
No, it’s not. It’s all still here, laid out in front of me just like before. Rip groans.
There are differences. You’ll work out what they are.
Yeah, but I’m still here, aren’t I? It makes me wonder why I ever bothered in the first place. It didn’t get me out of anything.
The light in the valley is liquid saffron, a bit lighter than honey. It drips from the tops of trees and runs over everything. There are spots where the light is normal, not this ethereal burnt custard colour sweeping across the grassland. Rip wants to be in those spots. Untouched, unaffected. Something about this light is too much, it touches a place inside him that wants to stay in the dark.
Asha picks a fruit off a tree. Peach? she says, handing it to Rip.
What happens to me after here?
It hasn’t been decided, Asha says. We don’t know, we must just exist as though anything and nothing may happen next.
How are you so calm about all this? Rip bites into the flesh of the peach, it’s sweeter than any fruit he’s ever tasted.
There’s no other way to be, Asha says.
I still have questions though. Is this my actual body or is it the one I saw in the hospital?
It’s all you, honey pie.
Rip throws the peach stone into the bushes and sighs. So what are you all doing here then?
The same thing, we’re just further down the road than you are. We know what you’re feeling, don’t ever doubt that.
They wind back up the hill and behind the house, back to the circle of tipis. There is a moment of resistance in Rip, but it doesn’t last long. His capacity to struggle has evaporated. As they near the structures, he stretches his hands to the sky. Asha waits behind him then they cross over and into the circle. Asha points to the first tipi and they enter.
Yiska is already inside. You look better now, he says.
Something like that.
Now is time to begin your ceremonies.
What are they? Rip asks.
They are processes to allow healing and transformation.
Right, so basically like before?
The girl of the day at the waterfall, Yiska says. He holds up a ceramic bowl. This is for you to drink, he says.
What is it? Rip says.
Something to facilitate the veil lifting, Asha says. That is all you need to know. It will show you whatever you must see.
Rip takes from the bowl and sips. His mouth floods with a fiercely bitter taste. Gross, man, he says.
Quiet now, Yiska says. Close your eyes and listen to my voice. That is all.
Rip closes his eyes. Nothing happens. Yiska’s voice opens into a low hummed-sound that vibrates through the dirt beneath him, but his consciousness remains in the room. He fidgets, crossing his right leg in front of his left. He yawns, disliking the tone of Yiska’s song. Then the floor shakes, cracks beneath him and he falls through.
He sees a woman, long, black hair plaited down her back. The room is grungy, walls plastered with posters of small, intricate images, some colourful, others black. The woman is sitting in a black leather chair like the kind you find at the dentist. She’s clasping something in her lap, he can’t quite see, but her left arm is stretched out and held by a heavily tattooed man. The tattoo gun in his hand is etching something into her wrist. He tries to read the words, then falters, as she looks up and he suddenly recognises her. She’s thin and pale with a glazed, faraway look in her eyes, like nothing she sees matters.
Rip fights to stay watching over her, but he’s pulled up and away from her. He calls her name, trying to get her to hear him over the buzzing of the gun. She grows faint before his eyes.
Rip falls onto the tipi floor with a thud. That can’t be her are his first words.
Whoever you saw is the one you needed to see, Asha says.
Rip stutters, coming fully into his surrounds. What happened to her?
Asha hands Rip a glass of honey and hot water. You need to drink that to readjust. Rip, it seems that the woman you saw thinks you are dead.
Why? Why would she think that?
A mutual friend informed her that you had taken your own life. She fully believes you are gone.
Rip stares at Asha’s smooth face. You have to send me back there, I have to tell her. She needs to know I’m still alive.
I’m sorry, it’s not possible. We can’t effect change in that world. We are merely observers. These are the limits of this experience. You have seen her and you know where she is and how she is.
All I know is she’s not okay! Rip shouts. That is what I know.
Yes, that may be so. Asha says. But it’s part of her life, not yours.
So I’m just supposed to stay in this total nightmare, knowing she’s suffering, and I’m powerless to do anything? Is that it? What kind of a messed up place is this? Rip pegs the glass at the tipi wall; it hits the ground and smashes. I don’t want to be here.
And yet here you are, Asha says. Something will come to help, there’s a plan for you. Just focus on that. She will find her own way.
That’s bullshit, Rip says, walking out.
In his room he slumps on the carpet with his eyes closed. He counts backwards from one hundred, trying to bring on the trance state he experienced before. He breathes deeply. ‘I’m safe. I’m calm. I’m breathing. This isn’t working.’
There’s a knock on his door. Do you want some lunch, Rip?
No, just leave me!
You won’t be able to see her again, it’s no use, Asha says.
Just leave me alone! Rip grips his knees with all his strength. He hears Asha walk away from the door. Come on, Sahara, where are you?
He stays like this in his room, desperate to make contact with Sahara. When his body is too sore to sit, he lies back with a pillow off the bed and continues. It’s me, I’m here, I’m alive. Please, look up, you’ll see me, Sahara. Just look up. He tries to imagine her where he left her in the tattoo parlour, but it’s not the same. Any flash of her he sees is just his shaky imagination, it’s not her.