Asha takes the lid off the pot and inspects the quinoa. The South American grains, half-translucent like frog eggs, are bubbling away in the shallow water. She chops a mix of dates, almonds, cashews and dried apricots and scoops the lot into a small, white dish next to the rockmelon she has cracked open and sliced. She sprinkles everything with shredded mint from the garden and places a tea towel over it, ready for breakfast. Nearly ready, just a few more minutes, she says.
Rip watches her. I’m not hungry.
That’s okay.
Asha calls out the kitchen window for Yiska.
I wish I hadn’t seen her.
Do you want to tell me about her? Asha sits at the table next to Rip with her cup of tea steaming.
‘Yes, I do, just so I can get her out of me,’ he thinks. But to Asha, he can’t actually speak the words, almost like if he talks of her, she’ll rush out of him and he’ll be cleansed but then she’ll be lost to him forever.
She’s tying you to the other world, you know. Asha hands him a slice of melon but he shakes his head.
Is that bad?
It’s not bad or good, it’s just how it is. You have a very strong connection with her.
I feel like I don’t even know her anymore.
And you want to keep hold of the bits you have left?
Rip nods. He swallows the build up of saliva in his mouth. I don’t like it here, Asha.
She presses her thumb into his forehead and sweeps it across his eyebrows. I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about that.
Rip scrapes his chair back and stands.
You won’t be able to contact her again, Rip. It’s not the right time. You can’t force these things, no matter how hard you try.
He looks at her with hollow, bleary eyes and leaves the room. He goes outside to the garden and picks a gardenia. He drops the tiny half-open bud on the pond, where it sits among lily pads and small green plants.
Rip’s been digging for hours, but he hardly seems to have made any progress with the path he’s carving into the land. The physical labour is tedious, but the work keeps the image of the raven-haired Sahara from his mind. He slices the shovel into the earth, grateful for a task to chase thoughts of her away. Rip feels something hard land against his head.
He looks up. Dream is standing a few feet away, her hands carrying passionfruit. Hey, she says.
Rip ignores her and keeps digging.
It’s not my fault, I thought you already knew. Please, Rip, I’m sorry.
You have a funny way of showing it, throwing fruit at my head, he tells her. I need to make some headway with this. He slams the shovel deep into the earth to cut the roots and slice off the top layer of weeds. He tips another load of dirt to the side and smacks the tool again into the rich soil.
I’m not leaving until you accept my apology. Dream puts her foot on the shovel. And besides, you don’t have to work anymore, Asha already told you. You can just be here now that you understand where you are. The land will fix itself, you’re wasting your time.
Rip picks up the passionfruit and wipes the mud off its shiny skin. I have to do something, I’m going mad with all of this, he says. I can’t make sense of things and I have to do something practical or I’m done for.
Dream pouts; her lips are cherry red today. You know I’m here to help you. I shouldn’t tell you this but my role is to heal your relationship wounds.
Will you stop telling me things you’re not supposed to? He leans back and groans.
Why should I? I’m a rebel. I can do whatever I want. This place is like anywhere, you can’t take it too seriously. You’re digging up dirt when you could be having adventures with me.
Rip sticks the shovel back into the ground. Look, I’m not ready for whatever you’re supposed to show me, okay? Just back off. I don’t want to heal anything, I just want to build this path down the hill.
But you could be happy if you just came with me, I want to show you things and open your eyes.
Please, Dream, he says. I’m not interested, so stop pushing. I’m sure you’re not meant to be coming at me like this.
But I’m bored, she whines, and you’re moving so slowly.
Go and be bored somewhere else, Rip says coldly.
The hammock swings gently. There’s no wind, but Rip kicks off against the veranda railings. Why are you still here, Dream? Don’t you have anything better to do?
This is all I have to do until it is done. She tips back in the rocking chair. Are you thinking about her now?
Why do you care so much? Rip holds down the edge of the hammock and looks back to her.
Because you’re this bright flame and this girl, this Sahara or whatever her name is, she’s putting out your flame. Can’t you see that?
It’s not that simple. Rip says. You’re just saying what everyone else says, but I thought being in a place like this you’d understand.
Soft rain blankets the view. Asha and Yiska have disappeared and it’s just the two of them on the veranda and the slow pendulum rock of the hammock and white chair.
You have a warped perception of romance, Dream says. That’s okay, most people do. I just want to pop that little bubble and wake you up to how it really is and what a waste of your energy all of this pining is. Why is she so special anyway?
I can’t explain it. She’s all I’ve ever known.
And all your love, Dream spreads her arms as wide as they go, then brings them in and cups her hands, it’s just for her?
She’s always been there. He rests his head back in the hammock.
But this isn’t love, this is something else. This is need and longing and loss. You’ve got all mixed up in your head, Rip Oatley. This isn’t free. I’d never want someone to love me like this, I’m not surprised she ran away. You suffocated her, I can just tell.
Rip jams his hand against the railing. You don’t know anything about what happened.
I know that if you could just let go, you’d be all right. I also know that you held onto something so tight, it couldn’t breathe or grow.
The hammock swings out again over the veranda. I don’t know how to let go.
You can say that again, you’re absolutely hopeless at it—one of the worst I’ve ever seen. But that’s why I’m here to help you. So when you get tired of being stubborn and unhappy, let me know. Dream twirls her skirt and gives Rip the peace sign.
How will I find you?
Just think about me, I’ll be here, she says.
Without the ebb and flow of night, life is endless, not a cycle, but a stretching day that has no end. Rip sleeps for the relief of dropping away from the Wilderness, but each time he wakes, he is still in this place of undefined boundaries. He knows more now: there is no night, he cannot reach Sahara, sleep is a choice but not a necessity, and the land undoes the scars he carves into it. After sleep, he inspects the path from the balcony and it is always shorter than before he slept. Depending on the hours that have passed, each time he looks over, the path has wound its way back up towards the starting point near the rock wall. The wound is healed, the grass has regrown and often there is no sign of his labour other than the shovel on the lawn.
Rip yawns and pulls on his boots. He walks down the stairs and onto the grass. His nap was short and the path has only retreated a few metres. He picks up the shovel earnestly, excited that, just once, he is beating the system. He sets to work, digging, shovelling, determined to keep at it beyond the exhaustion of his body.
He digs for hours, winding a path down the side of the garden, around the paddock and right to the edge of the forest. It feels like he’s been digging for two days, but who knows what that means here. He pushes the shovel into the thick bush ahead; it hits the leaves and ricochets off. Impenetrable. Rip tries again, but it is no use. He swears and throws the shovel to the ground. Even this task has not saved him. He looks back up to the path of exposed dirt among the lush green and realises he has created an eyesore, an ugly mess like the new highway they bulldozed into the undisturbed rural hills a few years back. In his haste, in his desperation for a purpose, for progress and to escape the wounds of his mind, he has achieved only this: a brutal marring of the earth.
He sits, useless and forlorn, feeling an ache for the damage he has wrought. It is so visible, so external, so obviously counterintuitive like the scars on his wrists. He puts his hands at the end of the path he dug, yearning for forgiveness, for something that says what he’s done is okay, that the crater he has gouged from the house to the forest is repairable. He feels a prickling under his palms, and looks down to see the grass springing up around the mouth of the path; slowly, it pushes forwards and from both sides. First the roots grow over the wounds, they are covered by newly sprouted vibrant green grass and then the process repeats. Rip leaps to his feet to witness the thing he resented, the earth healing, and he walks alongside the grass taking back the path until he has to run to keep up. He keeps pace with it, and finally, there is nothing but his feet beside fresh lawn and his shovel all the way back down near the forest.
‘Now I really have nothing to do,’ he thinks. ‘Just me and Zephyr and the others. And Dream.’
You called? she says from the garden wall.
Woah. This shit is real. Rip looks in awe from the grass to her smiling face. You will not believe what just happened.
So you’re over the digging thing then?
I guess so, he says.
Good news, mi amigo. Dream jumps off the wall. Let’s go and play. This place is amazing if you believe in magic.
Rip walks towards the house with her and then runs back. He picks a gardenia, places it in the pond then jogs back up to her.
In the kitchen she asks him what his favourite food is.
Chocolate cake, Rip says.
That’s an easy one. Shut your eyes. Dream closes hers and when she opens them there is a chocolate mud cake on the table.
No way! Where did that come from? Rip sniffs the cake to make sure it’s real.
Instant manifestation around here. Same as in the other world, only people there haven’t quite got the hang of it yet. She blinks and a knife appears in her hand. See?
You really spin me out, Rip says. If life was really that easy, then we’d all be doing it.
Dream cuts two pieces of chocolate cake. The first step is believing. You have to believe for anything to be possible. It all starts up here. She taps the side of her head. Thoughts create reality. And blockages up here create the way things are right now.
Rip eats his piece of cake greedily. With his mouth full, he says, Where are you from?
Which lifetime.
Rip rolls his eyes at her. Not that stuff again.
I can see all of yours, you know, she says. You’ve had some pretty crazy adventures. We’ve met before, a few times, by the way.
You can’t just make up stuff like that, Rip says.
I’m not, it’s just how it is. She slices into the cake. We all have access to all the information that ever is, was and will ever be. We just have to tap into it. We’re all just travelling along through supposed time and space, in and out of different bodies, and some people we bump into again and again.
And you know this how, exactly?
It’s in the soul records, Dream says. I could tell you what happened last time we knew each other—she points the knife at him—but then I’d have to kill you.
Very funny, you weirdo! Rip can’t help the smile that’s spreading across his face. You’re fun to hang out with, even if you are completely wacky.
Wait until we have some real fun, she says, licking chocolate icing off the knife.
What happened to you? Rip asks. How did you end up here?
Dream looks away. Can’t tell you, sorry. This is all about you. I was in California and now I’m not. That’s as much as you’re allowed to know.
Was it something bad?
Some stories are not worth telling, she says. We carry our same old junk around and I’m done with mine. She gets up and puts the cake in the fridge. I left my baggage at the door.
Which door?
The one you know nothing about, so quit asking! Now, Dream rubs her hands together, hold out your hand, I have a present for you.
Uncertainly Rip opens his palm and she drops a heavy glass ball into it. It’s the size of a small grapefruit, bigger than his fist and crystal clear to the centre.
What is it?
This, my friend, is your salvation. Dream takes the ball and rests it on the circle formed by thumb and forefinger. The ball is still and reflecting the room in its curve.
It’s like a mirror, I can see the table and the cake in it.
Dream moves her finger so the ball spins on her thumb. Except?
Except it’s all upside down.
Exactly. Okay, watch. She begins to roll the ball in her hand and it travels over her fingers, as smooth and fluid as water. She bounces it and it lands, perfectly, on the tip of her middle finger. Then she flips it over the back of her hand, the ball rolls over her wrist and up her forearm then stops in the nook of her elbow. It is hanging, just there where her arm bends.
Rip stares around it; the whole room is captured, like the inside of a snow globe but upside down. His eyes are glued to the ball as Dream tilts her arm upwards and it runs down to her shoulder, around the back of her neck and down her left arm. Just as he thinks it’s about to race off her hand and fall, she flips up her fingers and the ball bounces and lands precariously on the edge of her hand where it balances until she flicks it up and catches it with her collarbone; the glass ball spins over her chest, left to right, right to left, and then, when she is arched all the way back over her stool, it comes to a stop in her navel. Take it, it’s yours.
Rip gingerly collects the ball from her stomach, it’s cool and solid. How did you do all that? It’s so heavy. Does it bounce?
It’s glass.
So it’ll break if I drop it? He holds it tightly, scared of the possibility of it shattering.
You’ll have to find that one out for yourself. It’s called contact juggling. People do some incredible things with those balls, way more than I can do. Someone gave me that when I first got here and it saved me. So I’m passing it on to you.
Rip rolls the ball in his palm. I’ll never be able to do anything like what you just did.
You’d be surprised. I was just the same, but endless hours of life here without a purpose and that ball quickly became my reason for existing. For a while anyway. It was something I could focus on, something to do when everything else was futile. She kisses the ball in his palm. I have a feeling it’ll be really good for you. Just have fun and play and see how far you can go with it.
Thank you, Rip says. I really like the way it reflects everything around it. It’s kind of like a fortune teller’s crystal ball, isn’t it?
It’s whatever you want it to be. Just make it your friend and it’ll really help. If not, smash it. Or pass it on, you never know who’s on their way in. She smiles. I’m glad you showed up, it’s definitely more fun with you around.
Rip holds the ball in front of his face and peers through. I’m not sure I’m glad I’m here, but seeing as I am, I’m glad you’re here too.
Hey, can you play the piano? She asks.
I sort of dabble. I wouldn’t say I play exactly.
She points near the window. No one’s touched that in ages. Let’s make some music.
I can’t, it’s been too long.
You can do anything you set your mind to, Dream says.
Rip throws the last bite of his cake at her. Does every word you say have to sound like a self-help book?
She catches it in her mouth and swallows. Come on, maestro, let’s hear you play.
Rip sits at the old piano, his fingers hesitant. It’s been so long, the ebony and ivory keys feel foreign and too smooth under his touch. He strikes an F sharp hard and the note resonates out, filling the room. He pauses, positions his hands and plays a few chords. He catches sight of Dream, just behind his right shoulder and he jumps up. I can’t do it.
What’s wrong?
I just, I just can’t. It’s reminding me of something and I don’t know. Rip steps back from the piano.
Did the playing trigger a memory? Dream asks.
Rain begins to hammer the glass outside.
Rip nods. For a second I thought you were Sahara, she used to dance sometimes when I played.
Okay, this is good, we can work with this. Dream kneels on the rug. Lie down on your back and I’m going to do a healing technique on you. It’ll help.
Rip groans. I’m not sure about this.
Do you want to be free or stuck? She pats the rug. Just trust me, I promise you’re in safe hands.
Rip lies on the rug. Dream places her hands over his face. She holds them over his cheeks and eyes then presses them firmly over his collarbones. There are no sounds but the drumming rain.
She keeps her hands on him for ten minutes then coos softly, Okay, we’re done.
Rip opens his eyes, her face is soft and placid.
How do you feel?
I feel good, like totally calm. I just felt so peaceful when your hands were on me. He sits up. What did you do?
I just visualised that memory leaving you and all associated negativity from your mind, emotions and energy. And then I poured all of this pink and white light all over you. Like rain. She smiles. I can teach you to do it yourself sometime. Self-healing is a rad little trick to have up your sleeve.
Rip goes to the piano. The keys look different now, more welcoming and familiar. He plays the same chords as before and the melody comes out smoothly. He plays an old tune he used to know. That bad feeling’s all gone. Wow. I forgot how fun it is to play. I haven’t heard music for way too long!
Okay, Rip, let’s go for it. Dream jumps onto the piano. What’s a track you love, one that makes you feel so damn free like you could fly?
Umm. Uh. Okay, one by M83. I don’t know the name, but it builds slow and—
I know the exact one! She bends over the keyboard. We are going to imagine that song and how it makes us feel and we are going to pull that thing right out of the sky. Are you with me?
Rip gulps.
Just start bashing out some notes, whatever comes, and feel in every cell in your body that you are playing that song you love. Just believe, Rip, come on! Dream stretches back up and raises her hands high.
As Rip begins to find some tentative notes, suddenly a background electronic pulse cracks into the room, like running footsteps, tempo rising.
Dream sings out—unapologetic, fearless and full. Ah! She brings her hands crashing down as the next bolt of music strikes through her body.
Rip keeps his hands at the piano as the room booms with the sharp, climbing epic tune that he loves. I fricking deserve this! he screams.