Heartstrings | Page 7

the need to flee. He began to see
the country around him.
Four days without sleep, in the slow vehicle, had brought him to the end of the edge of the
remote emptiness of the huge dry central desert plain.

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Curiously, from that emptiness, a quiet, impersonal, soothing calm seeped in. The far
horizons, totally flat, the consistent lack of form or colour in the landscape, the lack of input
into his wrything brain, brought about a sense of solidity in the centrepoint of his frail soul.
He ceased to drive himself onwards without rest. His progress slowed.
He would stop, and stare out from the shelter of the cab of his vehicle, at the surrounding
land.
Not yet, it was not yet time to make it his, to render his vision of the empty desert of his
country onto board with color, paint, and line. It was at least time for him to be in it, in the
centre of a sea of light and shadow, and allow it to permeate his vision, his soul, and let the
stark, pureness of it wash him clean, sterile.
He would sit and watch the day pass into night, unmoving, his eyes fixed on the cloud
shadows as they drifted across the plain, the clouds as they wandered, forming and un-
forming in the skies that changed their hue from red to blue, to red to black of night.
He lost count of the days he hung static, in the desert. Finally he woke one morning, slumped
over the steering wheel, and realized that he had driven off the road, over the soft edges,
skidded on the gutter, and come to a sudden stop against the trunk of a strong, old banksia
tree.
Getting out, he looked around with fresh eyes. it took him minutes to realise that the
unearthly stink was that of his own body, and the foul taste was in his own mouth.
He stripped down, amazed at the state of his clothes, and appalled at the smell. A fire lit by
the side of the truck he used to burn his clothes, and heat a few litres for a good, warm, water
for a soapy wash.
He had the scissors in his hand to trim his hair, and then, he put them away. It felt good, the
length of his hair on his neck, and the stiff, protective bush of hair on his face. This was how
he was meant to be. A man had hair on his face, and on his body, and on his head. He need
no longer womanise himself with bare cheeks, or mutilate the natural flow of his hair.
The grey suits he had given away months ago, with the old life, and now his transformation
into himself could proceed, here in the desert, with no model but himself, he could allow
himself to be.

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Taking out his electronic pocket organiser, he discovered that the day was Tuesday and that
he still had far to go. He ate, opening a tin of rice dessert, sweet and milky. He calculated.
He set the food down and whistled aloud. he had been wandering for three weeks, and could
not remember in that time seeing another living thing.
Not one person, not a camel, a kangaroo, an emu, a sheep, wombat lizard or snake. Not even
a bird.
He looked down at his bare feet, and noticed that the soil around him was bare, sandy.
Not even an ant.
He threw back his head, and a strange sound came out of him, from his mouth.
He slapped his thigh. He farted, then laughed again, slapping his thighs, he began a strange
hump-backed hopping dance, interspersed with yells, yodels, whoops and roaring noises.
‘Hot damn!’ he raised both his fists to the skies, now clouding over without any sign of rain.
He heard then the first sound for many days.
The distant, gloomy, miserable cark! of a raven, and another cark! closer.
There was a crinkle in the roof of his universe, as the two birds took flight, and he watched
them, rising, circling, and then heading away West.
The air felt sweet and fresh on his bare skin. He took a deep breath, then turned back to his
vehicle. The tank was empty, and it took time to re-fuel from the jerry cans of spare fuel on
the roof rack, and even longer to bleed the engine to start it.
He left the engine going, idling, while he dressed in clean jeans and shirt, and socks, and good
boots. he even put on a jumper. The