The transition from the gentle undulations of rolling hills to the vast, monochromatic expanse of the outback marked a noticeable shift in my journey. The landscape unfurled in endless shades of brown, a canvas that mirrored the dryness I associated with Hobart's harshest summer days. It was a sobering reminder of nature's indifference, its capacity to drain life and colour from the world in the face of relentless heat.
Despite being winter, the trees, sparse and sapped of vitality, stood as ochre sentinels against the arid backdrop, their presence more a testament to survival than to life. It struck me, the parallel between this place and my home during those scorching weeks when the sun seemed intent on leaching every drop of moisture from the earth, leaving behind a landscape gasping for relief.
As the outskirts of the next town appeared on the horizon, I eased off the accelerator, the change in speed a reluctant concession to civilisation's boundaries. The sign greeting me was a beacon of progress on my path: "Welcome to Yunta," I announced to the empty car, a hint of triumph lacing my voice despite the solitude of my audience. The town's name, a mere marker on a map, now signified my entry into the true heart of the outback, a milestone in my trek across this vast country.
However, the satisfaction of this achievement was short-lived. A sudden realisation struck me, pulling a frustrated "damn it!" from my lips. In my focused pursuit of Broken Hill, I had neglected Paul's sage advice to register a Portal location in Burra. The oversight was more than a mere lapse; it was a missed opportunity, a breach in my preparedness that gnawed at me with the insistence of an unresolved chord.
The endless expanse of the road stretched before me, my journey already stretching several hours and covering vast distances that seemed to meld into a blur of monotonous scenery. Paul's advice to register multiple Portal locations along this extensive route echoed in my mind, a nudge of wisdom I begrudgingly acknowledged. While the solitary freedom of the drive had its charms, with Taylor Swift's anthems for company and the road's rhythm under my wheels, the reality was: this was not a voyage I wished to repeat with any regularity. "And I still have two-hundred kilometres to go before I get to Broken Hill," I muttered to myself, the music's energy dimming as practical concerns took the forefront.
As I manoeuvred around a dormant semi on the roadside, the sight of Yunta's petrol station loomed as a beacon of civilisation in the sparse outback. The town, with its meagre population and scattering of humble dwellings, seemed an unlikely hub for two sizeable petrol stations. Yet here they stood, sentinels of the vast wilderness, catering to those who ventured along this outback path. My pre-trip research had painted Yunta as a crucial pit stop before Broken Hill, a fact that now presented a reluctant necessity rather than a mere point of interest.
I had harboured hopes of bypassing this stop, driven by a desire to conserve resources and maintain a low profile, especially given Gladys's precarious situation. The last thing I needed was to leave a breadcrumb trail for anyone trying to piece together my movements. Yet, as I pulled into the station, the reality of my need for fuel overshadowed these concerns. The car's thirst for petrol was palpable, the sound of fuel coursing into the tank a reminder of my dependency on these finite resources in the vast, unforgiving landscape.
The bell above the door of the petrol station jingled, a familiar yet always slightly jarring sound, as I stepped into the confined space, leaving the cold outside world behind. Instantly, the pungent fumes of fuel, so thick and invasive, quickly dissipated, a fleeting discomfort replaced by the engulfing, almost comforting, aroma of freshly cooked hot chips. The scent was potent, invoking an immediate, visceral reaction. My stomach, neglected and empty, growled angrily, a fierce reminder of its discontent, having been ignored for several hours longer than it was accustomed to—a silent protest against my neglect.
The interior of the petrol station was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights flickering sporadically, casting an uneven glow over the aisles crammed with an assortment of snacks. I weaved my way between them, my steps slightly hurried, driven by the gnawing hunger. My eyes scanned the shelves, an array of colours and shapes blurring into one as I reached for a bag of sugary lollies, their bright packaging catching my attention.
Clutching the bag, I beelined for the service counter, the tiles underfoot showing years of wear, a mosaic of countless, hurried visits like my own. The counter, cluttered with an assortment of items aimed at tempting last-minute purchases, stood as a barrier between me and sustenance.
A moment of realisation washed over me, a wave of frustration mingled with resignation. I've been too heavy-handed on the petrol, I sighed internally, the words echoing in the confines of my mind, a silent rebuke. My purse, a small, worn thing burdened with the task of carrying my essentials, felt unusually light as I rummaged through it. The realisation that I didn't have enough cash to cover the transaction was an unfortunate reminder of my miscalculation.
Reluctantly, I searched for my bank card, the plastic cold and impersonal, my reluctant saviour in this moment of need. I can hardly get petrol back out of the car now, I mused, the thought tinged with a mix of humour and bitterness.
"I don't really have much choice," came the deep, gruff voice of the man who had joined the queue behind me, his tone carrying a weight of resigned inevitability. His words seemed to hang in the air, dense with an unsettling finality. "Nobody wants the damn thing. I think I'm just gonna 'ave to shoot him."
The casual mention of such a drastic action sent a shiver down my spine, my eyes widening in shock. My empty stomach, already a knot of hunger, twisted further, morphing into a gnarly, uncomfortable mass, as if reacting to the harshness of the man's intentions.
Turning slightly, I caught a glimpse of the man. He was burly, his face etched with lines of a hard life, eyes reflecting a stark, uncompromising reality. His presence felt overwhelming, his aura heavy with a mix of resignation and a peculiar, grim pragmatism.
The woman behind the counter, a fixture in this small, transient world of the petrol station, didn't seem at all perturbed by the man's startling declaration. Her face remained impassive, a mask of professional detachment, as if the talk of shooting was no more remarkable than a comment about the weather. She extended the card reader toward me with a steady hand, her demeanour unflinching, a true embodiment of routine desensitisation.
"That's a bloody shame, mate. That Vincent was alright, he was,” chimed in a second voice, rough yet tinged with a hint of sympathy, a contrast to the first man's stoic resignation. This new voice belonged to another patron, his expression a mix of concern and morose acceptance.
"Yeah, he was. But me new bitch don't like him much. Carries on like a right pork chop, she does. Barkin' and nippin' at the old fella's legs. Broke through the skin the other day, she did. Even drew a bit of blood."
The conversation unfolded behind me, painting a vivid, albeit grim, picture of domestic discord, a clash between old and new, the inevitable yielding to the ruthless, unspoken laws of survival and coexistence.
My fingers clumsily grasped at my purse, nearly letting it slip through in a rush to tuck it away into the confines of my handbag. The conversation unfolding behind me was unsettling, its content darkly mundane in this all-too-normal setting, creating a morbid atmosphere that left me disconcerted.
"Would ya be able to eat him if ya shot him?" the second man's inquiry pierced the air, its timing impeccably poor as I turned to leave the counter, provoking an involuntary gasp from my lips. The question, so blunt and raw, anchored my feet to the spot for a moment, curiosity and horror mingling within me as I couldn't help but turn my gaze toward the two men.
The owner of Vincent, a scruffy figure in a checked flannel shirt that seemed to mirror the ruggedness of his lifestyle, responded with a nonchalant shrug. "Nah, I don't reckon he'd taste much good. Too old a goat now, he is. He'd be all tough and stringy I reckon."
A wave of grim relief washed over me at his words. At least that's something, I mused silently, a sliver of solace found in the knowledge that the man's pragmatism didn't extend to consuming his aged goat, despite the bleakness of its fate.
As the man replaced me at the counter, laying out his items to be scanned, the mundanity of the transaction juxtaposed starkly with the grim nature of their earlier discussion. "Good to see you, Bill," the woman's voice, a beacon of normality, cut through the heavy atmosphere, her greeting to the man creating a semblance of everyday civility amidst the otherwise disquieting exchange.
With the bell's chime ringing above me as I exited, the sounds and sights of the petrol station receded. I stepped back into the outside world, the weight of the conversation lingering in my mind, a reminder of the complex tapestry of life's narratives, where the ordinary and the extraordinary, the mundane and the morbid, intertwine in the most unexpected places.
Small puffs of breath formed in the cold air, each one a visible testament to the chill, as I looked up at the darkening late afternoon sky. The transition from day to night seemed to mirror my own internal shift, a mixture of resignation and determination setting in. I wasn't particularly fond of these shorter winter days, their briskness and the swift descent into darkness always seemed to bring a tinge of melancholy. Yet, the vast swathes of flat ground that stretched out before me promised a lingering twilight, offering a sliver of hope that daylight would hold long enough for me to reach the proximity of Broken Hill.
As I pulled away from the petrol pump, my gaze inadvertently landed on a silver Toyota Land Cruiser parked along the fence ahead. It was unremarkable at first glance, but what caught my eye were the several large dog cages mounted on the back. Inside one, through the crisscrossing wires of the cage, I could clearly make out a dark-haired goat. "Vincent!" The name escaped my lips in a gasp, a sudden surge of recognition flooding through me. My eyes locked onto the goat, Vincent, as I slowly drove past. He seemed oblivious to his fate. My stomach churned, mimicking the tumultuous sea, as images of Vincent's potential fate—lying in a pool of his own blood—invaded my thoughts, unbidden and unsettling.
"I can't let this happen," the words were a whisper, a soft but firm declaration to myself, as I suddenly braked and shifted the car into reverse. This was not a moment for passivity; it was a call to action, however impulsive it might have seemed.
Exiting the car, I cast several quick, stealthy glances toward the station's front door, hoping for the mundane chatter within to continue, a cover for my impending intervention. "Please keep on talking," I mumble-pleaded to the universe or perhaps to the oblivious patrons inside, as I made my way to the cages.
With each step, my resolve hardened. The chill in the air seemed to sharpen my senses, focusing my thoughts on my new rescue mission. I was about to step into a situation fraught with uncertainty, propelled by a sudden, deep-seated conviction that I couldn't stand idly by. Vincent's life, however small or inconsequential it might seem in the grand scheme of things, mattered in this moment, and I was inexplicably, irrevocably drawn into his story.
The back door of the car creaked open, its hinges protesting with a sound that seemed to underscore the gravity of what I was about to do. Around me, the world seemed to pause, the late afternoon air holding its breath as I prepared to enact my hastily forged plan. After a couple of heaped armfuls of hay, torn from one of the several bales I had noticed behind the cages, the stage was set. It was time to rescue Vincent.
Approaching the cage, I could hear Vincent's bleats—each one a thunderous echo in my ears, amplifying the urgency of the moment. When I pulled him from his exposed confinement, the reality of his weight hit me with unexpected force. My knees buckled under the strain, and I found myself slamming painfully against the side of the Land Cruiser. The impact sent a jarring pain through my back, a physical echo of the turmoil inside me.
As I struggled to regain my footing, Vincent, perhaps sensing his chance for freedom, broke free from my faltering grasp. His hooves landed with a heavy, definitive clop on the concrete, a sound that seemed to reverberate with my racing heartbeat. "Shit!" The expletive slipped from my lips in a hiss, a rare loss of composure as I quickly moved to Vincent's side.
My hands, though shaking, were guided by a practiced familiarity, swiftly steering Vincent's head toward the open car door. There was a moment, fraught with tension, where I feared he would resist. But then, as if understanding the seriousness of his situation—or perhaps sensing my desperation—Vincent obliged. With a final, resonant bleat, he jumped into the back seat, his body finding refuge among the hay I had scattered in haste.
With Vincent secured, I gently closed the door, turning my attention to the unexpected audience that had gathered during the commotion. Half a dozen brown hens had swarmed around the car, their clucking reaching a frenetic pitch as they witnessed Vincent's escape. My eyes met the gaze of the apparent leader, her beady eyes holding a challenge, a silent plea that I couldn't ignore. They seemed to understand the stakes, their own fate mirroring Vincent's in the cruel arithmetic of farm life.
"Oh, come on then," I conceded, my voice a mixture of resignation and newfound resolve. The decision to extend my impromptu rescue to these feathered bystanders was impulsive, yet it felt like the only acceptable choice in a world where the lines between right and wrong were suddenly drawn in stark relief. My actions today, born of a spontaneous empathy, were shaping the trajectory of not just my own story, but those of Vincent and now these hens, all of us intertwined in a shared narrative of escape and survival.
The air was heavy with the scent of rust and dust as I guided my newly acquired menagerie toward a large dilapidated shed, its wooden frame groaning under the weight of years. The decision to find this secluded spot was driven by a need for discretion, a lesson learned the hard way from a previous oversight of not registering an outback Portal location. Such a mistake was not one I could afford to repeat, especially now with the stakes so unexpectedly elevated.
I manoeuvred the car carefully, its headlights cutting through the shed's pervasive gloom, illuminating the expanse of wall that would soon become our passage. With a sense of solemnity, I activated the Portal device, its mechanics whirring to life with a promise of passage. The once inert wall was now a canvas, painted with the swirling, vibrant colours of the Portal, a spectacle that seemed almost surreal against the shed's rustic backdrop.
The swirling colours intensified, casting a mesmerising glow that enveloped the car, the goat, the hens, and me in a cocoon of light and energy. The air around us seemed to hum, charged with the potential of imminent transition. I gripped the steering wheel, the car's engine a steady purr amidst the crescendo of the Portal's activation.
With a deep, steadying breath, I edged the car forward, the boundary between our current reality and Clivilius beckoning just ahead. The sensation of crossing was unlike anything I could have anticipated— a confluence of exhilaration and trepidation, as the fabric of our existence stretched and melded into new possibilities.
As we passed through the Portal, the concept of time and space momentarily lost its meaning. We were in flux, between what was and what could be, the future unfurling with each passing second. It was a leap not just through space but into a future where the fates of a woman, a goat, and a flock of hens were irrevocably intertwined, propelled by a shared journey into Clivilius.
The air was charged with tension as Paul stood there, hands resting on his hips, his expression a mix of bewilderment and exasperation. The unimpressed pout that formed on his lips spoke volumes before he even uttered a word.
"Beatrix?" he asked, his voice laced with a burgeoning frustration that I knew all too well.
"What?" My response was terse, a reflection of the sudden tightness in my chest as I braced for the impending confrontation.
"Why is there a goat in the back of the car?" His question, though simple, was laden with a deeper incredulity, his palm outstretched toward the unexpected passenger as if to emphasise the absurdity of the situation.
"Oh," was all I managed initially, my mind racing as I moved swiftly to the car's back door. The latch clicked softly as I opened it, revealing Vincent, who seemed blissfully unaware of the commotion his presence had caused. "This is Vincent," I said, introducing the old goat as if the formality could somehow smooth over the irregularity of the scenario. I took a handful of hay from the backseat, using it to coax Vincent out of his temporary refuge.
Vincent emerged with a happy bleat, his hooves kicking up small clouds of dust as he playfully adjusted to his new surroundings before settling down with the straw, a simple pleasure amidst the unfolding drama.
"What the hell am I going to do with a goat?" Paul's question hung in the air, his incredulity palpable. I could only offer a helpless shrug in response, my own uncertainty mirroring his.
"Are you trying to get us all killed?" The intensity of Paul's rebuke hit me harder than I expected.
"I didn't have a choice. Bill was going to kill him," I defended, the justification sounding thin even to my own ears.
"Who's Bill?" The confusion on Paul's face deepened, the situation spiralling further into the realm of the absurd.
"Vincent's owner," I explained.
Paul's eyes widened, his initial frustration giving way to a dawning realisation of my actions. "So, you decided to kidnap his goat instead!?"
My eyes rolled, a silent counter to Paul's critique, which felt more like an affront to my intentions than a rational argument. "Look at him," I urged, my hand gently stroking Vincent's head, feeling the coarse texture of his hair under my fingertips. "He's so happy now." It was a plea for empathy, a call to acknowledge the simple joy evident in Vincent's demeanour.
"I don't think he's going to be very happy when he gets eaten by a shadow panther," Paul retorted, his voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and concern. His statement, meant to inject a dose of reality into the situation, only served to heighten my irritation.
Annoyed at his inability to grasp the immediacy of the compassionate choice I had made, I looked up at him, my gaze sharpened with frustration. "He can live in one of the motorhomes," I declared, presenting what I saw as a perfectly viable solution, my voice imbued with a sense of triumph.
"Beatrix!" Paul's response was a sharp rebuke, slicing through the air between us. "We're not keeping Vincent in a motorhome. Those are for people." His tone was adamant, brooking no room for debate, a clear line drawn in the sand of our moral battleground.
Undeterred, I leaned in, my action deliberate, as I placed a quick kiss on Vincent's head, a gesture of solidarity with the creature I had saved. "Then Vincent's death is on you," I countered, my words heavy with implication, my glare laden with a challenge, pushing the weight of the ethical dilemma squarely onto his shoulders.
Paul's reaction was a physical manifestation of capitulation, his hands thrown up in a gesture of defeat, his sigh a resonant symbol of his begrudging acceptance. "Fine. I'll find Vincent a safe home." His words, though reluctant, were a concession, a sign that despite his protests, the undercurrent of humanity that I knew resided in him had been stirred.
With a sense of relief washing over me now that Vincent's immediate future seemed less grim, I turned my attention to the next order of business. "Time for accident number two," I muttered under my breath, a mischievous smirk playing at the corners of my lips as I approached the boot of the car. The sense of illicit excitement was palpable, a guilty pleasure in unveiling the next chapter of my impromptu rescue mission.
"Beatrix, what are you...?" Paul's voice trailed off as he came to stand beside me, his sentence dissolving into the cool air as his gaze fell on the unexpected cargo. I could feel his exasperation without looking at him, the weight of his sigh speaking volumes.
"Well, I couldn't just leave them behind," I said, my voice a blend of defensiveness and justification as I gestured toward the hens. They continued their gentle rummaging through the hay, oblivious to the larger ethical debate they were unwittingly a part of.
"You're in Yunta, aren't you?" Paul's question cut through the air, his tone laced with a resigned familiarity, as if the pieces of an unseen puzzle were falling into place in his mind.
His question, more an assertion than an inquiry, warranted only one response. "Yes," I admitted.
"I thought so," Paul mused, his gaze lingering on the hens with a mixture of curiosity and resignation. "Were they on the side of the road?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, his eyes not leaving the feathered ensemble in the boot.
"Um... basically," I replied, the ambiguity of my answer a thin veil over the truth of their acquisition. It was probably best, I reasoned, that Paul remained unaware of the specifics surrounding the hens' sudden change in circumstances. The less he knew about the minutiae of their 'abduction,' the better. After all, the road to saving these creatures was paved with good intentions, even if it meant bending the rules just a tad in their favour.
Paul's actions were gentle and deliberate, as he reached into the boot and carefully extracted one of the hens. His calm demeanour was almost soothing. "I'm not surprised," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he placed the chook on the ground, watching it acclimate to its new surroundings. “There are always chickens running around that town when I pass through,” he said, his casual acceptance of the situation brought a small, nervous laugh from me. Well, I guess they were running around the town, I echoed in my thoughts.
"You still need the car to get to Broken Hill, don't you?" Paul's question snapped me back to the present, his hands now busy with a second hen. The bird's wings flapped in a brief, frantic ballet, sending feathers drifting into the air like dandelion seeds before it settled down, grounding itself in this new chapter of its existence.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice steady as I assisted Paul with the remaining chickens. Each bird seemed to carry its own story, a narrative abruptly intersected by my intervention. As we transferred them from their temporary haven in the boot to the open air, I felt a twinge of responsibility for their well-being.
The sound of the boot slamming shut resonated, a definitive end to this part of our journey. The hay, once a bed for the hens, now lay in darkness once again, its purpose momentarily fulfilled.
"Can you bring the car back once you've found Charlie?" Paul's question was practical, a reminder of the ongoing mission.
As I observed Paul's meticulous handling of the single brown feather, a simple byproduct of my current operation, my fascination with his actions bordered on amusement. The feather, innocuous yet symbolically laden with the day's events, became the centre of an unexpected spectacle as Paul, perhaps driven by curiosity or some unspoken ritual, brought it to his nose. The feather's unexpected journey toward being a makeshift nostril accessory turned comical as it nearly got inhaled, transforming Paul into a sneezing spectacle. His series of rapid sneezes disrupted the fragile peace, scattering the chickens and ruffling even Vincent's calm, each sneeze sending them into a flurry of motion and sound.
Amid the ensuing chaos, with chickens darting and Vincent vocalising his disapproval, a chuckle escaped me. The scene unfolding was like a slapstick comedy, an interlude of light-heartedness. "I'll bring the car back," I declared to Paul, a statement of responsibility amid the disarray, and with a smile, I slid into the driver's seat, the familiar space a welcome enclosure.
The act of closing the door felt like sealing myself off from the immediate dilemma, a momentary respite as I prepared to rejoin the broader, unpredictable journey ahead.
The engine's hum was a comforting constant as I navigated back onto the Barrier Highway, the road stretching out before me like a promise of continuity amidst change.
"Broken Hill, one hundred and ninety-nine," the road sign's bold letters declared, a beacon of direction in the vast, open landscape. My foot pressed against the accelerator, a physical affirmation of my commitment to the journey, while my fingers found the stereo’s volume control, an instinctual reach for the comfort of music. As the sounds of Taylor Swift filled the car, a sense of companionship enveloped me, the music a reminder of normality and personal space in a day that had been anything but typical.
