Whistling In The Dark
As part of a challenge set in a writing group I participate in, this is a bonus post outside of my usual schedule. We had to write with an assigned theme and a set word limit.
35 years later and I can still feel the weight of that moment. This close to the equator, there is no twilight, no blurred boarder between day and night. The sun sank toward the brink of earth, distant hills stark against the flaming sky which breathed its last burning gasps before sinking into slumber. Soon the darkness would overtake us. But we had miles to go.
Spinifex stabbed my ankles as I kept pace. A hidden path weaved through the ancient landscape, trod by generations of Kangaroo on their daily march to water. Now it was our hope and highway; a beacon to follow to safety. But soon it would slip from sight. What then? What hidden horrors might slide in on the shadows? I’d been raised in this land, it was my home, but rather than fill me with a settled peace, I could not claim ignorance. Every danger, every risk, had been clearly labeled and reinforced since birth; now a liturgy of fear in my mind. We wouldn’t reach the camp before dark. The dread of walking this path grew long, reaching me with growing certainty even as the shadows inched ever closer.
Crimson and purple faded to nondescript hues with a resigned swirl toward black; these plains had watched this dance since the dawn of time. My eyes flicked between the heavy print of his footsteps and a small tear in his faded shirt where the leathered skin peered through. His broad shoulders now a darkened bulk against the last moments of the day. His even breath seemed out of place here, loud, as Creation held its own—a still moment in time as the axis of the earth spun us into darkness.
And then it came. Day became night. Light became dark. Hope became terror. Logic became fantasy.
I imagined my mother, waiting for us. I imagined my sister, settling down to rest. I imagined a fire burning beside the small creek where we had made camp, amber light casting a probing comfort to anyone who sat near its warmth. I recalled my mother’s hand on my head as Dad and I walked out that morning. We had hunted till midday, then turned for home. But the tracks looked different, the landscape somehow altered, and now it was night. I was eight and afraid.
But I was with him, and he was whistling in the dark.
