Brook

The weather was relentless. The small group, part of the University Ramblers, had decided to stay put in the village Pub to avoid the worst of it. They had been stuck inside together for two days. They tried to amuse themselves with card games and books but it was tense between them. Everyone needed some space. 

Mid afternoon there was sun, pale and subdued but still sun of a sorts. Outside seemed a far better place to be, even if only for a short time. The Pub owner had told her about this pleasing place, not far out of the village. Provisions can be got along the way and they could have a small adventure.

She marshals them together. Two enthusiastic, one begrudging and the others indifferent. No one had to come, but no one has anything better to suggest either. Part of the day spent walking is better than nothing at all.

‘Let’s find that nice spot by the brook,’ she suggests, ‘such a typical thing to do, have a picnic don’t you think?’ 

One more check on the weather and they set off. They agree they will take turns in carrying the backpack of essentials. They bring with them a rug, some cutlery, plates and enough mugs for all. Not much, a few little luxuries.

It is not long before they string out along the road. The enthusiasts take the lead. She is in the middle of the group, cheering on the reluctant ones. He looks at his feet, kicks the odd stone and positions himself at the rear.

They bunch together again at the village shop and confer on what supplies they need. The shopkeeper fixes them up with fresh scones, homemade strawberry jam and ginger wine. 

Her sense of direction is still wacky; the sun is always in the wrong place. She checks her directions against the local information map outside the store, kicking herself that she needs to. He shoulders the pack, without any urging, and they all set off again. He is last.

They each drop back to walk with him from time to time, offer to take the burden from him. He has none of it and makes it clear that they should leave him alone. 

At the signpost they take the path off the main road. They follow the trail alongside a ploughed field fenced by hedges. It is an open space to the others, a confined one to her. A small wooden gate, latched with wire, momentarily halts their progress. They figure out how to open it and continue on. He is well behind them when they walk through it. They leave the gate for him to close.

‘It’s fine, don’t wait for me.’ He says, looking up to see if they hear him. None do. He is grateful for that because the venom with which he spat that out is not something he is proud of. On the other side of the gate he puts the pack down, draws a deep breath and looks up. He can no longer ignore the sickness in him.

He has been away from home for too long. 

He catches up with them just as they reached the picnic spot. She knows he is deep in thought as he bends down and lays the pack next to her feet. 

He reaches for her hand as he straightens up, turns her towards him and stares into her eyes. His gaze holds her firm, speaks to her as much as his next words do.

‘Pretty brook.' He says to her. ‘It has soft green grassed edges, it is lined by oaks and elms - as promised, very pretty. Notice anything else?’

‘There are no platypus holes.’ She replies.

The others pull the rug from the pack and begin laying out their bought treasures. She looks hard at him and nods, a small tear forms in the corner of one of her eyes.

‘Let’s paint a different picture.’ He whispers as he lets go of her hand and heads towards the others.

They all sit down, their feast is before them waiting to be consumed. He is patient, a stillness has overtaken him. He waits. When the chatter and eating ease, in a quiet moment, he asks her to tell them a story. The others still want to concentrate on their food but they are curious. They look at her, all of them silent now, giving her permission to amuse them. 

He closes his eyes and prepares for her voice to travel through him. She is, after all, the next storyteller.

Her story is of a creek running across red-grey soil under a dependable sun. Dry and feathered native grasses populate the banks. Platypus holes and shallow rock pools beg for exploration and respect. Old ghost gums beckon with their hard won shade. Gathered wood burns, crackles. Fresh fish smokes over an open fire, screeching cockatoos wheel overhead and make clouds in the cloudless sky. Their cousins are there, watched over by the elders who sent them both away.

On the other side of the world, beside a creek determinedly making its way, a woman hears a story being told.

She hears her granddaughter, sees her grandson. As she reaches out for them she smells strawberry jam and green grass.