Hammerhead

by Peter Nicholson

  The country below was crippled by drought, once you got beyond the glittering necklace of swimming pools stretching to the limits of suburbia. But they were soon left behind, and then you had a chance to see the splendour of the Australian continent. Dust had its own colour spectrum, so much of it was blowing below, settling a pale fur over everything.

  Water was the favour in direst need, and when it returned it did so in floods and cyclones, never consistently. Then the land was awash with the corpses of drowned cattle and, sometimes, drowned people who tried to cross bulking streams in a foolish underestimation of water depth and current strength. From a distance the flooded plains looked beautiful, but if you were down amongst it, clearing your house of mud was no joke as you pulled yet another ruined piece of furniture into the sunlight to dry or hosed the walls down, promising yourself you’d move for sure next year.

  But there was nothing now, except what was below ground, artesian lakes of water surfacing in odd places.

  There was no way such a large piece of rock could be lifted into its proper resting place without a helicopter to haul it there. Getting it down when it was first taken was one thing, though I don’t know how they managed to. Getting it back up meant exploiting the latest technologies.

  The original excavation markings were still there, hardly touched by the intervening years. The seasons had passed, the comings and goings of a generation, the peaceful lives and the suffering lives, the squalid, the fulfilled.

  Now, in a violent bluster, the rock was lifted, then lowered beside, and into, cliffs of patient time.

  A flock of galahs raced through the sky. Here it was Eden. I felt blessed.

  The engineers kept a respectable distance, recognising a spiritual moment was at hand. But it was something they, and I, could only partly share in and understand.

  And when we cleared away our equipment, and the dust settled, we stood in awe before the restored cliff face.

  I got back into Nora’s car.

  Charles was oddly calm when I told him all was as it should be.

  ‘No, David. All will never be as it should be. It will be as it could be, when we try to do our duty.’

  He sounded solemn, like bronze. Like Ozymandias.

  I told Charles I would be back in Munich soon and that I was looking forward to seeing him again.

  I flew out of Darwin, a traveller over antique lands.

  I felt I had accomplished much.

  As my plane crossed continents I dwelt on possibilities. A great deal of life was miserable for many. I had to stay positive for their sake, for my sake, for all our sakes.

  Trailing my carbon footprint were glimmering ideals, and I thought that would be enough, if I could manage to harness energy and intent.

  I would try.

  But when I returned to Munich Thérèse and Nicholas were waiting for me at the top of Hohentor.

  Both were silent.

  Then Nicholas came forward and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  He let three words fall like an axe in wood.

  ‘Charles is dead.’

  I stared ahead.

  He didn’t want to go on any longer without Roy. There were papers for me on his desk. Sleeping tablets had eased the journey onward.

  Why? Why must it be? I don’t want it to be so. I want the circle completed.

  The pity of it. The mystery and the pity of it.

  ‘Charles … , ’ I half spoke.

  For a moment the world seemed very still.

  I felt broken and nothing was believable.

  I read the end of the note that had been left for me.

  The arrow of my certainty landed in some strange and beckoning dwelling place.

  ‘This will seem unreasonable, but I am not explaining. A great deal of life cannot be explained. And should not be explained. Perhaps, one day, a long time into the future, you will understand. You are prepared, and young. Since my more experienced friends cannot, for various reasons, take over from me, I am leaving you in charge of The Hammer. Take advice. Listen to Enid and Nicholas. They have wisdom. Try to find out what happened to Anton. He may still be alive. Be strong, stronger than I have been able to be, and remember what we are trying to achieve.’

  My unprepared shoulders …

  Again, the too-sudden ending.

  I dropped the letter onto the desk, the terrible responsibility given opening a gigantic portal before my brow, an imaginary, admonitory fist rising through the sky beyond.

  Destiny folded in on me—all that was unknown, unfathomable—my unwillingness, my inheritance, my love. I felt my head was splintering into a thousand fragments, ten thousand fragments.

  I could not withdraw from the world. I had to be part of it. I wanted to be part of it.

  Nicholas and Thérèse came to me.

  Thérèse looked at me expectantly. Nicholas looked at me with doubt, and hope.

  I went out onto the balcony and raised my head to the threatening horizon.