My Year Without Matches

by Claire Dunn

  *

  “So, should we welcome in the four directions, or give thanks to Mother Earth first?” Nikki says impatiently, poised with a pen over the blank piece of paper titled “Ceremony” in her hand.

  We shift uncomfortably. While we all agreed with Kate’s suggestion of a welcome ceremony to the property we’ve nicknamed “The Block”, we are resisting it with every ounce of our habitual individualism.

  “Ceremony needs singing. Maybe we can use that river flowing song?” suggests Chloe. Shaun groans.

  “How about ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’?” says Ryan, catching Shaun’s eye.

  None of us are aligned with a particular religion, and none of us can claim to be indigenous to this land, (although Dan is part Aboriginal down the line). Do we look to our Celtic ancestry? Ryan’s German and Viking heritage? What songs and dances are ours? What is our relationship with this land? We don’t want to culturally appropriate what is not ours, but we do want to claim some kind of innate connection to the earth. We don’t want to invoke gods we don’t worship, but we also don’t want to end up with a lowest common denominator scenario because we are so scared of acknowledging anything larger than our own egos.

  In the end we cobble together the barest bones of a politically correct, culturally non-specific ritual. Luckily, none of us are diehard scientific reductionists, and we loosely share a belief in some kind of overarching consciousness or life force, which can withstand use of the word “Creator”.

  There is a jitter amongst us as we gather at dusk around the newly raked ceremonial ground, a stone-ringed fireplace in the centre set with a perfect teepee of kindling. Kate and Sam turn up looking harried and under-slept. It’s the first we’ve seen of them in more than a week. We spit on creek rocks, rub them together and stripe one another’s faces with red, white and tan ochres. Together we lay our hands on the dried grasstree flower stalk that is our hand-drill and ask silently to be blessed with the gift of fire tonight. Chloe begins, spinning the firestick slowly between her palms, grinding it down on a timber board until dust starts spreading into the notch. “Last one,” she whispers, as Ryan takes over. We continue around the circle, keeping the stalk spinning continuously, one person starting from the top as another finishes. Within minutes a large coal rolls out of the notch. Nikki transfers it to the tinder, a nest woven with dry grasses, leaves and lichen. Her breath slowly tickles it into flame. The fire hungrily roars to life, maintaining shape long after ignition. We stand in silent contemplation of this bush magic, this lively extrovert that was a mere whiff of smoke minutes before.

  Kate waits until the flames subside before raking out coals into an abalone shell, smothering them with green gum leaves so that plumes of scented smoke erupt. She signals us to approach. I close my eyes to the swoosh of the hawk wing Kate uses to guide the smoke over me.

  “We acknowledge the traditional owners of the land, the Gumbaynggirr people,” she says. “May we learn to tread lightly on their homeland and may the ancestors bless our way.”

  It’s our cue to welcome the other VIPs, which is the part we had argued most about. Chloe begins, turning to each cardinal direction, struggling to find words of welcome appropriate for the southern hemisphere. We clunk through the steps like a car without oil.

  “You’ve gotta thank Mother Earth now,” Nikki elbows Ryan into the centre as we stifle a giggle. Shaun’s greeting on behalf of us to the Creator sounds more like he is thanking the bloke down the street after borrowing his drill bit. I feel a pang of longing for elders, sensing the empty places that they should occupy around the fire. It’s almost nostalgia, as if I’m missing people I once knew. Whoever they are, I wish they were here.

  It’s time to step up and state our intentions for the year, with the hope that the all-star cast we invited to our party will grant us the staying power we’ll need to uphold them. We shift in closer until our shoulders are almost touching. The fire leaps and licks as if in anticipation. When my turn comes to enter the circle, I’m surprised to find my throat thick with emotion.

  “I come here as nature’s apprentice,” I begin, with a gravelly voice. “To honour the old ways, and learn how to live in harmony with the land.” I reach forward and place the black cockatoo feather I brought with me onto the flames. I pause and take a deep breath. “Ancestors and allies, please help me find what I came here for. Allow the earth to shape me into a tool for the healing of all beings.” I sense there’s more to say but my mind is blank. Inching back, I watch as the feather catches, crackles and shrinks, dissolving into smoke.

  Rather than “I intend to be the best survivalist,” or “Grant me a mean spear-throwing form,” the intentions we share are remarkably similar.

  “I come here seeking self-knowledge, seeking wisdom …”

  “Let me be open to receive whatever it is I need to learn …”

  “Help teach me the ways of the forest so I can come back into relationship with the Earth …”

  “May I let go of my ego and discover the truth within …”

  The last intention falls like a leaf from a branch. We rest in its descent, breathing together, eyes on the flames. It’s the first silence we’ve shared. The land huddles in closer too, as if listening, the night sky a shawl slung loosely around our shoulders. I imagine our intentions spiralling up with the smoke, then falling like ash onto soft mossy beds or pockets of leaf litter, between buttresses of tree roots and in crevices of peeling bark. Finding fertile ground and taking root.

  Perhaps what unites us here together this year is greater than what separates us. Time will tell. I send a wordless thank you to my tribe.

  Formalities over, we relax around the fire, glowing in the aftermath of group bonding. After a few minutes, Dan jumps up and starts singing a medley of eighties songs. Initially annoyed at this seemingly ill-fitting end to our night, I give in to the irresistible charms of yodelling “Eternal Flame” around our ceremonial fire. Soon we are up doing our best Peter Garrett impersonations, belting out “Beds are Burning” (Ryan’s a bit lost on that one). We dance ourselves into ecstasy, competing for the best daggy move as we churn through Eurythmics, Bananarama, David Bowie. So this is the song and dance we have inherited. Our passion for them is far more authentic than for any solemn earth hymn we could have forced out. We boogie into the night under the sickle of the new moon.

  5.

  My immunity to the heat is fast waning, along with my enthusiasm for roofing the lean-to. “Simple”, “shelter” and “waterproof” just don’t belong in the same sentence. There ain’t no such combination, not in caveman land. If there was, we’d still be living under thatched roofs. I develop a new theory: it was actually the need for corrugated iron that fuelled the industrial age. It’s good to have walls and a breakfast bar, but breakfast isn’t much fun with rain pouring in. And pouring in it has been, despite the second layer of paperbark Shaun helped me collect.

  The honeymoon really is over. My arms, legs and face are red from scratches, bites and sunburn. Last night I walked straight into a giant spiderweb, taking the bulbous leggy creature for a ride in my hair. Twice yesterday I thought I heard my name being called, and even answered, but there was no-one there. Despite our ceremony, the group is splintering into cliques. I saw Ryan and Nikki dancing under the full moon in the quarry the other night, while Dan and Chloe have started their own private coffee club in Dan’s kitchen, which he has decked out like some kind of inner-city cafe. Is that all he wants out of this year – to swap the furniture? This whole coupling-off thing is really getting to me. I came here to be alone by choice, not as the social outcast. While I can’t bear to think of the year being frittered away on mindless chitchat and lighter-fuelled fires, I don’t want to be the uptight camp warden either.

  Chloe and I had an awkward chat the other day about our vibe. I told her I was feeling a bit sidelined. She said she was feeling judged, which I s
uppose is true. We hugged and promised to check in more often, but the next day the caginess was back. We are both simultaneously pushing and pulling each other, too scared to say what’s really going on.

  There was a sign pinned up at the US tracker school that said, only partly tongue-in-cheek, “No Snivelling”. Well, today I am nothing but a big sniveller.

  The jumping ants are on the offensive. I fashion a makeshift canvas dike around me, hoping it’s enough to keep them at bay while I finish lunch. One of the many splinters in my palm has become inflamed and I pick at it, sucking in quick breaths through my teeth. “Fuck!” I yell, clutching my foot as a new pain is delivered to my big toe, courtesy of an oversized red ant. I brush the ant aside but it marches back, swaying like a boxer in the ring, pincers raised. It really fucking hurts, just like everything else here. Even the din of the cicadas is like a thousand jackhammers on my brain from dawn ’til dusk. I let out a little whimper.

  I thought I knew flies and mozzies until I met the fellas here. These aren’t the polite biteys who are inclined to take a little high tea at dusk, who wait patiently until you bring your limbs to rest, their dining sensibilities easily interrupted by the slightest movement. No, these are bourbon and beefsteak country lads, clinging on like rodeo riders, up for it any time of the day or night. Their assault is compounded by the fact that I have nowhere to hide, especially now they seem to have found a way inside my mozzie net. It’s actually the smallest raiders, the midges, that are the worst, proving that size doesn’t matter. I amend the Dalai Lama’s motto, “If you think you’re too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito,” to, “If you want to make a difference in the world, become a midge and swarm the AGMs of Earth-destroying companies.” It would shut them down in an instant. Midge strategy is simple and effective – descend in a tight swarm and create panic in the victim, weakening their defences, before going in for the kill.

  I lie back on my swag, toe throbbing. I dreamt last night that the beautiful beach sharehouse I left has been looted, all my precious possessions stripped, except for a green Buddha statue. I miss my mum, I miss my friends, I miss my mozzie-free bedroom. It’s only six weeks in. I don’t know if I can keep going for another month, let alone eleven. A single tear squeezes from the corner of one eye, drying before it has the chance to complete its run.

  *

  A shiny black BMW four-wheel drive pulls up outside the central kitchen. I bound towards it, waving wildly.

  “So good to see you!” I squeal, greeting my sister, Liv, with a spinning hug. She’s en route back to Sydney from her honeymoon in Byron Bay with her new hubby, Dwayne. While I had initially been unsure about their suggested visit, in the last few days I have been hanging out for it.

  The strong scent of Liv’s shampoo reminds me I probably don’t smell too good, and I pull back. Her shiny hair is tied up in a high ponytail that swings between her shoulder blades, and she tugs on the hem of her denim miniskirt as she looks around. Squinting despite dark wrap-around sunglasses, Dwayne extracts himself slowly from the air-conditioned car and turns a slow, shocked 360 degrees. I follow his gaze. Half-burnt branches from last night’s fire lie upturned on the gravel; flies swarm around something rotting near the water tank. I’m suddenly embarrassed, not sure I want them to see me here.

  “What’s that?” Dwayne yells back to my greeting, struggling to hear over the cicadas.

  Liv tries to mask her dismay with an upbeat, “Well, show us around, then.” It’s slow going, Liv stopping every five seconds with a loud “ouch” – twigs stuck in her thongs, flies biting her bare legs, or some other mystery bug that we can never find. It’s far too hot to light a fire for tea, and the tannin-coloured waterhole is not exactly enticing to a couple fresh from the blue waters of the Bay, so I’m not sure what to do with them but don’t want them to leave. Liv produces cold ginger beers from an esky, and we roll a log into the shade to sit on while we sip them.

  “So, you two, how does it feel to be heading back to normal life?” I ask.

  “I’m kind of looking forward to it, actually. It’s been such a big few months,” Liv says, squeezing Dwayne’s hand.

  “I’ll guess I’ll have to carry you over the threshold,” he laughs.

  It’s good to see Liv so happy. Growing up, she felt pressure to be like me, comparing her modest trophy collection to my overflowing collection of academic and tennis awards. Four years younger than me to the day, Liv is often mistaken for the older sister. With the successful corporate career in fashion, the hubby, and the mortgage on their Sydney beachside home, my little sister has really grown up.

  “So, are you having fun?” Liv asks, holding the beer to her forehead.

  I hide the threatening tears behind a big cold slurp. “Sure, yep … I mean, it’s hard – the heat and the flies – but that’s all part of it, I guess, isn’t it?”

  Liv eyes me carefully, as I snap twigs around my feet with my free hand. “Mum and Dad are asking how you’re going with your shelter.”

  “Well, you’ve seen my lean-to. You can just say I’m going great,” I say, remembering the last conversation I had with Dad before I left. He had taken it upon himself to pack my car, mumbling as he weighed up how best to persuade the mountain of stuff into my old station wagon. I tried handing him a bag, but he brushed me aside with a sweep of his hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  “You see, if I roll these blankets lengthwise, they’ll fill this dead space as well as stop the pans from rattling,” he explained with satisfaction.

  “Dad, I’m going to be building my own shelter in a few days. I think I can pack a car.”

  “Well, you never know, you might need my help on that one too.”

  “No, Dad, that’s the point. I want to do this on my own,” I said, a little too vehemently. “Besides, you always did tell me I could do anything I wanted in life,” I stirred, knowing that building my own shack of sticks and leaves was not exactly what Dad had in mind.

  I conceded to him this last opportunity to be indispensable. Although I hadn’t properly lived at home since I left at the age of eighteen, somehow this time it felt like I was truly leaving.

  “You know, Claire, I don’t pretend to understand why you’re leaving a perfectly good job to live in a humpy for a year,” he said, shoving the last bag in with a bit more force than necessary, as if annoyed the task was done.

  A wave of guilt washed over me. “It’s just a year,” I replied almost apologetically, the boot slamming shut.

  *

  “Well, we’d better get going, then,” Liv says, looking at her watch. My heart sinks.

  Dwayne gives me a hug, before pausing on the car step to take another sweeping glance around him. He looks at me with a mixture of confusion and empathy, turns to no-one in particular and says, “The Australian bush is a harsh environment.” I nod and look down, messing with the gravel underfoot. The kisses that Liv blows me from behind tinted windows are lost in their departing cloud of red dust.

  The tears that I’d been holding back stream down my face. That could have been me. On my way to a comfortable house with a comfortable job and a comfortable routine. Drinks with friends on Friday night, a Sunday night movie. I suddenly long to swap places with her, to cruise down the highway with my man, on a sealed road heading in a straight direction. Why have I chosen this track instead? It’s lawless out here: no signposts to tell me where the track leads, or whether in fact I’m lost, having taken a wrong turn somewhere way back.

  *

  In the late afternoon, I listlessly wander the trail near my shelter. I had tried to distract myself from self-pity by digging another hole for my loo and fiddling with the lean-to walls, but the hours dragged. Now, as the shadows stitch together into a dark blanket spreading over the land, I wish for those hours back. My fear of the dark spontaneously returns, the adrenalin floo
dgates opening, pumping tension into my limbs and sending my heart into quick steps. My thoughts stray again to what Liv might be doing. Probably sharing a homecoming chardonnay with Dwayne, condensation dripping onto her fingers as they toast the good life.

  I veer off the path and into the bush, with no care to direction. The bush begins to open out, the trees old and large. I slow a little, my hand resting on the trunks as I pass. And then I see it. The power tree. It has a girth twice as wide as any other nearby, the buttresses falling to the ground like draped white linen. My feet make small involuntary steps in its direction, magnetised not so much by its stature, but by the feeling that I know it already. As I approach, a dark stump at its base shifts and takes the shape of a curled black snake, its red belly just visible in the fading light. I gasp, and freeze. The snake stirs and slithers inside a hollow at the base of the tree, as if inviting me closer. I walk with silent footfalls until my forehead and palms press up against the cool trunk. I close my eyes and breathe. I can sense the snake inside, perhaps mere centimetres from my hands. My breath tightens, as if the snake is wrapping itself around my chest. I resist the urge to move, and concentrate instead on the pulsing in my palms, energy flowing down my arms and cascading through my body. I stay with the feeling, with the snake, breathing alongside it.

  What is it that I’m frightened of? Is it really the dark? Or is the darkness a reflection of the shadows that flicker at the edge of my awareness; the places I’m afraid to see?