Don't think that I skipped up hills or twirled skirts around the limbs of flirty trees, as though I were a young girl flitting in a film, for the bauera and cutting grass were lacking in chivalry and there were no eager men laying checked, woollen jackets across the writhing rapids of the tea-stained Franklin River; there are photographs, yes, our long dresses and our hair, but how we bunched these dragging tresses together on sweaty climbs, on the sleet-filled days of trudging blind through buttongrass mud, the mud that claimed our boots and dragged our legs to early graves; and how we covered our faces with low-cut beanies and scarves that ran after the wind - who knew where the beards lay buried? There I was, with the chimes of currajongs calling, the day full and open and the sky a great, wide basin in which I washed my mind clear: can you see how the unctuous walls of this room have sublimed and my monotone bed has been consumed by a long, sloping rock and my pack is pillowing my head? The rock is still warm from the sun and my body is soaking up the light and heat, and over there Keith is laughing, he is speaking of the hut we will build in this secluded vale, a hut with walls for holding the bush steady rather than for casting it out, a hut we will construct from the stones that are gathered and meeting among the king billy pines, as though kindly bequeathed by the old glaciers who had no further need of them. Our hands, cut and grazed, chalky and raw with scratches as we nailed those stones together and hammered the corrugated iron with our fists, the shelter sprouting and growing and blooming from the native lawn below the trees; and no matter where else we walked and climbed, bashing up the scrub-dense slopes of peaks erupting with boulders, the relief of scree fields where perhaps I did hop and leap at times across the meadows of jutting ledges, but no more than any of the men or even the wallabies and possums and ravens - no matter what tracks we followed or made, we would return to that hut filled with happy evenings eating and drinking by the rough fire, playing cards and roaring; and yet over there now on the side table sits a photograph of Keith, his laugh now silent and staged. I am growing weary of this laugh, a joke long since discarded, and the walls have closed in once more like the night and the nurse is here asking if I am all right, would I like the channel changed, am I quite comfortable in these flabby sheets and would I like my water filled? I make wary, evasive replies, for I am drinking from the unnamed stream that giggles down the hill and I am focusing on the screen that is wider than his shiny square repeating foolish stories, and now Mrs. Wardman, says the nurse, you've got a visitor coming, and he smiles at me and I am returned to this room and this bed and there is the stiff, persistent pain in my legs and my back that follows me around, no matter where I hide in this soft cage, and who is this visitor? I ask as the door opens and the inhabitants of this room change; there is a figure who is not clear, a pair of trousers and a shirt with a face and body somewhere buried in the clothes, meaning little or nothing. We haven't walked together, have we? I ask, peering into the gulf, attempting to locate his eyes and his nose and his ears, I'm sure we haven't walked together. He lopes cheerfully around to the edge of the bed and sits. Would you like to? he asks, I can take you out for a walk if you'd like to go, and as he speaks his face becomes familiar and convincing, as though every word is colouring his forehead, his cheeks and his mouth, and I feel he can be trusted so I consider his offer, and a walk, I say, that sounds pretty bloody good. So where were you thinking? I continue, expecting a short wander in the small and greening gardens that remain outside the doors of this room, where perhaps there are live smells and clouds, and look, he says, I reckon we should have a crack at Federation Peak. Do you reckon you're still up for it? I turn my grey, thinning face to this young man, this Tony who has stepped into my room and and has offered to take me outside. Federation? I reply, sounding out the syllables like footsteps, well, it has been a long time. Yeah, he says as he puts his hand on my shoulder, but look, he goes on, I've never been, I don't know the way, you'll have to show me. Do you reckon you can remember the route? And I think hard about this, the long drive south and the approach from Farmhouse Creek and then suddenly the pain in my back is the ache of a heavy pack bearing down for days and the fire in my legs is the throbbing wail of bones as they slump at the campsite in the spent light, and the tent is alert and watching as we cook across the flames, and Keith is snorting at my face as I sip the rough grog he is handing round the circle, and ahead and above the peak is stabbing, shattering the sky, a fang leaping from the range, and I think of the fear I felt as we climbed that leaping mountain, escorted by the stories of those who had plunged below, the young man who had helped his father down with careful instructions, then stepping back for a better, relaxed vantage...and then the relief and the triumph of the summit as we leaned against the inner ring of rocks and stared at each other's grinning faces just as much as we gazed at the view of ranges and valleys, as though we were all, people and peaks, part of the same company and landscape, and yes, I say to Tony, I reckon we could do it, I think I can still remember the way. He nods and smiles, and good, he says, I'm glad. We can probably visit the old hut on the way, what do you think? And this seemed an excellent idea, though I had the strange notion that the hut was elsewhere, perhaps somewhere nearby, and that it would be a strange detour, but if Tony was sure that we could, it would be nice to sit within its cool, dark walls. When would you like to head out? Tony asks me. This afternoon? I can probably be ready this afternoon. And I give it careful thought and try to remember the forecast from the evening before and I consider the packing and the food and what will need to be organised with the chickens and the kids and it seems wiser to put it off and so tomorrow? I suggest. I think we'd be better heading out tomorrow. And you know, I continue, my eyes glistening gratefully, I think this'll probably be my last trip. But Tony, you know there's no-one I'd rather be doing it with than you. And he looks across at the photo of Keith on the bedside table, and Keith is laughing and laughing and I am not sure if this makes me angry or happy or sad. And as we sit there together the screen above me is blank and the walls are silent, letting us have a few minutes alone, and we may have chatted or drifted in and out, and then there is a knock at the door and Tony rises and all right, time to go, he says, have to head off now. I nod shakily, and yes, I say, I'm looking forward to tomorrow. Absolutely, he replies as he leans over and kisses my cheek, I'll definitely see you tomorrow.
Ben Walter is a Tasmanian writer whose stories have appeared in Overland, Island, Griffith Review and The Lifted Brow. His debut poetry manuscript, Lurching, was shortlisted in the 2013 Tasmanian Literary Prizes.