Artwork by Anika Bartholomeusz

She trudged around the familiar paddocks with a dogged determination, as if she could outpace the thoughts that were hungering to swallow her whole. The sun was coming to life in glorious hues of honey over the hills, but she paid it no attention. Beside her, hanging a bit back, as if he too sensed her sullen mood and didn’t wish to disturb it, trotted her old childhood friend, Rusty. At nearly fourteen years old his limbs ached with age, yet he never missed the opportunity to accompany his dear friend on the rare occasion she came home. Though she was physically here walking a path they had done together countless times, her mind was still somewhere back in the city, discarded by the miles she had travelled to come here.

Her parents, to their credit, had been much too indulgent of her when she’d arrived late last night. They’d answered the door with the routine hesitance all country kin did with unexpected visitors so late. When they took in the dishevelled husk of their rarely seen daughter a range of emotions passed over their faces. Surprise, confusion, worry was hurriedly plastered over by the stoic mask of calmness that reared her. They weren’t warm people by nature, so when her mum had opened her arms to envelope her in a hug it was painfully awkward. Yet she fell into it with relief all the same.

They never got a chance to ask her about it. I don’t want to talk about it were her first words, directed mostly at her father, eyeing him from behind her mother’s stilted hug. He stood passively in the cramped hallway, studying the situation as though he was watching Rusty act up with the sheep- gauging whether he’d need to step in or not. She couldn’t decipher which way he was leaning, and it was a solid beat before he said the words, Alright then. Her mother followed; she always did, extricating herself from the embrace, suddenly self-conscious. I’ll get the spare bed ready.

But not talking about it and not thinking about it were two different things. All night she’d squirmed around in the too small bed, checking and rechecking her phone. Thinking about a different bed she’d been in just that morning- larger, newer too, and yet just as nightmarish in its own ways. At least here she could lay the fault on the old and wilting mattress, as sleep cast her from its embrace. And so, she’d risen early and set out walking, trying to stamp out the ache swelling in her chest.

She hadn’t fallen madly in love with the first boy who’d showered her in attention after leaving home- she wasn’t that cliché. There had been many awkward dates and failed starts before she met him. He was a whirlwind. Warmth flowed from him; the sun itself had seared his name upon the earth. He gifted his love liberally, and she simply couldn’t snatch enough of it. That first summer they shared had yawned before her, bursting wide with thoughtful dates, with conversation that cradled and tested her; poetic praise that tanned her skin with a soft, golden glow. Before she knew it, they were moving in together- despite her dad’s cautious objections.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment things changed. It was a gradual shift, from the comforting coolness of winter into the oppressive heat of summer. What was once a waterfall of love, withered to a trickle. She became a beggar holding out a tongue for lone drops, parched and cracked like the dam back home come the summer sun. When it dried up each year there was nowhere to swim anymore, and she’d spend the long days hiding in the shade of the farmhouse. It was always her last respite, and the one she still clung to now. 

Her father would curse at the shimmering heat in the sky, as if his bellows could avert the will of the Gods. He had never been a man of quiet patience. He had never listened when she tried to show him how water could still be found- if one only fell to their knees and dug in the deepest clay. He had never loved the dam enough to dig deeper. It was just another instrument to be worked on the farm, like Rusty with the sheep. 

Without realising it her boots sloshed into the damp sludge surrounding the dam. She glanced up, surprised. She’d made it to her favourite spot quicker than expected. Her eyes wandered over the landscape in front of her as her body softened at the welcome sight. Her phone pinged rapidly with incoming apologies, but she ignored them, focusing instead on the view. It was nearing the end of autumn and the harshness wrought by summer drought was beginning to be cleansed with rain.

She remembered, vividly, the joy each year after the first heavy rainfall graced the land. Heading outside with Rusty, they’d race across the hilly paddocks, zipping with wild abandon in the autumn breeze. The smell of fresh rain was invigorating. And that first dive into the cold, raw water after months of stifling heat was euphoric.

She loved the rainy season; it had always seemed so soft and gentle against the cruelty of summer. The dam, always waiting, for her to slip into its cool embrace. Beneath the silty water everything was still. She couldn’t hear her father’s yells or Rusty’s barks, only the gentle pricks of rain kissing the surface. She would try to count them out as she held her breath. The higher the number, the easier it became to forget you weren’t anyplace else.

One year, the rain didn’t stop. The dam swelled and swelled until it couldn’t hold any longer. She held the body of a drowned lamb that day.

And yet, she never stopped coming back to enjoy the sweet, crisp waters, just like today as she and Rusty wandered in.