Clumping and Seeping

"Turns out you can't build a civilisation on enthusiasm alone—sometimes you actually need to know what you're doing."

As Jamie swung the pickaxe with determined force into the ground, the sharp edge sliced through the layer of dust with ease before striking the hard surface beneath with a resounding crack. The sound echoed in the open space, bouncing off the emptiness and returning to us lonely and diminished. He poised himself for another swing, muscles tensed and ready, the pickaxe raised above his shoulder like a conductor preparing to bring down the opening note of some brutal symphony.

"Wait!" I couldn't help but cry out, an instinctive reaction to what I perceived as a potentially misguided effort.

Jamie paused mid-motion, the pickaxe frozen in air, and turned his gaze towards me, a mixture of confusion and expectancy in his eyes.

"What?" He asked, his voice laced with both curiosity and a hint of frustration.

"That crust is really firm," I observed aloud, my tone cautious.

The realisation that the hardened ground beneath the thin veil of dust might actually be an asset rather than a hindrance was a new and unexpected development. I had been thinking of it as an obstacle — something to be conquered, broken through, defeated. But watching Jamie's pickaxe bounce off that unyielding surface, a different thought had begun to form.

"Maybe we should just leave it and only move the few inches of dust? I reckon the concrete will set better on that solid ground," I suggested, the idea forming more clearly as I spoke.

It was a gamble, relying on my limited knowledge of construction — which amounted to approximately nothing beyond the vague understanding that buildings needed to stand on something solid. But it felt like a sound hypothesis. At the very least, it made more sense than Jamie exhausting himself trying to hack through what appeared to be the geological equivalent of stubbornness.

Jamie considered my suggestion for a moment, his expression contemplative. I watched the calculation happen behind his eyes — weighing effort against outcome, stubbornness against practicality. The pickaxe lowered slowly, his shoulders relaxing by degrees.

Then, with a nod, he conceded.

"That's actually not a bad idea."

The approval in his voice was unexpected but welcome.

I breathed a sigh of relief, a weight lifting off my shoulders that I hadn't fully realised I'd been carrying.

Finally. I thought. A small but significant victory.

We were starting to get along. To truly collaborate on this daunting task rather than circling each other like wary animals forced to share territory. The early tension that had hovered between us — thick and uncomfortable as smoke in a closed room — was beginning to dissipate, replaced by a burgeoning sense of teamwork and mutual respect.

It wasn't friendship. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But it was something. And in a place where we had almost nothing, something felt like wealth.

"I'll go get us some water for the concrete mix," I announced, eager to contribute further and maintain the momentum of our newfound cooperation.

"Sure," Jamie replied. He set aside the pickaxe and picked up the shovel, adapting to the new plan without hesitation.

Collecting the large plastic bucket, I set off toward the river. The anticipation of the task ahead mixed with a slight apprehension about my ability to carry it out. My foot throbbed its familiar protest with each step — a metronome of pain keeping time with my progress, reminding me with every beat that I was operating at diminished capacity in a world that demanded everything I had and more.

The journey, though familiar now after yesterday's discoveries, felt different this time. Imbued with purpose. Weighted with responsibility. We were actually building something. Not just talking about it, not just planning it, not just staring at pictures of sheds we didn't know how to construct — but doing it. Taking action. Moving forward.

The thought should have filled me with pride. Instead, it filled me with a quiet terror that I was desperately trying to ignore. What if we failed? What if the concrete was wrong, the foundations unstable, the sheds nothing more than elaborate monuments to our incompetence? What if I was leading Jamie — leading myself — into nothing more than an elaborate exercise in futility?

As I knelt down on the bank, the coolness of the earth seeped through the fabric of my pants, grounding me in the moment. A small mercy, that coolness. The temperature felt good against skin that had been baking under Clivilius's relentless sun — a sun that seemed somehow both familiar and foreign, offering light without the comfort of home.

I lowered the bucket into the clear, inviting water, watching with a childlike fascination as the water resisted entry, swirling around the rim in a playful dance before conceding, allowing the bucket to fill. There was something almost musical about it — the way the water moved, the soft sounds it made, the rhythm of fill and release. My fingers found the handle and I lifted, feeling the weight settle into my arms like a sleeping child.

The simple act of collecting water. So mundane. So vital. Back in Broken Hill, I turned a tap and water appeared — clean, treated, reliable. Here, every drop required effort, planning, physical labour that left my muscles burning and my pride bruised. The precarious balance of our existence revealed itself in these small moments. The distance between survival and disaster measured in buckets carried from river to campsite, in steps taken without falling, in tasks completed without catastrophic failure.

The bucket was heavier than I'd anticipated — water has a deceptive density that only becomes apparent when you're carrying it uphill with a burned foot and declining energy reserves. Each step required attention. Each movement a small negotiation between determination and pain.

Then, without warning, a sharp pain shot up my leg, as if lightning had struck from the earth itself, causing my knee to buckle.

"Shit!" I cried out, the expletive torn from me as I landed heavily in the dust, a cloud of fine particles rising around me like a mocking spectre. For a moment I just lay there, breathing hard, frustration knotting my brow as I watched the precious water spill from the bucket in a silver cascade.

The parched ground absorbed it with obscene greed. Gone. Just like that. All that effort, all those careful steps, all that weight carried — absorbed by dirt that didn't even have the decency to look grateful. The dust around me darkened briefly where the water had fallen, then began to pale again almost immediately, the moisture disappearing into some thirsty depth I couldn't see.

Lying there for a moment, frustration knotted my brow as I watched the the precious water spill from the bucket, greedily absorbed by the parched ground beneath.

I thought of Mack, how he would sometimes trip whilst running and lie on the ground for a moment, processing the indignity of gravity's betrayal. He would look up at me with those serious eyes — Claire's eyes — deciding whether the situation warranted tears or laughter. I understood that moment now in a way I never had before. The choice between crying and laughing when the universe had just reminded you of your own absurd fragility.

I chose neither. I chose to get up.

With a half-full bucket as my reluctant companion, I trudged back to the river, each step full of the determination that had taken root within me. That stubborn refusal to let this place beat me. That bloody-minded insistence on forward motion that seemed to be the only thing keeping me upright. The quick refill was a silent act of defiance against the setbacks that seemed all too eager to test us.

On the walk back to the shed site, I paced myself, mindful of the lessons learned from my previous fall. Slower. More careful. Less proud. The realisation that this was just the first of several trips to the river cast a shadow of pragmatism over my initial enthusiasm. I couldn't afford to be careless. The success of our endeavour depended on the accumulation of small victories, each bucket of water a building block in the foundation we were striving to lay.

And small victories, I was learning, were in desperately short supply.

Arriving back at the site with the full bucket of water, I set it down with a deliberate care, mindful of not repeating my earlier mishap. The muscles in my arms burned with a dull ache that promised worse to come tomorrow. I turned my attention to the concrete mix bag, studying the instructions printed on its back with a concentration borne out of necessity.

It doesn't look too difficult, I thought, a flicker of optimism breaking through the daunting prospect of what we were about to undertake. Mix powder with water. Stir until consistent. Pour into prepared area. Allow to set. Four steps. How hard could four steps be?

Famous last words, perhaps. But I clung to them anyway.

With a measure of confidence that was probably unearned, I tipped half the contents of the first bag into the wheelbarrow, the dry powder forming a small mountain in the centre. Grey and promising, it sat there waiting to be transformed into something solid and permanent. Something that would last. Something that would prove we could do more than just survive — that we could build.

"I'll pour, you stir," Jamie instructed, his voice pulling me back from my contemplation.

He walked over to join me, a determined stride in his step that I hadn't noticed before. The lagoon's effect still lingered in his demeanour — that strange calm he'd brought back from the water's edge. He seemed more present somehow. More willing to engage rather than retreat into the bristling defensiveness I'd come to expect.

"You finished clearing the dust already?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

Jamie's efficiency was a welcome contrast to the slow, painstaking process I had envisioned. Perhaps he had hidden depths of practical competence after all. Perhaps we weren't as doomed as I'd feared.

"Yeah, I think it's as good as it's gonna get," he replied, a hint of resignation in his tone that suggested he had come to terms with the imperfections of our workspace.

I casually glanced over at Jamie's handiwork, my eyes quickly finding the small, visible lumps that smattered the site. Bumps and ridges where the ground should have been flat. Patches where dust had merely been redistributed rather than removed.

Oh no.

I thought to myself, a sinking feeling in my stomach as I contemplated the potential impact of those blemishes on the stability of our foundations. Fifteen years of running a business had taught me to spot quality control issues. This was definitely a quality control issue.

I opened my mouth to point out the concerns, the words teetering on the edge of my tongue, ready to tumble out in what would probably have sounded like criticism. The businessman in me wanted to demand better. The perfectionist who had built a retail operation from scratch wanted to insist we start again, do it properly, get it right.

But then I thought better of it.

At least Jamie tried.

And honestly, assessing my own skills, or lack thereof, I admitted silently that I probably couldn't do a better job. My expertise was in spreadsheets and negotiations, not ground preparation. Glass houses and stones, as they say.

"Great," I said instead, picking up the stirring stick with a feigned enthusiasm that masked my internal reservations. We would work with what we had. What choice did we have?

The mixing began. Jamie poured water in careful increments whilst I stirred, the dry powder gradually transforming into something wet and heavy and reluctantly cooperative. My arms ached almost immediately. My back complained. My foot maintained its steady drumbeat of pain. But we were doing it. We were actually making concrete. The grey mass in the wheelbarrow was beginning to look like something that might, with sufficient optimism and squinting, pass for a building material.

After making quick work of the first ten kilograms of concrete mix, I walked back to the Drop Zone for the second bag. The return journey offered me a moment of reflection, a chance to weigh the pros and cons of our methods.

The wheelbarrow, which I had initially thought would ease our burden, became a source of frustration as it repeatedly got stuck in the uneven ground. The cement mix, heavy and unyielding, seemed to mock my efforts with each step. The wheels dug into the soft earth like a stubborn child refusing to walk, requiring constant coaxing and adjustment and muttered profanity.

The cement mix is heavy, but the number of times that wheelbarrow got stuck…

I mused, wrestling the thing free from yet another dust trap.

Carrying is definitely less of a hassle!

I finally decided, a conclusion reached through the trial and error that seemed to characterise much of our endeavour. Sometimes the obvious solution wasn't the right one. Sometimes you had to do things the hard way because the easy way didn't actually work.

I hoisted the second bag onto my shoulder and walked back. Slower, but steadier. Less elegant, but more effective. My foot throbbed. My shoulder ached. But I was moving forward, and forward was the only direction that mattered.

"Stop!"

Jamie's voice cut through the air sharply, halting my movements just as I was about to tear into the new bag of concrete mix. His tone was urgent, a clear indication that something was amiss.

"This isn't looking right," he added, a note of concern threading through his words.

"Really?" I queried, my brows furrowing in confusion.

From my perspective, everything seemed to be proceeding according to plan, or at least, as close to 'plan' as we could manage given our circumstances.

"It looks fine to me."

Jamie shook his head, his expression one of unmistakable dissatisfaction.

"Nah. It shouldn't be clumping like that. And see how it is seeping into the surrounding dirt," he said, his finger pointing towards the far corner of our makeshift worksite.

I followed his gesture, and there it was — the concrete bleeding out beyond its intended boundaries, soaking into the earth like water into a sponge. And those clumps... lumps of dry powder that had somehow escaped mixing, sitting in the wet cement like raisins in a poorly made pudding. The more I looked, the more problems I saw. It was like one of those optical illusions — once you spotted the hidden image, you couldn't unsee it.

"Hmm," I mused, taking a closer look at the areas Jamie highlighted. The evidence was hard to ignore, and a small part of me knew he was right even before my pride allowed me to admit it. "You might be right."

Jamie gave a small shrug, a gesture that seemed to carry a mix of resignation and frustration. It was clear he was as invested in the success of this project as I was, yet equally aware of our limitations. The lagoon's calm was beginning to crack around the edges. Whatever peace he'd found in those waters was being eroded by the reality of our situation, wave by disappointing wave.

"We could probably fix it," I said, my voice laced with a forced optimism. Despite the growing evidence to the contrary, I clung to the hope that there was still a way to salvage our efforts. There had to be. We couldn't have wasted all that cement, all that water carried from the river, all those steps that had left my foot screaming and my arms burning.

"I dunno," Jamie replied, his scepticism mirroring my internal doubts. "Maybe we should ask Luke to bring us a short how-to guide for laying concrete for a small shed?"

His suggestion was practical, a concession to the fact that we were out of our depth. A how-to guide. Instructions written by someone who actually knew what they were doing. The kind of resource that would have been obvious to request before we started, if either of us had possessed the humility to admit our ignorance upfront.

I took a moment to survey the mess that lay before us. The uneven, partially mixed concrete that now marred the landscape was a testament to our inexperience. We had transformed perfectly good building materials into what looked like a geological accident — neither solid ground nor proper foundation, just a lumpy grey embarrassment slowly merging with the dust.

"You're probably right," I conceded with a soft sigh, my smile strained as I attempted to mask the depth of my disappointment. This task, which I had so naively assumed would be more straightforward, had quickly devolved into a glaring symbol of our inadequacy.

And we couldn't even get that right! What hope did we really have?

I had convinced myself that determination would be enough. That willpower and good intentions could substitute for actual knowledge. That the same drive that had built a business from nothing in Broken Hill could build a civilisation from nothing in Clivilius. I had been wrong. Spectacularly, humiliatingly wrong.

We need someone with better handyman skills.

I concluded silently, the thought a bitter pill to swallow. The realisation that our survival and success depended not just on our willingness to work hard but on acquiring the necessary skills and knowledge was a sobering one. We couldn't will our way to competence. We couldn't motivate ourselves into knowing things we didn't know. We were like pianists trying to play a symphony written for instruments we'd never seen.

"Well..."

Jamie stood there, hands planted firmly on his hips, his eyes scanning our surroundings with a mixture of frustration and resignation. It was clear he was at a loss, grappling with the reality of our situation and the dwindling options before us.

My stomach chose that moment to betray my own growing concerns, emitting a loud, unmistakable gurgle that echoed awkwardly between us. The sound seemed to hang in the air, a biological commentary on our situation that was both embarrassing and impossible to ignore. I rubbed it tenderly, a futile gesture aimed at quelling both the hunger and the rising anxiety within.

"I'd suggest we eat. But even that is a little challenging at the moment," I managed to say, the irony of our predicament not lost on me.

Jamie's reaction was immediate and visceral.

"Fuck it!" He exclaimed, his voice tinged with a blend of resignation and desperation. With that, he turned on his heel and started walking briskly towards the Drop Zone, leaving me to digest the sudden shift in his demeanour.

And there we go. I sighed silently, a sense of resignation settling over me like the dust that coated everything in this place. Jamie's calm has come to an end.

It had been nice whilst it lasted. That brief window of cooperation, of shared purpose, of something approaching partnership. The lagoon's magic had its limits, apparently. Reality had a way of eroding even the most profound peace.

"Where are you going?" I called out, curious despite the obvious tension in his stride. His pace was aggressive, purposeful — the walk of someone who had reached the end of their patience and was moving before they did something they'd regret.

"To the Drop Zone," he shouted back without breaking his pace, the distance between us growing with each step.

"What for?" I asked, my curiosity piqued as I hurried to catch up, my sore foot protesting with every rushed step.

"To look for food," Jamie replied, his voice firm.

"But I just came from there and—" I began, my voice trailing off as I realised the futility in trying to change Jamie’s mind.