Dust and Distant Smoke

"Took me about a year to learn to walk the first time. Second time around, I had maybe twenty minutes and a hill that wanted me dead."

"Let's get you back to camp. I'll carry you," Jamie said, his voice steady and resolute.

Camp.

At the mention of 'camp,' a twinge of uncertainty flickered within me.

Camp?

There was that word again, one that seemed so out of place with my expectations of going home.

I had said home. Jamie had said okay. And now he was talking about camp.

Camp wasn't home. Camp was temporary. Camp was tents and campfires and sleeping bags—like the equipment Luke had been ordering. Those tent boxes, enough for a fifty people.

I fought against the wave of sadness that threatened to engulf the brief moment of joy I had just experienced.

"Okay," I replied softly, my voice barely audible.

What else could I say? I couldn't argue. Couldn't demand explanations. Could barely form single syllables.

The word 'camp' lingered in my mind, a stark contrast to the images of home that I longed for—a place of comfort, familiarity, and safety.

Instead, this 'camp' seemed like a foreign concept, a destination shrouded in mystery and uncertainty.

Maybe camp was a waystation. Maybe we would go there first and then proceed to home. Maybe there was a process, a route, a necessary step before I could return to my mother and my life.

I clung to that hope because the alternative—that home was truly unreachable—was too terrible to contemplate.

Jamie bent down and gently scooped me up in his arms, grunting softly under the weight.

The position felt strange—cradled like a child, my head against his chest, my legs dangling. I hadn't been carried like this since I was small enough not to remember. Adults didn't get carried. Adults walked.

But I wasn't an adult anymore, was I? I was something else. Something that had died and come back. Something that couldn't stand on its own.

I instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck, leaning into his chest.

The motion was automatic—the body's ancient memory of being held, of finding security in a parent's arms. My grip was weak, barely enough to maintain position, but it was something.

I felt surprisingly light, almost diminished.

The realisation troubled me. I had never been a big person—slender build, nothing remarkable—but I had always been present. Had always occupied space in a normal, human way.

Now I felt insubstantial. Hollow.

The thought crossed my mind: Has death left me with any muscle at all?

The notion was both scary and surreal.

If I had died—truly died—what had happened to the blood in my body? To the nutrients in my cells? Had Clivilius rebuilt me from scratch, and if so, from what materials? Was I even made of the same stuff I had been before?

As Jamie trudged through the thick dust that blanketed the barren ground, I could sense the effort it took him to carry me, even with his apparent strength.

His breathing grew heavier. His steps became more deliberate. Sweat dampened his shirt where my head rested against his shoulder.

The landscape around us was... wrong.

Not wrong in an obvious way—no floating rocks or purple sky or anything actively impossible. Just wrong. Empty in a way Tasmania never was. Dry in a way that made the Midlands seem lush by comparison.

No trees. No grass. Just dust and rock and distant hills that shimmered in the heat.

He eventually set me down at the top of a small hill, needing a moment's respite.

I half-sat, half-lay against the slope, trying to support myself with arms that trembled from the effort. Jamie stood beside me, hands on his knees, catching his breath.

"See that smoke?" Jamie pointed towards a distant wisp rising into the sky. "That's where we're going. That's home."

I followed his gesture, squinting against the brightness.

The smoke was thin, barely visible—a grey thread spiralling up from some point beyond the next rise. It could have been a campfire. Could have been a cooking fire. Could have been anything, really.

Home?

The sight was nothing like what I had envisioned.

Where were the familiar buildings, the trees, the roads?

Where was Hobart? Where was the Derwent? Where were the hills I had grown up with, the streets I had walked, the landmarks that told me where I was in the world?

All I could see was dust and desolation.

Shit! That doesn't look much like home.

The disappointment was crushing. Whatever hope I had been clinging to—that camp was just a waystation, that home was still reachable—began to crumble.

This wasn't home.

This wasn't anywhere.

This was somewhere else entirely.

Jamie crouched again, ready to lift me, but something within me stirred.

"Stand," I croaked, surprising even myself with this sudden burst of determination.

I couldn't be carried forever. Couldn't be helpless indefinitely. If I was going to survive in this place—wherever it was—I needed to reclaim my body. Needed to walk on my own two feet.

Jamie's gaze held a mix of concern and disbelief as he looked at me.

"You want to stand?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

"Yes," I whispered back, mustering all the resolve I could.

My voice was faint, but my determination was as solid as steel.

I had walked before. I had walked for almost nineteen years. My legs knew how to do this. My spine knew how to hold me upright. I just needed to remind them.

"I'm not sure you're ready yet," Jamie said hesitantly, his eyes briefly drifting away from me to scan the horizon, as if searching for answers in the distance.

He was probably right. I probably wasn't ready. I had died—or nearly died—and had only regained consciousness a short time ago. Standing seemed optimistic at best.

But I needed to try.

"Okay," he finally relented, his tone reflecting a mixture of resignation and support.

Gently, he placed his arm behind me, providing the support I needed as I attempted to stand.

The process was agonising.

First, getting my legs under me—remembering how knees bent, how feet positioned, how weight distributed. Then the actual standing—pushing upward, fighting gravity, convincing a body that had forgotten verticality to remember.

My legs wobbled beneath me, unsteady and weak, but I was upright.

Upright.

The word felt like a victory. Like a declaration of independence from whatever force had tried to claim me.

A surge of enthusiasm pulsed through me with each tentative step I took.

One foot forward. Shift weight. Other foot forward. Repeat.

The motion was jerky, mechanical—nothing like the fluid walking I had taken for granted my entire life. But it was walking.

Each movement was laboured, my body awkward and uncoordinated, but it was progress nonetheless.

My heart swelled with a glimmer of hope—I was walking again!

My confidence and strength slowly grew, though I heavily relied on Jamie's steady support.

His arm around my waist was the only thing keeping me upright. His shoulder under my arm was carrying half my weight. But with each step, I felt my muscles remember a little more. Felt the connections strengthen.

We began to make our way down the small but steep hill.

The descent was treacherous in ways I hadn't anticipated. The slope that had seemed gentle enough from above revealed itself as something far more challenging when navigated on newborn legs.

The ground beneath me was soft, the dust giving way beneath my feet.

Each step sank slightly, the loose soil offering no solid purchase. It was like walking on sand, but finer—more treacherous.

Suddenly, my foot slipped, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

The slip was small—just a few centimetres of unexpected slide. But to a body as precarious as mine, it was catastrophic.

Jamie's grip on my arm tightened as he tried to steady me, but it was too late.

My body, still weak and drained of energy, succumbed to the fall.

There was a moment of weightlessness—that terrible instant when you know you're falling but can't stop it. When gravity has you and won't let go.

We tumbled down the hill together, rolling and kicking up plumes of ochre dust in our wake.

The world became a confusion of sky and ground and dust. I felt impacts—shoulder against rock, hip against slope, head against something that should have hurt more than it did. The fall seemed to last forever and no time at all.

At the bottom of the hill, my body lay in a twisted heap.

The position was wrong—limbs at angles they shouldn't have been, spine curved in a way that should have been painful. I stared at the sky, waiting for the agony to register.

Strangely, I felt no pain.

I lay there, processing the fall, the lack of physical sensation bewildering.

Is this a good thing? I wondered, trying to make sense of my body's numb response.

No pain could mean no damage. Or it could mean my nerves were too damaged to transmit pain signals. It could be a blessing or a curse, and I had no way of knowing which.

As I lay disoriented at the bottom of the hill, Jamie's voice pierced through my foggy consciousness.

"Joel!" he cried out, his tone laced with worry as he scrambled towards me. "Are you okay?"

The concern in his voice was raw, almost desperate. The voice of a father watching his child fall, unable to prevent it, terrified of what the impact might have done.

"Sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible as I looked up at him, feeling a sense of guilt for the trouble I was causing.

The apology was automatic—the instinct of a child who has inconvenienced an adult. But it felt inadequate. I had wanted to walk, had insisted on standing when I wasn't ready, and now we were both at the bottom of a hill covered in dust.

"It's not your fault," Jamie responded firmly, his stern tone implying more than just reassurance. "This place isn't exactly friendly."

This place?

The words echoed in my mind.

I'm really not home, am I?

The question wasn't really a question. It was an acknowledgement. A recognition of what I had been avoiding since the moment I woke up in the lagoon.

The reality of my situation was becoming increasingly evident, and it was far from the comfort and familiarity I had once known.

I wasn't in Tasmania. Wasn't on Earth, maybe. Was somewhere called Clivilius, claimed by a voice that spoke inside my skull.

Home was a word that had lost its meaning.

"Can you stand?" Jamie's voice brought me back to the present.

He was inspecting me for injuries, his expression a mix of concern and practicality. His hands ran down my limbs, checking for breaks, for bleeding, for any sign that the fall had caused damage.

"I think so," I replied, my voice raspy and uncertain.

It was a bold assumption given the circumstances.

But if I'm not feeling any pain, it's worth a try, I reasoned.

With Jamie's help, I managed to get back to my feet.

The standing was easier this time—my body had apparently learned something from the first attempt, even if that something was measured in millimetres of improvement.

We supported each other as best we could, hobbling along in a slow, tedious progression.

Father and son, clinging to each other in an alien world.

The focus required to place one unsteady foot in front of the other was immense.

Each step was an exercise in determination and resilience.

There was no room for distraction. No capacity for anything except the next step, and the step after that, and the step after that.

Despite the uncertainty and discomfort, there was a sense of camaraderie in our mutual struggle.

Jamie's presence, his support, both physical and emotional, gave me a sense of not being alone in this bizarre and challenging journey.

As we made our way forward, step by painstaking step, I clung to the hope that each movement brought me closer to understanding this strange new world.