Song from the Void

"Mum always said I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Apparently dying fixed that. Along with giving me involuntary visions and a leg that vibrates like a mobile phone. Resurrection has some interesting side effects."

The sun's descent brought a cooler air to the desert evening, yet the warmth of the campfire and the camaraderie of the new settlers enveloped me.

The sky had shifted through colours I didn't have names for—oranges bleeding into purples, then deepening into something between navy and black. Not quite the twilight I knew from Tasmania, where the light would linger and soften, where you could watch Venus appear first, then the brighter stars, like the universe was being patient with you.

Here, darkness came faster. More absolute. But the campfire pushed it back, creating a circle of light and warmth that felt almost sacred.

Engulfed in the bright, comforting glow of the flames and the symphony of laughter and chatter, I felt an unusual sense of peace.

Weird, I thought. Three days ago I was dead. Now I'm sitting by a campfire feeling... peaceful?

The human capacity for adaptation was something else. Or maybe I was just too tired to maintain proper levels of existential crisis.

Almost involuntarily, a tune began to form on my lips, carried effortlessly by the gentle breeze that caressed the camp.

I didn't decide to hum. The sound just... happened. Like my throat had developed a mind of its own, like the damaged tissue wanted to test itself, see what it could still do.

That's new.

As I started to hum, the soft melody floating in the air, I caught Jamie glancing at me.

His look was one of shock and profound silence.

What?

Seeing his reaction, a wave of shivers cascaded down my spine, a stark reminder of my ongoing struggle to regain my speech and the journey it entailed.

My throat had been cut open. Stitched back together by Glenda while I floated in the void. Speaking had been agony, each word like swallowing broken glass.

And now I was humming?

Yet, the melody persisted, weaving through the crackling of the fire and the evening whispers of the desert.

As I hummed, the tune felt both foreign and familiar, an elusive memory that I couldn't quite grasp.

Where do I know this from?

I racked my brain. Not the radio—Mum and I didn't listen to music much, just the news and sometimes ABC Radio. Not a film soundtrack. Not something I'd heard at the depot.

The melody didn't belong to any memory I could access. And yet my throat knew it. My damaged, supposedly-barely-functional throat was producing notes I'd never consciously learned.

Gradually, my humming morphed into singing, the words emerging almost instinctively:

"Let us celebrate our story,

The words we've yet to write."

What the hell?

My voice, unsure at first, gained strength with each note, filling the air with a resonance that seemed to blend with the natural rhythm of the night.

The words weren't mine. Couldn't be mine. I'd never written a song in my life—couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, according to Mum, who'd endured my enthusiastic but tuneless renditions of whatever was on the radio when I was a kid.

But this... this was different. This was good. Clear and strong and somehow right, despite coming from a throat that shouldn't be able to produce anything more complex than a croak.

Suddenly, Glenda stood up, her movement abrupt against the backdrop of the fireside gathering.

I halted mid-verse, my singing abruptly cut off, as I redirected my gaze to the fire, trying to dispel the creeping sense of unease that had settled within me.

Great. First I volunteer to build roads, now I'm spontaneously performing at the campfire like some sort of talent show contestant. Everyone probably thinks I've lost it.

"Please, don't stop. You have a beautiful voice," Glenda encouraged, her voice rich with sincerity.

Her eyes, reflecting the dancing flames, sparkled with what seemed like a mix of surprise and admiration.

Beautiful voice?

I'd been called many things. Quiet. Reliable. Good with his hands. Never beautiful anything.

Without directly responding to Glenda's compliment, I found myself drawn back into the melody, my voice humming the tune once more.

The rhythm felt natural, as if it flowed directly from my soul.

Or from wherever souls go when they die, I thought. Maybe I picked this up in the void. Souvenirs from the afterlife.

Glenda, sensing the depth of the moment, quietly slipped away to her tent.

When she returned, she cradled her violin in her hands, and together, we began to weave a tapestry of music.

The violin's strings sang in harmony with my voice, creating a symphony that seemed to resonate with the very heartbeat of the campfire.

I'd never made music with anyone before. Never had the training, the talent, the confidence. But Glenda played as if she'd known this song her whole life, her bow gliding across strings to produce notes that wrapped around my voice like they'd been waiting for each other.

Like constellations, I thought. Points of light that look random until you draw the lines between them, and suddenly there's a shape, a story.

Karen, intrigued by our impromptu performance, questioned Glenda.

"You know this song?"

Glenda's response came without a break in her playing.

"Not until now," she said, her focus unbroken, her eyes never leaving me.

Her statement was a testament to the spontaneity and magic of the moment.

Not until now.

So she was improvising. Following a melody she'd never heard, played by a singer who'd never sung it. Making music out of nothing, out of thin air and firelight and whatever strange thing was happening to me.

I pondered over the melody and the words that seemed to flow effortlessly from me.

Was this an unknown song to all? Had it somehow sprung from my own subconscious?

The lyrics circled in my mind, a haunting refrain that echoed the sentiments of our shared experience:

"Let us celebrate our story,

The words we've yet to write.

How we all wound up with glory,

In the world we fought to right."

Glory? I nearly choked on the word. There was nothing glorious about my situation. Nothing glorious about being murdered by Portal Pirates and waking up in another dimension owned by a mysterious voice that claimed me as property.

But the song didn't seem to care about accuracy. The song had its own agenda.

The melody was as unfamiliar to me as the words, yet they felt right, as if they were meant to be sung here, under the evening sky, by the warmth of the fire.

In the midst of my reverie, I felt a gentle pressure on my knee.

Looking down, I saw Jamie's hand resting there.

His touch was brief, almost hesitant, as if he, too, was navigating the unfamiliar terrain of our relationship. His hand quickly recoiled, then returned, a physical manifestation of his inner conflict.

He doesn't know how to do this either, I realised. He's as lost as I am.

Nineteen years of absence couldn't be bridged by a hand on a knee. But it was something. A start. An attempt at connection that neither of us quite knew how to complete.

Jamie's eyes met mine, narrowed with a mix of suspicion and perhaps curiosity.

It made me wonder what was going through his mind.

Was he contemplating the lyrics, the melody, or the newfound connection between us?

His gaze was inscrutable, yet it spoke volumes of the uncharted journey we were both on, a journey of understanding and acceptance.

Or maybe he's wondering why his supposedly-mute son is suddenly singing songs that don't exist.

Fair question. I was wondering the same thing.

In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the shared music, I felt a deep sense of connection—not just with Jamie, but with the entire group.

The song, whether mine or serendipitously ours, had become a symbol of our collective narrative, a narrative still being written under the vast desert sky.

"To Joel!" Luke's exuberant shout, accompanied by the uplifting gesture of his glass, abruptly snapped me out of my introspection.

The toast, spirited and heartfelt, rippled through the group like a wave.

"To Joel!" the collective response rang out, their voices melding together in a chorus that seemed to carry far into the quiet desert night.

To Joel.

I didn't know what to do with that. Back home, no one toasted me. No one raised glasses in my honour. I was just Joel—the delivery driver, the quiet kid, the one who folded origami cranes and looked at stars and kept his head down.

I glanced around at the faces illuminated by the flickering campfire, each reflecting a blend of joy and camaraderie.

They were oblivious to the internal turmoil and the peculiar discovery that seemed to preoccupy Jamie. Despite his attempts to mask it, his eyes still held that narrow, suspicious gaze, as if he was piecing together a puzzle only he could see.

He knows something's wrong, I thought. Or at least something's different. Something's not right about any of this.

I felt the strange vibration in my leg cease abruptly, a sensation that had been my silent companion for hours.

I had kept this odd feeling to myself, uncertain of its significance or its cause.

This vibration, which had neither caused pain nor apparent harm, left me feeling different, altered in a way that transcended the physical injuries or the psychological trauma from the attack in the delivery truck.

There was something more, a change I couldn't fully articulate or understand.

Like an engine running at a frequency you can't quite hear, I thought. Like something inside me has been switched on, and I don't know what it does or how to turn it off.

As the group's laughter and chatter resumed, Glenda's violin continued to weave its enchanting melody.

The sound was rich and resonant, filling the air with an almost tangible sense of calm and beauty.

However, the serenity of the moment was short-lived for me.

The vibrating sensation in my leg returned, subtly at first, then growing more pronounced.

Oh no.

It felt almost as if it were a form of communication, a message I couldn't decipher.

Morse code from the universe. SOS from my own nervous system. Something.

This mysterious sensation, persistent and insistent, seemed to be at odds with the peaceful setting around me.

As I attempted to divert my attention away from the disconcerting sensation, I concentrated on the soothing music and the comforting warmth of the fire.

Focus on the violin. Focus on the flames. Focus on anything except the bizarre tingling in your leg that definitely wasn't there before you died.

Despite my efforts, the vibration in my leg grew more intense and persistent, escalating to a level that bordered on pain.

For the first time since it had started, this mysterious vibration was causing genuine discomfort.

I found myself speculating—could this be connected to the enigmatic song I had been humming, or was it something else entirely?

The voice, I thought suddenly. The voice that claimed me. Is this... is this it trying to communicate?

The thought sent ice through my veins despite the fire's warmth.

Jamie, ever observant, noticed the change in my demeanour.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

I quickly waved him off, not wanting to become the centre of attention or cause any alarm among the group.

Fine. I'm fine. Just having a mild existential crisis about the supernatural vibrations in my leg. Completely normal. Nothing to see here.

Glenda too picked up on my discomfort, and her violin's melody slowed, eventually coming to a stop.

She looked at me with evident worry.

"Joel, are you sure you're alright?" Her voice was soft and soothing, a stark contrast to the chaos I was feeling inside.

I nodded in response, trying to muster a reassuring smile, but the vibration was too overwhelming to ignore.

It felt as if it was radiating throughout my entire body, a force beyond my control.

Like standing too close to a subwoofer at a concert. Except the concert is inside me. And the music is something that doesn't exist.

Then, without warning, a blinding bright light engulfed me, momentarily robbing me of my sight.

When my vision cleared, the scene around me had transformed completely.

The campfire, the settlers, the familiar surroundings of our makeshift community—all had vanished.

In their place was an endless expanse of white, an ethereal, otherworldly space where strange symbols and shapes floated in the air.

Oh shit. Not again.

This was like the void. Like the place I'd been when I was dead—except this was different. Brighter. Fuller. Not empty darkness but overwhelming light.

Panic gripped me as I tried to call out, desperate for any response, but my voice seemed to have disappeared into the void.

No. No, no, no.

The only sound was the eerie hum of the floating symbols, their vibrations echoing in my mind, resonating with the now-intense sensation in my leg.

The symbols meant nothing to me. They weren't letters—not English, not any alphabet I recognised. More like mathematical equations crossed with constellation maps crossed with something that hurt to look at directly.

Standing alone in this surreal landscape, I felt a mix of fear, confusion, and awe.

The reality I knew had been replaced by this inexplicable realm, leaving me grappling with questions that seemed as unanswerable as the symbols that surrounded me.

What was this place? How had I come to be here?

And, most importantly, how could I return to the world I knew?

The world I knew. As if Clivilius was normal now. As if sitting around a campfire in another dimension was just another day.

The hum of the symbols, incessant and cryptic, seemed to hold answers that were just beyond my grasp.

Like origami instructions in a language you don't speak, I thought desperately. You can see the folds, but you can't understand why they work.

A wave of panic surged through me, its intensity magnified by the sheer alienness of this vast, unfamiliar expanse.

I was utterly alone, isolated in a realm that defied comprehension.

The once subtle vibration in my leg had escalated into an almost unbearable thrum, resonating through my entire being.

My whole body is becoming a tuning fork. A tuning fork for what?

I attempted to move, to escape this bewildering situation, but my body felt as if it were encased in lead, heavy and unresponsive.

Around me, the symbols and shapes swirled in a dizzying dance, growing larger, more vivid, their edges blurring and merging.

It was as though they were consuming me, drawing me into their cryptic vortex.

This is how I die again, I thought. Absorbed by incomprehensible symbols in a place that doesn't exist. Mum's going to be so confused at the funeral.

Amidst this sensory overload, a voice emerged—faint, distant, yet imbued with a familiarity that tugged at the edges of my consciousness.

It was like a whisper, a gentle murmur in my mind, breaking through the cacophony of the symbols.

Joel, the voice called out, and I strained to focus on it, desperate for a connection to something, anything familiar.

That voice. I knew it. The same voice from the void. The same voice that had claimed ownership of me when I'd died.

Joel, listen to me.

I concentrated on the voice, letting it anchor me in the midst of the chaotic storm of symbols.

Its presence, like a beacon in the fog, started to dull the intense vibration in my leg. A wave of calm began to spread through me, a soothing balm to the frenzy that had gripped my mind.

Focus on the voice. Follow the voice. What choice do you have?

As the voice grew clearer, stronger, its words resonated within me, echoing in the depths of my soul.

You are not alone, Joel, it said. You are becoming part of something greater, something beyond these worlds. Embrace it.

Embrace it.

Easy for a disembodied voice to say. It wasn't the one whose leg was vibrating, whose reality was dissolving, whose entire existence had been upended by death and resurrection and songs that came from nowhere.

The words were cryptic, their meaning elusive, yet they sparked a flicker of hope within me.

They suggested a purpose, a belonging to something far beyond my understanding.

Something greater. Something beyond these worlds.

What did that even mean? I was a courier driver from Glenorchy. The only thing I'd ever belonged to was the after-school astronomy club, and that had disbanded when I was sixteen.

Though I didn't fully grasp the voice's message, it offered a lifeline, a possibility that there was a way to navigate this surreal realm.

As the enigmatic voice continued to guide me, the swirling symbols and shapes that had engulfed my senses began to dissipate.

Slowly, as if being drawn back from a distant dream, my awareness started to return.

My eyes were greeted by a dazzling display of colours, a vibrant, pulsating kaleidoscope that seemed to dance before me.

Like the Portal, I thought. Like the swirling colours I saw before I fell through.

The energy of these colours was unlike anything I had ever experienced, moving through me in waves, leaving a trail of indescribable sensations.

Gradually, the vivid colours began to fade, their intensity dimming, allowing the familiar contours of my surroundings to come back into focus.

And then, just as suddenly as I had been whisked away, I found myself back at the campfire, amidst the settlers.

The melody of the violin had ceased, leaving a silence that seemed to hang in the air.

Glenda and Jamie were right beside me, their expressions etched with deep concern.

How long was I gone?

Had they noticed? Had I fallen over? Had I been screaming, twitching, speaking in tongues? Or had I just... sat there, blank-eyed and vacant, while my consciousness went on a field trip to another dimension?

"Are you okay?" Glenda's voice was gentle, her hand lightly touching my shoulder, grounding me in the reality of the moment.

I turned to her, my mind still swirling from the surreal experience, and managed a nod.

"I think so," I whispered, my voice a faint echo of its usual self. "I think the day has just worn me out."

Biggest understatement of my life. Or lives. However many of those I have now.

Glenda gave a nod of understanding, her expression softening slightly, but the worry still lingered in her eyes.

Jamie, who had risen to his feet, opened his mouth to speak, concern evident in his posture.

Anticipating his words, I voiced them myself, trying to ease his worry.

"I'm going to turn in for the night," I told them, my voice gaining a bit more strength.

Gently, I eased myself to my feet, signalling to Jamie to retake his seat.

Don't fuss. Please don't fuss. I can't explain what just happened because I don't understand it myself, and if you ask questions I'm going to have to lie, and I'm really bad at lying.

As I stood there, feeling the residual warmth from the fire and the concerned gazes of Glenda and Jamie, I couldn't help but feel a sense of disorientation.

The experience I had just gone through was unlike anything I could have imagined—a journey to an unknown realm and back.

While the physical sensation of the campfire was familiar and comforting, there was a new awareness within me, a sense of having touched something profound and inexplicable.

You are becoming part of something greater.

The voice's words echoed in my memory. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn't over.

I turned away from the fire, my steps slow and deliberate as I moved towards my tent.

Each step felt like a journey in itself, a transition from the extraordinary back to the ordinary.

Yet, the echoes of that otherworldly experience lingered, a reminder that what I had experienced was real, at least to me.

One day at a time, I told myself. One step at a time. One incomprehensible supernatural experience at a time.

Mum's voice echoed in my memory: One bite at a time, Joel. That's how you eat an elephant.

I wasn't sure what kind of elephant I was dealing with now. But I knew it was bigger than anything I'd ever imagined.

And somehow, impossibly, I was going to have to figure out how to eat it.