The Fire Between Worlds

“Hope isn't always loud. Sometimes it’s a ladle in a pot, a flicker in the fire, a truth not yet spoken.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in rich hues of deep orange and smoky violet, our small group of settlers drew closer to the bonfire. The soft twilight bathed everything in a mellow glow, casting long shadows and gilding the edges of our makeshift world in golden light. The energy around camp pulsed with a quiet exuberance, a subtle shift from the tension of earlier. Something in the air felt changed—not merely lighter, but lifted. The arrival of our new camping gear, the shelter of caravans, and the hum of those portable power generators—small gifts from our Guardians—had done more than provide comfort. They had rekindled something vital in us: a feeling of progress, of hope.

The rich, mouth-watering aroma of chilli wafted from the pot suspended over the fire, the scent enveloping us in its warm embrace. The stew was thick and savoury—slow-cooked beef, hearty beans, and a tomato base steeped in earthy spices. Someone had managed to find bread, crusty and golden, its edges crackling as it was torn and passed around. The simple meal took on a significance far beyond its ingredients. It was a symbol of what we’d managed to hold onto in the face of all we had lost.

I found myself momentarily transported by the smells and sounds, reminded vividly of the countless nights Chris and I had spent under the stars in Tasmania’s remote wilderness. The familiar cadence of flame crackling, the soothing, repetitive rhythm of a ladle stirring stew, the bite of cold air tempered by firelight—it was all so achingly familiar. It didn’t take much imagination to conjure up those old memories: sleeping bags zipped up tight, the distant call of owls, the feeling of lying beneath a sky teeming with stars. And yet, the differences between then and now were stark. Back then, we’d always known we could return home. Here, in Clivilius, there was no going back.

Still, this evening felt different. It was more than nostalgia—it was continuity. A thread, however tenuous, connecting what we had been to what we were becoming.

Seated cross-legged near the fire’s edge, I let the heat seep into my bones. The flames flickered and leapt, their hypnotic dance mirrored in the occasional spark that broke free and spiralled skyward. Around me, conversations buzzed—snippets of humour, shared memories, idle speculations about what tomorrow might bring. The firelight illuminated faces worn with fatigue but softened now by laughter and the comfort of shared presence.

Despite everything, we were here. Together.

The stew was passed around in steaming bowls, and I cradled mine with both hands, letting the warmth soak through. Each mouthful was hearty and nourishing, and for a moment, there was silence as we all focused on the simple act of eating. I glanced at Chris, seated just a few feet away. His brow was relaxed, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He caught my gaze and raised his bowl in a silent toast. I returned the gesture with a soft smile of my own.

There was something in his eyes—contentment, yes, but also a quiet pride. He had worked hard today, helping Paul with the generators, hauling supplies, making things work. He didn’t say much about it, but I could see the satisfaction there, the small glow of purpose.

The fire crackled again, louder this time, punctuating the quiet murmur of our gathering. I let my gaze travel around the circle—each person lit in gold and shadow, hands cupped around bowls, eyes reflecting the flames. In this place, far from everything we’d once called home, we had managed to carve out something meaningful. Something that resembled not just survival, but life.

As the stories began to flow—Bixbus progress, misadventures from the camp, and a few increasingly embellished accounts of tales from Earth—I found myself laughing more freely than I had in days. The kind of laugh that welled up from the chest, catching you off guard with its raw honesty.

This, I realised, was why we endured. For these moments.

For the simple, unspoken unity of people gathering around a fire to share food, stories, and hope. For the comfort of knowing that, despite the vast unknown pressing in on all sides, we had each other. And that was no small thing.

Here, in the glow of the fire and the embrace of community, I felt the quiet reassurance of belonging settle deep into my chest. We weren’t just building shelters or planning crops and grand wildlife sanctuaries. We were building each other. Brick by brick, meal by meal, night by night.

And that, I thought as I leaned in closer to the warmth, might just be enough.

My gaze drifted across the loose clusters of settlers, lingering briefly on familiar faces illuminated by the flickering firelight. It wasn’t long before my attention settled on Grant and Sarah. They stood a little apart, engaged in what appeared to be animated conversation with Paul and Beatrix. Even from this distance, the contrast in body language was telling. Paul’s posture, normally relaxed, was taut with unease—his arms crossed too tightly, his stance too still. He looked like a man trying to contain a storm behind his ribs. That tension radiated from him, almost palpable, like the charged silence before a thunderclap.

Beatrix, on the other hand, seemed entirely at ease. Her gestures were fluid, her voice carrying on the breeze in light, lilting tones that reminded me of a honeybee circling insistently, never quite still. She flitted from topic to topic, seemingly unaware—or uncaring—of the rising discomfort in those around her. Whatever she was saying had the siblings listening intently, their eyes bright with curiosity, entirely unaware of the undertow beneath the surface.

I downed the last swallow of my drink, the amber liquid tracing a slow, warming trail down my throat. The bitterness lingered on my tongue, grounding me. A final brace before action.

Rising from my place by the fire, I dusted my hands against my trousers, the coarse weave of the fabric rough beneath my fingertips. I moved with deliberate purpose, weaving through the murmuring knots of conversation. The fire’s warmth gave way to a cooler stillness as I stepped beyond its circle of light, my protective instincts flaring with a silent urgency that quickened my pulse.

I was acutely aware of the fragile illusion Grant and Sarah were still wrapped in—like birds singing cheerfully inside a gilded cage, unaware that the bars were real and the door already locked behind them. They had stepped through the Portal believing it a passage to purpose, adventure perhaps, unaware that return was no longer within their grasp.

Each step I took drew me closer to that delicate truth, the weight of it pressing down on me like a slow, gathering storm. It wasn’t just about explaining the permanence of Clivilius. It was about shattering the illusion they still carried, and with it, a piece of themselves. I felt a hard knot settle in my chest.

As I approached, the conversation faltered slightly, a ripple of awareness spreading through the small group. Paul caught sight of me first, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly in what I read as a mix of relief and dread. Beatrix turned too, offering me a smile that was all polished charm, oblivious to the emotional currents swirling beneath the surface.

I nodded to them all, my expression neutral but resolute.

As I drew near, Beatrix's eager tones floated above the soft crackle of the fire, her voice clear and saccharine, wrapping around the conversation like silk thread pulling taut. Her words lingered mid-air, expectant and baited: “...you have?”

The moment felt delicately balanced, like the hush before a sudden gust of wind.

Sarah, catching sight of me from the corner of her eye, turned with a warm, if slightly distracted, smile. The firelight danced across her features, giving her a golden glow that made her look almost otherworldly—an ironic contrast, given where we were. “Oh, hey Karen!” she called, her tone buoyant, unworried.

“We're only here for a week or two,” she added breezily, gesturing in Beatrix’s direction with a flutter of her hand—an airy, almost flippant motion that held the naivety of someone who believed entirely in her own narrative. Her fingers cut a delicate arc through the air, as light as a butterfly’s wing.

Beside her, Beatrix’s eyes gleamed with the unmistakable gleam of someone scenting an opportunity. She leaned in slightly, the corners of her lips curving with interest as she struck: “And after that?”

There it was—the question. The one that hovered dangerously close to the truth. My stomach gave a small, involuntary twist.

I didn’t need to look directly at Paul to sense his distress. His entire presence radiated discomfort, his jaw tight, shoulders drawn inwards, as if trying to physically retreat from the direction of the conversation. He made a half-hearted attempt to pivot the topic, but Beatrix, ever the tenacious conversationalist, ploughed forward with polite insistence, her social antennae apparently deaf to nuance.

I caught Paul’s eye just in time to flash him a conspiratorial wink—quick and subtle, a signal that said, Don’t worry, I’ve got this.

Then, summoning the brightest smile I could muster, I stepped fully into the circle of firelight, letting my presence cut cleanly through the tension, like slipping a new thread into an unravelling weave. My heart thudded with the awareness of the emotional minefield I was about to tread—but my face remained composed, glowing with easy confidence. The curtain was rising, and I was ready to steer the scene.

“A simply lovely evening, isn't it?” I chimed in, letting the warmth in my voice pour forth like honey over toast. I caught Sarah’s gaze and held it, returning her smile with one of my own—open, affable, deliberately disarming. “I was just admiring those incredible twilight hues bathing the whole camp in that ethereal glow, like a painting come to life.”

As expected, Sarah responded instantly, her expression blooming with delight. Her eyes, those sharp conservationist’s eyes trained by years of fieldwork and reverence for the natural world, turned instinctively to the sky I’d drawn attention to.

“Oh! Oh yes, it's quite magical,” she breathed, her voice rising with the same wonder I'd once heard her use when observing a newborn joey. “The way those indigo highlights bleed into the oranges and reds, like a symphony of colours…”

For a moment, her words danced through the air, a beautiful distraction—until Grant's voice cut across the scene.

“Bonorong won't manage itself forever,” he said with a light chuckle, the sound bright and innocuous—yet it hit me like a sucker punch. My stomach lurched, the warmth draining from my face. That chuckle… it carried the weight of certainty, of misplaced confidence. They really had no inkling, not the faintest idea, that they were never going back. That Bonorong, their life and their sanctuary, had become part of a past no one here could return to.

I forced a neutral expression, nodding as if agreeing with some pleasant memory, even as the emotional undertow threatened to drag me down.

The tension—so delicate it might have shattered under the wrong word—dissipated almost imperceptibly, like the wisps of smoke rising lazily from the fire. Sarah, unaware of the emotional landmine her brother had just stepped on, filled the silence with a stream of eager chatter, detailing recent births and rescues at Bonorong. Her words flowed freely, each syllable brimming with love and pride, painting vivid portraits of wombats, quolls, and sugar gliders.

I listened, smiling and nodding, while casting a sidelong glance at Beatrix.

Her expression had changed. Gone was the predatory gleam of curiosity—replaced now by a flicker of something else. Confusion? Doubt? Her brows furrowed subtly, her lips pressing into a contemplative line. I could almost hear the whir of her mind spinning, like an old grandfather clock whose cogs had suddenly begun grinding against a misaligned gear. Grant’s casual remark had clearly hit a sour note against whatever symphony she'd been composing in her head.

Then, a hand—firm but gentle—settled on her arm.

Beatrix turned, startled, as Paul leaned in beside her. He said nothing, but the look he gave her was unmistakable: Let it go. For now.

Beatrix opened her mouth, indignation rising like steam, her features drawn in visible protest. She looked, for a brief second, like a child caught halfway to a tantrum, denied something shiny and just out of reach. But Paul’s gaze—quiet, unwavering—held her fast. No words passed between them, but something in his calm restraint must have registered.

With one last, lingering glance over her shoulder at Grant and Sarah, Beatrix allowed herself to be guided away, stepping reluctantly into the shifting penumbra at the edge of the firelight. Her departure felt like a pressure valve releasing, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

Once they'd moved out of easy earshot, the gentle crackle of the fire filled the void they left behind, its sound a soft hush against the low murmur of camp conversation. The flames danced merrily between us, casting flickering light and shadow across the faces gathered around it. I turned back to find Grant and Sarah watching me, their expressions alight with open amusement. The corners of their eyes crinkled, their laughter barely contained.

Sarah broke first. Her laugh—light, melodic, unfiltered—rang out like the peal of a bell through the night, a burst of unguarded joy that momentarily swept away the weight pressing on my chest.

“You're in fine form tonight, you old charmer,” she said with a grin, reaching out to give my arm an affectionate squeeze. Her fingers were warm and familiar, grounding. “Poor Beatrix wouldn't have had a chance if you and Paul hadn't intervened, like knights in shining armour.”

From across the fire, distant chuckles echoed—Chris’s low rumble and Kain’s unmistakable wheeze of amusement—drifting lazily on the night air like a balm. Their laughter, shared and unburdened, was a small moment of cohesion in a place that often felt perilously close to coming undone.

Grant shook his head, half-smiling, the light catching in the grey just beginning to streak his temples. His expression hovered between fond exasperation and curiosity. “Is she always that… persistent?” he asked, his voice dry, as though parched from long hours in the desert sun.

I didn’t answer straight away.

Instead, I found myself toying with the edge of my shawl, the fabric worn soft with use, its familiar weave a small comfort beneath my fingertips. I traced one of the looser threads, watching the firelight curl along its pattern as I gathered my thoughts behind a carefully neutral expression.

When I finally looked up, I met their gazes with a small, tight smile. It didn’t reach my eyes—couldn’t, not with the truth so close to the surface.

“You’ve no idea…” I said softly, my voice barely more than a breath. My eyes didn’t follow my words. I resisted the urge to glance back in the direction Paul had taken Beatrix, forcing myself to remain rooted in the moment, to shield them from the storm that lingered just over the horizon.

The cat, as they say, remained firmly in the bag—for now.

They stood there still wrapped in their illusion, unaware that their thread to Earth had already frayed beyond repair. Blissful in their ignorance, clinging unknowingly to a life that no longer awaited them. It was a fragile, flickering dream, a comforting blanket pulled tightly over the truth, shielding them from the chill that loomed just beyond reach.

And yet, despite my efforts, a gnawing thought burrowed deep within me.

How long before someone slipped?

Before a word was misplaced, or an expression too telling?

Before Paul faltered or someone less careful tugged too hard on the thread—and the whole illusion unravelled?

It was only a matter of time. Like watching a juggler with one ball too many… the inevitable drop always came.

But until that day—until the moment the ghost of exile fully materialised and stood before them, inescapable and cold—I would hold the silence a little longer.

Some truths, after all, were too cruel to speak before necessity demanded it.

Shaking off the morose reverie like a shawl too heavy for the warmth of the fire, I summoned a fresh smile, the kind born of habit rather than ease, and arched an inquisitive eyebrow in Sarah’s direction. My voice, light and teasing, matched the bright crackle of the flames before us.

“Now then… where were we? You were saying something about Humphrey the emu still giving your attendants nightmares back home, like a mischievous poltergeist?”

At the mention of his name, Sarah’s face transformed with comic inevitability—her amusement giving way to an expression of theatrical exasperation. Her eyes lifted heavenward as though seeking divine patience from the Clivilian sky. I couldn’t help the grin that curled at the corners of my mouth as she launched into her tale with the familiar gusto of a well-worn storyteller.

“That overstuffed featherduster is going to send poor Tilney into early retirement, I swear!” she exclaimed, hands gesturing animatedly as if to mime the chaos. Her voice carried a blend of weariness and affection, like someone recounting the antics of a beloved but unruly pet. “Just last week, we had to completely reinforce the damned night enclosure after he managed to dismantle a section of the outer fencing… again! It was like he was playing a game of Jenga with the posts!”

The mental image was so vivid I could practically see it—Humphrey, smug and self-satisfied, eyes gleaming with mischief as another timber clattered to the ground.

Grant gave an audible snort, clearly unsurprised. His expression was one of long-standing resignation, the kind that only develops through repeated exposure to the same brand of chaos.

“So much for our vaunted eucalyptus log barriers, eh? Leave it to Humphrey to reduce a construction crew’s workweek into a pile of splinters and shame, like a tornado in a lumberyard.”

Their eyes met then, and in that fleeting glance between siblings, an entire archive of memories passed unspoken—muddied boots, late-night repairs, vet visits, exasperated sighs, and belly-deep laughter echoing in the back corridors of Bonorong. It was a language of shared history, deeply ingrained and lovingly preserved.

And despite the alien terrain beneath our feet, despite the surreal reality of our exile in Clivilius, the two of them were still unmistakably tethered to their world—a sanctuary carved from decades of passion and perseverance. That bond remained unbroken, impervious to distance, like iron forged in fire.

A strange comfort settled over me. Watching them, anchored so thoroughly in something real and familiar, reminded me that not everything had been stripped away. Some truths endured. Some touchstones of humanity and connection weathered even the most impossible journeys. It was like seeing a lighthouse on the horizon, steadfast and unyielding, even as the tides of change threatened to swallow the shore.

And that warmth, that small miracle of groundedness, stirred something in me. A question I’d been holding back, one that had been nagging at the edges of my thoughts all afternoon—persistent, insistent, like an itch that refused to be ignored—rose to the surface, demanding to be asked.

“So tell me something – and grant me an old friend’s brutal honesty here,” I began, my voice dropping almost of its own accord, as if instinctively mirroring the weight of the question. “How are you both… really handling all of this?”

My hand lifted in a slow, encompassing arc, gesturing not just to the fire or the camp, but to the whole world we now called home.

Because despite the smiles, the laughter, the stories shared over stew and wine, none of us could outrun the truth. They had been transported impossibly from home and dropped into permanent exile, dressed in the illusion of purpose and opportunity but no less confined than any marooned castaway might be. It was a beautiful prison, perhaps, but a prison nonetheless. And I was curious whether I might subtly encourage them to shed further light on exactly what it is they believed they were walking into.

For a few long seconds, nothing passed between us but the whisper of flames and the soft rustle of the dust-swept wind. The fire cracked and spat, a sharp pop startling in the hush, like an accusation hurled into silence.

Grant and Sarah both turned inward, their eyes dimming, their expressions tightening in that unspoken sibling shorthand I'd always envied. A look, a breath, a twitch of the brow—whole conversations passed between them without a single word uttered. I watched it unfold with quiet reverence, knowing I was witnessing a truth shared in silence, delicate and raw.

At last, Sarah exhaled. Her breath emerged slow and measured, like steam rising from cooling tea. Her shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug that looked effortless, but I recognised the tell. It was the kind of shrug you put on like a coat, something to make you look composed when inside, you were fraying at the seams.

“It’s not been… easy, I’ll admit that much,” she said softly, her voice skating across a thin layer of calm. But beneath it, I heard the tremble of unshed grief, of longings not yet mourned. Her eyes, usually bright with curiosity and conviction, dulled for a moment—as if searching for something just out of reach. I knew she was replaying it all behind those green irises: the familiar footpaths, the scent of eucalyptus, the rustle of feathers at dawn, and the quiet camaraderie of their Bonorong family. “Letting go of the life we knew, the work, the home and community, even if only momentarily…”

The sentence faltered, clipped off by a swell of emotion that surged just beneath the surface. Before I could even shift forward, Grant’s hand moved silently, his rough palm coming to rest over hers. It was a grounding gesture, not flashy but full of decades of trust—anchoring her, reaffirming their tether in this strange new world.

He picked up the thread seamlessly, his tone quiet but unwavering. “But we’ve stayed true to the most important aspects,” he said, his eyes locking with mine, calm and resolute. “The passions, the treasured wards under our care, that binds us to the natural world, like roots to the earth. As long as that endures, we can still find fulfilment and higher purpose, even worlds away, like a compass pointing true north.”

Sarah seemed to draw from his strength like a plant turning toward the sun. The glaze faded from her gaze, replaced by a flicker of the fire I remembered—determined, unyielding, and full of warmth. One corner of her mouth curled in a crooked, knowing smile.

“Yes… yes, Grant’s right. It’s not been simple,” she admitted, her voice steadier now, richer with conviction. “But the core of who we are transcends mere physical location in the end, like a soul untethered by earthly bonds.”

She met my eyes, her gaze unwavering. And though she smiled, there was a shimmer behind the expression, a faint silvering at the edge of her lashes. Emotion, perhaps, or the campfire’s reflection—I didn’t press to know which.

“But enough of such dismal thoughts for now,” she declared with a sudden brightness, clapping her hands softly against her thighs as though brushing away dust or despair. “We’re here, in one piece, and surrounded by new vistas and possibilities just waiting to be explored, yes? With friends like you at our side, I suspect this will yet prove the grandest adventure of them all!”

And just like that, the conversation turned a corner, the mood lifting like a curtain raised after a solemn act. But the truths they'd shared lingered in the firelit air between us—heavy, honest, and fiercely human.

My mind returned to the sanctuary plans I had poured over earlier, the delicate yet ambitious blueprints still vivid in my memory. Every enclosure, every conservation initiative, every dream committed to paper—those weren’t just concepts. They were roots, tendrils pushing into the soil of this new world, searching for a place to grow.

A serene calmness settled over my chest, like a tide gently pulling me toward clarity. Yes… for all their private losses, for all the unknowns that still loomed like dark clouds on the horizon, Grant and Sarah clearly saw it too: the sanctuary wasn't just a refuge for wildlife. It was a symbol of hope. A bridge between what we had lost and what we might yet build.

With a breath that felt deeper than the ones before it, I turned back to my compatriots, my posture squaring with quiet purpose. The firelight caught in my eyes, and I knew it mirrored the determination now rekindled within me.

“Then let's stop squandering this glorious hearth and get back to the real business at hand, shall we?” I said, a playful edge returning to my tone, lifting it like wind under wings. “We’ve got a proper ecosystem resurrection to plan out, like architects of a new Eden!”

A burst of laughter followed—warm, spontaneous, full of release. It was the kind of laughter that carried weight, forged from the pressure of long-held uncertainty now alchemised into conviction.

Without another word, I motioned for them to follow, my steps firm and unhesitating as I led the way back toward my caravan. The chill of the night brushed against my skin, but it was no match for the warmth blossoming in my chest. Each stride felt imbued with a sense of mission, like a general leading comrades not into battle, but into something far more profound—a shared vision.

Chris quickly fell into step beside me, ever the steady presence at my shoulder, his quiet strength a comfort I’d long since learned to lean on. Grant and Sarah followed close behind, their silhouettes long in the firelight, voices hushed but animated with anticipation.

And there, in the modest shelter of my caravan, the four of us gathered like strategists at a war table—but our war was against extinction, and our weapons were knowledge, compassion, and belief.

We talked long into the night, our discussions unspooling in earnest waves—an exchange of dreams, fears, hard truths, and wild ambition. The sanctuary’s future unfolded between us like a map slowly illuminated, every idea another step down a path none of us had foreseen but now felt destined to walk.

Outside, the fire dwindled to glowing embers, casting faint shadows that flickered against the canvas walls. The cold pressed in, but inside, we were warmed by purpose.

And as the final hours of night crept upon us, I felt it—hope. True, unfaltering hope, no longer fragile or fleeting, but planted deep, its roots taking hold. It pulsed within me like new life beneath the soil, a promise of something vast and beautiful on the cusp of becoming.

For the first time since we had arrived in Clivilius, the future shimmered before me—not as a bleak unknown, but as a possibility teeming with colour. A canvas, still blank in many places, waiting for us to paint it in bold, defiant strokes of green and gold.