The Gate and the Father

"Every key opens more than a door—it drags the past in behind it."

Standing around the campfire, the soft murmur of voices mingled with the occasional pop and hiss of sap in the flames, the light leaping and curling over Luke’s tired features. The fire painted him in shifting shades of gold and shadow, but it could not disguise the fatigue etched into his face. Despite his recent induction as a Guardian only a week ago, the vibrant optimism I had first noticed in him had dulled, like a candle fighting against an encroaching wind. The faint furrows in his brow had deepened, and his mouth—once quick to curl into an easy smile—now rested in a neutral line, heavy with unspoken burdens.

A pang of apprehension stirred within me, low and cold in my stomach. Is this the imminent future awaiting me? The thought refused to be brushed aside, curling itself into the quiet spaces between each breath I took.

The scars I carried, those raw, raised reminders of my chaotic initiation into Clivilius, seemed to prickle beneath my shirt as if responding to the question. My relatively short tenure as a Guardian in Bixbus had already brought its share of changes—both to me and to the place. Our numbers were swelling; strangers had become neighbours, and the fragile skin of canvas tents was giving way to caravans and motorhomes. Where there had once been only open ground, now the harsh geometry of a chainlink fence stood, stitched together by many hands, a fragile but defiant circle in the wilderness.

And beyond that barrier—the land rolled away into a darkness that was neither welcoming nor empty. Even the night air seemed to hum with absence. Except for the goat and the few bedraggled chickens I had gathered on my journey, there was no movement, no chorus of crickets, no rustle of unseen creatures in the absent undergrowth. It was a silence so complete that it felt unnatural, as though something had claimed the land for itself and would tolerate no competition.

The image of shadow panthers—silent, fluid, lethal—slid unbidden into my mind, their imagined shapes pacing just beyond the reach of the campfire’s glow. A shiver traced the length of my spine.

I drew in a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of woodsmoke filling my lungs, and tried to force myself back into the moment. To let the warmth of the flames anchor me. But the weight of the unknown pressed at the edges of my thoughts, insistent and impossible to ignore.

"That's everyone," Nial announced, his voice carrying easily in the still evening air, echoing faintly off the chainlink as he slid the heavy metallic gate into place. The lock snapped shut with a sharp clang that seemed to reverberate through the small settlement, sealing us in. He and Paul stepped through, the firelight briefly catching their outlines before the shadows claimed them again, their forms framed against a sky now smudged deep indigo.

Luke, watching the finality of the gate’s closure, let out a short breath and remarked with a wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, "It feels a bit like a zoo here now." His voice was quiet but carried, a dry humour threading through it, though the undertone was one of unease.

Paul’s boots scuffed against the hard-packed ground as he came up beside us, his shoulders lifting and dropping in a slow, resigned motion. "Except this time, I think we are the animals locked in the cage," he said, the irony in his voice softened by something heavier—perhaps acceptance, perhaps dread.

"I'm not so sure that the goat and chickens that you've locked in the car and left out there would agree with you," I told Paul, my tone light enough to pass as banter, but with a thread of pointedness woven through it. My hand gestured loosely towards the Drop Zone, somewhere beyond the shadows, where Vincent and the hens were waiting—blissfully unaware that they, too, were part of this strange, fragile settlement.

Luke interjected, "It won't always be this way." His voice was firm but not forceful, carrying a quiet conviction that seemed to steady the air between us. He rubbed at his brow, the gesture equal parts weariness and resolve, before turning fully towards me. His eyes locked onto mine, and in that steady gaze, I could see the deliberate effort to pass on a flicker of hope—as though by sheer will, he could plant it in me. "Beatrix and I will bring you more supplies tomorrow."

I gave a small, deliberate nod, feeling that familiar weight of responsibility reattach itself like a heavy cloak. "Yeah, I'll get you as many motorhomes as I can over the next few days," I said, my voice steady, strengthened by the unwavering tone in Luke’s promise.

"And you've got some skilled people here now. You'll have a little village built and buzzing with enthusiasm in no time," Luke added, the optimism in his voice a soft counterpoint to the flickering firelight, which caught in the lines on his face. His hope was comforting, yes—but also daunting, pressing against the edges of my own guarded realism.

"I wouldn't go that—" I began, ready to lace my reply with a more grounded assessment, but Paul’s voice sliced neatly across my words.

"Speaking of motorhomes and supplies, Luke can give you my house keys." The statement landed simply enough, but there was something in his tone—a weary acceptance, a quiet surrender—that made me glance at him more closely.

He paused, looking to Luke for a beat too long, as if seeking unspoken permission.

“Yeah,” Luke replied, his voice even. "I've got them all in a safe space."

"If Claire and the kids really have gone to Queensland, I doubt they'll return anytime soon," Paul continued.

Luke’s right eye twitched—barely perceptible, but in the tightness of his jaw and the way his gaze held on his brother, there was a silent exchange. Unasked questions. Unsettled history. A tether between them pulled taut by shared worry and things neither of them seemed ready to voice aloud. The moment hung there, heavy, until the crackle of the fire reclaimed the soundscape.

Meanwhile, Paul—either oblivious to or deliberately sidestepping Luke’s silent interrogation—shifted his attention back to me. "You may as well bring anything from the house that looks useful," he instructed, his tone clipped with a note of finality. It struck me then that in handing over his keys, he wasn’t just offering access to a building—he was, in some unspoken way, relinquishing a part of his history.

"Include furniture with that," came Kain’s voice, gliding neatly into the moment. He was making his way towards us with that awkward yet stubbornly determined gait dictated by his new crutches. The firelight glinted off the metal supports, casting long, spindly shadows on the ground. "I could really do with a good couch to rest my leg."

Luke’s brow furrowed instantly, concern knitting his features. "Has it still not healed fully?" he asked, his voice warm but laced with the kind of worry that knows no easy fix.

"No," Kain replied, terse and a little sharp. A flicker of frustration crossed his face, the sort that comes from enduring the same pain for far too long. "I don't seem to be as privileged as Joel."

Luke leaned forward slightly, his voice low but probing. "Any news on that front?"

"No." This time Kain’s answer was short enough to feel like the closing of a door. The failing light clung to the angles of his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. His grip on the crutches seemed to tighten unconsciously.

"We've not seen anything of Joel, Jamie, or Glenda," Paul added, his voice breaking the quiet lull in a way that made my stomach clench.

"Give them a couple more days," Luke offered, though the suggestion carried more hope than certainty. His eyes flickered towards the darkness beyond the fence line as if expecting movement.

"And then what?" My voice cut through. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was the need for something solid, a plan, a promise, anything to anchor to.

Luke’s shrug came slowly, a gesture almost apologetic in its emptiness. It said more than any words could—that there was no clear path ahead, only the waiting, and the hoping.

Paul sighed, the sound deep and weighted, as though he’d exhaled more than just air—emptying out a measure of unspoken fears he didn’t dare put into words. The moment hung heavy, taut as wire, until Kain’s scoff shattered it.

"You’ve really got no idea what you are doing, do you, Luke?"

"It’s not that easy," I snapped before I could stop myself, the words rushing out in defence of Luke.

"You don’t have to tell me that," Kain shot back immediately, his voice hard, his eyes narrowing. It wasn’t just a retort—it was a flare of his own pain, a reminder that every word we spoke here was steeped in personal stakes.

My mouth opened, ready to fire back, to defend, to argue, to say something—anything—that might soften the edges of this jagged exchange. But before I could, Paul’s voice sliced through, calm but decisive, a clean interruption to halt the rising tide.

"And while I think of it," he said, tone deliberate, "my car is still parked at the Adelaide airport carpark. Can you collect it for me and bring it here?"

The pivot in subject was almost jarring, like a door slamming on one conversation and opening on another. I shifted my gaze from Kain—whose stubbornness still clung to him like armour—to Paul. His request was practical, simple even, but it came with a weight of expectation that lingered in his eyes.

"Sure," I muttered, the word quick but edged with the residue of the argument just moments before.

Luke’s reaction was almost instantaneous, his posture straightening and his face brightening with a kind of eager helpfulness, as though he’d just been handed a task that could anchor him in purpose. "Oh," he exclaimed, the idea clearly sparking something in him. "I am flying from Hobart to Adelaide first thing in the morning. I won't have time to collect Paul's car, but I can register a Portal location to make it easier for you, Beatrix."

"Thanks, but there's no need to fly, I've already registered several locations in Adelaide," I informed him, my tone gentle yet firm—an attempt to lift the weight from his shoulders before he could carry it unnecessarily.

Luke’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, the initial light in his eyes dimming, his mouth pulling into a thoughtful line. "Oh," he uttered, the single syllable soft, as if cushioned by something heavier beneath it—realisation, perhaps, or a twinge of disappointment that the purpose he’d seized on had dissolved so quickly.

I studied him, my eyes narrowing slightly as though I could read the tangle of unspoken thoughts behind his gaze. Despite the clear practicality of my explanation, there was something in his pensive look that made me wonder—was it just the change of plan, or something more personal about Adelaide? It seems like a no-brainer to me, I thought, puzzled but unwilling to press. In Clivilius, we were all walking around with private burdens, the kind no one could see unless you carried them long enough for the cracks to show.

Finally, he lifted his head, the flicker of thought replaced by a steadier resolve. "I've already got my flight booked. I may as well use it. Besides, I might find something useful at the airport. In any event, it'll give you a much closer point of entry for collecting Paul's car."

"Alright," I conceded, shrugging as if it made no difference to me. The truth was, there was logic in his plan, but part of me yearned for the simplicity of a task with one straight line from beginning to end.
My list of tasks from Paul is growing quicker than I can keep up with, I reflected, feeling the weight of it pressing like another layer of armour I hadn’t meant to put on.

The conversation took another turn as Paul, his eyes narrowing with a sharpened curiosity, probed his brother. "What are you actually going to Adelaide for, Luke?" His suspicion was palpable, a steady undercurrent beneath the words, echoing my own silent questions about the necessity—and the truth—of this trip.

Luke’s brief hesitation was telling, a pause so slight it might have been missed by anyone not looking for it. For me, it was a crack in his usually composed exterior, the kind that made my instincts prickle.

"I'm thinking I might bring our parents and siblings to Clivilius," he declared at last, the words landing with deliberate weight. As if speaking them aloud fortified his resolve, his voice seemed to grow in confidence with each syllable. The idea was bold—ambitious, even—but beneath that ambition lurked the risk, large and unignorable.

A sharp inhale slipped past my lips before I could stop it. "Is that a good idea?" The question escaped in a rush, propelled by concern, and by the mental image of our already-strained supplies buckling under even greater pressure.

It wasn’t Luke who answered me, but Paul. "It'll be a lot more mouths to feed, but I think you are right. I think they could really help us here." His tone carried an unusual note of agreement with his brother, and I couldn’t help but flick my gaze between them, surprised by this rare alignment.

The thought of Luke’s family joining us lingered in my mind like a coin spinning on its edge—uncertain which way it would fall. The decision could strengthen our community… or fracture it under the weight of its own needs.

"How many?" I pressed, my voice tighter now, already bracing for the answer.

"Only Adelaide?" Paul’s follow-up question was sharp, angled to measure just how far Luke’s vision extended.

"I think so, for now," Luke replied, his voice measured, the ‘for now’ sliding in like a faint but deliberate warning—this might only be the start.

Paul turned his gaze to me, spelling out the tally. "Parents and three brothers."

"Two brothers," Luke corrected without hesitation.

The adjustment caught me off guard, and from the way Paul’s brow creased, I knew it had jarred him too.

"Eli is still visiting Lisa in the United States," Luke clarified, sketching out a mental map of his family’s far-flung positions.

"Girlfriend?" I ventured, feeling my way through the unfamiliar names.

"Sister," they replied together, the brief moment of synchrony almost startling after the constant undercurrent of tension.

"Oh, you've got a big family," I remarked, my mind already beginning to sort and count the invisible faces, stacking them against the finite number of tents, meals, and resources we could muster.

"Yep," they said again in unison, the shared reply deceptively simple. Yet beneath it, I could feel the weight—the reality that this wasn’t just a personal reunion. It was the potential reshaping of our entire community.

Paul pressed on, his tone carrying the quiet persistence of someone who wanted answers pinned down. "Are you going to bring them to Bixbus tomorrow?"

Luke’s shrug appeared casual, but there was a subtle weight in the way his shoulders lifted and fell, the kind of gesture that betrayed an inner tangle of hesitation.

"I'm not sure yet. I still haven't worked out the best way to approach them." His eyes didn’t meet Paul’s but drifted instead towards the fire, following the dance of orange tongues as they licked upwards, throwing distorted shadows across the circle. For a moment, it was as though he was searching for an answer in the flames themselves.

Then, perhaps conceding that he didn’t have one, he glanced back at his brother. "Any ideas?" he asked, the question carrying a faint, unguarded note—a subtle admission that even Guardians sometimes needed guidance.

Paul’s reply began in silence, a shrug that lingered just long enough to feel dismissive, before something seemed to click in his mind. His eyes lit with sudden certainty. "I suspect that all you need to do is find a way to convince dad, and the rest will easily follow." There was a kind of piercing confidence in his voice, as if he’d just dropped a key into Luke’s hand—one that would fit the lock perfectly.

Luke’s reaction was slow, deliberate, his hand rising to scratch thoughtfully at his stubbled chin. "Hmm," he mused, the low hum suggesting he was already beginning to map out how that might be done. "I think you’re onto something there." The words were simple, but the way he spoke them made it clear—whatever power their father held, it was absolute.

I listened, the edges of their exchange pressing into my thoughts, leaving me drifting in quiet bewilderment. How did one man command such sway? Was it deep-rooted respect? Family loyalty? Or something darker, heavier—fear? The possibilities coiled through my mind, some uncomfortably sharp. Is he some sort of controlling sociopath? The thought felt dangerously close to judgment, but I couldn’t help it. The way they spoke of him, the way his approval seemed to be the lynchpin of the entire plan—it was both fascinating and faintly unnerving.

Luke’s voice cut cleanly through the haze of my thoughts. "Come on, Beatrix," he said, his tone light, almost chiding, as though he’d caught me wandering too far in my head. "Let’s get you these keys."

His words—practical, grounded—pulled me back from the speculative spiral I’d been tumbling through, snapping my focus back to the here and now. Still, a part of my mind clung to the unanswered questions about their father, reluctant to let them go.