The Jar and the Horizon

“You can build a future from spiderlings and dust—but only if you stop pretending you're going home.”

Having found a new stake to keep Vincent tethered until Chris and Nial could build him a proper enclosure, I led him down to the riverbank, my grip firm on the rope as he plodded reluctantly beside me. Each stubborn hooffall kicked up small clouds of dust, the fine particles swirling around us in lazy spirals before settling back to earth, as if even the ground had grown weary of being disturbed.

The sun bore down with an unrelenting ferocity, its rays slicing through the air like blades of molten glass. Sweat trickled down my temples and soaked into the collar of my shirt, clinging to my skin with the tenacity of the heat itself. With a grunt of effort, I sank to one knee and drove the metal stake into the hardened ground, every hammer blow ringing out like a defiant challenge to the elements. The earth resisted me at first, baked dry and compacted into near stone, but I channelled my frustration and resolve into each strike until the metal bit deep.

I stood and took a few steps back, eyes narrowing as I assessed the placement with the critical eye of someone who had learned the hard way never to trust improvised solutions without scrutiny. The stake stood firm, anchored with determination and sweat. It was close enough for Vincent to drink from the river, yet far enough to keep him from slipping in—assuming he didn’t somehow develop amphibious tendencies overnight, which frankly wouldn’t have surprised me at this point.

And yet, even with Vincent finally tethered and a moment of relative calm settling over the scene, I found myself scanning the horizon with an aching sense of dissatisfaction. The landscape stretched out around us in every direction, a sun-bleached expanse of ochre and brown, its silence as heavy as the heat. There was a stillness to it—lifeless and watchful. It was beautiful in its way, but it felt hollow. A blank canvas waiting for the first brushstroke.

We needed more than just survival here—we needed to restore something, to cultivate life, to soften the edges of this raw, unforgiving world. Shelter. Shade. Colour. I could practically feel the weight of what was missing pressing against my chest.

With new resolve swelling in my chest, I made a mental note to speak with Luke. Trees—small, hardy ones to start. Something that could withstand the harshness of Clivilius and still offer a modicum of comfort. We needed places for animals to rest, for people to gather, for life to take root. Otherwise, we were only ever going to be scratching out an existence on a dead rock.

Vincent let out a low bleat and turned to look at me, his expression uncannily self-satisfied. I reached down and patted his head, my fingers sinking into the wiry coils of his fur. Coarse and matted in places, stubborn like the creature himself, but still oddly endearing. He looked up at me with eyes that gleamed with something close to amusement—bright and cheeky, as if fully aware of the havoc he’d caused and entirely unrepentant.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I muttered, the corners of my mouth twitching despite myself. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

But in truth, I already had. Because in his own obstinate way, Vincent had reminded me of something important: life, even in its most aggravating forms, was worth fighting for.

With Vincent sorted—if not exactly content—I turned my attention back to my original task, the one I had been preparing for before the goat’s ill-timed feast had derailed my morning. I had ideas to share, plans that had been quietly brewing at the back of my mind—schemes for shaping Bixbus into something more than a patchwork survival camp.

My boots crunched over the cracked earth as I strode with renewed purpose toward the heart of our encampment.

As I neared the sprawl of motorhomes, tents, and tarpaulins that we now called home, my eyes picked out the familiar figures of Grant and Sarah. They were seated side by side at a folding table, half-shaded by a canvas awning that flapped lazily in the light breeze. The surface before them was a chaotic sprawl of papers, notes, diagrams, and hand-sketched blueprints—fragments of future plans and fragile hope made manifest in ink.

They were deep in conversation, heads bent close. There was something almost sacred about their focus, as if the entire world rested on those pages between them. And in some ways, perhaps it did.

I felt a flicker of anticipation surge through me, but before I joined them, I remembered the small detour I needed to make. The item I needed for my pitch.

I veered toward my caravan, ducking inside with a relieved sigh as the cool dimness wrapped around me like a soothing balm. The air was stale but mercifully free from the stifling glare of the sun. I took a moment to let my eyes adjust, scanning the familiar clutter.

There, perched atop a tottering stack of well-thumbed nature magazines and a coil of paracord, sat the object I sought. A glass jar—modest, unassuming—until you looked closer.

Inside, a trembling flurry of life danced and skittered across the jar's interior. Dozens of tiny huntsman spiderlings—each one no larger than the nail of my pinkie—moved in chaotic synchrony, their impossibly fine legs flickering like strands of silk caught in the wind. The delicate tracery of their limbs, the way they moved as a single living organism despite their individuality, was hypnotic.

I held the jar up to the shaft of sunlight cutting through the small caravan window. The spiderlings shimmered like motes of dust, impossibly fragile, and yet I knew—deep in my bones—just how resilient they were. Survivors, like all of us. Fierce and clever in their own quiet way.

There was something symbolic in that—the notion of starting with something small, something misunderstood. Of letting life root itself from the periphery and spiral inward, reshaping the land not with brute force, but with delicate persistence.

Clutching the jar with care, I stepped back outside, blinking against the sudden brightness as I adjusted once more to the camp’s arid sprawl. The heat rushed to greet me, pressing against my skin like a blanket pulled too tight.

But I barely noticed it now. Not with the spiderlings dancing in my hand and my ideas thrumming in my chest. I was ready. Ready to talk to Grant and Sarah. Ready to lay out a vision for Bixbus that wasn’t all dust and scavenging and barely scraping by.

Because I missed Tasmania. I missed the lush, breathing wilderness. The dense green silence, the smell of damp earth and eucalypt. And if I couldn’t go back, then I would bring that spirit here—one hardy spider at a time.

As I approached the huddled group, a flicker of apprehension stirred in my gut, curling like smoke through my ribs. Chris had already beaten me to the punch, his compact frame leaning intently over the makeshift table, gesturing animatedly at the scattered plans and diagrams. His voice was low but urgent, laced with that unmistakable tone he adopted when deep in discussion with people he respected. It was both encouraging and, in this moment, quietly intimidating.

My steps slowed as I drew nearer, hesitation settling like a weight across my shoulders. From a distance, the scene resembled a gathering of scholars at the cusp of discovery—heads bowed, brows furrowed, fingers tracing lines of vision and purpose across paper worn soft by eager hands. Their conversation rose and fell in a rhythm all its own, pulses of excitement and debate crackling between them like electricity.

I paused just shy of the table, the jar of spiderlings pressed protectively against my chest. In their tiny, frenetic movements I felt my own fluttering unease reflected back at me. For a heartbeat, I hovered at the edge of the moment, an outsider looking in on a snapshot of unfiltered passion—Sarah’s eyes wide and sparkling, Grant nodding along with the furrowed focus of someone calculating how to turn dreams into infrastructure.

They were in their element, two brilliant minds fuelled by purpose and an unquenchable love for the natural world. Here, in the stark stillness of Bixbus, they were rekindling the spark that had always driven them. It should have inspired me. Instead, it made me ache.

Because beneath all their ambition, all their meticulous planning and enthusiastic talk of wildlife corridors and microhabitats, lay the yawning chasm of truth they hadn’t yet glimpsed.

They still thought this was temporary. A research trip. A project. A detour.

Their eyes still looked to the horizon as if it held a return ticket.

And I—silent, complicit—stood there holding the quiet horror that they had not yet begun to grasp. We weren’t going back. Not next week. Not next month. Perhaps not ever.

A knot twisted in my chest, too complex to untangle. Was it guilt? Jealousy? A strange blend of both? I envied their hope even as I feared its collapse. I wanted them to hold onto it for as long as they could—but I knew that when it broke, it would break hard.

My grip on the jar tightened slightly, the cool glass grounding me. The spiderlings darted about within, oblivious to the emotional storm building behind my composed exterior. I cleared my throat softly as I stepped forward at last, slipping into the circle of light and shade cast by the flapping canvas overhead.

They deserved their moment, I told myself again. Even if it was borrowed time.

And so I forced the smile, shaping it carefully across my lips like a mask I’d worn a thousand times before. It felt brittle and ill-fitting, but I wore it anyway.

For now, I would let them dream.