The River and the Roof

Realising the challenge that lay ahead, the prospect of navigating the ute over the rolling sandy hills seemed daunting, a test of endurance for both the vehicle and us. My eyes swept across the arid landscape, taking in the undulating dunes that stretched endlessly, their crests shifting subtly in the breeze like sleeping giants. The thick layer of dust that blanketed the terrain whispered tales of struggles past, of engines labouring and wheels spinning fruitlessly against the soft, shifting ground. I could almost hear the ghostly groan of a stranded vehicle echoing across the hills, a memory that wasn’t mine but felt all too real.

It was a scenario I was keen to avoid. My mind, always prone to analysis, began working through the logistics, scanning for patterns, possibilities—anything that promised stability. I squinted against the brightness, letting the landscape speak to me in the only language it could: topography and texture. Somewhere in that silence, an idea formed, clear and compelling.

Then, it struck me—the river. Its course, a natural guide through the landscape, offered a flatter path, one less marred by the relentless sands and their dusty veil. I recalled noticing it earlier during our brief forays beyond camp, the way the dust softened and thinned the nearer one got to the water’s edge. It was subtle, but telling—as though the river itself exerted a quiet authority over the desert, pushing back against the encroaching dunes. The memory crystallised into a plan.

“Let’s try and follow the river,” I suggested, my voice carrying a hint of optimism, a belief in the simplicity and wisdom of this natural path.

Chris’s agreement came swift. He gave me a small, confident nod, his eyes already scanning the terrain with renewed purpose. In that quiet exchange, without the need for elaboration, we aligned—two minds navigating an unfamiliar world, trusting not just in the tools at our disposal but in each other.

The task of folding and collecting the dried washing that lay strewn across the rocks at the lagoon became a dance of efficiency and care. My hands moved instinctively now, guided by rhythm rather than thought, lifting each garment as if it were delicate parchment, crisp from sun and time. The fabric was warm to the touch, the fibres relaxed and softened by the heat of the day. I brought one shirt briefly to my face, inhaling the scent of the outdoors—sunlight, dust, a faint mineral trace from the lagoon. It was strangely comforting, grounding. Each item was no longer just an object of necessity but a vessel of memory, a tactile imprint of the morning I had just lived.

Chris worked beside me, quiet and methodical. Occasionally, our hands brushed as we reached for the same piece of clothing, and in those small, unspoken moments, a shared rhythm unfolded—an uncoordinated harmony between two people long accustomed to each other’s ways. The silence between us wasn’t heavy; it was companionable, filled with the soft sounds of shifting fabric and the whistle of breeze through dry dunes.

As we piled the garments into the ute, arranging them with the care of curators cataloguing artefacts, I felt something unexpected—closure. Not just the satisfaction of a completed task, but something more profound. A sense that I was leaving behind a fragment of myself, subtly changed, tucked within the folds of those sun-dried clothes. This place, the lagoon with its secrets and serenity, had offered me a moment of release, of rediscovery, and now I was taking a piece of that experience with me, secured within the confines of the vehicle.

The ute’s doors shut with a soft clunk, sealing it all in: the freshly laundered fabric, the scent of sun and water, and something else—less tangible, but no less real.

Setting off on our adventure back to camp, we followed the curve of the river, allowing it to guide us through the landscape like an old friend leading the way. The ute, now laden with the fruits of our morning’s labour, responded eagerly to the change in terrain—its suspension no longer protesting with each bump and trough. The tyres gripped the firmer, river-kissed soil with ease, rolling smoothly along the gentler contours. The engine’s hum softened into a low, steady purr, no longer strained but seemingly content, as if it too appreciated the reprieve from the punishing sands. The dust we stirred up, though still a lingering veil behind us, floated skyward with less defiance, caught in the arms of a mild breeze that trailed alongside us like a gentle escort.

Chris took the helm with a calm focus, his hands firm on the wheel, his posture relaxed. There was a quiet confidence to his driving, a steady rhythm that matched the flowing current beside us. With him in control, I shifted into a more passive role, my senses no longer occupied by the demands of navigation. I leaned into the moment, letting the motion of the vehicle lull me into a contemplative stillness.

My gaze was drawn, almost magnetically, to the world unfolding beyond the window. The river, winding gracefully beside us, had taken on new character in this light. Its waters shimmered, dappled with sunlight, and the gurgling rhythm of its movement became a soft undercurrent to our drive. What had once seemed a boundary now felt like a lifeline—an artery through the land, sustaining the fragile possibilities of life in this raw, untamed world.

Beyond the river’s far bank, the land stretched out like a mirror image of our own, though untouched and endless. Its silence was not emptiness but potential—an untouched canvas waiting for its first bold stroke. I pressed my temple lightly to the windowpane, the glass cool against my skin, grounding me in the present even as my thoughts drifted forward.

What if that side, dry and desolate as it appeared, held the same promise beneath its surface? What if there, too, lay the rich soil that had so surprised us at our settlement? My heart quickened at the thought. A second viable site could mean expansion, resilience, a buffer against the fragility of our tenuous existence. The excitement fluttered quietly in my chest—tempered by realism, but undeniable.

I allowed the thought to settle, to root itself somewhere within me. The river had divided the known from the unknown, but perhaps that was about to change.

In my mind’s eye, I envisioned us crossing the river, our hands and tools at the ready, to break through the crust that shielded the hidden bounty beneath. The picture unfolded in vivid detail: Chris and I, along with others from the camp, working shoulder to shoulder under the relentless sun, sweat mingling with determination as we chipped away at the dry, unyielding surface. The idea of turning that desolate expanse into a thriving oasis, much like we weould soon begin to do with our own settlement, filled me with a sense of purpose that warmed me from the inside out. I imagined rows of greenery springing forth—shoots of tender life stubbornly pushing through the soil—as if nature herself was answering our call. The thought of leaves dancing in the wind, of fruit ripening on vines we had nurtured, became a silent anthem to our perseverance.

It would be a living bridge, I thought—a connection not only between two barren shores, but between who we had been and who we were becoming. A settlement carved from hope, irrigated by resilience, fertilised with the grit of every hardship we had already endured.

Yet, as these thoughts danced through my mind, a twinge of reality tugged at the edges of my daydream. The vision blurred slightly as the sheer weight of the undertaking loomed larger. We knew nothing of the soil’s depth or quality on that far bank, nor whether it could sustain the crops we hoped to coax into life on our side. The logistics alone—the need for irrigation, the transport of tools and seeds, the stretch of our already thin resources—rose like shadows behind the bright imaginings.

It was a sobering reminder that dreams in Clivilius, while vital, must be tempered with caution. The land was wild and unfamiliar, its rules unwritten and its temperament unpredictable. Every success we had tasted so far had come at a cost—hard-won, fragile, and dearly guarded.

And yet, despite the daunting nature of the task, the idea lingered, refusing to be cast aside. It nestled within me like a seed in warm soil, latent but full of potential. This vision wasn’t just about expanding our territory; it was about expanding ourselves—our courage, our capacity, our identity. It was a quiet whisper of what might be possible when we allowed hope to guide us, even into the unknown.

As the river flowed beside us—its gentle current weaving stories through time—I watched its surface ripple and shimmer. It was more than a boundary; it was an invitation. A symbol of both division and connection, it compelled me to dream, even as I grappled with the realities. And in that quiet moment, I made no decision, but I allowed the vision to remain, alive and waiting, just like the land across the water.

The sudden stop of the ute jerked me back to reality, the abrupt motion a jarring contrast to the gentle flow of my thoughts. The vehicle shuddered slightly as it came to a halt, the subtle shift of inertia tugging me forward in my seat. For a brief, breathless moment, the transition was disorienting, like surfacing too quickly from a deep, vivid dream. My mind scrambled to steady itself, the lush, imagined greenery of the far bank dissolving into the dusty, sun-bleached present. The physical lurch mirrored the mental leap—from what could be, to what was.

Chris turned towards me, his hand resting casually on the steering wheel, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and quiet curiosity. A smile played at the corners of his mouth, the kind that didn’t demand answers but made room for them.

“You seemed to be deep in contemplation, there,” he observed, his voice carrying a warmth that softened the edges of my abrupt return to the present.

My brow furrowed, not from confusion, but from the effort of holding onto the images that had just danced so vividly behind my eyes. I clung for a heartbeat to the dream—lush gardens unfurling, hands in soil, life pulsing where none had dared root before. “I was,” I admitted, my voice tinged with the quiet melancholy of retreating wonder. The sigh that followed felt like a parting, a reluctant goodbye to the richness I had conjured from dust and desire.

The ute’s windscreen framed the reality before us: cracked earth, dry tufts of stubborn grass, and the meagre beginnings of a garden that had yet to earn the name. The coriander plants, no more than green whispers in the dirt, were our only testament to cultivation. They stood small and vulnerable, a fragile promise of what might come, should we persevere.

“Care to share?” Chris’s voice broke gently into the moment, his question unforced but sincere.

I shook my head slowly, the motion more reflective than dismissive. The dream still felt too intimate, too nebulous to name aloud. “Perhaps later tonight,” I said, tucking the vision away like a letter unsent. It was a compromise, a placeholder for when words might feel easier, more deserved.

“We have clean washing to get put away,” I added, grounding us both in the here and now. The familiar routine of folding and storing clothes—mundane though it was—offered a comfort I hadn’t expected. These chores, humble and repetitive, were the backbone of our survival, anchors we clung to in a world that was anything but predictable.

Chris nodded, the unspoken understanding passing between us like a shared breath.

Unbuckling my seatbelt, I stepped out of the vehicle, the act a quiet punctuation mark at the end of my reverie—an intentional crossing from the realm of what might be to the reality of what was. The soles of my boots pressed firmly into the parched earth, the crunch of gravel beneath them reminding me that dreams, however vivid, must always yield to the demands of the present.

Chris rounded the ute and met me at the rear, where the bundles of freshly laundered clothes waited to be ferried back to camp. As we began dividing the load, my gaze landed on the teetering tower Chris had gathered in his arms—a haphazard assembly of shirts, trousers, and undergarments that looked one wrong breath away from collapse.

“Don't drop it!” The words spilled out of me before I could temper them, my voice carrying a half-hearted edge of authority. It wasn’t anger—more an anxious insistence born of the hours I had just spent scrubbing and tending each piece by hand. My frown knit itself deeper, tugged by the memory of blistered knuckles and the heat of the sun on my neck. The thought of all that work undone, of the fresh fabric falling to the dirt like so much spilt water, was enough to make my grip on my own bundle tighten instinctively.

“I've got it,” Chris countered, his voice breezy and self-assured, the confident lilt of a man who’d climbed rickety ladders and balanced planks without once looking down. His arms, however, told a different story. The pile in his grasp wobbled precariously, a poorly constructed tower on the verge of toppling. The absurdity of it forced a reluctant chuckle from my chest.

I shook my head, exasperated affection warming my expression. My eyes rolled skyward as if appealing to some higher power for patience. “You’re a walking laundry catastrophe,” I muttered under my breath, though I made no move to relieve him of any of it. His confidence, misplaced as it sometimes was, had an endearing quality I couldn’t deny. It was one of the things that had first drawn me to him—the way he seemed to carry a light with him, even into the most mundane of situations.

Watching him stumble slightly but recover with a grin, I found myself smiling despite the ache in my arms. His determination to help—even when his methods invited chaos—was never in question. His appearance at the lagoon earlier had been almost perfectly timed, sparing me from the long, hot return trek and adding a jolt of humour to a solitary morning that had nearly tipped into something too introspective to bear.

The lagoon already felt like a distant memory, its mirror-like surface and hypnotic whirlpools fading beneath the layers of dust we kicked up with our steps. That place had given me something intangible—a brief moment of awe, of surrender to wonder.

As we made our way back toward the centre of camp, our loads awkward but manageable, I felt the corners of my mouth tug upwards once more. The sun might be relentless, and the tasks never-ending, but in the echo of our laughter and the shared weight in our arms, there was strength—and, more importantly, companionship.

“Hey, Chris. Look!” The words sprang from my lips before I could temper the excitement bubbling within me. A jolt of sudden energy coursed through me as my gaze locked onto the anomaly ahead. I nearly fumbled the bundle of laundry in my arms, juggling awkwardly to keep the freshly dried clothes from spilling into the dust. “There’s several caravans.”

The sight startled me—not threatening, but entirely unexpected. Nestled on the outskirts of camp, the cluster of caravans stood in quiet contrast to the emptiness we’d grown used to. Their arrival must’ve been recent. I hadn’t noticed them when we first left that morning. It was as if they had simply appeared, materialising from the periphery of the desert like a mirage made solid.

Chris, instantly caught in the magnetism of my excitement, turned his head sharply, trying to follow the direction of my pointing hand while simultaneously fighting to keep his tottering tower of laundry upright. The effect was both valiant and absurd—his arms stretched wide, elbows locked at odd angles, as if trying to will the fabric into staying balanced through sheer force of will.

I opened my mouth to comment, already grinning at the sight, but before I could utter a word, a familiar voice chimed in.

“Perfect timing,” I muttered under my breath as Nial strode into view, seemingly from nowhere. He moved with casual ease, but the moment was serendipitous, his arrival so well-timed it might’ve been rehearsed. Chris didn’t even have time to call for help before Nial reached out and deftly plucked half the load from his arms.

“Where do you want these?” Nial asked, his voice rich with amusement, the corners of his mouth curled into a grin that revealed both mischief and sincerity.

I hesitated for a second, shifting the weight of my own bundle as I considered the options.

“We may as well take them all to our tent,” I decided aloud, nodding in the direction of the canvas shelter. “I need to sort them all anyway.” The simplicity of the task masked the effort it had taken to get to this point, but practicality won over any lingering desire to marvel further at any newcomers just yet.

Nial’s brow lifted slightly, his curiosity clearly piqued. The unspoken question hung between us until I offered an explanation, almost as an afterthought. “There’s a bit of everyone’s clothes here.”

He gave a slow nod, the understanding settling behind his eyes. That was the unspoken rule here now—everything, from labour to resources to time, was shared. We were building a life on that foundation, patching it together piece by piece. “Understood. The tent it is.”

With that, we resumed our walk, our arms heavy with the spoils of survival, our feet kicking up small clouds of dust as we crossed the uneven ground.

The faint, familiar scent of dust drifted lazily in on the breeze, stirred up by the recent flurry of footsteps and the low hum of activity across the camp. The canvas walls of our shelter flapped softly in the heat-induced wind, their movement rhythmic, almost soothing, as though marking time in this place where clocks no longer held much meaning.

With a quiet exhale, I stepped through the entrance and lowered my bundle of washing to the floor. My hands worked instinctively, smoothing out the folds, aligning corners, stacking garments with the kind of precise care that only repetition and necessity could instil.

“Chris!” The name escaped me before I could temper the tone, sharp and involuntary, as I watched him carelessly drop his pile with the finesse of someone unloading sacks of grain. The clothes landed in a loose, dishevelled heap, the hours of effort to wash, dry, and fold them seemingly undone in a blink. My voice rang out with a reprimand tinged more with exasperation than true anger, but the damage, however minor, was done.

I barely had time to issue a correction before Nial, perhaps misreading Chris’s casual disregard as permission to do the same, let his own armful tumble down beside the mess. There was a soft rustle of fabric as shirts and trousers settled in a mound atop one another, and then—a pause.

The colour that surged into Nial’s cheeks was immediate and unmissable, a flush of embarrassment that painted his features with startling vulnerability. “Sorry,” he muttered, eyes darting to the floor, his posture stiff with contrition. The remorse in his tone, small and quietly spoken, halted any further rebuke forming on my tongue. Instead, I let out a sigh—long, heavy, the sort that seemed to release not just irritation but weariness, a fatigue that went deeper than the day’s labours.

“My wife is always telling me off for this sort of thing too.” Nial’s attempt at humour, self-effacing and gently offered, broke the tension instantly. There was an edge of wistfulness to it, a subtle crack in the armour he wore around camp. For a brief moment, his laugh followed the words, light and unburdened, but it faltered quickly, vanishing like morning mist as the deeper truth beneath his comment settled into the silence that followed.

I watched the light fade from his face, and with it came a pang of regret—not just for my sharpness, but for the ache his words carried. In this small, domestic mishap, he had brushed up against something far more profound: the distance between who he had been, and who he was forced to be now. Torn from his family, transplanted to this world, he bore the weight of that separation in ways we rarely saw unless it slipped, unbidden, into moments like this.

My gaze drifted to Chris, who was now bending slightly to reorganise the pile with a sheepish expression, and something inside me softened. Frustration ebbed, giving way to a more powerful emotion—gratitude. For all the things that tested us, for the frayed tempers and long days, we were here. Together. He was beside me, in every sense that mattered. The solace of that companionship was something I clung to, even when the grind of survival wore at the edges of our patience.

The shift in conversation, brought on by Chris’s question, sliced through the previous tension. “Who are those caravans for?” His curiosity, so typical of his nature—uninhibited, direct, sometimes maddeningly so—momentarily redirected our collective focus.

“Chris!” The rebuke left my mouth on reflex, sharper than I’d intended, but driven by an impulse to contain what felt like a dangerously premature question. In this place, nothing came easy. Every comfort had been earned, clawed back from the edge of desperation. His bluntness caught me off guard, and for a moment, I braced for awkwardness, for discomfort to bloom again in the space between us.

But Nial surprised me.

His whole face shifted. Gone was the shadow of reminiscence, replaced with a grin so sudden and bright it lit up the tent like a match in the dark. “One of them is actually yours,” he said, voice rich with mirth, his eyes sparkling with the kind of delight rarely seen these days. It was as if the simple act of delivering good news had stirred something warm within him.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice caught somewhere between disbelief and desperate hope. My pulse quickened as the idea took root, but I couldn’t let myself get carried away—not yet. We’d lived through too many false starts already. “You’re not just saying that because of Chris?” I added, my tone lighter, a feigned jest to mask how much I wanted—needed—his answer to be sincere.

Nial laughed, a genuine, rolling sound that dispelled the remaining stiffness in the air. “Of course not,” he said, still grinning. “That Beatrix woman has been bringing us caravans. Apparently she’s going to bring enough for all of us over the next few days.” His voice carried the cadence of real hope, of something tangible finally breaking through the constant haze of struggle.

“That’s brilliant,” Chris breathed, and I could feel his excitement radiating beside me like warmth from a fire. My own heart echoed the sentiment, beating faster with the realisation that we might soon be stepping out of the damp, dusty confines of our tent and into something—anything—more permanent.

Nial nodded, adding, “Paul asked me to let you know.”

The moment lingered in the space between us, the gravity of the announcement slowly settling in. A caravan. The word conjured visions of clean surfaces, solid walls, maybe even storage space—things that, back home, would have seemed laughably modest. Here, they were the pinnacle of comfort. A roof that didn’t flap in the wind. Walls that could offer privacy. A door that could shut out the night.

“Come,” Nial said, his grin still wide, his tone brisk now with enthusiasm. “Let me show you.”

It was both an invitation and a declaration: something had shifted, and we were part of it.

Chris and I locked eyes. There was no need for words—just a shared nod, a mutual understanding of what this meant. Our shoulders brushed as we turned to follow Nial, and I felt something inside me stir—a fragile flicker of anticipation.

As we stepped out into the open, I felt a surge of gratitude rise within me. Gratitude for the surprise, for the promise of shelter, for this rare and precious sense of forward movement. The caravan might not be much in the grand scheme of things, but to us, it was everything. A space of our own. A place to exhale.

A step, however small, toward calling this place home.