The Weight of Welcome

“Some arrivals bring relief. Others arrive like questions wrapped in human skin.”

The sight of Paul returning to camp with two additional people instantly piqued my curiosity, pulling my attention from the half-folded clothes in my lap. My eyes narrowed instinctively, scanning their features as they moved across the dusty clearing. The young man’s unmistakable face struck a chord of recognition almost immediately—Grant Ironbach. His reputation preceded him: the Director of Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary, known for his tireless work with vulnerable species and passionate environmental advocacy. Walking beside him was a woman I could only assume was his sister, Sarah—Assistant Director of the same sanctuary and a prominent figure in conservation circles.

Seeing them here, in Clivilius of all places, felt like an uncanny trick of the light. What were they doing so far from their usual terrain of tranquil bushland and rehabilitated marsupials? This wasn’t their world—ours was a brittle landscape of hardship, adaptation, and questions with no clear answers. Yet here they were, their clothing still bearing the telltale signs of Earthly inhabitance, faces marked more by curiosity than weariness. That, more than anything, unsettled me. They didn’t look like people who had come to stay. They looked like people who expected to leave.

My steps, drawn by equal parts curiosity and concern, carried me forward almost unconsciously. I wasn’t just approaching them—I was seeking context, craving some kind of logical explanation that might bridge the jarring gap between what I knew of their world and the one we now inhabited. But I barely made it three strides before Paul intercepted me.

His sudden presence at my side was startling—not because he was there, but because of the tension in his movement. He leaned in close, his voice pitched low and urgent.

“Don’t mention anything about them not being able to leave,” he whispered, the words landing with the weight of an invisible blow.

A cold ripple slid down my spine, and I instinctively inhaled, the gasp soft but sharp in the back of my throat. My eyes flicked past him to Grant and Sarah, laughing lightly at something between them, completely unaware of the truth they were walking into.

They didn’t know.

The realisation hit hard. They didn’t know that Clivilius was a one-way crossing. That once you arrived, the choice to leave was no longer yours to make. That every tentative hope they might have of returning home was, even now, quietly being dismantled.

I gave Paul a small, solemn nod, acknowledging his warning and the burden it carried. The idea of being the one to puncture their innocence, to watch disbelief turn to horror in their eyes, sent a twist of dread through my stomach. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready to carry their grief along with my own.

It was a bitter comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, that it wouldn’t fall to me. Not today.

“Karen, this is—” Paul began the introductions.

But I cut him off before he could finish. “I’m well aware of who they are, thank you, Paul,” I said, my tone sharper than I intended, edged with the concern that had been building from the moment I’d recognised the Ironbach siblings.

Grant extended his hand with the easy warmth of someone who hadn’t yet grasped the gravity of where he stood. “Karen, what a surprise to see you here,” he said, his handshake firm, his smile genuine. His presence radiated a sense of composure and confidence—traits I remembered from his public engagements, his interviews, his impassioned pleas for conservation funding.

“Yeah, small world,” I replied, my attempt at lightness falling flat even to my own ears. I forced a smile, but it barely touched my eyes. Inside, a storm was gathering—questions flaring, possibilities shifting uneasily beneath the surface of my thoughts.

Paul, sensing the strain—or perhaps simply determined to avoid it—swiftly stepped in. “Let’s find you a place to settle in for now,” he said, his words clipped and purposeful, effectively closing the door on the moment. Without waiting for further comment, he turned and began leading Grant and Sarah toward Nial’s caravan.

I stood still, watching them move away, their figures becoming smaller against the makeshift sprawl of our camp. Something about the way Paul hurried them along gnawed at me. It wasn’t just practicality. It was urgency. Deflection.

Why Nial’s caravan?

Why the secrecy?

How had Grant and Sarah ended up here, of all places? Had they come willingly? Accidentally? Had Beatrix recruited them—promised something, withheld something?

I folded my arms against the dull ache forming in my chest. The wind picked up slightly, teasing at the edge of my sleeves, stirring the fine grit of dust that never seemed to fully settle. Around me, the camp carried on—voices in the distance, the mechanical clatter of something being adjusted or erected—but I stood in stillness, the edges of reality fraying as I tried to thread together the puzzle these new arrivals presented.

Their presence was more than unexpected. It was a complication—one I couldn’t yet make sense of, but instinct told me would ripple outwards, affecting all of us in ways none of us could yet foresee.

Turning back to the campfire, I resolved to focus on the immediate needs of the camp. The fire crackled softly, its orange embers pulsing like a heartbeat, a small but constant force against the encroaching shadows of the late afternoon. I crouched beside it, adjusting a charred log with the tip of a stick, trying to anchor myself in the physical world—something I could see, smell, and control.

Yet, the puzzle of Grant and Sarah Ironbach’s arrival in Clivilius lingered persistently in the back of my mind, like a thorn pressed gently but insistently beneath the skin. No matter how I tried to cast it aside, my thoughts circled back. What were they doing here? What possible purpose could their presence serve?

Their world had been one of conservation, rehabilitation, careful observation of life in carefully managed ecosystems. Ours was one of harsh pragmatism—battling against unseen forces, rationing food, and laying the groundwork for survival in an environment that barely tolerated our existence. We dealt in uncertainty, in danger, in sweat and grit and sleepless nights beneath unfamiliar skies. They were used to guiding visitors through wildlife sanctuaries; we were fending off creatures that could tear a person apart in seconds.

I tossed another stick onto the fire, the sudden flare of flame momentarily satisfying. How could a pair of wildlife enthusiasts, known for their expertise in a field so far removed from our current predicament, be of any help here? The incongruity of it gnawed at me. We needed builders, strategists, people with experience in logistics, defence, medical care. Not zookeepers. Not idealists with clipboards and soft voices.

There was no doubt in my mind that this was another doing of Luke’s, but for the life of me, I couldn’t begin to understand his logic. Not this time. His decisions were always just on the edge of opaque, but usually I could make some sense of them if I stared long enough. This, though—this was baffling.

The fire crackled again, casting shifting shadows across the sand. I stared into the flames, willing clarity to rise from them, but all I saw were questions.

---

Walking towards the river, my thoughts were absorbed in the recent turn of events at the camp. Each step crunched softly against the dry earth, the path familiar yet never entirely the same beneath the ever-shifting dust. My arms hung loosely by my sides, fingers occasionally brushing against the coarse fabric of my trousers as if grounding me to the moment.

The serene environment around the river offered a momentary escape from the complexities back at the camp. The gentle flow of the water was soothing, allowing me a chance to reflect. I paused at the bank’s edge, letting its rhythm speak to a part of me that rarely had time to listen anymore. The water caught the light in broken fragments, dancing across the surface like glimpses of a world unburdened by our human intrusions.

I was so deep in thought that I almost didn’t notice Paul calling out to me. “Karen!” his voice broke through my reverie.

Startled, I turned to see him approaching. My expression shifted from a distant gaze to mild surprise. “Oh, Paul! Didn’t hear you coming,” I admitted, feeling a bit disoriented for a moment.

Paul fell into step beside me, matching my slow, contemplative pace. He didn’t speak right away, and I was grateful for that small grace—a few moments more to readjust from my solitude.

“You’re familiar with the Ironbachs, aren’t you?” Paul inquired, his tone carrying an unmistakable hint of enthusiasm.

His question sent a wave of apprehension through me, leaving me to wonder where he might steer the conversation. My stomach tightened, a reflexive response to the unease I’d been trying to suppress.

“Ah, the Ironbachs. Yes, our paths crossed in the world of conservation. Smart and committed, both of them,” I responded, choosing my words carefully. I wanted to acknowledge their expertise without revealing too much of my own knowledge or concerns about their unexpected presence in Clivilius. “They’ll undoubtedly be great assets here,” I added, maintaining an optimistic tone, albeit cautiously.

The visible easing of tension in Paul's demeanour was palpable. His shoulders, once slightly hunched with the weight of anticipation, now relaxed as if my presence alone had granted some unspoken permission to exhale.

“Would you mind meeting with them then? To help them integrate more fully into our community and understand our work?” Paul asked, his tone suggesting he was almost certain of my acquiescence.

I paused for a moment, letting my eyes wander over the tranquil river. Its surface caught the mellow light in rippling ribbons, and for a brief heartbeat, I allowed myself to be drawn into its quiet rhythm. The river didn’t hurry, didn’t question. It just moved forward—fluid, constant, steady. I wished I felt half as certain.

The Ironbachs had appeared content enough when I first saw them, their faces revealing little in the way of confusion or concern. Still, their sudden appearance in Clivilius—a place no one had come to by choice—clung to me like a burr. Something about it didn’t sit right. Was there more to their presence here than met the eye?

“Yes, I can do that,” I finally responded, breaking my contemplative silence. My voice was calm but carried the echo of my curiosity. “Their sudden arrival did surprise me a little. What role are they expected to play here?”

Paul seemed to ponder my question, choosing his words with care.

“Well, that’s where things get a bit murky. Luke seems to think they’ve been involved with another Guardian group. They’re here for the Wildlife Sanctuary project,” he revealed, handing me the set of folders that he was carrying.

I took the folders slowly, the weight of them surprising in its symbolism. This wasn’t just paper. It was a mandate, a vision, perhaps even a gamble. As I opened the first folder and the pages fanned out in my hands, the breeze rustled them faintly—as if the wind itself was curious about what secrets lay within.

“These plans outline the initial concept.”

It was a lot to take in at once. Another Guardian group? A Wildlife Sanctuary here in Bixbus? The ideas swirled around my brain like sediment in stirred water. The notion seemed almost fantastical given the state of our camp—dusty, unfinished, fragile. And yet… with each page I turned, I felt the tremor of something stirring beneath the doubt.

Diagrams, plans, and notes filled the pages, outlining a vision that seemed almost too ambitious for our current situation. Carefully drawn enclosures, annotated species lists, sustainability metrics—some of it wildly optimistic, some surprisingly grounded.

“This is intriguing,” I commented, my eyes absorbing the details of the documents. My fingers hovered over a sketch of a wetland enclosure, the imagined contours of the land mapped out with meticulous detail. I felt the tension between scepticism and wonder twist quietly inside me.

Paul shifted uneasily beside me, a subtle shifting of weight that betrayed the presence of something left unsaid. “There’s one more thing,” he said, his voice laced with caution. “I don’t believe Grant and Sarah are aware that this trip to Clivilius is a one-way journey. They still think they’ll return to Bonorong.”

My brow furrowed instantly, a ripple of concern spreading across my face. The confirmation struck like a stone sinking into still water, disturbing the surface of my thoughts with expanding rings of consequence. Of course they didn’t know. And now, the weight of that knowledge sat with me—how and when they would come to realise the truth, and who would be the one to unveil it.

“I see. That’s delicate,” I acknowledged, my voice quiet but resolute. The words felt heavy, as though uttering them gave shape to the difficult path ahead. I could already envision the disbelief in Sarah’s eyes, the stunned silence that might follow. “I’ll approach this carefully.”

Paul’s shoulders eased, a visible release of tension. He seemed grateful in that raw, unguarded way that only emerged when trust was placed in the hands of another.

“Thank you, Karen. This means a lot.”

I gave a faint smile, small and subdued, the best I could offer with my mind already tangled in the moral labyrinth his words had created. The folders in my hands, still open to the neatly drawn diagrams and sprawling notes, felt heavier than before. They weren’t just plans—they were promises. Possibilities. A future. And yet, overshadowing that hope was the knowledge that two people had stepped into this future unknowingly, unprepared.

“I’ll speak with them shortly,” I assured Paul, even as my gaze wandered back to the water’s edge. The river moved slowly, steadily, tracing its way through the dust and silence of Clivilius. I imagined what might one day lie along its banks: enclosures nestled among trees, animal tracks pressed into fresh earth, birdsong layered over wind. A place shaped not just by necessity, but by purpose.

Paul’s reply came with a respectful nod. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, understanding, at least in part, the complexity of what he was asking me to undertake.

As his footsteps faded into the distance, I remained rooted to the spot, letting the hush of the river settle over me like a balm. There was no instruction manual for moments like this—only instinct, compassion, and the hope that truth, however difficult, could eventually give way to understanding.