Caravellum

There. Just below the wrinkles of pink quartzite in the belt of rusted earth. A crack, circling where Alice Springs once was. It twisted on itself, pulling at the land about it like a great corkscrew. The fissure stretched in a moment – just a fingernail’s width by his measure – but taking it as far as the torched sands of the Gibson. He wondered at the sound it must be making as the ancient ground warped and broke. Like a bushfire during the dry season, he thought, when blasts of eucalypt sap cracked like thunder and the roar of fire was rain. He tried to listen, but the sound couldn’t reach him. In seconds, the eastern edge of the chasm had stretched through Tambo, where Pa had bought him Mr Bear a lifetime ago, and it left wakes of blood-red dustclouds as it tore through stone. The severed earth stretched into a jagged frown as it bisected the land from the Indian to the Pacific, cracking the continent into pieces of a toddler’s puzzle.

He watched his breaking country pass by through the silica-glass dome of the Edith’s Retreat, orbiting a world above. He scoured his brain as he tried to remember how far south the cemetery had been, and wondered whether Ma and Pa were still in one piece. He could barely think over the muzak, saxophones and drumbeats, and the chattering of the couple lounging by the poolside. Their conversation entered unbidden into the edges of his mind.

“- that resort-ship there?”

“Looks like the Phaethon.”

“Oh, I think Rob took Jess on that last month! The view was so clear, their photos were gorgeous.” A pause. 

“Well, if somebody like Rob was able to get tickets, then I’m sure I can book it for us next time.”

“Really? Babe, that would be so amazing.”

“Of course, at least they might actually have some decent service there. Hey, you!”

There was a sound of clicking fingers.

“Hellooo? Anybody home?”

The man stared at him, reclining across the deckchair. Their vlogging camera was on a tripod behind them, framing their champagne flutes as the husk of the dying earth pirouetted before them. He was a globular creature, sitting with a pudgy hand on the thigh of the woman who squeaked when her lips stretched to a smirk. He had turned his neck to face him, twisted folds of fat trapping crystals of sweat-salt between them. The man held out a dirty plate.

“We’re out of calamari.” The woman drained her glass. “And bring a bottle of prosecco with it.” He added.

He wanted to scream, smash the plate on the man’s head, set the place on fire, and take a pod to the surface. He wanted to go home, desperately. But it was gone. So, instead, he took the plate, bowed with a smile, walked to the kitchen, and tried to keep himself from cracking.