2014 School Magazine

NEW BEGINNINGS BY MEG CHARLTON (9R)

Angela’s arthritic knuckles were white as she gripped her walking stick. Her weary gaze surveyed what was once a vast, slightly overgrown garden. Her nose wrinkled with the smell of ash that still hung in the air and the muscles in her face and neck flinched as she turned stiffly to look behind her. Angela’s drooping eyes followed the single line of shuffling footprints that had disturbed the bed of ash. She paused, trying to process what had happened. Where once her lovely cottage had nestled among the tall eucalypts, a mound of twisted metal and ash now lay. Fire was such a cruel master. It wasn’t selective; it destroyed everything in its path. Turning slowly again, Angela continued past the remains of her favourite shrubs. A few stumps were all that remained of the magnificent grevillea that had been a favourite of the birds. She sank slowly onto the old wrought iron chair — the only piece of furniture to survive the inferno. Her swollen fingers rubbed her tired face and she looked down the valley. Her eyelids drooped and Angela dozed in the sun. Her dreams wandered lazily back to how it had been before the devastating bushfire. Each new day had begun in a similar way. Three raucous kookaburras would start their morning ritual at dawn, a long series of noisy chuckles that reverberated from deep in their throats. She sat up in her bed and looked out at them, smiling wryly. Their cacophony of sounds amused her. She often wished she could share their joke. Her nose itched and she sneezed suddenly. Ah, the wattles must be out; she always had a little hay fever when they flowered. Cutting suddenly through her tranquil thoughts, was an image that shattered her peace. The fire front, once a small line on the horizon, jumped the firebreaks and rushed up the valley toward her home. The orange flames licked ferociously at the dense, dark green foliage like a thousand serpents’ tongues, its terrifying tendrils consuming everything in their path, leaving behind a blackened, smoking wasteland. Crack. Angela woke with a start when her walking stick struck a rock as it fell to the ground. It echoed the sound that had reverberated through the valley as eucalyptus oil exploded during the fire. Angela’s heart pounded loudly in her chest as she remembered the moment when she realised she must leave, and quickly. She had bundled a few clothes into a shopping bag, snatched a couple of treasured photographs from the mantelpiece and called, ‘Lily, Lily come’. A small black dog rushed into the room, its tail wagging furiously. Angela didn’t drive much anymore. Patrick, her son, wanted her to give it away completely but she had resisted. She paused briefly to catch a final glimpse of her beloved home as she drove down the track, all the time praying that the fire would miraculously burn itself out before it reached her property. Now, a month later, as she surveyed the devastation she understood that nothing in the valley had been spared. Like her friends whose houses had also been destroyed, Angela loved the bush. She loved the tall trees, the flowers that changed with the season and the wildlife. She bent down wearily to retrieve her walking stick and stopped abruptly. Between the cracks in the rocks on which her stick had fallen, a small green seedling reached upward to the light. The leaves were quite distinctive, long and oval; she wracked her brain to find the right name. It came to her suddenly. The seedling was a wattle — a tree that needed fire to germinate. For the first time in weeks, a smile lifted the corners of Angela’s mouth and the cloud of depression that had consumed Angela, evaporated; she now had a plan. Like the wattle, she would start again. Her house was insured, she would rebuild, just as the bush was already starting to rebuild. The bush was overcoming the disaster that had taken place and so would she. ■

This story was awarded second place in the IEUA — QNT, ETAQ and James Cook University Literary Competition in the Year 9-10 short story category.

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