belt, the sun spiking down turning the green leaves to shimmering gold. Leprechauns – from his school storybooks – with green top hats and orange beards grin at young Abel from behind the bushes. But the best – the highlight of this journey – was just before they got to the creek, they’d pass through an area of thick grass and high, dense trees, and since it was always about midday, the sun’d be directly overhead and shining down through the tall timber canopy in a cone-like shape to form a sparkling, sun-drenched cathedral. Father and son would exchange a conspiratorial grin, sharing the silent excitement of walking through this hushed bush space into their private world beyond, knowing that once they passed through their shimmering basilica nothing could touch them. They’d stomp loudly to announce their arrival to the local leprechaun population, then stop quietly to hear the stomping reply. Then, when they’d leave on their way back, once through the thicket, Dad’d make a ‘locking the gate’ motion, hiding the pretend key under a log for Abel to fossick for on their next appearance. In the reserve they’d spend the day fishing and exploring, then sleep, the two of them, snugly in sleeping bags inside the low tent, Wags wedged between them, but the funniest was that Wags, a strict meat-eater, succumbed to nibbling at the fried fish Dad had caught, not at all perturbed by the two humans’ teasing remarks – what wuss dog eats fish and chips, we won’t tell your mates, Wagsie… Here again old Abel is forced to edit out that last camping trip that negated all that came before, when the journey to Ithaca was plagued by giant cannibals and Cyclops and angry Poseidon; young Abel’s thoughts unable to block out these monsters, his youthful soul saw them stalking and threatening behind every tree and bush … But that calamity is still a long way off as, buoyed by these earlier bonding adventures through the lighthouse cathedral, young Abel on his bike is zigzagging up the long incline through the huge trees and bushes of the nature reserve – the bike floats on a cushion of air like Aladdin on his magic carpet – but this isn’t the case for old Abel who trembles as he calls out to the boy with his entire being, Abel, come back,but his steamy bellowing only merges with the pestering – female, soft yet determined, but otherwise unidentifiable – voice calling out behind him, just as frantically, Abel, come back. On top of the hill the boy stops dead on his bike, slanting sideways, one foot thrown down, he sits frozen, mesmerised, the brutal sun blanking out the horizon, he hears a hurricane-like roar before he sees it, the mighty bushfire front racing up the hill towards him, flames higher than the trees, chewing and snapping all in their path. Black–red smoke rolls relentlessly forward like surf; a branch, whipped up by the hot wind, lands smouldering at the bike’s front wheel, the tiny flames hiss and spark, turning the brown wood black and red … As he watches his own reflection in the approaching wall of flames he forgets about his dog, loses the will to move, as the heat sears his shirtfront and browns his knees – sticking out of his shorts – like warm toast, cinders prick his face like hot beestings, the stench of his own singeing hair and his scorching eyelashes hits and his chest heaves upwards, expanding with the incubating heat. A giant, frantic-eyed, flaming kangaroo bounds right at him, its next manic hop will no doubt land right on top of the boy and his bike – the view is interrupted as a yellow plastic arm dripping greasy water plucks the boy from his bike like a scythe felling a restored soul – the boy, still fixated on the flaming kangaroo, is carried backwards, bouncing like a log in a smooth yellow armpit, he watches as the animal buckles and falls on his bike, both consumed by flames. Finally the boy is flung onto the floor of a metal cabin then bounced on his side, wedged between two wet, yellow plastic suits, to the sound of frantic shouting overridden by blaring sirens, the distance breaking away from the heat … and after the truck stops and he’s wrapped in a wet towel and given a water bottle … Old Abel swallows hard, only now is he suddenly burning up with thirst, as the boy gulps down the amazing water and catches his reflection in a truck’s side mirror – a little black, brown and red savage in charred clothing remnants, with tufts of charcoal hair so hilarious that the boy giggles – white teeth on parade in a blackened face – an image he’ll well recall so many years later as he stares into a similar mirror with Roma’s blackened daughter, Acacia, in her charred pink tutu by his side – and Abel in the car collapses back into the seat with the taste of that cool, life-saving water on his lips and reclines, exhausted, but there’s no Roma touching his face with those faith-healing hands, and the melted wheelchair and two gaping skeletons are just around his next few DING, CLANG, BING pinball heartbeats and Abel has a revelation: the game’s rules state you can’t escape from what’s already happened, because once you’re plunged into the playfield, ricocheted to and fro, Roma’s hands gripping the flippers will not allow you to drain, until you have definitely and comprehensively, given a full account of yourself. Old Abel catches a glimpse from the side of his eye, a ghostly nurse shimmers in the back seat, arms reaching out, whispering Abel, Abel, come to me …
Abel succumbs to the pressure on his body, his arms, legs and chest are being pummelled, but it doesn’t distract him as he rolls towards his next destination. This new house is double storey, surrounded by a wild bougainvillea garden/fence – thorny vines with masses of green leaves and bright magenta flowers hang over Abel’s head like collapsed umbrellas – the concrete footpath at his feet, his scratched initials (AJM) still clearly visible, saturated with the memory of the night after the footpath had been poured, Dad waking him with finger across his lips, draping sleepy Abel in a dressing gown, sneaking the two of them out the window, coaching Abel with screwdriver to inscribe the letters for posterity … But more than the nostalgia of running his old finger over the dusty grey initials, the wild bougainvillea zooms into Abel’s face with the force of a curved 3D screen, so real that he breathes in the sharp tang of the magenta flowers as he bends over, and slips though the well-trodden gap between the bushes, contorting his shoulders to avoid the thorns, a few yards away Mum and Dad standing, smiling, one arm around each back, Mum holding a glass of white wine, Dad a beer, facing Bernie and Margaret, their best friends, smiling the same way, standing in the exact position holding drinks, between them assorted meat sizzles on the barbecue … The six kids of the two families torment a brand new kitten, Ginger, until she crawls under the trampoline to get some peace, then the two older boys kick the footy and the four younger kids jump like crazy on the trampoline to further annoy the kitten; the ideal afternoon’s itinerary recites itself minute by domestic-blissful minute. The sun burns young Abel’s shirtless back, but there’s no talk of sunscreen, the mixed grill impregnates the air with hunger as the four adults don sunglasses, cuddling kissing, drinking, teasing and whispering risqué jokes … Old Abel wishes he could peel back young Abel’s eyes to see and predict the coming fall: Bernie’s longing scan of Mum’s mini-skirted legs, Mum’s clandestine thighs chafing in reply, a tweak of her bra, Bernie’s horsey snort acknowledging signal received, Dad’s … no, old Abel can’t do this, even after all these years, he can’t find the heart to damage young Abel’s memory. If he takes this perfect image away, what does the young boy have left? A childhood minus Dad, Wags and the forest reserve camping trips? No, he leaves the boy be, leaves him to remember that rosy, shiny, secure afternoon, the height of his blissful familyhood, stretched to unfold frame by frame over the next few months like time-lapse photography, as the sky slowly pales and dawn approaches – for another bonus sunshiny day in an additional season, as all the boy’s sunshiny memories are – old Abel’s foreboding cramps are back, this time accompanied by a sunburned back – he cannot shield young Abel any longer. Abel, weighed down by his giant school bag rubbing on sunburn, ignores his dizziness and heaving stomach to drop his sisters off at junior school, accepting their hugs – One more squirrel hug, Ali – copying Dad’s morning routine, Go on, that’s enough now, off you go my two little squirrels, the teacher is waiting and off they strut, primed and jovial … then he drags himself home from school in the mid morning, pulls himself up the long, curved banister, drops his bag on the carpet and rushes to the toilet to puke his guts out. Now copying his mother Abel presses his open palm to his forehead, then another dash to the loo to shake and shudder and dry retch some more, he goes downstairs, and phones his mother’s work but is told that she too is sick, and won’t be at work that day … What are the odds of that, hey? … Abel struggles to his room, strips, puts on his pyjamas, buttons them up crookedly and takes his temperature. Picturing his mother he times the three minutes on his bedside clock, struggles to stay awake then checks the reading, he’s burning up, over forty degrees. He crushes two Aspro in a glass
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