The Gift

by Lui Sit

Flinging my leg over my red bike, I shunt forward, trundling out of the backyard down the bitumen driveway. Our cul-de-sac is unusually still for late Sunday afternoon in Huntingdale. All the neighbourhood kids must’ve been called in already, either now watching Sunday sports with their parents or being scrubbed clean before dinner time.

Behind me sits the three-bed beige brick and red tile Australian house that has been home for seven years. Inside, stacked boxes full of our belongings await the removalists’ arrival tomorrow when the convoy to our new house will begin. Thirty minutes drive away, a vast distance. My ten-year-old self realises the unlikelihood of me ever returning.

Pushing off, I cycle down the cul de sac, turning left onto Cardington Way, which I call Cardigan Way. It’s the main road which separates housing from bushland; the south side of the road is lined with the residential sprawl of seventies Australia, while the north side harbours dense remnant bushland which slopes downward towards the Southern River; a bold name for what for the most part of the year resembles a slip of creek.

Pedalling on, I cruise past the identikit houses, eventually casting my eyes towards the olives and yellows of the bushland, inhaling the crisp burning scent of Australian native foliage. I breathe in, snorting like a junkie, unsure of whether I will smell these smells again in the landlocked suburb we are moving to.

About 2km on, I steer the front wheel off the road, mounting the verge onto a wizened patch of buffalo grass. Dismounting, I wheel my bike across the dirt, weaving through a vertical patchwork of marri, jarrah, and eucalyptus trees. Nothing about this spot distinguishes it from the wall of bush and scrub populating the banks of the river. Yet it is an entryway as familiar to me as the front door of the house we are about to leave.

Once the trees behind are dense enough to provide cover from prying eyes, I drop my bike on the ground and continue on. As I head deeper into the bush, the sunlight breaking through the spangled network of tree foliage turns my gaze into a squint. The snap and crunch of dry twigs burst from underfoot, matched by the shuffle of parched leaves as I walk on, oblivious to any potentially poisonous companions present. The sun is warm on my arms and the air here smells even more of burning, but there is no fire in sight.

The only map I have is etched in memory. I make my way towards where the ground starts to slope down to the river, the slight angle pitching me forward and, just before the earth dips fully, it comes into view.

A eucalyptus gum, not as tall as some others here, but old and wide with a hollow trunk. Inside are deep indents and pitted spaces carved out by ants, spiders, wood grubs, and other denizens of this place. I scrape my palm down along the trunk, the bark’s rough stringiness sending a shiver through me as dry husks splinter off, threatening to embed into the flesh of my fingers. Still, I stroke the tree in the same way I stroke my cat.

Hello. I’m back.

I move closer to the trunk and push my cheek up against it, taking in the parched smell of ancient wood before stepping inside the hollow. The air here is damp, rich with the scent of fungi and soil. There is just enough room for me to stand and sit. I gaze at the pale interior, a creamy beige bark which peels off easily when touched. I think of the dolls, books, and dead insects I have decorated this space with. The mud feasts served in bark crockery, eaten with twig cutlery. Moments where I sat, eyes closed, hoping to find another world when I opened them, asking the tree to transport me somewhere. Anywhere.

I linger in the dim quiet of the hollow, breathing, listening. Here sunlight has a sound. I can hear the shrinking of the bark in the heat of the day, the swelling of the deep tap roots pulsing beneath the soil, sucking water from the river source. The whine of flies reminds me that I am a minority here.

I stay still, as still as a ten-year-old can stay. If I stay long enough, maybe I can absorb enough of this place to last me forever.

Five minutes, five hours pass and I get up from the soil, dusting dirt off my legs. I emerge from the tree hollow and leave quickly.

I’m back on my bike, heading in the opposite direction of home, riding further down Cardigan Way, past the nature reserve containing the playground where my baby brother cut open his chin and the tennis courts where I practised until my arms ached. Late afternoon shifts to early evening, the sky fading from a harsh primary blue to muted pastels. My stomach grumbles with hunger but I ignore it, moving past the reserve towards a patch of dense bushland less than a kilometre away. Here is untrammelled territory, unexplored terrain that is so foreign to me that I might as well have trekked into the Nullabor desert from suburban Perth.

My breath is sharp with anticipation as I ditch my bike onto the ground, leaving it in full view of the road. If I don’t return, my deserted bike will act as a flag, alerting the rescue squad to the last actions of an errant child in her quest for adventure.

Further in I go, the familiar crack and snap of twigs underfoot signalling just how quiet the outer suburban surroundings are. I sniff the air like an overstimulated tracker dog, my senses heightened as the network of trees branching out overhead, encasing me like a horde of protective aunts.

I duck and weave past each one, marking out a new topography in my size five sneakers. The ground pitches familiarly, sloping downwards, leading me to an open clearing where trees have forgotten to grow. Instead, there are great swathes of tall pale reeds, a kind of bulrush, all swaying as one.

I stop. Delighted.

The rushes stand taller than me and form a dense boundary, a reed battalion allowing no further entry. The only passage through is for creatures with wings. Dragonflies, bees, houseflies, blowies, butterflies. Maybe a fairy or two.

I wedge one foot into the clump of reeds and force the mass of stalks apart with both arms. Pushing through, I test my weight on the bent stalks, feeling the dense root mass support me so I continue on, the strands rebelliously springing back upright as I pass. The only thing I can see ahead is a wall of rushes that tickle my face as I move through them until, just as suddenly as they appeared, the bulrushes thin out and I am somewhere new.

My breath catches as I stare into a vast room created by living reeds. It has four walls like the rooms of a house and a perfect thatched floor created of horizontal, blonde stalks. I test its sturdiness and it does not give, although the springiness makes me wonder what is underneath. Water? Earth? Air? I take another step into the middle of this natural, perfect structure. It holds. The reeds are even higher here, stretching towards the sky. I circle around, arms outstretched.

I exhale and the sound of the evening birds’ chorus rushes into my ears, a fitting soundtrack for the moment.

“Wow.”

Standing in my shorts and grubby t-shirt, my legs and arms toasted from the sun, my uneven fringe plastered with dirt and sweat to my forehead, I feel that I’ve been given a gift, bestowed upon me by forces I welcome but don’t understand. I squat onto the reed floor, before lying down flat. Spread-eagling my arms and legs, I gaze up to find the first few evening stars looking back at me.

Tomorrow we are leaving but right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.

Home.