jml297

Jim pushed his way through the spiky undergrowth, swatting at the shrubs that seemed intent on clawing at his arms and legs. It had to be close now, if those old blokes at the pub had been telling the truth last night.

They’d said it was easy to find, but only if your heart was pure and your intentions were true. By then, the beer had been followed by rum chasers, and no-one was making much sense. But he’d been caught up in the story of a place where there was clear, sweet water, unsullied by nearby stock or the steady creep of the expanding town.

When he’d woken with a foggy head, the thought of heading out and finding a place called the Salvation Stream seemed like the best thing he could do. He’d set off with a day pack, hastily filled with a bit of food and a couple of water bottles. Jim had drunk most of the water, confident that there would be a body of clear water that would replenish the bottles and provide respite from the dust that seemed to rise with each weary step. As he’d trudged along, his mind had been full of daydreams of swimming in cool water, along a bank shaded by old river gums. Jim could imagine the dappled light, feeling the slight tug of the water as it moved along downstream and that sense of weightlessness that water can provide. These thoughts were a comfort as the sun rose higher in the sky, and his skin mottled and reddened in the heat.

And then he saw a couple of big river gums in the distance. He grinned, let out a whoop and picked up the pace. Within minutes, he could see the riverbank. Jim jogged the last few metres, easing the day pack off his back to make the descent into the cool water quicker.

But when he reached the edge of the bank, ready for the climb down into the water, Jim stumbled to a stop. There was water in the river bed, but it was a mean trickle, barely enough to wet his feet in, let alone the rest of him. He took off his hat and threw it, cursing the old men who’d spun him a story. He slumped under one of the old river gums and stared down at the sorry excuse for a stream.

It took some time, but once Jim stopped muttering about being taken for a fool, he quietened and began to relax. There were subtle murmurings and whispers in the air, and he watched birds and lizards approach the river bed, stopping to drink or splash in the stream. He fancied that he could hear voices on the breeze, talking of times when the stream was full of water and life, of people that had come and gone, of the days of plenty and tougher times, of the ebb and flow of life.

This piece was written to a prompt on the Writer’s Digest website. Babbling brook: nature has a voice.

Photo: bush track view