We trudged silently behind Glenda, our feet sinking into the thick dust that blanketed the rugged landscape of Clivilius. With each step, a cloud of fine particles rose, coating our clothes and skin in a layer of the planet's essence. The terrain was harsh and unyielding, marked by small hills that seemed to challenge our resolve with every incline we traversed. Our exhaustion grew with the landscape, a physical testament to the distance between our expectations and the reality we now faced.
Eventually, signs of habitation materialised before us, breaking the monotony of the barren landscape. My heart sank as I took in the sight of the so-called settlement. It was a stark contrast to the images that had been conjured in my mind when Luke had shared his dreams. "Not much of a settlement, is it,” Chris remarked, his voice tinged with disappointment, a sentiment that resonated deeply with my own feelings.
I surveyed the scene before us: several large tents and a small campfire constituted the entirety of the settlement. It was primitive, a far cry from the utopian world Luke had painted in our conversations. The disparity between expectation and reality was jarring. "Is this it?" I asked, my voice laden with dismay, unable to mask the disillusionment that clawed at my chest.
"This is it,” Glenda confirmed, her voice carrying a sense of pride that seemed incongruous with the modesty of our surroundings. "Welcome to Bixbus.” Her pride, despite the simplicity of the settlement, hinted at stories and struggles we had yet to understand, a depth to this place that went beyond its physical appearance.
"Bixbus?" Chris echoed, his confusion palpable. The name added another layer of mystery to our already bewildering situation. "I thought we were in Clivilius?"
Glenda chuckled lightly. “Oh, we are in Clivilius, but we've called our own little settlement Bixbus.” Her explanation, while simple, spoke volumes about the human capacity to adapt and to carve out a sense of belonging, even in the most alien of environments.
Chris responded sheepishly to the revelation of Bixbus, his demeanour a mix of confusion and subdued excitement, a reflection of the internal struggle we both faced in reconciling our dreams with our reality. And I, I fell into a deep, contemplative silence, my thoughts swirling as memories of the bus rides with Luke and Jane flooded back. Those conversations, once filled with laughter and speculative dreams, now felt like distant echoes of a past that was irretrievably lost.
We had often mused about a world ready for a fresh start, a blank canvas where the mistakes of our past could be washed clean, a place where we could live in harmony with nature. Chris, with his inherent love for the land and sustainable living, had always been more enthusiastic than I about these discussions. His passion, his vision for a future that was both simple and profound, was one of the things I admired most about him. It was a vision that had always seemed just within reach, a tangible future if only we dared to grasp it.
But standing here, in the stark reality of Bixbus, I realised how unprepared I was for this new life. The barrenness of the landscape was suffocating, a sharp contrast to our discussions that were filled with lush greenery and thriving communities. Here, the emptiness stretched as far as the eye could see, a visual representation of the isolation that now enveloped us. The vibrant world we had envisioned, where nature and humanity existed in a delicate balance, seemed a naive fantasy in the face of this desolate reality.
Where are all the people? The trees? The animals? And where is the capital? These questions hammered in my mind, a relentless tide of confusion and disappointment. I sucked in a huge gulp of air, trying to calm the rising panic, to find some grounding in this unfamiliar world. This is the capital! Bixbus is the capital! The realisation hit me like a physical blow, a cool tingle running up my spine as the full weight of our situation settled around me.
A young man emerged from one of the tents, his presence momentarily diverting our attention from the desolation that surrounded us. The small Shih Tzu that followed at his heels offered a flicker of normalcy, a reminder of the world we had left behind. "Duke?" I asked, crouching down to greet the little dog, the sight of him a small beacon of comfort in this alien world. It was strange how the presence of something as simple as a dog could momentarily lighten the weight of our circumstances.
"You know him?" Glenda inquired, her curiosity evident as she watched my interaction with Duke. Her question, simple yet filled with implications, hinted at the unexpected connections that seemed to weave through our current predicament.
"Not really,” I replied, my eyes meeting hers. "I've seen pictures. Is Henri here too?" My question was driven by a mix of hope and the desire for familiarity, for any thread that could link this strange new world to the one we had known.
Glenda pointed towards the tent, her laughter lightening the moment as the shorter, fatter Shih Tzu made a half-hearted attempt to follow Duke. The sight of the dogs, so carefree in their actions, offered a brief respite from the overwhelming reality of our situation.
“Hi," the young man greeted us. "I'm Jamie.” His introduction was straightforward, yet his presence here, in Bixbus, added another layer to the unfolding mystery of our arrival.
“Ahh," I said, a realisation dawning on me. "Luke's partner.” The pieces of the puzzle began to click into place, though the picture they formed was still incomplete.
“Yep," he replied, his expression sombre. The weight of his single word carried an undercurrent of emotion, a reflection of the complexities and challenges that lay beneath the surface of our casual meeting.
"This is Karen and her husband, Chris,” Glenda announced, formally bridging the gap between us.
"Bus friend Karen?" Jamie asked, his eyes narrowing in recognition.
I chuckled, a small release in the tension that had built up since our arrival. “Yes, that'd be me.” The acknowledgment of my identity, once so closely tied to my daily routine and interactions on Earth, now felt like a title from another life, a reminder of the distance we had travelled, both physically and metaphorically.
"I'd normally say nice to meet you, but this is hardly a fun place to meet in,” Jamie said with a palpable lack of enthusiasm. His words, though perhaps intended as candid, seemed to echo the barrenness of the landscape, amplifying the sense of isolation that had begun to settle in my heart since our arrival in Bixbus.
Feeling my pulse quicken, I realised the truth in Luke's description of Jamie. His negative energy was almost tangible, casting a shadow over our already grim situation. It was a presence that we could ill afford, especially now, as Chris and I grappled with the reality of our new life. Chris, already burdened with his own fears and doubts, didn't need this additional weight, this confirmation of our worst fears.
I glanced quickly between Glenda and Jamie, making a decision. The need for space, for a moment to think and regroup, was pressing. "Do you mind if Chris and I take a moment for a quick chat, just us?” I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil churning within me. It was a request for distance, for a brief respite from the collective anxiety that Jamie's introduction had exacerbated.
“Sure," Glenda responded, her tone laced with understanding, a beacon of empathy in the bleakness of our situation. "A river runs behind the tents. Might make a more pleasant spot for you.”
"Thanks, Glenda,” I said, a genuine note of gratitude in my voice. Her guidance felt like a lifeline, a path to a momentary escape from the overwhelming reality that awaited us in Bixbus. I took Chris by the arm, gently leading him away from the group and towards the river, seeking a moment of solitude. The prospect of the river, of water running free and clear, offered a symbolic promise of renewal, a chance to wash away the immediate dread and perhaps find clarity in the midst of our confusion.
"Karen, what are you doing?" Chris asked once we were a safe distance away, his voice laced with confusion and a hint of concern. The tranquility of the river did little to ease the tension that had built between us.
I turned to face him, feeling the seriousness of our situation wash over me like a cold wave. The lines on my face deepened. “Listen to me. I remember Luke telling me about a very specific dream. It was about the role that you and I would play in the new world,” I began, my words tinged with a mix of urgency and hope. It was a leap of faith, invoking Luke's dreams as a beacon in our current darkness, clinging to the possibility that there was more to his stories than mere fantasy.
"Come on, Karen,” Chris interjected, his skepticism a sharp contrast to the earnestness in my voice. "That was all just fantasy. All those times you and I talked about it, none of it was real.” His disbelief, though understandable, felt like another obstacle to overcome, a reminder of the chasm between hope and reality.
“Chris,” I cut in, my voice firm with determination, not allowing his doubt to derail the moment. "Quiet yourself,” I urged him, needing him to truly listen, to open his mind beyond the confines of our past discussions and entertain the possibility that there was a deeper truth to uncover.
Chris complied, albeit reluctantly, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths. It was a visible effort to find some semblance of inner peace. His shoulders relaxed slightly, a sign that he was at least willing to entertain my request.
"What does your mind show you?” I prompted gently, watching him intently. It was a question born of desperation and hope, a plea for him to connect with something beyond our understanding, to find a clue or a sign that would guide us forward.
As Chris mumbled quietly, his words blending with the soothing sounds of the river, I gazed across the wide expanse of water, allowing myself a moment of silent reflection. Clivilius, if you are there, help him see, I silently implored, my heart clinging to the slim hope for some guidance, some sign.
Chris's eyes fluttered open, a newfound confidence in his gaze that took me by surprise. "I think you're right, Karen,” he affirmed, his demeanour shifting from skepticism to something that bordered on belief. It was a transformation, however small, that filled me with a sense of relief and renewed purpose.
Just then, the sound of a vehicle near the tents drew my attention, cutting through our quiet conversation. "Shall we?" I asked, feeling a surge of curiosity. Despite the uncertainty and complexity of our situation, the arrival of others at the small camp was a chance to see who else was here.
Chris shrugged, his silent gesture of agreement an acknowledgment of our shared interest. Together, we walked back to the camp, the bond between us momentarily fortified by our mutual curiosity.
As we approached, two young men were stepping out of a dust-covered ute, their presence an anomaly in the desolate landscape of Bixbus. I couldn't help but wonder, Where did they come from? My observations during our arrival hadn't revealed any tracks or signs of other settlements, adding another layer of mystery to the already perplexing situation of Clivilius.
"That was bloody awesome!" one exclaimed, his voice filled with exhilaration as he high-fived the other. Their carefree demeanour and laughter were starkly out of place in the grim reality of Bixbus, yet it brought a momentary lightness to the air.
"Apart from clogging up the engine!" the other laughed, his mirth echoing in the barren landscape. Their joy, though infectious, felt like a distant memory to me, a reminder of a time when such simple pleasures weren't overshadowed by the weight of survival in an alien world.
"Guys!" Glenda interjected, her voice cutting through their jovial banter. "We have two new guests,” she announced, her tone shifting to a more formal register, introducing us as if our arrival was an event of some significance within the small confines of their community.
"I wouldn't call them guests,” Jamie's voice sliced in, his tone laced with cynicism. "They're not going anywhere.” His words, though harsh, rang with an uncomfortable truth, casting a shadow over the brief moment of levity. The group fell into an awkward silence, the air suddenly heavy with the implications of his statement.
"I'm Paul,” the taller man broke the silence, extending his hand towards us, a gesture of welcome that momentarily bridged the gap between our worlds.
"Chris Owen,” said Chris, his grip firm as he shook Paul's hand. "And this is my wife, Karen,” he introduced me, a hint of pride in his voice.
"Nice to meet you, Karen,” Paul said, turning his attention to me. His handshake was firm, yet friendly, a warmth in his grasp that belied the harshness of our surroundings. It was a simple human connection, yet it held within it the promise of understanding, of potential friendship in this strange new world.
Meanwhile, the younger lad, Kain, introduced himself to Chris and then to me. “Kain," he said, his handshake equally firm. "Jamie's nephew.” The introduction brought a flicker of recognition across my face, connecting the dots of our arrival to the web of relationships that constituted this small community.
“Ahh," I responded, acknowledging the connection. Paul gestured towards Jamie, who was still standing near the front of the centre tent with Henri at his feet, a silent sentinel amidst our growing acquaintance. "I see you've met Jamie then,” he said, a note of camaraderie in his voice.
"We've only just met,” I replied. "But Luke told us a lot about him over the years.” My words, meant to convey familiarity, seemed to echo strangely in the open air, a reminder of the distance between what we knew of Jamie through Luke's stories and the man standing before us.
"Us?" Chris interjected, a note of confusion in his voice. "I've never heard his name before.” His statement, while true, highlighted the selective nature of the narratives we shared, the pieces of our lives we chose to reveal to one another.
"Not you, darling. Jane,” I clarified, turning to face him.
"Who's Jane?" Kain asked, his curiosity piqued.
Paul's exclamation cut through the growing list of questions. “Oh, you must be one of Luke's bus friends!” The recognition, while accurate, felt reductive, framing my connection to Luke within the confines of a daily commute. I was more than just a 'bus friend', but perhaps to these people, that was all I was.
“Yes,” I replied simply, my response a concession to the role I played in their understanding of Luke's world. My mind wandered, pondering the nature of my relationship with Luke. We had been close, sharing moments of laughter and serious discussions in the confines of a city bus, yet standing here, in the shadow of Clivilius, I wondered if our connection had been as profound as I had believed.
"But where is Luke?" Kain asked, his gaze shifting between Chris and me, his question cutting through the tentative bonds we had just begun to form with our introductions. His inquiry, innocent yet laden with implications, seemed to cast a shadow over our small gathering, reminding us all of the person whose absence was as palpable as the dust under our feet.
"He's not here,” I answered, the words heavy on my tongue, feeling a pang of disappointment and confusion that seemed to resonate with the barren landscape around us. The absence of Luke, the catalyst for our journey to this alien world, loomed large, a silent question mark hanging over us.
Paul looked questioningly at Glenda, seeking an explanation, his expression one of concern and confusion.
"Appears this was another accident,” Glenda explained, her tone resigned, as if this were not the first time unforeseen events had shaped the course of their lives here in Bixbus. Her words, though sparse, hinted at a history of unpredictability and challenges that we were only just beginning to grasp.
Kain muttered something under his breath, his comment almost inaudible, a low murmur that seemed to carry the weight of shared understanding among those who had lived in Bixbus longer than we had.
"Not to be rude,” Paul said, his curiosity piqued, breaking the momentary lull that had fallen over our group. "But what do you actually do?" His question, though direct, was a bridge back to normalcy, an attempt to understand us beyond the circumstances of our unexpected arrival.
"I'm an entomologist,” I responded, feeling a sense of pride in my profession swell within me, a reminder of the life I had led before finding myself in this unforeseen situation. It was a piece of my identity that remained unchanged, a constant in a world that had been turned upside down.
"A what?" Paul asked, his confusion clear.
Kain jumped in with a simplified explanation. "She studies bugs.” His attempt at clarification, though well-intentioned, missed the nuance of my work, reducing it to a colloquial understanding.
“Oh," said Paul, the deep lines of confusion still riddling his face, a visual testament to the gap in his understanding.
I corrected Kain, my tone patient but firm. "Insects. Not bugs.” It was a small distinction, but an important one, a clarification that spoke not only to the specifics of my profession but also to the importance of understanding and precision, qualities that seemed all the more vital in this new and unfamiliar world.
Paul’s confusion seemed only to grow as I delved into the specifics of my profession, but I persisted, driven by a need to make him understand the significance of my work, even here, on Clivilius. "Well, insects need an environment to thrive. I work with the University of Tasmania to understand how they contribute to ecosystems and work with local communities and environmental groups to petition for greater protections,” I explained, my voice laced with the passion I felt for my field. It was important to me that they grasp the essence of my work, the belief that even in this strange new world, the principles of ecological balance and conservation could still apply.
"That's great!" Paul responded, his enthusiasm genuine even if his understanding seemed superficial. His reaction, though encouraging, left me wondering about the relevance of my life's work in a place that seemed so removed from the environmental causes I had championed back on Earth.
He then turned his attention to Chris, perhaps seeking something more relatable in his profession. "I do yard work,” Chris stated simply, his voice carrying a hint of pride. It was a straightforward declaration, yet it encapsulated so much of who Chris was: a man of the earth, someone who found satisfaction in the tangible results of his labour.
"Yard work?" Kain echoed, his curiosity clearly piqued by Chris's concise description. The concept, so mundane back on Earth, seemed to intrigue Kain, perhaps for its simplicity or the direct interaction with the land it implied.
Instead of elaborating with words, Chris chose to demonstrate. He crouched down and scooped up a handful of the pervasive dust, the action symbolic of our current reality. It was a poignant gesture, highlighting the stark contrast between the yard work he was accustomed to and the barren, dust-covered landscape of Bixbus. Here, the very soil we stood on looked to pose a challenge unlike any we had faced before.
"It's everywhere!" Paul exclaimed, stating the obvious.
Chris let the dust cascade through his fingers, his gesture thoughtful and deliberate. "Yeah. I've noticed that,” he said, his gaze lifting to meet mine. In his eyes, a mixture of determination and acceptance reflected back at me. "But if this is our home now, we'll find a way.” His words, simple yet profound, warmed my heart. Despite the uncertainty, the daunting challenges that lay ahead, and the desolation that surrounded us, I felt a surge of hope knowing Chris was by my side, ready to face whatever came our way.
"Call me crazy. But I trust Luke,” I declared to the group, my voice steady, infused with conviction. It was a statement of faith, not just in Luke but in the vision that had brought us here, despite the inner turmoil and doubt that ebbed and flowed within me.
Jamie's scoff cut sharply through the air, a discordant note in the tentative harmony we were trying to build. "You're definitely crazy then,” he remarked, his voice dripping with skepticism.
I stood firm, refusing to be drawn into a petty argument with Jamie. Throughout my career as an entomologist, I had faced disbelief and skepticism, had learned to defend my beliefs and the importance of my work against those who lacked vision or understanding. Jamie's dismissive attitude, though disheartening, only fuelled my determination, my resolve to prove the value of hope and vision in this new world.
Filled with resolve, I addressed the group, my voice clear and unwavering. "A beautiful masterpiece starts with a single brushstroke. This is our blank canvas. Let’s create a masterpiece. Together.” My words, a call to action, hung in the air, an invitation to each of us to join in shaping this new world, to move beyond survival and begin the work of building something meaningful.
Despite the challenges, the lack of resources, and the overwhelming sense of the unknown, I believed in the potential of what we could achieve together. My declaration was more than just words; it was a commitment to the future, to the belief that, together, we could transform the barren landscape of Bixbus into a thriving community, a new home that reflected the best of what we could imagine and create together.
