Resurrection Rocky

I don’t remember when I first arrived in Narembeen, Western Australia. My assumption is that I was born here, but with my parents now gone, there’s nobody who can confirm this. I live alone, you see, a little out of town. Always have and probably always will.

Narembeen is a decent spot. Nestled in the “Wheatbelt” of this massive state, the countryside is typical of many agricultural regions, not just in Western Australia, but also further East, on the other side of the Great Victoria Desert and the appropriately named Nullarbor Plain. Endless tracts of swaying wheat, stretching as far as the eye can see; bone dry in the summer, and enough rain, just often enough, in the winter. Usually, that is.

My name is Rocky Borya. My friends call me “pincushion,” though I’m not really sure why.

The problem with Narembeen is that there’s not much to do here. The winter wasn’t bad this year, to be fair. In fact, I felt really good. Seemingly endless days out in the fresh air with plenty to eat and drink. I loved just waking up each morning, stretching out and greeting the new day. On sunny, clear mornings it would get pretty chilly, sometimes even the hint of a frost on the ground, but ah, when those rays hit me, it was life itself filling me with energy and optimism for the coming day. Then again, on some days, usually the dull, overcast ones, something was different in the atmosphere. Something a little oppressive and heavy. It was those days that I couldn’t help but drink.

When I say ‘drink’ I truly mean it. I’m talking the kind of drinking where you start, and you have no control over when or how you stop. Most times, I would stop only when there was no more left to drink, when every drop was soaked up and there was simply no more to be had. Sometimes, however, usually when the sun nudged out from behind the clouds, I would stop. Maybe it was that sense of hope, the brightness and the optimism that radiated from the sun, which helped me stop. Maybe.

Long story short, that’s how the winter played out. Wake up. Sunny? Then I’d be up and open to the world. However, on overcast days, and there were many, a dull greyness shrouded the world. It's as if the very air became heavy with unspoken sorrows, driving me to lose myself in the warm, satisfying embrace of the drinking.

Just when it seemed like this pattern would continue, unabated, forever, things began to change. Almost imperceptible at first, I can see now that it was something about the days, the change of season, which altered the pattern. Gradually the days got longer, warmer, and brighter, and with that my behaviour seemed to change. First it was alternate days. Cloudy: drink. Sunny: dry. Then slowly it was a couple of dry, fine, bright, and cheerful days in a row. Then three or four.

Of course, there was still the odd ‘wet’ day as I liked to think of it. Those were the same as always. Grey, cloudy, depressing and ‘drink as much as you can.’ However, as the sunny days took over, I almost forget about the others.

Around this time, I also changed. Physically as well as emotionally. To my surprise, I developed quite a bit, becoming taller, my limbs stronger, as Spring continued. I transformed, sturdier, my colour brighter, and by late Spring I felt like I had never felt before!

But then something else began to change. The optimism in me seemed to dim a little. Perhaps I simply couldn’t believe that life could continue this way, so bright and fresh and clear. And it was early January, I remember it well, when the yearning began in earnest.

The previous day had been glorious. The first genuinely sweltering day of the summer. A real scorcher. And yet, it was one of those delightful, summer days. Cool early, a light breeze, but by mid-morning, it was still and blazing. It was tolerable, however, knowing that the evening would bring some cooler breezes to relieve the day’s heat.

It was the next morning that it hit me. Suddenly, despite the beauty of the early sunrise, I knew I needed a drink. Not just ‘a cool sip would hit the spot’ but an urgent, demanding need. I craved a drink in a way that I hadn’t experienced before. Not on those grey winter days, not in the spring. I knew, suddenly, and with crystal clarity, that if I didn’t have a drink soon, terrible things would happen.

January unfolded with the same relentless rhythm. The winter's drinking, once my master, now seemed like a mere prelude to this more desperate thirst. But the dry, baking days of January, after such a transformation over Spring, made me realise that my need had never really gone away. It just disguised itself for a while. Took a little holiday, almost like the excesses of the Winter had satisfied a hungry beast, which only now began to awake from its hibernation.

January was not easy. Not only did I ache for a drink, but there was none to be had. I don’t really know why. Over the winter, Narembeen had seemed like a place where there was no shortage. Plenty for everyone. Little did I know.

Then, as January drew near its close, my condition declined alarmingly. My strength deserted me and the same early morning sun that had once invigorated me quickly became my enemy, mocking me as each day began. Reminding me that all I could look forward to was another arid, aching, dry day.

Finally, just a couple of days before the end of January, the crisis reached its zenith. The last of the moisture extracted from the life-giving soil, I shut down my remaining metabolic processes, curled, dry and brown into myself, and hoped that the autumn rains would not be late this year.

Epilogue

“Mum! MUM!” the little boy shouted; the excitement obvious in his voice.

“What have you got, love?” his mother called back.

“I think it’s some kind of flower!” he replied, “but it’s all shrivelled up and dead, Mum.”

She walked over to her son, squinting in the bright sunlight.

“Mmm. Well, keep looking. We might find one that’s still flowering, even in the middle of summer,” she suggested.

“But I like THIS one, Mum!” he sulked, disappointment nudging into his tone. “It’s sort of like that thing you stick pins in…when you sew stuff” he said, a little more brightly.

“What? A pincushion? I suppose so” she offered. “Maybe we should take it home and pop it in some water. See if it’s still alive. I’ve read about some plants in the Outback that do that. Resurrection plants, they’re called. What do you think, lovey? You could take it to school next week?”

“School!” he cried out. “Is it school again already?”

“Yes, love. First of February on Monday, and that means school, I’m afraid.”

The little boy clutched the desiccated Borya sphaerocephala – Rock Borya – in his hand as he and his mother continued their amble through the dusty, Outback scrub.