Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [65]
Even though this meagre offering jolted my body into life, I’m wondering about possible psychoactive ingredients. Again, and this time without sleeping, I’ve seen him, the dead reverend, living. Maybe the heat wobble rising from the sands, or the shadows of bushes and rocks, conspiring with my broken mind, conjured up his presence.
I’ll tell you what I saw without exaggeration, as much to confirm and comfort myself. And I say this understanding that the brain must convert what we see into meaning, that sight is subjective, a sense warped with experience, language, knowledge, and belief – or their absence.
I saw a white man in a black coat, the reverend. He stood and waved. He beckoned me to follow. Each time he waved he vanished and reappeared a little farther away, still signalling me to follow. When I snapped, ‘Get a fucking grip,’ and turned back to the creek, he was right there before me, a shadow rising from the sand, red-haired and portly, the silver cross missing from his leather necklace.
Of course, he wasn’t physically there. I’m a mirage-maker, just as others who’ve perished in the desert have projected their minds on to the screen of sky and sand, summoning cities from rocks and lakes from clouds. The lucky ones stumble and die in an oasis of palms, or maybe a harem filled with veiled and perfumed queens.
Dehydration will bring on more headaches, dizziness, organ failure, and at some point, delirium. I must be aware of what I’m doing. One wrong decision could be the difference between life and death.
Time has stopped. The sun is neither rising nor setting. I’m the burning ant beneath a magnifying glass. Somewhere in the cloudless sky a malevolent hand focuses the flames, pinning me to a sliver of shade in this scorched creek.
Falling in and out of shivering sleep – even though sweltering. Have begun licking sweat from body to conserve water. Is this conducive to staying alive?
I’m waiting, but for what? Rescue? Though the smoke still lifts from the embers of the bike, no one’s come to investigate, to save me.
Early evening, I think. Could be tomorrow, or even morning again. Can hear the vultures cackling and fighting, somewhere close. How much do they know about prophesising death?
Even writing tiring.
Please come and take me home.
Woke terrified to the sound of screaming. I saw two reverends fighting for their lives on the opposite bank, scratching and gouging, fingers in eyes and teeth bared, their black frocks wild and flapping.
But of course it wasn’t the reverends. The frocks and teeth were the wings and talons of the vultures, feathers flying and hook bills snapping. I’m at least enough of a meal to be fought over. If I had the energy I’d stone them. If I had the energy I’d pull the skeleton from the bank and smash it to pieces. My life over his death.
Just after darkness fell I heard singing. Beautiful choral singing. Hymns. I crawled towards the sound, up and over the bank. The tumbledown ruin had been transformed to a church filled with light and song.
Yes, I know what I’ve seen and heard is a dying brain playing tricks. But I’m going to follow the mirage because it’s all that’s left. I’m going to church, an outback sermon calling me across the sands.
I’ll crawl towards the stars of the southern cross, a sign pointing to the end of something.
I’ve heard no more singing, nor seen the church. I’m just a fool sitting under the stars, writing by the glow of a burning bush I ignited with the lighter. I’ve had to perform my own