Writers Abroad Magazine Issue 3 September 2015 | Page 30

WRITERS ABROAD MAGAZINE
the gorge. More beer for the crew, chilled champagne for the star. The sun ducks
behind a sudden cloud. Allegra chops and sets up again. The wind rises. Cameras
roll, again. Cut, cut. My hair’s in my face, this wind is terrible. Well why did you decide
to stand right beside a gorge, then? It’s Ok, looks cute. Let’s keep going and get back
to town, there’s a storm coming. Cut. OK that’s in the bag. Just one more shot. Long
distance one of Izzie looking over the gorge. Thunder crackles in the clouds. The film
crew retreats back, back, back. Allegra steps into the bush and out of shot, three feet
away from Izzie.
The rain doesn’t so much fall, as strike. Izzie shrieks. Lightning tears across the
sky. Their skin is pouring with water within two breaths. A maniacal wind screams
through the treetops and belts them round the ears. The pots and pans take flight and
as they watch, the table walks over to the very edge of the gorge and jumps in
headfirst.
There’s another sound, getting louder. A groaning roar, so deep it might be the
hillside yawning. They turn towards it.
The trees at the edge of the jungle suddenly give way to an ochre torrent of water.
Churning brown mud and debris rips through the landscape and devours the grasses
and earth.
“Oh my God! How are we going to get back?”
Allegra clutches her. “I don’t know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Allegra holds her tighter as Izzie presses her face into her shoulder.
She squints through the wind. “I’ll think of something.”
The tent is long gone. No sign of the crew, and even if there were, the monster
waters of brown would lie between them. The jungle is a mess of strangler figs and
gums. They push through undergrowth, climbing over logs slippery as eels in the moss
and wet. A ridge. An outcropping, and a ledge, leaning away from the wind. Allegra
points to the dry dirt at the back. They nod, hair whipping to every point of the compass.
They drag bracken, logs and fallen palm fronds across the opening, piling and
stacking, and crawl inside through the space left. There’s only just enough room for
two small bodies, pressed against each other, shivering.
The morning acts as innocent as fresh milk. The sisters pick through the
devastation as the sun rises. A scream from Izzie pierces the dappled light.
“What?”
She points. A wallaby’s head pokes from under a fallen tree. Quite crushed.
“Great find! Here, help me pull it out.”
“Are you serious?”
“Are you hungry?”
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