Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.Once upon a time, in a tall tree forest, three torrels sat together in a circle of stones. They poked at an old fire pit with dry sticks and ate blackberries picked from the bush near their home.
‘I love my woollen hat,” said Forry, pulling it down on his head.
‘I love mushroom soup,” said Earl, picking at a berry that was still a little red.
Tahly smiled and then she said. “I love that every morning when I wake, a new world sits at the end of my bed.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Forry.
“This is folly,” said Earl.
“It’s the truth,” said Tahly. “I am sure that it’s true! This morning as the darkness drifted away, the sun rose, winking at me. I breathed in and I breathed out. And the world was new.”
“Tahly’s batty,” said Earl.
“Tahly’s bonkers,” said Forry.
And off they hopped, darting between the legs of their knock-kneed forest, laughing as they recounted sing-songing stories.
Tahly sat, quiet for a while as their noise ebbed away on the breeze.
She looked up and a flicker of light waved to her from above the canopy.
“I’ll go up there,” Tahly said. “That looks like a good place for me.”
Tahly began to climb, carefully at first, scrabbling at the trunks, apologising to the bole when bark fell away from the whole. She quickly became more comfortable, with her mind set on task and her mouth in a line she reached higher and further, her feet were lighter and her hands more nimble. She grunted and climbed, moving closer to the light and it waved her onwards, peeking at her and smiling from behind the leaves at the top.
Forry and Earl, from a way down the track were watching an army of ants. Each ant carried a load on its back, marching with more than it’s weight and Forry and Earl remarked on the progress the ants had made.
“Look at them all together – all there in a row. Look at the way they are travelling home.”
“Each day is not new,” Earl breathed as he watched. “Just look at this army of ants – It marches as it did yesterday. And look what they’ve built! Could they start every day? As if there was nothing there already made.”
Then, on the air, a fizzling spark, sizzled their noses and grabbed at their hearts.
“Fire!” Said Forry and he grabbed Earl’s hand and together they ran and they ran.
“Tahly!” They yelled. “Tahly! Come here, we’ve got to get home.” They were gripped now by fear.
Tahly was high, way up high in the tree. She sat, content, looking the other way. She looked towards home, the snug, warm hollow, carved into her hill by the old rabbits burrow.
A small branch dropped as she adjusted her seat and the boys below saw where it fell. Looking up they saw their friend sitting so high. “Tahly!” they desperately yelled. The smell became raw, burning hairs in their nose, the air became thick, the distance aglow.
They’d come into the forest to play that day and now, they had to escape.
“Tahly!” They yelled. “Come down! Now!”
Finally she saw them below, saw the fear in their eyes, caught the scent of the wind and began to climb.
Forry ripped off his hat and Earl yanked at the other side. They stretched it out between them and knew she didn’t have time. The wide open orange heat of the flame lurched so close and tall.
“Jump!” They called, together. “Jump and we’ll catch you! We won’t let you fall!”
She scrunched her eyes, clenched her fists and thought of feathers and dandelion seeds on the wind and she tucked herself into a ball.
She sucked in her breath… and she let herself fall.
She fell into Forry’s brand new hat, softly and surely with a ‘plop’ and a ‘sphlat’. They grabbed for her hands and all three began to scurry, leaving the hat behind in their hurry. In a row they ran, between the trees, jumping and bouncing away from the blaze. And behind them the flame ate the forest; ravenous, gluttonous, swallowing whole.
Tahly, Forry and Earl reached the door of their sweet little hillside home. They ran inside, gasping for breath, holding each other, covered in ash.
Fire roared all around them but their little home was untouched, spared from the blaze by some twist of the breeze, or luck.
As searing heat subsided and moonlight, a torch across the smoky sky, the three torrel friends curled up together, safe and grateful and tired.
The next day in between twisted ruin – scorched twigs and blackened trunks – a tiny green shoot began to sprout and the world began anew.