*
Distant realms, dark realms, mysterious realms. I have visited a few and written about
many more, for the most improbable fantasies are nearer than the firmest reality, and reality
itself runs from me like a frightened animal. It is not easy to write about the events of my own
life, and the events of my childhood are twice as difficult again. I may be familiar with worlds
where magic flows from underground gardens and spaceships where the crew endlessly search for
their forgotten past - but real life? Oh, I have conquered many an illusion in my time, but
often it just feels so damn distant. I remember the moment, certainly. I remember the
feeling, sure. But I don't - beyond the very surface of it - remember the event.
*
A painting of some distant galaxy hangs upon the silver wall. On the desk before me lies pen and paper. In another room my father sits, watching the screen that displays his own memories. Alien technology captures them and throws them forward. His name is Roger. Mine is Adrian, the Latin for Dark One. They tried attaching it to me, too, but when nothing happened they took away the lights and wires, guided me herein, and told me to write down the memory that they had plucked at random. They are fascinated by humanity.
*
What better place than the Australian Outback for testing the new family car?
That was one reason for the holiday. The Morgans had collected memories from all over
Australia and across the world, in places they had visited and places where they had lived. This
week, they were touring the continent's centre. Next week, Roger would travel on to Darwin,
while Dianne and the kids would return for school.
*
I must have been fifteen years old at the time. I recall writing poetry on an Australian
theme, and choosing that holiday as my subject. I remember the teacher, from that I can
calculate my age.
As we ventured ever further into the Australian centre, I watched as trees became
bushes, and bushes became shrubs. The interface between two realms always intrigues me, and for
this reason I watched as we passed from temperate to desert. I am an explorer; mine are the
beautiful, mysterious realms that are hidden to the uninitiated. Ever since I could write at
all I have created fictions, and with them someone who can venture inward. I create explorers
because I am an explorer.
*
I write whatever comes to mind. I stare at the painting and let my mind focus upon the inner reality. Writing is a pleasure. And I want to give the aliens something for their trouble.
*
Roger forced himself up the last few steps. Nearby, some small trees grew where nothing
should be able to grow at all, and some distance away a second patch of greenery did likewise.
He gazed across the plain, taking note of familiar structures such as the Olgas. Then he shook
off his backpack and collapsed, panting.
"How are your legs?" he asked his wife as she sat next to him.
"Exhausted!" she replied emphatically.
"I should think so!"
Rocks in general fascinated Roger - he was trained as a geologist - but here on top of
Ayres Rock he was thinking only as a tourist. Here, one can only sit down, enjoy a well-earned
rest, and share some packed refreshments.
*
There are some people who think merely climbing Ayres Rock is an achievement. Not
me. Everyone else was exhausted. My mother, my father, my sister - we'd climbed to the top and
they were ready to sit down and relax. I looked around. I noticed that with a little zigzagging,
you could wander a fair way. The surface was rather like the rippled icing on a cake. There were
two patches of trees, one nearby and the other - well - what better destination was there?
Climbing was all very well but hardly satisfying.
*
"See that patch of trees over there; can I go for a walk?"
Haven't you had enough exercise, thought Roger. And what if Adrian ran too close to the
edge, or out of sight? He struggled to remind himself of his son's ever-growing independence.
"Er, see you, then," he said.
"Keep away from the edge, please," added Dianne.
The three of them watched as Adrian strolled happily
along. Most of the time they could see him clearly, but
sometimes he was obscured by the elongated mounds that covered the surface.
Roger ruffled through the backpack and produced a pair of binoculars.
"Good idea!" grinned Rebecca.
*
I take a deep breath, hold my metaphorical nose and dive into the dark blue ocean of revelation.
*
Roger watched.
His head jerked up. Horror gripped his face.
"Oh no!" he said.
"Oh God," mumbled Dianne.
Adrian had turned around, but his happy prancing had transformed into a panicked run.
Roger wanted to call out to him, find out what was wrong. Had he seen a snake?
*
I never made it there, but I got close. What I did, well, I wouldn't have done it if I'd
known they were watching.
There is a power, something deep within the human mind, that can create a fantasy and
compel someone to act it. In my younger years it held me against my will, forcing me to obey
precepts that my conscious mind rejected with vigour. Squeezing my mind in its unyielding grasp
until I agreed to pretend.
On this occasion, though, I chose to obey.
A great eagle rose from the bushes, causing a momentary rustle as it did so, then
hovered a metre or two above my head. An eagle, above me, here, on Ayres Rock! I could go no
further; anything beyond this would be an anticlimax. Besides, I wanted to absorb myself in the
fiction, to run as prey from predator, to pretend that the beautiful bird was dangerous.
*
Roger's panic subsided when he saw the eagle. "It's all right," he breathed out.
Dianne's sigh of relief joined his own.
After a while, Adrian came jogging back. Rebecca called out to her brother, calling him
chicken.
*
The door opens.