By Harlan Yarbrough
February 26, 2023
In his mind, Chuck could hear the sounds of a plucked viola and a cello with occasional notes from a piano. The open, extremely spare sounds seemed desolate, which fit the feeling of desolation in Chuck’s heart after the end of his twenty-three year marriage. The wet sclerophyll forest surrounding his home did not suit the sparsely populated music in his head, which demanded an open and empty country.
By way of Silver Valley and then the Irvinebank-Petford Road, Chuck made his way cross-country to the Burke Developmental Road, also known as Highway 27, and turned left. Twenty-three miles later and a couple of miles beyond Almaden, Chuck hid his car in the scrub and began walking west, as near as he could determine. A few degrees one way or the other could not have made any difference, and Chuck headed slightly south of west without knowing that. Walking until he could no longer see where he placed his feet, he reached and crossed the dry bed of the Tate River at the end of the day’s dusk, then lay down and slept.
Chuck woke to a glow on the eastern horizon, drank the last of his water, and headed more nearly west than his route of the previous afternoon and evening. He correctly identified the Lynd River’s dry bed and crossed it, holding steady to his course. The small Red River had stood so long empty that Chuck didn’t even notice its bed as he crossed it. As the sun touched the western horizon, he reached the channels of the Gilbert River, which surprised him with their size but held no water. Having walked all day on only the water he consumed when he set out, Chuck felt more than a little thirsty and also more than a little tired. Once beyond the Gilbert’s channels, he again lay on the ground and slept.
The next morning, the thirsty hiker again woke with the first dawn light. He felt weaker than the previous morning but still maintained a steady, if somewhat slower, pace among the scanty vegetation. From the outset, Chuck had felt some surprise at the number of roads he crossed. About six hours and fifteen miles from the Gilbert, he encountered a well formed road running roughly north and south and wondered where its ends lay. After crossing the road, he thought of his initial intention: to walk as far as he could, and, if against all odds, he reached the west coast, to buy a bus ticket home.
Feeling weaker by the hour, Chuck thought, If I haven’t wandered too far south, I might reach the Gulf. If I hit one of the highways, maybe I’ll catch a ride into Normanton and buy a ticket there. Heck, with a short bus trip from Croydon to Forsayth, I could even ride the train most of the way home. Not at all sure he even wanted to get home, the despondent pedestrian managed to walk, albeit at a decreasing pace until sunset again.
Chuck managed to get to his feet the third morning but did not feel steady. Nevertheless, he pushed on west despite feeling every few minutes that he would like to lie down and rest, maybe sleep and forget the thirst that tormented his mouth and throat. He wondered about the possibility of stumbling onto the Norman River, thinking how nice a drink of water would feel. He also thought that dipping water from the river might bring a new danger. After I get a drink, he thought, maybe I’ll go for a swim and see if I meet any friendly salties.
Excepting humans with firearms, saltwater crocodiles are pretty much the apex predator in the Gulf Country. A few humans have survived encounters with salties, but very few. Almost any part of the Norman River with water in it contains saltwater crocs.
In the event, Chuck never reached the Norman, nor did he reach any of the highways. He stopped to rest, slept an hour, then walked or stumbled on west, and repeated that sequence several times. One of those times, the last of course, he did not get up. He lay in an agony of thirst, hearing in his head the sounds of the plucked viola and cello and occasional notes from a piano and a bass and seeing images of the ex-wife he loved more than life itself.
Harlan Yarbrough
Educated as a scientist, graduated as a mathematician, but a full-time professional entertainer most of his life, including a stint as a regular performer on the prestigious Grand Ol’ Opry, Harlan Yarbrough attempted to escape the entertainment industry, working as a librarian, physics teacher, syndicated newspaper columnist, and city planner. Harlan lives, writes, and struggles to improve his dzongkha pronunciation and vocabulary in Bhutan. In the past six years, his short fiction has appeared in the Galway Review, Indiana Voice Journal, Green Hills Literary Lantern, and seventy-three other literary journals and won the Fair Australia Prize.
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