Ways to Come Home

by Kate Mathieson

  The night birds begin. One coos from a tree above me and further down towards the rocks another answers him. If I stay still for long enough and concentrate hard enough, I can hear the river many hills and turns below, gurgling over rocks.

  The stars unfurl like lace above. Our tent, which will be packed up and gone tomorrow, flaps in the quiet night breeze. By 10 am, maybe earlier, only the short green grass will remain. The site will return to the real guardians – the night owls, the river, the cows. And it will be as if we were never here at all.

  ‘Are you coming to bed?’ Ant asks through our open tent door, as though we’re an old married couple.

  Inside, she is scribbling in her diary.

  ‘I thought you gave that up weeks ago?’

  ‘I did, so now I have lots to cover.’ She tilts her head torch up so as not to blind me as I crawl into bed. We have this routine down pat.

  She puts down her pen. ‘It’ll be weird not sleeping in a tent.’

  ‘I know. I never thought I’d get used to tent life, and now I’m not sure about giving it up.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll come back.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say as I unzip my sleeping bag all the way and toss it over my legs like a blanket.

  ‘Maybe you could write a book about us?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Somewhere not too far off, an owl hoots into the night.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she says and stops writing.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, sitting up.

  ‘Did you find what you came here for?’

  I’m silent for a minute. ‘Yes. Did you?’

  She flicks off her head torch. The light of night washes the tent, and the flaps open and lift with the breeze. The bird above us coos. His mate waits a beat then answers.

  ‘Yes, and I’ve realised I do want to go back and do something with my degree. Finally. And I found you – my African sister.’

  And we laugh.

  Just like on that first night, I push aside my pillow, place my ear and cheek against the floor, and look for the cool place of the tent, where the earth has dampened. Where the wild has seeped in.

  The moon finds me through the small flap in the tent window, and shines down her light. All the light in the world. Across the stream a cow moos. Further north, the elephants in Chobe park rest their trunks against each other, huddled for protection. An old Tanzanian man is picking fresh sugar bananas to sell at the morning markets. Somewhere in Nairobi another woman is arriving in the clanging city, beginning her journey.

  Three months have passed and I’m here, laying against the dirt, smelling of earth. There are leaves in my hair I never want to brush out. My skin is baked by the sun – healed. It’s true what they say: one life is never enough. At least not for me.

  I close my eyes. Between the treetops, an owl hoots again. My heart flares, and it’s all I can do, not to smile.

  I’m full of light, full of moon.