Against the ruin of the world

It wasn’t there yesterday. It wasn’t even there this morning. It had appeared sometime between lunch and sunset and, judging by the lack of sogginess, Pearl was thinking it had arrived later rather than sooner. She looked at it long and hard, gave it a nudge (it was heavy), and looked at it some more. She sniffed it, but no particular aroma stood out.

It was biggish. As soon as she’d seen it on the doorstep, Pearl looked around for whoever could have put it there, of course she did. Visitors were rare and presents, more so. She had run into the yard, into the rain and circumnavigated the house, looking for tracks or a person. Or a creature. Some of the animals could carry things. Well, not many of them, but some could. Perhaps. No, it must have been a person. It was too heavy for a kangaroo to pick up, and the paper was pristine, no claw or tooth marks.

She brought it inside and put it on the kitchen table. She locked the outside doors, all of them, just in case. She hadn’t locked the doors in years. She barely even shut the doors, most days. Now she was concerned. Where had it come from?

Pearl didn’t like surprises. Actually, there had been few surprises in her life, so she wasn’t even sure what a surprise felt like, but she knew she didn’t like the feel of this one. And she liked even less what it meant.

It meant people, at least one, possibly more. She was terrified it would be a man.

Sergio watched the house from the top of the lemon gum, frantically whispering reports back to Pablo on the lower branches, who carried the news to Zach, hidden behind the granite outcrop.

“She’s taken it inside!”

“She’s looking around!”

“She’s gone back inside!”

“She closed the curtains and the doors!”

“I think she scared of you!”

Shit. He didn’t want her to be scared of him, he wanted her to be curious. To like him. To be, perhaps, a friend. To want to have a friend. At least someone to talk to. Sure, he could talk to Sergio and Pablo, but they didn’t count. Mountain pygmy possums have very small brains, their conversation limited to their immediate surrounds and impulses. He wondered if she opened it yet. When she opens it she’ll see he just wants to be friends. He settled down to wait. He could wait. She’s have to open it sometime.

Pearl was contemplating whether to open the box, or just chuck it into the fire. There was no label, no indication whatsoever of who had left it or what was inside. It might be dangerous. There might be death or horror or pain inside the box. She didn’t, at least initially, consider that there might be joy or comfort or company inside the box. For so long her life had been solitude and struggle.

She sat in the chair near the kitchen range and wondered. What did this mean? Her world was different. Everything was different now. Now there were options, she had to make a decision beyond what to pick from the greenhouse. She stood and placed her palm on the box, feeling the paper wrapping. Why wrap it in paper? Paper was precious in this water-logged world. She knew that if she opened the box, she would be keeping the paper. There was no tape, the paper was craftily tucked into the corners. Skilful. The Someone cared enough to make something nice.

What if it was a man? She couldn’t remember if she’d ever known one, although she’d read enough books to know what they could do, what they were for. Maybe it was a man. Could a man fold paper so delicately? Could a man be useful? Interesting? Entertaining? Maybe they could.

She was beginning to hope it was man. She thought she might like to meet one. Just one.

Time to change tactics, to move the situation along. The sun had risen, as much as the sun does nowadays, and he was cold. Nothing stirred at the house. No doors or windows opened, no curtains twitched, no sound of footsteps. Zach waited for a lull in the never-ceasing rain and emerged from behind the rocks.

“What’s he doing?!”

“He’s never going down there, is he?!”

“Is he mad?!”

Without making any sudden moves, Zach walked down the hill and stood in the house yard, waiting. Not too close, but close enough that she could examine him without having to come out. He waited, standing on the pallet duck-boards that made blocky paths around the yard.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity (standing in the rain is like that), a curtain did twitch. Hands appeared, and brown paper was pressed against the window. Written in charcoal: are you good?

Zach nodded.

Silence.

Waiting.

Rain.

The door opened.