I cursed her for bringing me there.
The track was muddy and unforgiving, the shabby hut dilapidated and leaning to one side beneath the weight of years of weather. I pushed on towards it, knowing I had no choice. When I opened the door, a pungent smell hit me: cat piss mixed with mould. I cursed her even more. Dropping my bag onto the floorboards, I pulled out the list of instructions she had left behind.
It will stink, she had written. But you’ll adapt. There’s eucalyptus oil in the top cupboard that will help. Get a fire going first. This bush is cold. It is wild. You must stay warm.
Following Helen’s carefully written instructions on collecting wood and lighting the fire, I attempted to bring the damp kindling to life with mixed results.
Dust coated everything. I wiped the mirror above the rust-stained sink and looked at myself. My shaved head. I had kept it that way. I could no longer be bothered with hairstyles. The deep line between my eyebrows looked permanent now, as though grief had carved itself into my face. For a moment, I saw Helen behind me, smiling. I blinked and she disappeared. I cursed her again. Why did you have to bring me here? I longed for our apartment. Her final words haunted me.
Trust me. Fulfil my wish and you never know what the wild may have to offer you. Leave me wild.
Helen had been a plant expert. She had worked there, creating a nature reserve to save an endangered grevillea. I was an academic. That was how we had met. But I had never been the type to get my hands dirty.
The first night was the worst. The howling wind. The moonlight stretching across the bush. The hut creaking with every gust. Wild dogs howling in the night. The rickety walls of the hut felt paper-thin. I woke every hour. The fire was almost pointless; icy drafts slipped through the gaps in the walls of the tiny hut no matter how much wood I fed into it. The mattress sagged beneath me, riddled with holes.
When dawn finally came, I rose stiff and exhausted. Missing and cursing her simultaneously. Following Helen’s instructions, I lit the gas burner and made a cup of tea. Wrapped in a blanket, I sat on the front step and watched the mist roll through the trees. The sky slowly transformed from a thin strip of yellow into rich shades of mauve, dusty pink, orange and deep red. For the first time since arriving, I thought perhaps Helen had been right. Perhaps there was beauty there after all.
I spent the morning sweeping dust from corners and wiping down surfaces with strips of old cloth soaked in eucalyptus oil. The sharp scent slowly pushed back the mould and dampness. Every now and then I looked at the metal container sitting on the small wooden table.
Helen.
Part of me wanted to not empty it and leave immediately. Hike back out through the bush and return home with her ashes beside me like I had always imagined. But I couldn’t leave her there. Not yet. My promise echoed through me.
Please, Patty. Promise me.
I unfolded the next page of instructions.
The hut will be freezing at night. Fill the gaps in the walls with moss. There’s a creek nearby. Follow the track. It’ll be overgrown by now. Check the water tank too: it could be full of possum shit. Boil the water before you drink it.
I found two rusty buckets in the cobweb-covered woodshed and followed the narrow path into the bush. The track was almost swallowed by scrub, but I could still make it out beneath the ferns and fallen branches. The creek wound quietly through the trees, water slipping over dark rocks. I crouched beside it, pulling soft moss from the edges of the stones and stuffing it into the bucket. A kingfisher darted past me, landing silently on a branch above the water. For a moment it sat perfectly still. Then it flew away. Something inside me cracked open.
“You should be here,” I whispered.
The words turned into sobs before I could stop them.
“You should be here with me.”
I wrapped my arms around my legs and rocked back and forth beside the creek, cursing Helen, cursing the universe, cursing whatever cruel force had left me alone in a world still capable of beauty. Because beauty meant nothing without her.
Back at the hut, I shoved moss angrily into the gaps between the timber slabs while rain rolled in across the valley. Cold mist swallowed the bush. By late afternoon I retreated inside, lighting the lamp before sitting at the desk to read more of Helen’s notes.
Remember Greece? she had written. You once told me you wanted a house with a red door. Give us a red door, my love.
My tears blurred the ink.
A week passed before I finally ventured into town for supplies. By then I imagined I looked half feral. I hadn’t spoken to another human since arriving. Hadn’t heard another voice except my own and the sounds of the bush. I bought flour, tea, paint and nails. And when I returned, I sanded the old timber door and painted it red. Standing back admiring it, the joy felt tainted. Bittersweet.
A month passed before I found the courage to continue deeper into Helen’s plan. By then the hut no longer felt entirely hostile. I had patched the walls with moss. Cleaned years of grime from the windows. Painted the dunny door bright blue and one of the window sills purple just because Helen would have laughed at it. Sometimes I caught myself talking to her aloud. Sometimes I answered myself in her voice. One cold morning I unfolded another page from the stack of instructions.
It’s time to visit the grevillea, Patty. I know you’ve been avoiding it.
I smiled despite myself. Helen always knew me too well. Often better than I knew myself.
Take the tent in case you can’t make it back before dark. Don’t forget the compass. And take more water than you think you need.
The kookaburras woke me before sunrise the next morning. I pulled on my mud-crusted boots, packed the backpack and stepped out into the freezing dawn. The bush smelled of wet earth and eucalyptus. Mist clung low across the track. At first the hike was easy. Then the land turned steep. Loose rocks shifted beneath my boots as I climbed higher into the ranges. Thorny scrub clawed at my sleeves. Black cockatoos screeched overhead, their cries echoing through the gullies like warnings. Several times I nearly turned back. Fear settled over me the deeper I went. What if I got lost? What if I died out there? And beneath those thoughts came another quieter one. Would it even matter? Without Helen, the world often felt hollowed out beyond repair.
Then suddenly the bush opened before me. A green valley stretched between the rocky ridges like something hidden from the rest of the world. Wattle bloomed in thick golden patches across the slopes. And there, beside a large boulder, stood the grevillea. The mother plant. Young plants scattered along the dry gully around it, stubborn and thriving. Helen’s life’s work. I dropped my backpack and lay beneath the branches, staring up at the shifting sky above the gum trees. Warm sunlight spilled across my face while cool wind danced through the valley. For one impossible moment, I felt Helen beside me. I reached for her hand. And I swear I felt her fingers squeeze mine. When I opened my eyes again, I was alone.
Leave me here, leave me wild, her voice whispered through my memory. Where I belong.
“No,” I said aloud, tears sliding into my hair. “You belong with me.”
I cried until my chest hurt. Then I packed my bag and began the long walk back towards the hut. The sun had almost disappeared by the time I reached the clearing. At first I heard it before I saw it. Hooves. Sharp and frantic against the earth. Then the brumby burst from the shadows. Golden coat. Silver mane. White blaze across its face. It circled the hut wildly, kicking and snorting as dusk swallowed the clearing. I froze. Fear locked the breath inside my chest. Then, just as suddenly, it disappeared back into the bush. I stood there shaking, unsure whether I had imagined the entire thing. Inside the hut I jammed the door shut, fed more wood into the fire and sat beneath the lamplight reading Helen’s journal with trembling hands.
You didn’t do it yet, did you?
I laughed weakly through my tears.
That’s alright, Patty. You’ll know when the time comes. Don’t be afraid of the spirits that live here. They may be wild, but they can’t hurt you. Only heal you.
The days bled into weeks. Then months. I planted seeds beside the hut. Learned how to bake bread in the old combustion stove. I thought maybe I could go on like this forever. Basking in the sun, watching the eagles soar above. Read Helen’s journals over and over until I almost knew them by heart. And every night the brumby returned. Sometimes I only glimpsed flashes of silver mane through the trees. Sometimes it circled the hut beneath the full moon, neighing into the darkness until sleep became impossible. At first I feared it. Then I waited for it. One night, after reading another journal entry about freedom and letting go, I stood by the door gripping a length of wood like a weapon. Right on time, the brumby emerged from the darkness. I stepped outside.
“Leave me alone,” I shouted.
The horse halted. Steam curled from its nostrils in the freezing air.
“She’s mine,” I cried. “I’m not ready.”
The brumby lifted onto its back legs, towering above me. I shut my eyes, expecting impact. But nothing came. When I finally looked up, the horse stood still only metres away. And in its eyes I saw something achingly familiar. Something gentle. Something that loved me.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
The brumby lowered its head. Then slowly turned and disappeared towards the grevillea valley. I stayed awake until dawn reading the final pages of Helen’s journals. Her childhood memories. Her fears. Her regrets. How fiercely she had loved me. And finally, her goodbye.
The kookaburras woke me again the next morning. This time I didn’t hesitate. I packed the plain white plastic container of ashes carefully into my bag and followed the track back to the valley. The grevillea was in bloom when I arrived, golden flowers glowing beneath the morning sun.
“I’m sorry I waited so long,” I whispered.
As I hesitated, I heard her voice, strong and clear, leave me here, leave me wild my love.
At the base of the mother plant, I dug a shallow hole and scattered Helen’s ashes into the dry earth. The moment felt strangely quiet. No revelation. No miracle. Only grief softening into something gentler. My tears had run dry, like the grevillea-lined gully, long since dry, she had planted.
By the time I returned to the hut, storm clouds had swallowed the sky. Rain lashed through the clearing while thunder cracked across the mountains. Lightning painted the sky in vibrant celebration. And there it was again. The golden brumby. It circled the hut one final time beneath the lightning, rearing wildly against the storm before racing towards the valley. I stood beneath the red doorway, rain soaking through my clothes, and for a brief moment I felt her hand on mine, once more. Not trapped. Not lost. Wild and free.
After that night, I never saw the golden brumby again.
