Rudd watches the helicopter until all that’s left of it is a black dot below the clouds. Then even that is gone. He envies Simi her leaving.

He looks across at Marybelle beside him, slight and still, her eyes fixed silently on the point of disappearance.

“Hope she’ll be okay,” Rudd says.

Marybelle turns to look at him. “Oh she will, Rudd. Simi’s strong. She’ll be fine, and the doctors are wonderful.” She smiles, as she tugs wayward strands of fringe out of her eyes. “I’ll say lots of prayers Rudd, and so will Father Norman here, won’t you Father?”

“Of course,” says the priest, bending slightly at the waist, hands clasped behind his back.

“Right,” says Rudd, suddenly impatient. “Well, there’s no point worrying. Let’s see what’s going on at the Lodge.”

He walks without talking, the grass squelching under his feet. As he walks the tension in his shoulders begins to slip away, its grip loosened by the sunshine and the birdsong, and by knowing that Simi is no longer his responsibility. Gradually the feeling of relief flickers into something like energy, and he lengthens his stride. It’s not his old energy, but a within-reach sense of resolve, enough to get going and to keep going. He takes a deep breath, then a few more, each filled with the richness of damp earth meeting the sun. At the grassy steps up to the lodge, he turns to wait for Marybelle and Father Norman.

“I think it’ll feel like we’re missing something without Simi,” he says.

“I know, but she’ll be back. She’ll miss us, I know she will,” says Marybelle, coming up beside him.

“I agree,” says Father Norman. “I can’t speak for Simi, but I’ll want to come back, especially after this. It’s such a beautiful place. We can’t just walk away.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Rudd softly, then adds a little louder. “Either of you fancy a cup of coffee?”

“Been dreaming of it,” says Marybelle, starting to climb the steps. “The doctors might have left some. I’ll go and see. Where do you want it?”

Rudd sees Fred and Bernard sitting around the table by the bar. “Why not with those two?”

“They’re up early,” says Father Norman. “Looks like their batteries are recharged.”

 “Morning, morning. Mind if we join you?” Rudd asks, as he and Father Norman go across to join the two men.

“Not at all,” says Fred, trying to stand up.

“Don’t get up. We’ll just pull up some chairs.”

“Good morning,” says Bernard.

“Good morning. Would you like some coffee?” Rudd asks, as he places extra chairs around the table.

“Already had ours,” says Fred. “Young Sal’s sorted us out. They’re all in the dining-room there, getting their bags ready for the walk to Mutare.”

“Oh, of course. That’s where Jen and Hansie were headed in such a hurry. Saw them coming up when we were on our way down to the helicopters.”

“Yes. They have a plan,” says Bernard.

“Not like us old guys, just sitting around. No use to anyone.”

“That’s gloomy talk Fred,” says Father Norman. “You’ve forged a path for us. You show us what good men look like.”

“Ha!” says Uncle Fred, as the priest pulls up a chair beside him.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

Simi’s head is full of images. They paper her fitful mind, collaging a path out of the billiard room, away from the storm, and back to the wedding. To the sunshine. The heat. The singing – sort of singing – and a hymn that goes on and on, round and round. Bright and beautiful … all things … bright and beautiful … all things … wise and wonderful … all things … On and on, round and round, little marshmallows of sound, slower and slower, soft and pink, on and on and on …

Simi’s head drops lower and lower, and finally on to her chest. Soothed at last into sleep, her fretting stills while the helicopter hums on and on towards Harare.

“If you … down … shortly will be … “

She jolts awake.

That voice again. The pilot.

She misses the words but lifts her head, turning her neck up and around to ease the stiffness. As she does so, she sees Dr Miriam watching her, and smiles. Dr Miriam sits back again.

Simi looks out the window. The land below looks different. It is the pale yellow of tall grass and dusty trees. And it is flat. No mountains. No deep green tea fields. No lakes. There are some fields. Some farms. An occasional cluster of homes.

The looking tires her. Her headache starts to tighten again, and her eyes to ache. She wonders how much further they have to go. Leaning back, she tries to sleep, but feels too awake. Too disturbed. Too in-between. Too full of headache. Her mind wallows. Helpless as a raft caught in a riptide it is dragged back into the billiard room. She sees a big table. A girl trapped. Fallen trees everywhere. And bricks. Piles of bricks. Her breathing becomes shallow and fast. She wants to help. She needs to help. To save that Girl. And those children. But she can’t. She can’t reach them. Something is holding her back. Holding her by the shoulder. Shaking her.

Simi opens her eyes. A hand is on her shoulder. Then it is on her forehead. Soft and cool. She turns, surfacing slowly. It is Dr Miriam’s hand. Her arm is outstretched, her face worried.

“Simi? How are you feeling?” The doctor lifts off her own headphones, and then Simi’s.

Simi tries to respond but has no strength. She feels too heavy, and the helicopter is spinning too fast, slipping around her, out of focus.

“Simi!” Dr Miriam’s voice again. “Simi. You need to wake up. We need to get you off here and to the hospital.”

“Off?”

“Yes. We’ve arrived. We’re in Harare.”

Simi nods, her mouth dry. She listens. The whine of the engines is gone. She looks out of the window, out at tarmac and low buildings, hazy in the sunshine. As she stares, she feels hands reach around in front of her, and click open her seatbelt.

“You okay to stand?”

She gets to her feet slowly. Her kaftan sticks to her in sweaty clumps, but she is too sore to care.

“We’re going straight to the hospital.”

The door of the helicopter swings open, and Simi, blinking against the bright light, lets Dr Miriam help her out into the dry Harare day.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

This time Simi does not fall asleep. Her mind is too troubled to let her, too full of fresh wounds and the guilt of being distanced from them. She forces herself back to the window, to witness what has happened. Leaning over, she locks on to the helicopter’s shadow as it skims above the damage, now highlighting the red gash of a landslide. She feels the tear of it, imagines it ripping down through the soil and boulders, before crushing to a standstill with its skin in its fist, and the earth flayed open behind it. She follows the scar, tracking its length, down, down, down to what had once been a village below.

“Terrible. Terrible.”

Through her headphones she hears the pilot, his words distant, like echoes from her own soul. As he swoops the helicopter lower Simi sees a man try to pull a tree off a pile off bricks. There is a small child sitting on a rock not far behind him. Neither look up, their silent bodies punctuating the ruins. A little further on she sees other adults scattered, digging, searching, desperation in every barehanded movement. And she thinks of Tonderai. Of Tonderai trying to reach his brother. Of Jacobus and Tim with Tonderai. All searching for his family. His village. His relatives. The wives and children. In their houses, brick built and new. All in a valley. Close to a river. Simi hopes that it is not this valley. She hopes that Marybelle’s prayers will keep them safe.

She leans forward, yearning for her looking to help in some miraculous way. But it doesn’t. And she knows it doesn’t. All it does is spool the nightmare on and on, fogging her with hopelessness, as the helicopter thuds away from the river, and on over the hills. But even so she does not look away. She cannot. Deeply anguished, and fogged with pent up fever, she knows the looking is the least she can do.

At last, and gradually, the miles beneath begin to dry out, allowing her some respite from the constant watching, but not from the pain. That is back, whirring between hand and head, tight and constant as the whipping whine of the blades. She tries to sit stone still – no leaning, no looking, nothing that will aggravate anything.

When Katania turns around in her seat, to give her a cheery thumbs up, she is not able to even attempt a response, and realises there is no need, for Katania does not wait for one before turning back to her view. Simi closes her eyes. She tries to steady her breathing, to force her body to relax. She slows each breath deep into her lungs, again and again, loosening the freshest of the images, but others take their place.

There, in the centre of her darkness, is the fire drum, its glow shifting between light and smoke, and beside it is Tonderai, the storyteller. And there are Jacobus and Tim. She sees them in the distance struggling beyond the thumping door. Searching. Searching. Digging through villages. Searching for children. Stepping over bones. Searching for Girl.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023