Found - Rosemary Temple
Found by Rosemary Temple
Prologue
I live in a place between two worlds. A place that knows no beginning, and cannot predict its end. Without the other two worlds, my world would crumble, its supports lost.
My world is a place for wanderers, for people who are searching for meaning, for purpose, for peace, but who refuse to accept it when it is offered. The worlds on either side of mine are juxtaposed; opposites unattractive to each other; opposites at war.
The modern world is powered by money and technology; big men with even bigger ideas. The people in this world excel in the fast lane, travelling at two hundred miles an hour with barely a hair out of place. Looking out for number one. This world is in-your-face, addicted to the spotlight, not wishing to hide or be cast aside. Everything to gain; nothing to lose. Power is the heartbeat of this world.
Not like the other one. The one that keeps a firm grip on the old ways; the tribal ways. The one with a strong sense of community; the one that has held onto the binding of family and the hope of friendship. The home to people who respect the earth, wishing to be a part of it, not the ruler of it. The world that would rather remain hidden, anonymous, sheltered. I am drawn to this world, a keen spectator of its ins and outs, its secrets and laws. But I will always be on the outside looking in. I do not belong to this tribal world, nor do I belong to the modern world.
I am stuck in the world between two worlds.
And here I remain until a light comes to guide me home.
1
I splashed my face for the ritualistic tenth time, absorbing the coolness of the water against my burning skin. The light relief lasted all of a minute, before the sun stripped it unwillingly from me with its searing rays. Kneeling in the surf, I let my head roll back, eyes tightly closed, and watched the swirling colours twist and mutate into whispers of images, hinting at their chosen form for a second before disappearing. The water lapped gently against my knees, barely reaching my toes before dashing backwards in shy apology. I listened to the distant hum of the village, seemingly so far away. The gentle scuff of feet along the decaying leafy paths, the babble of conversation occurring around each corner, in hut doorways, amongst the tended crops. So familiar, and yet so detached from my current resting place.
I allowed myself to sink into that simple moment.
My whole life, I never knew anything but that. That existence, that path. Moving from one place to another, allowing people to briefly enter my life before being whisked away to pastures new. Never settling, never stopping for more than a few months. That was all I knew. Journeying from place to place with my ever searching Uncle Joe and his fantasies of discovery and adventure.
When he was younger, Joe had been a social worker. He had lived a normal life in a town slapped silly with modern advances, with uninteresting people and similarly uninteresting problems. In his opinion anyway. Day in, day out, Joe would listen to the constant strain of domestic life and the pain that people inflicted upon themselves and innocent bystanders. After five years, Joe drew a bold line under this chapter in his early life, jumped into the driver’s seat of a VW camper and took off for tribe land, never turning back, preferring instead to listen to himself for once.
Being his own boss suited Joe. His eagerness to explore and learn about the tribes, their land and their cultures made him an easy person for them to warm to, and because of this he found himself never wanting for anything. He was taken in, adopted, but he never took any form of kindness for granted. He offered his services wherever he could, doing odd jobs here and there, helping by any means possible. He watched, learnt, practised. Soon he was a skilled hunter, fisher, farmer, builder, tracker; advancing keenly in the ways of the jungle and the people that served it.
Joe was like a magnet for good luck. A constant glow surrounded him, an impenetrable bubble.
Unbreakable, until he found himself lumbered with me.
I don’t remember life before Uncle Joe. It’s as if I was born at age five. There was just…nothing before. No learning to walk, to talk, to comb my hair, to brush my teeth, to ride a bike. Nothing. I just came into being, a fully formed child, already knowing all these things and more, but not knowing the most fundamental thing of all: where I came from. Who I came from.
My first memory is that morning fourteen years ago, standing on the dewy lawn of a run-down house, looking up at the left top window that seemed larger than the rest. The one half open, with the purple curtains barely drawn. I stared at that window, transfixed, mesmerized. It held a significance for me, the key to my past, I was certain of that.
But I couldn’t see it.
I couldn’t feel it.
And a large part of me didn’t care; the part of me that was scared to death of the truth; the part of me that wanted to hide and forget forever.
When I finally turned around, Joe was there, a beacon of light in an otherwise featureless place, his rough hand held out in a gesture of peace and comfort. I took that hand.
I took that hand and my life began.
And there I was, fourteen years later, body blistering in that insane heat, my head full of new memories and stories to tell, thanks to Joe.
I didn’t know how much time had passed since I had surrendered to that simple moment of pure nothingness. I wriggled my toes in the foam tipped waves. Slowly, I lowered my head, already feeling a layer of newly pinked skin stretch uncomfortably at the end of my nose. I squinted into the light, permitting my green eyes to adjust to its fierce brightness before opening them fully. Gently, I climbed to my feet, allowing my long lily white legs (funny how they refused to colour even in the most forceful of heats) to stretch and creak back into life.
Once more, the sounds of the village entered my senses, and suddenly I was hungry. Hungry for food, for laughter, for people. I gathered my light brown hair roughly, and secured it with a band, before turning quickly and breaking into a run back to camp. Because that’s what it was, only a camp. A base. Not a home, not for me and Joe anyway.
Thick jungle foliage lined the edge of the beach, and I ran until I came to the tiny opening that produced the pathway to the village of the Tapai tribe, worn down by generations of exploring feet, only visible to those who knew it was there. The protection of the jungle was absolute. Hundreds of civilisations lay tucked away, secure deep in the heart of nature. But always the threat of progress lingered, and there would come a time when each tribe would have to fight and become protectors themselves for nature’s sake.
To read Rosemary’s Writer of the Month interview, please see here.
