For subscription enquiries call 1800 077 514 or email [email protected]
Brown shapes move across the screen, leaving dark streaks in the mud behind them. Salt glitters, and some darker crystal. The bodies move purposefully, now and then a flash of teeth that must be laughter. Happy workers, covered in the earth they think they’re saving. Later the mud will dry on their skin, cracking and burning.
It was Lucien’s idea to recruit them from the protest camps. A sort of joke, but it’s turned out to be very practical. We give them free Care for Country T-shirts when they sign on, aluminium water bottles, moisturiser. This is something they believe in. They will work for next to nothing.
It took three floods to get here: the churning of the river’s mouth, the wetland’s reclamation. The few remaining residents retreated inland, dragging their insurance claims behind them. The salts were in the water long before that, released from the main plant on the ridge. Shut down before the disasters, before anyone knew.
Some life has managed to hang on. A few birds, half-a-dozen fish species, one rare frog in low numbers. Too unattractive to matter much, except to these kids.
A heron swoops down in a corner of the screen, its legs extending tentatively. I keep a sharp blade on my desk, which I use to open letters and clean my fingernails. A group of youths surround and exclaim about the heron, and I nick my thumb with the blade and have to suck it. The big bird is apparently stuck, but doesn’t struggle. The blood in my mouth is bitter.
There has been no sign of the item yet. We’ve dredged a wide area, set up levees either side to keep the waters out while they work. The lowland is unsalvageable but nobody tells the kids that. The fools think they are healing it. Making a nature reserve, doing restoration and mitigation works along the flood plain. They don’t know it will flood again within months. They don’t even know what they’re looking for. It’s simpler this way, less risk of accidental disclosure.
The item isn’t valuable in a conventional sense, which is not to say you can’t put a price on it. Less than buying the whole world, as the saying goes, but a significant contribution to my asset portfolio, nonetheless. Many’s the day I’ve felt the dead weight held me back. But I miss it.
I don’t need to be bound to it. I just want proof that I own it.
They dig junk from the mud and wheel barrowloads to the warehouse to be filtered. I zoom in on the shed, where more of them sift through the rubble in teams. So far, they have found an amazing variety of waste, from kitchenware to construction material. A few bones. An inexplicable amount of LEGO.
The bulk of it is shipped away to waste disposal in Indonesia. We tell them we’re recycling, but it’s mostly dumped at sea to save on port fees. Costs have had to be brought down; the board is indulging me. I watch the extractor spit out children’s shoes, sodden paperbacks, an animal skeleton with the collar attached. It isn’t there.
Machines would do this quicker but they lack delicacy. There are retrieval experts you can call in, some world-renowned, but they are expensive and would draw attention to what I’ve lost. I shouldn’t have taken it with me. Shouldn’t have left it at the plant. Lucien asked me, was it really so bad to live without one? A little chest pain now and then, a vague Saturday-morning ennui. I told him I didn’t get where I am by letting go.
The young people are still enjoying themselves. It’s only been a few weeks. We provide cheap drinks and food, and even started to bring bands down for Fridays. Lucien had a fellow import some decent hash, though obviously we sell that, scooping up what’s left of their wages after they’ve paid for the dormitories and food.
The showers will remove most of the toxins. Only a small minority will feel any ill effects and with luck most of them won’t notice for years. By then we will have moved on, restructured and extracted ourselves. The missing item will be back on its shelf.
I can’t carry it around with me like an ordinary person; it’s much too burdensome. I like to know where I stand. I should have had it encased in steel like my mother’s, which still gleams at me from its glass case. She once told me they were precious. Lot of good it did her in the end.
On the screen, it’s started raining. The siren must be going; the kids have begun to make their way to camp.
I zoom in on a youth who stands alone. Watch as they hesitate and bend down, hands descending into the thickness. They pick something up and shake it. Look around.
They are all under strict instructions not to fuck with anything. NDA’d and waivered to the hilt. Maybe this one is too stoned to remember the rules because they shake it again. I switch tabs, check the map; a supervisor is on their way, a yellow dot proceeding along the platform’s tidy line. Good, good.
They hold the item out for the rain to wash clean. I hear my breath pause.
The item is small. No bigger than an emu’s egg. Their face streaked, they put the item to their mouth and sniff it. Like they’re about to kiss it, but they don’t. They wrinkle their nose, wipe the item on their shorts. And then they put it between their palms and twist.
Its shell comes away, and everything hesitates.
I haven’t seen it in years. My chest fills with air as a dark streak of particles shimmers into sky. All that pent-up energy from its confinement. For a moment I’m as stuck as that bird. But then I react.
I press the intercom. “Break the levees,” I say. “Drown the site.” It will look like an accident. We’ll hold a memorial, of course.
There is a pause. “The item?” Lucien quivers down the line.
“It’s gone,” I say. The air in my chest is cold. I should feel free.
“Good, good,” says Lucien, but I can’t answer. It moves too fast for that. It’s a shower of ashes at the window already. It’s a dark stain breaking through the glass.
This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on May 21, 2022 as "Mud".
During the final week of the election campaign we are unlocking all of our journalism. A free press is one you pay for. Now is the time to subscribe.
Jennifer Mills is an author, editor and critic. Her latest novel is The Airways.
Get the news you need to your inbox.
Can Scott Morrison pull off another ‘miracle’ win? Karen Middleton
The Hillsong emails Elle Hardy
Board pressure after Grace Tame speech Karen Middleton
Election ’22: What will happen in the senate? Karen Middleton
Testimony at the disability royal commission Rick Morton
Election ’22: Your guide to the key seats Mike Seccombe
Finland and Sweden apply for NATO membership Jonathan Pearlman
What happens if you win the election? Kevin Rudd
Oh no, here we go again Paul Bongiorno
A choice between two lessers John Hewson
Jon Kudelka cartoon, May 21, 2022 Jon Kudelka
Playwright, actor and director Elena Carapetis Jane Howard
Our Flag Means Death Sarah Krasnostein
City of Gold Ruby Hamad
Small Things Like These Gregory Day
Pumpkin and ricotta crespelle Annie Smithers
Songwriters living in fear of ‘stupid lawsuits’ Alex Gow
Australian Fashion Week 2022 Lucianne Tonti
Greg Norman’s dubious links Martin McKenzie-Murray
Cryptic Crossword No. 400 Liam Runnalls
Who composed the opera La traviata? Cindy MacDonald
This is a single use link for an unsubscribed friend to read this article.
Already a subscriber? Log In
Carmel Bird I have recently taken it upon myself to work my way through the internet in search of my ancestry. I call it my 1080 Project. As a wise old tech-savvy male elder of the family Rattus rattus , and with no chance of a pleasant natural death, I’m...
Simon Webster We called him Santa – unimaginatively, on account of his white hair – but we might as easily have arranged those same five letters in a different order. He did not come down our chimney, but he did make his first impression via trespass – hearing a...
Gabrielle Carey At 15 Sebastian didn’t see himself as a vandal, as the law did. He saw himself as a writer. The secret language of tags and symbols, the liminal space of tunnels and railways, the argot of street writers, the underground camaraderie of the graffiti...
Anna Snoekstra At first Andrea thought there was a problem with her eyes. She went to the optometrist at lunch. He had her read off a chart and blew puffs of air on her corneas. “Tip-top,” he concluded. “You shouldn’t be having any trouble seeing the stage.” But...
Kathryn Heyman Mr Bull, our new teacher, arrived in the third week of summer term. He wore formal shorts and high grey socks and we named him Bullybum. He’d lived in the desert for three years before he came to our school, and when I said I wanted to be the prime...
Wayne Macauley Bicycle Courier A young Bicycle Courier who, one night after a Big Bash match, for a prank shimmied up a flagpole and stole the national flag and who later – the judge recorded, half-smiling – while profoundly intoxicated wore this flag as a summer...
Take a stand while sitting down.
Subscribe to The Saturday Paper for less than $2.20 a week.
Get the news you need to your inbox.
The Saturday Paper is a weekly newspaper, published 50 times a year by Schwartz Media.
For subscription enquiries call 1800 077 514 or email [email protected] .
For editorial enquiries email [email protected] .
©2022 The Saturday Paper. All rights reserved.
You're not logged in. You can log in here.
By logging in you agree to our Terms and Conditions and Privacy policy.
No Schwartz Media account? Create one here.
We're here to help. Email us at [email protected] Freecall 1800 077 514 (Australia only)