bulging in all the weak places, threatening to break the barrier and flood through my insides. When it did, it would be like the Great Flood of 1991, when the Herron River burst its banks and half the country between our place and Wirrawee was under water.
I had to stop that tidal wave of exhaustion washing away my defences.
So I gritted my teeth and pressed my lips together and I think I got a terrible scowl on my face, because Fi asked, ‘Do you want to go back to Tailor’s Stitch instead of me, Ellie?’ But I didn’t want that, I was just trying to round up any last little bits of determination I could find skittering around inside.
I went first down the funnel, not because I especially wanted to, but because I happened to be closer than Homer when the time came to get started. I went pretty damn gingerly too. I’d lost some confidence on cliffs after my fall in the Holloway Valley.
I used both arms and both legs, like a crab. Above, Homer’s heavy bulk overshadowed me in a way that made me even more nervous and I had to ask him, ‘Don’t get so close. Give me some room.’
Even so he didn’t stay back much; well, he did for a bit, but within a few minutes he was almost on top of me again.
The only good thing was that I could see traces of the kids in plenty of places. Stones dislodged, finger-lines in the dust, scrape marks from shoes.
Halfway down, just as things were getting trickier, Homer dislodged a heap of small rocks and dirt. He gave a warning yell but not fast enough: I couldn’t get my hands up in time, so I had a sudden shower of debris.
I yelled back at him. I was really furious. ‘Itold you to stay further back.’
‘Sorry. Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ Then, after a minute, and thinking of the conversation with Fi, ‘Sorry I yelled at you.’
I started again, testing each foothold. The cleft was narrowing fast, and glancing down, which I tried not to do too often, I saw that it seemed to run out completely a bit further on. A few more loose rocks from Homer’s feet rattled past either side of me but before I could say anything I dislodged a few myself. At this rate we’d start an avalanche. I had to reluctantly admire the guts of the kids to take on such a dangerous climb. God knows what was waiting at the end of it. I hoped and prayed, as devoutly as I knew how, that we wouldn’t find anything horrible down the bottom.
But then I concentrated on my own position again. Just as I feared, the funnel was coming to an end. I’d been fairly successful with my four-limbed tactics, pushing into the sides of the cleft to give enough grip. That wasn’t going to work any more.
I paused, looking at my feet, to see where I could put them, when Homer called down, ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not very well. The funnel’s running out.’
‘Yeah, I was afraid of that.’
I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the kids in a little huddle somewhere around this point, helplessly waiting for us to come along and rescue them. The fact that they were nowhere to be seen increased my respect for them further. I’m not sure when I first started to respect them but somewhere along the line I’d begun to appreciate the strength they showed, the guts that brought them this far, the guts that had apparently got them off this cliff. I glanced down again, hoping they hadn’t got off the cliff in the worst possible way. But still there was no trace of them.
Meanwhile I came to a complete halt. The funnel ended on a little platform. By putting one foot on top of the other I was able to stand there, safe but not comfortable. I glanced up at Homer. He was perched ten metres above me, not looking at me but looking all around for a path I could take.
Our eyes met. He said, ‘If you can get about five metres over to your right there’s another chimney you can go down.’
I swallowed. That was easy for him to say. I felt a funny kind of fluttering under my ribcage, just above my stomach. I licked my dry lips.
I had to stop that tidal wave of exhaustion washing away my defences.
So I gritted my teeth and pressed my lips together and I think I got a terrible scowl on my face, because Fi asked, ‘Do you want to go back to Tailor’s Stitch instead of me, Ellie?’ But I didn’t want that, I was just trying to round up any last little bits of determination I could find skittering around inside.
I went first down the funnel, not because I especially wanted to, but because I happened to be closer than Homer when the time came to get started. I went pretty damn gingerly too. I’d lost some confidence on cliffs after my fall in the Holloway Valley.
I used both arms and both legs, like a crab. Above, Homer’s heavy bulk overshadowed me in a way that made me even more nervous and I had to ask him, ‘Don’t get so close. Give me some room.’
Even so he didn’t stay back much; well, he did for a bit, but within a few minutes he was almost on top of me again.
The only good thing was that I could see traces of the kids in plenty of places. Stones dislodged, finger-lines in the dust, scrape marks from shoes.
Halfway down, just as things were getting trickier, Homer dislodged a heap of small rocks and dirt. He gave a warning yell but not fast enough: I couldn’t get my hands up in time, so I had a sudden shower of debris.
I yelled back at him. I was really furious. ‘Itold you to stay further back.’
‘Sorry. Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ Then, after a minute, and thinking of the conversation with Fi, ‘Sorry I yelled at you.’
I started again, testing each foothold. The cleft was narrowing fast, and glancing down, which I tried not to do too often, I saw that it seemed to run out completely a bit further on. A few more loose rocks from Homer’s feet rattled past either side of me but before I could say anything I dislodged a few myself. At this rate we’d start an avalanche. I had to reluctantly admire the guts of the kids to take on such a dangerous climb. God knows what was waiting at the end of it. I hoped and prayed, as devoutly as I knew how, that we wouldn’t find anything horrible down the bottom.
But then I concentrated on my own position again. Just as I feared, the funnel was coming to an end. I’d been fairly successful with my four-limbed tactics, pushing into the sides of the cleft to give enough grip. That wasn’t going to work any more.
I paused, looking at my feet, to see where I could put them, when Homer called down, ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not very well. The funnel’s running out.’
‘Yeah, I was afraid of that.’
I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the kids in a little huddle somewhere around this point, helplessly waiting for us to come along and rescue them. The fact that they were nowhere to be seen increased my respect for them further. I’m not sure when I first started to respect them but somewhere along the line I’d begun to appreciate the strength they showed, the guts that brought them this far, the guts that had apparently got them off this cliff. I glanced down again, hoping they hadn’t got off the cliff in the worst possible way. But still there was no trace of them.
Meanwhile I came to a complete halt. The funnel ended on a little platform. By putting one foot on top of the other I was able to stand there, safe but not comfortable. I glanced up at Homer. He was perched ten metres above me, not looking at me but looking all around for a path I could take.
Our eyes met. He said, ‘If you can get about five metres over to your right there’s another chimney you can go down.’
I swallowed. That was easy for him to say. I felt a funny kind of fluttering under my ribcage, just above my stomach. I licked my dry lips.
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