SOMETHING HAPPENED IN THE HEART OF THE FOREST IN THE HEART OF THE NIGHT

Jerome, Jerome, you shout into the cold darkness, please answer.
You get no reply from your oldest somewhere in this vast forest
shrouded in night mist.
Jerome, in his impulsive twenties, is an occasional wilderness lover.
After the day’s online work meetings, he releases
frustration and energy on the rugged trails
we have here in the Blue Mountains.
Jerome! Your head torch beam lances the trees, searches the nooks.
 
The forest drops steeply away from the track into the valley
in a sway of canopies and shifting shadows.
The eucalypts and coach-woods grip the sloping earth in tenacity
and mutual survivability– without the lattices of roots
through the soil, the land would slide.
Jerome, son!
Cold passes your lips, forms little puffs in the night air.
Your child, so able, so capable
except when he is not. With each of your footfalls, you pray
for his voice. Only your puny echo comes back.
He was meant to return shortly after twilight.
Midnight came and went 2 hours ago.
 
Earlier, in your living room, bottle of stout in hand
your phone had lit up, Jerome’s younger brother calling from Europe.
Dad, Jerome… Jerome is missing.  
The living room lurched. You clenched the phone.
Your skin was fire and ice.
Ma is at Katoomba police station, he said.
You didn’t say that you had just declined two calls from her
though he is surely aware.
Phoning her now, Terry, you say. And stay by your phone.
I’m going to find your brother in a trice.
 
You listened grimly to your ex-wife.
Thankfully, Jerome relayed to her his hiking plan.
She dropped him at Conservation Hut for a walk to Vera Falls.
Unthankfully, the track descends three kilometres into dense forest.
You ended the call and the logical brain ramped up
despite the beer in your blood.
You moved about the house, gathering up essentials:
headlights, matches, sweaters, two sleeping bags, wet weather gear,
snack foods, energy drinks.
 
Two days earlier, you had cooked for Jerome, notching up
much-needed goodwill depleted during the virus
and the related pandemic of strained relations.
You made lasagne from scratch, layers of homemade pasta
cheesy bechamel, bolognaise sauce.
Jerome, you say gently as the pair of you eat, when you hike
I want you to take supplies –
take a headlight and a sweater. Also snacks, water and matches.
Obviously your phone, and some first aid items too.
You tick the items off on your fingers, wincingly, smilingly.
Please, Jerome.
Sure thing, he said, sure thing.
 
A parent can try, a parent is allowed.
But Jerome detests being encumbered, wants to be totally free
after the workday. For him, even a light pack is a burden.
And his mother confirmed he left without one.
 
You overshoot the Conservation Hut turn-off.
It’s dark overall, cold overall.
Not good overall.
You drive back, jump out at the car park, hoist the pack onto your shoulders.
The temperature hovers near zero.
The moon attempts to penetrate the mist.
You turn on your head torch.
Giant shadows appear to mock you as you descend onto the trail.
 
Jerome, Jerome!
You shout his name every ten paces, just hoping.
You peer over the sides and try not to think it’s futile.
A twig snaps. An owl hoots.
You come to the first river crossing.
The torch outlines the dark stepping stones.
Lovely boy, where are you?
Damn it, Jerome!
Nobody hears the grief in your voice.
He has to be okay. If he weren’t, it would tip you over the edge.
Jerome, oh Jerome.
 
He returned to Australia during the pandemic and came to the mountains
temporarily with his mother to wait things out.
Jerome was angry with you.
You had declined for various compelling reasons
his mother’s offers of ongoing friendship.
 
The beam of your light has weakened a little.
You speed up a little.
The wrong tableaux of what might have happened take over your thoughts.
You stop and call to mind some reasonable scenarios.
He got lost in the dark and is waiting for help.
He sprained an ankle, you’ll reach him soon.
What else? It’s too cold for snakes.
It’s too cold for people.
You consider the sky, the hazy constellations of stars
that belong in a children’s book, the kind you read to your sons
when they were young.
The forest is big and you are small. Jerome, are you there?
Please, Jerome.
 
After seventy minutes on the track, you reach Vera Falls.
The water is flowing silvery off the wide shelf of rock.
You tentatively approach the edge.
Son, son, you shout.
There is nothing to see in the blackness, little to hear
over the sound of the falling water.
What happens now?
You hear something different, a faint noise getting louder.
The engine of a light plane. Part of the rescue response.
It surely has thermal imaging cameras
that will pick up the heat signature of your boy.
You hear another sound.
A voice.
 
You think your mind is playing cards, flipping over jokers.
The sound comes again from below the falls, quite distinct – Dad, dad.
Jerome! You put your face in your hands.
He says he’s okay, you think, despite the wind and the water
taking the details, and you hear the words, ‘phone’ and ‘dark’.
But the pitch of his voice is strong, that’s good
leaving you pretty sure he didn’t fall.
But how did he reach the bottom of the waterfall?
You search the sides of the rock platform for openings in the bush.
Nothing. Did a track to the base of the falls branch off higher up?
You hear voices on the main trail coming nearer.
You take off your pack and crouch on your haunches.
You have found your son in the heart of the forest in the heart of the night.
You feel changed.
You resolve to forgive everyone for almost everything.