My hasty exit from the caravan couldn't have been more poorly timed. As I stepped out, I immediately caught sight of Paul arriving with his family at the camp. They were an unmissable sight, still clad in their pyjamas. I strolled towards the campfire with as much casualness as I could muster. My earlier unexpected encounter with Paul and his family in their pyjamas had caught me off guard, and I was keen to avoid any unnecessary interaction. However, with them now firmly in my line of sight, a hasty retreat back to the caravan seemed too conspicuous.
Reaching the campfire, I pretended to be deeply engrossed in the state of the coals. With a stick in hand, I poked around, sending a few harmless sparks into the air. This was supposed to be just a brief stop - a momentary act before I could escape back to the safety and solitude of the caravan. But my plan was quickly derailed by a growing curiosity about Paul's family and their adjustment to this new and bizarre reality.
As I pretended to tend to the fire, I couldn't help but overhear the induction Paul was giving to his family. They stood there, a little cluster of bewildered individuals still dressed in their nightwear. Luke was noticeably absent, presumably delayed in bringing them more appropriate attire.
My eyes occasionally flicked towards them, observing their reactions. Paul's family seemed out of place and slightly overwhelmed, a reminder of how Chris and I had felt upon our arrival. They stood awkwardly, a visual representation of the disorientation that comes with stepping into a world like Clivilius.
“And there you have it,” Paul finally concluded, his voice tinged with a hint of defeat. He seemed to deflate slightly, perhaps realising the enormity of the situation his family was now part of.
“Is this it?” Noah's voice broke through the stillness as Paul guided them closer to the campfire. I turned slightly, careful not to seem too approachable, but my attention was inevitably drawn to their conversation.
“Yep. Welcome to Bixbus,” Paul replied, his tone a mix of pride and resignation, acknowledging the stark contrast between our camp and the world they had left behind.
Greta, with an air of dignity, cleared her throat loudly. My curiosity peaked, I found myself holding my breath in anticipation of her next words. “So, this isn’t the New Jerusalem?” she inquired, her voice laced with a hint of confusion.
“What the fuck’s a New Jerusalem?” I couldn’t suppress a scoff at the mention of 'New Jerusalem', my reaction slipping out louder than intended. A small sense of amusement stirred within me, despite the seriousness of the situation.
The air thickened with tension following my outburst. Paul, perhaps sensing the need to divert the conversation, turned to me. “Karen,” he called out, his voice tentative. “Do you happen to know where we might be able to find some temporary clothing for my parents?”
“Follow me,” I said with a sigh, motioning for Noah and Greta to accompany me. My steps were reluctant but determined as I led them towards my caravan. I was practical and helpful by nature, yet the thought of being responsible for Paul's deeply religious family didn’t particularly excite me.
As we walked, I mentally rummaged through our limited clothing options, wondering what could possibly be suitable for Noah and Greta. I was keen to resolve this quickly and get back to my own tasks. My mind was still on the spiders and the various projects that needed my attention, not on playing host to newcomers who seemed so out of place in our dust-laden camp.
I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of irritation at the inconvenience. Still, I reminded myself that this was part of life in Bixbus – adapting, helping out where needed, and dealing with whatever or whoever came through that Portal.
As I led Noah and Greta to my caravan, the air was thick with tension. Noah, towering and broad-shouldered, glanced around the caravan, his curiosity piqued yet tinged with unease. Greta, in contrast, seemed to shrink within her pyjamas, her eyes darting about nervously.
Their attention was immediately drawn to the terrarium of baby huntsman spiders on the table. Noah's eyes widened, a spark of intrigue lighting them up as he leaned in for a closer inspection. Greta, however, looked as though she had seen a ghost, her face twisting into an expression of pure horror.
"Ah, don't mind those," I said, waving dismissively at the terrarium, trying to inject a bit of humour into the situation. "They're just my little eight-legged roommates."
Noah chuckled, seemingly fascinated, but Greta was having none of it. "Roommates?" she gasped, her voice an octave higher than usual. "In the Bible, spiders are a symbol of—“
"Hard work and diligence," I interrupted, not keen on a religious sermon about spiders. "But let's focus on finding you some clothes. I don't think Chris's clothes will fit Noah, but I have something for you, Greta," I said, rummaging through a small pile of clothes.
“I’ll wait outside,” Noah said hastily, making a beeline for the door, leaving me alone with Greta and my spiders.
The silence that followed was heavy as I handed Greta a set of clothes. Her fingers traced the fabric nervously, her eyes still darting warily towards the terrarium. “Don’t worry, we’re both women here. No need for modesty,” I remarked, attempting to lighten the mood.
Greta's response was a hesitant whisper, “It’s not about modesty. It’s my temple garment. It’s sacred to me.” Her eyes held a firm belief that seemed to come from another world entirely.
I paused, taken aback. “Your what?” I asked, my curiosity piqued despite myself.
Greta proceeded to explain the religious significance of her undergarments, her words laced with a devotion that was foreign to me. I listened, my practical mind struggling to wrap around the concept.
After a moment of silence, I found myself blurting out, “Well, I guess in Clivilius, practicality trumps tradition.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
Greta’s face turned a shade of red, and she quickly dressed in the clothes I had provided. Her movements were brisk, her mood soured by my blunt comment.
As she stormed out of the caravan, I let out a slow breath. The clash of our worlds – the practical and the spiritual – had created a rift that I wasn't sure how to bridge. The caravan felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with the residue of our tense encounter.
After Greta's hasty exit from my caravan, I lingered inside for a bit, giving her time to compose herself. The last thing I wanted was to add fuel to an already tense situation. Yet, when I finally stepped outside, the atmosphere at the camp was palpable with frustration. Luke had just made his way back, and the air was thick with impatience and unanswered questions.
I observed the scene from a distance, feeling a mix of irritation and empathy. Greta's constant grumbling, her struggle to adapt to this abrupt new reality, was grating on my nerves. Her fixation on the concept of the 'New Jerusalem'—something I frankly didn’t understand—added an extra layer of complexity to our already challenging situation.
Paul’s voice broke through my thoughts, sharp and loaded with exasperation. “What’s taken you so long?” he demanded, confronting Luke. “We’ve been waiting ages for you!”
Luke, seeming smaller under Paul’s intense gaze, muttered a sheepish apology. “Sorry,” he said, his eyes darting away. As he turned to address Greta, he asked, “Whose clothes?”
Deciding to intervene, I stepped forward, surprising Luke enough to make him jump. “I’ve lent her some of mine since you were taking so long,” I said, my tone laced with a hint of reproach. My patience was wearing thin, and my words were sharper than I had intended.
Luke, recovering from his initial shock, offered a quick thanks. “That’s very kind of you, Karen,” he said, attempting to smooth over the awkwardness.
“I’m not sure that your mother agrees that it was a suitable conversation,” I retorted, unable to resist the urge to comment on the earlier discomfort in the caravan. Greta's reaction was immediate—her face reddened, her expression tightened. It was a clear indication that my blunt words had struck a nerve.
“Anyway,” Paul hastily interjected, his voice laced with a desire to steer the conversation away from its current trajectory. He grasped the suitcases Luke had brought, distributing them to his parents. “We’re expecting the first of the sheds to be completed today. So, why don’t you bring us some of the food storage from home?” he queried, his tone suggesting a mixture of hope and practicality.
The term 'food storage' caught me off guard, prompting me to raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Food storage?” I echoed, my curiosity piqued.
Greta’s demeanour shifted almost instantaneously, the embarrassment of earlier dissipating as she swelled with pride. “Our church leaders have always taught the diligent Saints to have twelve months of food storage,” she explained, her voice brimming with a kind of fervent satisfaction. “It's always been Noah’s pride and joy. We’ve been ever so obedient.”
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting too visibly. The religious undertones were something new for me, and I found myself mentally bracing for more of it in the days to come.
“Seriously, she’s not lying,” Jerome chimed in, affirming Greta’s assertion. “There’s literally an entire room dedicated just to food storage.”
As much as their lifestyle was foreign to me, I couldn't help but see the practicality in it. There could be worse things to emphasise, I admitted to myself, a begrudging respect for their preparedness creeping in.
Noah, not one to be left out, eagerly joined in. “There are tins of vegetables, pasta varieties of almost every kind, containers of flour and sugar, and-”
I cut him off before he could delve deeper into the inventory. The last thing I needed was a comprehensive list of their pantry contents. “Well, it looks as though that obedience of yours is about to actually pay off,” I remarked, unable to fully mask the sarcasm in my voice. I cast a quick, knowing glance at Luke, silently communicating my surprise and amusement at the revelation.
Paul, maintaining his leadership stance, deftly steered the conversation towards a more productive direction. He faced Luke with a decisive expression. “Karen’s been busy emptying a lot of shopping trolleys from last night’s raid. Could you take them back to Earth and fill them with food stuff?”
I silently nodded in agreement, relieved that we were transitioning to more practical matters.
Luke, seeming energised by the task at hand, replied with a confident, “Yeah, that should work.”
Seizing the opportunity to avoid further interaction with Greta, I quickly volunteered, “Jerome and I will collect the empty trolleys and bring them to the Portal for you.” I was determined to keep busy and stay out of any potential religious conversations.
Jerome, however, didn't share my enthusiasm. He let out a loud, exasperated sigh, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of manual labour.
Greta gave Jerome a stern look and nudged him toward the Portal. “Go and make yourself useful,” she commanded, her voice firm and unyielding.
As Luke and I made our way towards the Portal, Jerome trailing behind somewhat reluctantly, I let out a small sigh of relief. Practical tasks like these, though sometimes mundane, were a welcome diversion from the complexities of our social dynamics in Bixbus. Working alongside Luke and Jerome, even with the latter's apparent reluctance, was infinitely preferable to navigating the tension that seemed to follow Greta like a shadow.
The day sped by in a whirl of activity, marked by the steady flow of trolleys through the Portal. Each one was filled to the brim with essential provisions, ranging from canned goods to indispensable packages. I found myself both amused and impressed by the sheer volume and variety of items being transported. My eyebrows rose in surprise when a trolley entirely filled with tins of baked beans rolled through the Portal, a sight so absurd yet so practical that it elicited a chuckle from me.
Working alongside Jerome, I began to appreciate his company. Between the hauling and organising of supplies, our conversation flowed naturally, revealing layers of his personality and interests. His passion for the outdoors and nature resonated with me, sparking a connection. I could see Jerome fitting in perfectly with our plans for the Bixbus Wildlife Sanctuary. His enthusiasm for the environment and his evident knowledge about wildlife were exactly what we needed.
However, I was cautious in my approach. I knew that Jerome was still acclimating to his new reality in Clivilius, and I didn't want to overwhelm him with too much too soon. The reality of living in Clivilius, away from everything familiar, would undoubtedly hit him hard in the coming days. Yet, I couldn't help but be excited about the potential he brought to our growing community.
Throughout our work, I subtly floated ideas about the Sanctuary, careful not to be too direct or forceful. I wanted to plant seeds of inspiration in his mind, hoping they would soon take root and flourish into active participation and enthusiasm. It was a delicate balance, gently nudging him towards a cause that could use his skills and passion, while being mindful of his need to adjust to this new world at his own pace.
As Luke arrived with a steaming dish of lasagne, the aroma instantly tantalised my senses. I was struck by the notion that it was leftovers, a concept that seemed to be a regular occurrence in the Smith household.
"Mum may be protective of her leftovers," Luke said with a teasing tone, a playful grin lighting up his face. "But there's always plenty to be protective of."
I couldn't help but internally nod in respect for Greta. Managing a household with growing boys and always having leftovers was no small feat. It painted a picture of Greta that I hadn't considered before, one of a woman adept at juggling the demands of a large family.
Jerome jumped in, his voice laced with humour. “Quick, let’s finish it before Mum develops some sort of leftover radar. Doesn’t matter where we are; she’ll find a way to protect her food.”
The siblings' banter was infectious, and I found myself chuckling along. They gleefully shared stories of their sneaky tactics as they relished the lasagne.
As the brothers continued to revel in their food victory, my gaze shifted to the Drop Zone. A curious smile tugged at my lips as I shoved another forkful of delicious lasagne into my mouth.
“Better eat quickly,” Luke said with a knowing wink, finally noticing my gaze wandering towards the Drop Zone. “Mum’s on the move. We wouldn’t want her to discover the missing lasagne before we’ve had our fill.”
“She’d surely take it from us, no doubt convinced in grand delusion that the small portion of food could miraculously feed everyone in the camp,” Jerome added, shoving more food into his mouth like it was his last meal.
After the satisfying meal, we prepared to return to our work, reenergised by Luke's unexpected culinary surprise. However, it wasn't long before Grant appeared, his approach cutting through the post-lunch tranquility. His expression was earnest, a clear sign that something important was on his mind.
"Karen, can we talk?" he asked, his voice laced with a sense of urgency that instantly caught my attention.
I brushed off my hands on my pants, signalling my readiness to shift from the casualness of the meal to whatever matter Grant needed to discuss. “Of course,” I responded, my tone matching his seriousness.
I noticed Grant’s cautious glances at Luke and Jerome, suggesting he sought a more private conversation. Without hesitation, I suggested, “Let’s take a walk towards the Drop Zone.”
Grant nodded, his face reflecting a mix of relief and apprehension.
