small baggage compartment, under a scatter of clothing spilled from a split suitcase, something different appears: two rucksacks, well filled, with heavy walking boots tied to them. The preparations for a pre-Christmas hiking holiday that is not going to happen. He drags them out of the ruins of the plane and carries them back to the log on which the young woman is still sitting, moving them one at a time; they are heavy. He is anxious to sit on the log at an appropriate distance from her, but unsure what distance would be right. He picks a spot tentatively, a metre away, worrying that this might be too close. Putting the rucksacks on the ground, he sits on the log, and rubs his hands together between his knees.
She looks towards the smoking ruins of the plane and shudders. There are tears spilling down her cheeks.
âThose poor people.â She sobs, takes a deep breath, and steadies the tremor in her voice with an effort.
âWhat a terrible way to die. And us, being here, seeing, hearing everythingâbut no way to help.â
Thomas turns away from her, silent for a moment. âI couldnât ⦠I canât â¦â
He is unable to continue, unwilling to revive and confront in his mind the sights and sounds of horror, so turns his attention instead to the baggage he has retrieved.
The two begin sorting through the contents of the packs. The boots are too big to fit either of them. They pull out socks, menâs underwear, shorts, shirts. Near the bottom of both packs some more basic essentials appear. Standard hiking rations: nuts, dried fruit, biscuits. And water bottles. Half a dozen small bottles in total, but only two of them are filled. He tries to estimate how long that much water will last. It will surely be finished tomorrow.
Thomas clambers back into the tail section of the plane to retrieve his own belongings as well as the young womanâs travel bag. He returns to the log and they sit for a few minutes in silence.
She turns slowly to him, breaking the silence after a few moments of hesitation. Her voice is unsteady, almost inaudible. There is a sharp edge of fear in it.
âWhat can we do? Where are we? Do you have any idea? What direction could we go for help?â
Thomas shakes his head, looks around the small clearing where they are sitting. There are colossal trees in all directions; massive trunks in the foreground, and behind and between them more and more, receding into the background until any distant view is completely blocked out. The fear in her voice focuses his attention on their danger. Is it possible that he has survived the crash and the inferno to die slowly of thirst and exposure? The muscles across his shoulders are tense. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.
The crash site slopes up on one side towards the top of what must be a small hill. He stands abruptly, speaks abruptly. Heâll walk up to the top of this hill. Possibly heâll see further afield from there. Maybe there are farms, or a house or at least something to give them an idea of where they are. Heâll only be a few minutes.
He trudges up the slope, picking his way over long-fallen branches and around the buttressed bases of the enormous trees, aware of the awkwardness of his feet in their black, thick-soled shoes over the uneven terrain. However itâs not a long climb, and the view from the top gives him at least a little of what heâs been hoping for. One of the biggest of the trees has fallen, toppling down the other side of the hill, opening up a clear line of sight in that direction. Thomas looks out between the ranks of standing trunks on each side, and sees that the terrain changes suddenly and radically beyond the foot of the slope. The ground is flat, low-lying, covered with scrub rather than tall trees, stretching to a distant line of brilliant white marking the horizon. Coastal dunes. Here and there, where the line of the
She looks towards the smoking ruins of the plane and shudders. There are tears spilling down her cheeks.
âThose poor people.â She sobs, takes a deep breath, and steadies the tremor in her voice with an effort.
âWhat a terrible way to die. And us, being here, seeing, hearing everythingâbut no way to help.â
Thomas turns away from her, silent for a moment. âI couldnât ⦠I canât â¦â
He is unable to continue, unwilling to revive and confront in his mind the sights and sounds of horror, so turns his attention instead to the baggage he has retrieved.
The two begin sorting through the contents of the packs. The boots are too big to fit either of them. They pull out socks, menâs underwear, shorts, shirts. Near the bottom of both packs some more basic essentials appear. Standard hiking rations: nuts, dried fruit, biscuits. And water bottles. Half a dozen small bottles in total, but only two of them are filled. He tries to estimate how long that much water will last. It will surely be finished tomorrow.
Thomas clambers back into the tail section of the plane to retrieve his own belongings as well as the young womanâs travel bag. He returns to the log and they sit for a few minutes in silence.
She turns slowly to him, breaking the silence after a few moments of hesitation. Her voice is unsteady, almost inaudible. There is a sharp edge of fear in it.
âWhat can we do? Where are we? Do you have any idea? What direction could we go for help?â
Thomas shakes his head, looks around the small clearing where they are sitting. There are colossal trees in all directions; massive trunks in the foreground, and behind and between them more and more, receding into the background until any distant view is completely blocked out. The fear in her voice focuses his attention on their danger. Is it possible that he has survived the crash and the inferno to die slowly of thirst and exposure? The muscles across his shoulders are tense. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.
The crash site slopes up on one side towards the top of what must be a small hill. He stands abruptly, speaks abruptly. Heâll walk up to the top of this hill. Possibly heâll see further afield from there. Maybe there are farms, or a house or at least something to give them an idea of where they are. Heâll only be a few minutes.
He trudges up the slope, picking his way over long-fallen branches and around the buttressed bases of the enormous trees, aware of the awkwardness of his feet in their black, thick-soled shoes over the uneven terrain. However itâs not a long climb, and the view from the top gives him at least a little of what heâs been hoping for. One of the biggest of the trees has fallen, toppling down the other side of the hill, opening up a clear line of sight in that direction. Thomas looks out between the ranks of standing trunks on each side, and sees that the terrain changes suddenly and radically beyond the foot of the slope. The ground is flat, low-lying, covered with scrub rather than tall trees, stretching to a distant line of brilliant white marking the horizon. Coastal dunes. Here and there, where the line of the
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