Drought

It was strange, being back in the barn. It had been ten years at least, but it looked almost the same as the last time he'd been in it. The loft still contained the same collection of ancient rusted tools that no one in a generation had bothered to throw away. The small alcove in the far corner boasted an empty packet of chips and a can of soft drink, both brittle and discoloured with age. He could even see smears on the windows above the alcove from his own tiny hands. A time capsule of neglect.

With a start, Daniel realised he was the same age James had been when he died. He hadn't said anything, hadn't left a note behind. One day he just walked into this barn, and he never came out.

The barn had sat unused ever since, an ugly lump on the landscape. No one spoke about it or even looked too closely at it, worried it might be malignant. His father, who couldn't go past a crooked fence without setting it right, let the barn collapse slowly in on itself. It was there, but not there; such a nothing thing on the landscape that when he announced they were going to the barn Daniel had assumed he meant the hayshed about ten minutes drive away. But his father had instead strode toward the old barn, as strongly and surely as he did everything else around the farm, and Daniel had followed.

His father walked into the middle of the barn and just stood for a moment, hands in his pockets, surveying the decay. Daniel recognised the stance well. It was the way he stood when he was faced with a problem - a sagging roof, a paddock gone bush, a breached levee. Daniel thought of it as his father's "Mr Fixit" pose. After a moment, he took an old feed bucket off a hook on a post. He placed it face down on the dirty floor of the barn and, with a grunt of effort, lowered himself onto it.

"When you were little, I told you to stay out of here. But you'd sneak out here sometimes anyway and sleep the night. I think that was the only time you ever disobeyed me. Only time I know about anyway," his father laughed. "You were pretty good at sneaking out the back when you heard me coming, so didn't catch you at it too many times."

Daniel remembered. He had been eight or nine, and spent nights devouring The Chronicles of Narnia. James had disappeared from the barn so instantly, so completely, that Daniel had been convinced he had fallen through a secret doorway to another world. He'd snuck out at night with a sleeping bag and a torch, exploring every inch of the old barn, but the only doorways he had found had been the mundane kind.

"I did catch you once, though," his father said suddenly. "Caught you in your sleeping bag, right about where you are now. You jumped out of it like it was on fire when I found you, but you didn't run. I always remember that. I was as angry as I've ever been, yelling and swearing. You would have been pretty scared I imagine. But you didn't run. You stood your ground and glared right back at me, and you looked as angry as I felt. You were shaking a bit, had tears streaming down your face… You remember what I said to you then?"

Daniel nodded. "You told me to knock it off. You said, 'boys don't cry'."

His father nodded slowly. He leaned forward on his knees, slightly hunched with his hands clasped between his knees and his eyes downcast. He seemed to be drawing in on himself. Looking at him, Daniel abruptly saw a different man - a frailer, older man, plagued with doubts and fears. He swallowed and it felt like he was swallowing a cold heavy stone. In the moment it took to travel down his throat it radiated a sticky dread from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. He was suddenly afraid of what his father was about to say.

They sat like that for a moment — his father, nodding to himself and his thoughts; Daniel, watching him intently. Then his father turned and slowly looked up. He still didn't quite meet Daniel's eyes; instead, he fixed his gaze at a spot just past Daniel's shoulder.

"I reckon that — saying what I said back then, I mean… I reckon that was the worst mistake I ever made, son." His father's voice quavered slightly as he spoke, and with a start Daniel realised he could see tears in his eyes.

His father turned back, looking down again at a spot on the floor in front of him. Daniel sat staring at him, disconcerted. Neither of them spoke. The world was hot and still, the only sound the distant, indolent caw of a magpie.

After a long while, his father started speaking again, his eyes still staring blankly at the spot on the floor.

"Back then I was angry a lot. Every morning, for a split second after I'd wake up, I'd forget James was gone. And then I'd remember, and it felt like someone stomping on my throat. Every morning. It was the worst feeling in the world, and it never got easier.

"Being angry was… it was how I coped, I guess. With James being gone. It pushed everything else to the background. And it mostly worked. I could get out of bed. I could go out and work and pay the bills.

"But those mornings when I went to rouse you out of bed, and you weren't in it… Well it didn't work then. I can't tell you how scared I was, and that made the anger so much worse. I'd try to tell myself, 'calm down, he'll be up at the old barn again, he's alright', but I wouldn't calm down, I'd run all the way from the house, and I'd be in such a state I couldn't even say if I was going to hug you or belt you when I finally caught you."

Daniel listened silently, staring transfixed as the dirty barn floor in front of his father became turbid from careless tears. It was the most he had ever heard him speak, and it felt strange and surreal, like a character from a TV show was speaking to him through the screen.

"That day, when I finally did catch you, I was so angry. But you didn't run. You stood there, all angry and crying, and you were yelling. You'd never yelled back at me before. You said you were trying to find James, you wanted him back. And I didn't know how to tell you I woke up every morning thinking the exact same thing. How to tell you he wasn't coming back. So I didn't say anything. I turned around and left, ran away, and I never said anything."

His father took a deep, leaned forward, and with a shuddering breath pulled himself to his feet. He turned and looked up, and for the first time it was Daniel that couldn't meet his eye. He blinked back his own tears, trying to look anywhere else but at the frail old man standing slightly hunched before him, arms hanging hesitantly at his side.

"Son… Daniel. For how I was back then… for what I said... I- I'm sorry."

Before he had time to think too hard about it, Daniel strode quickly across the barn and crushed his arms around his dad. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and then felt as the old man seized him back. His grip was strong and sure, and it felt to Daniel almost like the grip of the man he had seen before they entered the barn.