The rock lay at the top of the bush, at the eastern end of the farm. Nick and I found it one day, though we had not been searching for it.
We had crossed the road from my father’s house, into an area of bush that clung to the side of the hill like limpets to the hull of an upturned ship. There was a ridge there, where the trees grew close, and the ground was always covered in soft branches and leaves – a sacred place for a pair of ten-year-olds, where the light filtered through the leaves, and the earth smelled of damp and bark.
For a while, we held our playful communion here, sword-fighting with sticks, and throwing dirt, climbing trees, and looking out across the valley – but I think it was Nick who suggested we venture further up the ridge.
“But we’ll have to go through the wires,” I said.
“So?” Nick shrugged, before dashing off.
I followed Nick as he ducked through the fence, feeling like I was breaking the rules. The bush thickened, narrowing in on us, tugging at our wool sweaters. Skinny branches and scratchy fern leaves flung into my eyes as I followed Nick up the slope. He went fast, and I thought I might lose him, so I hurried along, nearly turning my ankle on a patch of wet leaves.
Ahead, Nick stopped, and in my haste I almost walked right into the back of him.
“Whoa,” he said.
“What is it?”
Nick gave me no answer, but as I stepped up beside him I realised he didn’t have to. Before us stood the rock. It was a boulder, tall as a house, though only as big around as a truck, perhaps. It sat in a small clearing, as if it had carved a space for itself out of the growth around it. The rock itself was dark, surprisingly round, and largely covered in vibrant lichen that grew thicker the further up the rock it grew.
“It’s amazing,” Nick said, walking around the rock, his hand sliding around its edge. “How long do you think it’s been here?”
“My dad will know. Probably ages though,” I said.
Nick stopped, put both his hands against the rock and pushed. He might as well have tried to move the whole hill. “It probably weighs a tonne.”
“At least.”
“Look at this.” A mischievous sparkle had entered Nick’s eyes.
I stepped around the rock to where he stood. The ground sloped away from the boulder, leaving a ledge of dirt about the size of a double mattress. There was perhaps a half-metre of clearance between it and the rock above.
“I dare you to get under it,” Nick said.
“No way,” I said. “What if it moves?”
“It’s not gonna move. Look.” Nick shoved the rock again, as if that somehow proved his point.
“You get under it then, if you’re so sure.”
Nick looked at the dirt-ledge for a moment, but he stayed where he was. “I’ll do it if you do it.”
I swallowed hard, considering the small space. “Alright,” I nodded. “We’ll do it together.”
Somehow that felt different, safer.
We got down to the ground, and Nick slithered under the rock first. He looked up at me and I could see in his eyes that he was worried I wasn’t going to follow, so I slid myself across the ground close to him, the rock nearly pressing against our faces.
We giggled then, aware in some way that we were doing something dangerous, but too excited to understand. I think Nick got scared then, because all of a sudden he reached out and grabbed my hand. I squeezed it, not knowing what to say.
We lay there for what felt like an hour, our hearts pounding. Our laughs covered our fear.
Though I hadn’t seen Nick in over twenty years, the last time I visited that ridge I decided to search for the rock again. Nothing looked as it did in my memory, and I quickly lost my sense of direction. It wasn’t long before I gave up, thinking perhaps I would try again some other time.
Words by Isaac Smith
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