Four Free Thinkers Waiting For Thursday

It's dark in the pure tuart forest.

Elodie has a torch.

She lends it to Gaius who examines a tree trunk by torchlight.

Sprocket is climbing a rope that someone has left dangling.

He drops his phone down to Elodie.

Make a video, says Sprocket.

Okay, says Elodie. Is it for your documentary?

Huh? says Sprocket. Oh. Yeah.

Elodie has always valued artistic integrity, so she shoots in the style of Baby Pierre.

Sprocket has reached a wooden landing and hooked himself up to a zipline.

Seconds later a whirring sound diminishes as Sprocket ziplines away.

Elodie reviews her video.

Sprocket's bare feet, and gold painted toenails, streaked with blood; a rope slapping against a tree trunk; a spray of white tuart flowers curling brown at the edges; Gaius's moonlight shadow as he taps at the dense wood of a tuart.

It's not quite up to Baby Pierre's standard, but it's good.

We ought to get going, says Gaius. Where's Sprocket?

Hasn't come back yet, says Elodie. We might have to camp here tonight.

Really! says Gaius. It's not all it's cracked up to be, getting a lift in a HiLux with Sprocket.

Chill, says Elodie. It's only Wednesday. We'll be at Lake Jasper tomorrow.

......

Meanwhile at Lake Clifton, the pebbles sit in a row on the sand and talk about Thursday.

Who will come? asks First Dirty.

David and Arthur and Shu, says Baby Pierre.

Shoe? says Second Dirty.

Shu, says Baby Pierre. He's a poet, like Arthur, but he isn't like Arthur. Shu writes sad poems.

Like what? asks Mouldy I like a sad poem.

Me too, says Second Dirty.

With many a sigh I gaze on the moon, single as a flower, says Baby Pierre.

I do that, says Second Dirty. That means I'm a poet.

No it doesn't, says Baby Pierre. You have to write it down.

Okay, says Second Dirty. What about Arthur?

He writes scary poems, says Baby Pierre. Giant serpents devoured by bedbugs fall down from gnarled trees with black scent.

That's good, says Mouldy. What about the other one, David?

He's a philosopher like me, says Baby Pierre. He thinks that everything we believe stems from experience.

Is that what you believe? asks Mouuldy.

No, says Baby Pierre. And that's because of my mother.

Mouldy, First Dirty and Second Dirty don't remember their mothers.

Go on, says Mouldy.

She ignores me, says Baby Pierre.

That would be sad.

You should be a sad poet, says Second Dirty. Like Shoe is.

Not my style, says Baby Pierre. I'm a free thinker.

So am I, says Mouldy.

Me too, says First Dirty.

And me, says Second Dirty.

The moon rises, and the waters of Lake Clifton lap softly around the piles of the boardwalk.

The thrombolites bloop.

And the free thinkers lapse into silence, waiting for Thursday.