If Things Were Different
By Ari D’Arconte
I awoke to the morning sun rising slowly over the dry outback. Light shone on the red dirt, illuminating a land reminiscent of a Martian desert. Reaching down, I picked up my shepherd's crook. To my tired muscles, it felt heavy. As I stood up, I heard the grunts of the court, amplifying as each roo roused its neighbor.
My legs felt spry as I got the court up and moving. They were just as excited as I was to move out of their night pen and into the fields. My roo coat warmed with the rising sun. I adjusted the buttons (they always seemed to get lost underneath the thick fur, whose color let me blend right into the arid landscape). Watching the joeys begin to poke their heads out always brought a smile to my face. As the winds blew, the fur on the roos’ backs puffed up with air, displaying the very trait that made this lifestyle a possibility. A wild gray kangaroo bounded about in the distance. For a moment, I allowed myself to consider the history of my court and the origins of the animals that sustained my livelihood.
The first humans to arrive on the southern continent found species unlike anything they had ever encountered. These great beasts slowly hopping around were easy pickings. The kangaroos even followed the people, seeking better access to the grasses that dotted the landscape as humans began cutting into the forests. As humans ventured deeper into the cold interior of the landmass, they began to use the roos just as much for clothing as they did for food. Over thousands of years, the roos developed their iconic thick wool. I appreciated this history every time I felt my hand get stuck in the thick tangles of fur as I patted each roo to make sure none had gone astray. This was the highlight of my day.
As we headed along our daylight route, I could see the ocean below, its deep blues contrasted with the sandy beaches. The beaches ended suddenly, giving way to docks, cities, and a cluster of skyscrapers all encased in smog: a mass of humans living in their own filth. The roos always raced to the top of the hill overlooking the city, and just as quickly shuddered and ran at the site of the monstrosity. I imagined they were horrified that anyone could live in such a desolate place, and in that we thought much alike. Ironically, the city’s rise and continued existence were all dependent on the export of roo fur provided by those like me.
It all started with coats. Those who first reached this land were prepared for the warm springs and summers, sustained by the heat of the bright sun. What they were not prepared for were the cold, dark, dry winters. Abandoned by the sun’s warmth, they took to catching wild roos and using their fur to make coats. During the thousands of years of the roos’ domestication, the industry itself also evolved. Roo fur coats have a unique style, along with the snug hats and short thick scarves. Nowadays, I’ve heard they even make designer clothing from the stuff. To me, it always felt like a retreat from the history of the roos. It is an industry of which I am the backbone, and I am simultaneously grateful for how the fur market sustains my lifestyle.
Turning inland, the attitude of the roos changed spectacularly. They loved being out in the open plains. I suppose it gave them a sense of the lives of their ancestors. Me too, buddy. We happened upon a number of other creatures: small wombats scurrying across the ground, emus sprinting through the plains, and great eagles circling from above. Overhead, the bright sun beat down onto the continent. It warmed the fur of the roos so much that when I touched it, it reminded me of a blanket that you would lie on sitting next to a campfire. The fur was life, for the roos and for me. I made sure to never forget that.
The roos and I returned home with the setting sun. I was reminded of the old legends of the kangaroo sun god bounding across the great plains of the sky before returning home each night. It saddened me that my roos did not have the great leaping prowess of their close ancestors. Humanity had reared them for other purposes, and their specialties lay outside of their own survival. I loved each and every one of them—their thick fur, deep, wistful eyes, and long, dark faces. Their noses sweat with the efforts of today’s journey.
After the roos fell asleep, I walked inside. The dark wood of the roof had seen a few too many rains, and the shed was filled with the scent of fresh grass. The single window faced the east, the morning light giving the entire room a golden aura each day. Tomorrow would be the same. Grabbing a piece of jerky, I sat on my bed and read stories of the old times, of my land and its history. As I placed the heavy book on my bedside, its cover reflected just a touch of the light from my salt stone lamp. I reached down to make sure my shepherd’s crook was still there. I would need it again tomorrow, as I did every day. I shut off the light, perceived the total and imposing absence of the sun, and went to sleep. H
Art by Lauren Manning
