The Light in the Tunnel

by Brittany Rohm (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find New Zealand

A tap on my tent jolted me out of a light sleep and I clutched my Kindle, as if an e-reader would protect me. Then I took a breath and reached for my bug spray. I may have been camping alone in the New Zealand wilderness, but at least I’d armed myself to combat mosquitoes—and maybe humans. Another tap rustled the nylon. “Hello?” came a voice, barely audible over my pounding pulse. “I, uh, saw the light on and figured you were awake.” I puffed a sigh of relief, recognizing the voice, and looked up. The orange lantern a friend had gifted me weeks before hung from a loop on the ceiling, still aglow. I untied it, then unzipped the door. The lamp’s yellow beams highlighted my visitor’s features: hair the color and texture of opossum fur; lines carved into a face like rivulets scoring a delta; a beard and mustache veiling a craggy grin, missing some teeth and almost any joy. His name escaped me, but I remembered meeting him hours before when I’d arrived at Dickey Flat Campsite. After thumbing a ride from Hamilton with a man who shared with me his fizzy drink, a pizza, and his ideas for a book about robed mystical knights that sounded strangely like Jedis, I entered camp and noticed a travel trailer. Entombed in dust and with a rusty hitch, it looked like it was made in the ‘70s and had been stationary since. No one exited the house on wheels, but as I erected my tent in grassy seclusion close to the Waitawheta River, a man who resembled a long-forgotten musician approached me. He suggested that I move my tent to higher ground, then asked if I wanted to join him later for a walk. I agreed. Having traversed the North Island for nearly three months in search of clarity—over why I’d made decisions I had, how those decisions affected people I loved, and what I could do about any of that now—I existed in a fog, appropriate for traveling through the Land of the Long White Cloud, but not really for life. An evening stroll would be a welcome distraction. “Do you still want to go?” my newfound friend asked now. I nodded, lacing up my sneakers and pulling on a sweater. Even in summer, nighttime on the Coromandel Peninsula was chilly. I traded the lantern for a headtorch and zipped up the tent. “You don’t need that,” he said. “Just follow me.” The moon drooped like a cashew, emitting little light, and clouds obscured most of the stars. But I hadn’t navigated my own way very well lately, so I conceded and slipped the headtorch into my pants’ pocket. Over clipped grass and exposed roots, we trod. Past other tents, across a suspension bridge, and even over railroad tracks. My friend didn’t say much, but I didn’t ask much either. Despite my chatterbox proclivities, silence seemed best. In the darkened forest, I curled my hand around the headtorch, but then I released it. Too many times I had done what suited me, overriding the desires of others and disregarding how my actions might affect them. Tonight, for a near-stranger, I’d be different. “Right up here,” he said. And then blackness devoured all light. I reached into my pocket, wondering if I’d need to use the headtorch as a weapon. “It’s an old mining tunnel,” my friend called out, as if he’d heard my thoughts. “Nothing to be afraid of. I actually come here all the time. I’ve been living in that camper ever since the ex and I...” his voice dropped off. I blew out a breath and entered the tunnel. No light emanated from either end, but where I stood, green bulbs shined like stars. In every direction, countless glowworms popped to life. “Oh, wow,” I said. “I had no idea.” The man sat down and leaned his head against the wall. “Well, sometimes you think everything’s just going to be dark, but then you come across these guys.” I sat beside him, marveling at the insects, and bathed in their green glow.