Green Monkey Dreams

by Isobelle Carmody

  He grinned, thinking of the fuss Mrs Belfrey had made over the blood. The smile faded when he remembered how he’d been forced to retell his story in Mrs Bourquin’s office. He had not expected the policeman to go straight after Buddha, turning a lone beating into a vendetta. Neither the orphanage people nor the police seemed to remember Noah had to keep on going to school with Buddha. It never occurred to them that Buddha might want revenge.

  Thinking of adults made Noah think of the Kendells and their daughter, Katlyn darkhair. Of course, that was not her real name; Noah had given her the name his heart whispered.

  ‘Names,’ the dream man had told him, ‘contain great power, but only when they are truenames. Sometimes, the truename will whisper itself in that part of you where no lie can exist.’

  Take his name, pinned on the basket left on the orphanage doorstep. It fitted, but it wasn’t his truename.

  He wondered what Mrs Belfrey thought when she’d found him like that. It was the sort of thing that happened in stories, not in real life. He had read lots of books about babies found in mysterious places: on doorsteps, drifting downstream on reed beds, floating to shore on little boats. Those babies always turned out to be somebody important or special, like a king, or a great sorcerer.

  Of course, Mrs Belfrey hadn’t told him about being left on the doorstep. One of the wards had let it slip: ‘Nobody wanted you, Noah. You were so ugly your parents left you on the doorstep.’

  Noah peered cautiously round the edge of the stone angel, and was relieved to find the coast clear.

  He edged himself out onto the path and stood up slowly, peering over the top of the gravestones. Buddha’s gang was spread out, but Noah thought he could reach the gate if he could get a bit closer without being spotted.

  ‘I see ’im!’ a girl screamed.

  Noah didn’t wait to see who it was. He ducked down and ran between two stone tablets and round the back of the stone mausoleum, where there was a pile of rubbish: broken vases and tins, faded plastic flowers and piles of weeds with little clumps of dirt still stuck to withered roots.

  ‘He went that way!’ the girl shrieked.

  ‘No he didn’t. He ran along there! I saw ’im,’ a boy yelled. There was the sound of running footsteps and Noah froze in the shadow at the edge of the stone house, sliding down behind a clump of long yellow grass.

  ‘He’s gone to ground,’ Buddha shouted. ‘Spread out. One to each aisle.’

  Noah’s heart slowed to a stumble because the voices were moving away. A kind of exhausted drowsiness stole over him. It was late afternoon but the air still shimmered with blistering summer heat. A hot north wind blew, stirring the dust and the dry yellow grasses. Noah guessed the Kendells had reached Glastenbury and wondered if his absence would make them change their minds about him.

  At Glastenbury there was always talk about adoption, even though most of the kids were State wards and couldn’t be adopted because they already had parents. The wards sneered at the idea of being adopted, and boasted about the very parents who put them in the Home, but Noah wondered how much of that was sour grapes. Those who could be adopted dreamed of being taken home to parents who would love them and give them everything. None of them had been at Glastenbury as long as Noah.

  There were some things everyone understood. It was harder to be adopted the older you got, and harder still if there was anything the matter with you. There was nothing wrong with Noah, but he was so small and pale that it put prospective parents off. He’d been happy growing up at Glastenbury, fed and fussed over by Mrs Belfrey and her husband, Stan, and occasionally scolded by Mrs Bourquin, the Head of the Orphanage.

  Family life, according to the wards, sounded awful: fights and beltings, screaming arguments and trouble with the police. Yet, for all their horror stories, the wards were always running away from the orphanage, trying to get back to their families.

  Even so, Glastenbury seemed a calm refuge in a world of madness. Noah loved the big sprawling stone buildings and outhouses all classified by the National Trust because they were so old. The dark dormitory rooms and cement corridors were chilly in winter but lovely and cool in summer, though Noah spent most of his time roaming in the huge grounds surrounding the orphanage. There were only a couple of flower beds. The rest of the grounds were green, smooth lawns planted with huge gnarl-trunked trees and low spreading shrubs you could get right under. Best of all, Noah liked the rows of pine trees along the drive and around the fenceline. They were like a barrier, protecting Glastenbury from the rest of the world. He would sit on the great mats of dry orange pine needles beneath them, smelling the bitter pine-sap smell, and listening to the murmur of the wind in the branches.

  At Christmas, that year as every year, they had gathered pine cones, painting them gold and silver and tying them in bunches with red ribbons. A small pine tree had been chopped down by Stan, and on Christmas Eve, those who wanted to decorated the tree, singing Christmas carols to the radio and drinking Mrs Belfrey’s frothy yellow eggnog.

  Christmas always went so quickly. The tree had been taken down that morning, ready to be chopped into firewood, fuel for the fire they would light that night. It was not cool enough to warrant a fire, but they would all sit there in shorts and T-shirts out under the stars, slapping at mosquitoes and toasting marshmallows. ‘For luck,’ Mrs Belfrey would say, as she did every year at the Christmas tree bonfire.

  Noah had watched the decorations being wrapped in newspaper and packed in familiar cardboard boxes that morning with a queer ache of sadness in his throat.

  From where he was hiding behind the mausoleum, he could see the cement tower and mentally saluted the giant buried beneath and within it. That giant knew a lot about being chased and hurt by people. Noah had told no one what the white-haired man in his dreams had revealed about the giant, but now, he seemed to hear the gentle voice inside his head.

  ‘Before the Age of Man, the Old Ones ruled the earth: sorcerers, witches and all manner of faerie folk. The Age of the Old Ones passed, but even today there are those born of the ancient faerie bloodlines. Those who know the truename of their faerie bloodline have great Olden powers. But some are born who do not know what they are. One such was the giant. Persecuted and tormented for his unnatural size, he thought himself a freak. He lived and died a lonely broken exile. If he had known the truename of his faerie bloodline, he might have used his power to save himself.’

  Noah sympathised with the giant. The other kids called him freak and albino, and he had no friends either, except Mrs Belfrey and Stan.

  The white-haired man told Noah how people found the giant stiffened in death, one arm stretched out immovably. They buried him and encased his outstretched arm in a cement tower.

  The day after the dream, Noah asked Stan about the water tower.

  ‘Lord, but that’s no grave, kiddo!’ Stan had chuckled. ‘It’s just a water tower, plain and simple.’

  But Noah knew in the part of him where no lie could exist, that beneath the tower lay the giant. And staring up at the tower, he sensed that the white-haired man told the giant story for a reason. With strange clarity, Noah understood that he, Noah, was one of those born with Olden blood. In that moment, he knew the dream man told the story of the giant as a warning to him, to show what would happen if he failed to find out the truename of his faerie bloodline. And then despair rose in a great wave, for how could Noah learn his truename when he didn’t know who his parents were? Surely their name must be his truename.

  Oddly, Buddha again marked the way, chasing Noah into the cemetery he would never otherwise have entered. Hiding there, Noah had listened to Buddha’s mates baulk at going after him so close to nightfall.

  ‘It’s near dark an’ me dad’ll kill me if I’m late home again!’ one of the boys groaned.

  ‘There’s vampires come out after dark,’ the other boy quavered.

  ‘Ya pair of bloody cowards!’ Buddha had snorted. ‘Ah, let the vampires have ’im. Spooks to the spook.
’ Then they all went off making fake moaning noises.

  Less scared of the cemetery than of Buddha, Noah waited a while, just in case they had not really gone away. To pass the time he wandered along the rows reading the gravestones in the fading light.

  Alia St Claire 1938–1961. That made Alia twenty-three when she died. The next grave read: Alfredo Grabble 1845–1938. Alfredo had died the same year as Alia was born. He had been ninety-three. That seemed a better age to die. Noah wondered fleetingly how his own parents died, for he was sure they were dead, else they would have come back for him.

  Another grave a little further along read: Elene Calthorpe 1959–1960. Elene had been only one year old. Then a queer feeling came into Noah’s bones: a feeling he now thought of as his Olden blood stirring in him. He’d looked up at the giant’s tower, then little more than a dark shape in the dimness and at last, he knew.

  He had often wondered why the giant held his hand out at such an extreme angle, what gesture he had made to last until his bones crumbled. Sometimes it seemed to Noah the giant’s hand must be shaped into a plea for mercy or understanding. Other times he imagined the giant died with his hand clenched into a fist of rage, a vow of hate.

  But that day, staring up at the tower, he understood that whatever the giant had meant, his upraised arm had become a beacon to those of his kind. Staring round at the cemetery, Noah’s skin prickled with the realisation that the giant was not the only one of his kind buried there.

  On that day, Noah first felt the slumbering magic beneath the cemetery and he saw at last where he might search for his own faerie bloodline. For where else would his parents be if they had died but in this cemetery, among their own secret kind?

  From that day, Noah spent more time at the cemetery than in the grounds of Glastenbury. The other orphans and wards thought him more queer than ever, and even Mrs Belfrey disapproved of what she called his morbid search. He had been made to talk to the visiting counsellor, and some perverse whim had made him tell the wizened little man everything about the Olden power and his faerie bloodline. Naturally, the counsellor thought he was making it all up.

  Everything had gone on that way until the Kendells came to Glastenbury. He could remember the first time they came. They’d eaten lunch with Mrs Bourquin in the dining hall, and Noah assumed they were her friends. But when they came back, this time with their daughter, everyone knew they were looking for someone to adopt. That was when Noah gave Kate Kendell her truename.

  ‘Now don’t get too excited,’ Mrs Belfrey cautioned them. ‘Most of the people who come to Glastenbury don’t return. That isn’t because they don’t like you. It is more often because their own circumstances have changed, or because they give up once they find out what is involved in adoption. We don’t give our precious children to just anyone, you know.’

  She made them sound like prizes in some sort of complicated adult game, but Noah hardly listened because he never thought of himself being adopted.

  Then the day arrived when Stan came looking for Noah in the grounds. He’d been sitting in a pine tree re-reading one of his favourite books when a green sedan came up the drive. Mr and Mrs Kendell got out, followed by their tall daughter. A third visit meant the Kendells must want to meet someone in particular. Turning back to his book, Noah wondered fleetingly who it would be. It didn’t occur to him to connect Stan’s calls for him with the Kendells’ arrival, but a moment later he was being ushered into Mrs Bourquin’s office. Seeing the Kendells, he stopped dead.

  ‘Come right on in, Noah,’ Mrs Bourquin said, a trifle impatiently.

  ‘Noah,’ Mr Kendell greeted him in a deep voice, his eyes full of questions. Noah sensed a frustrated sort of anger in him. ‘This is my wife.’

  The slight woman seated beside Mrs Bourquin had golden blonde hair that floated in a feathery cloud of curls about her jaw. Her eyes were blue and she smiled at him, holding out her hand.

  ‘Noah,’ she said tenderly, making of his name something it had never been before. ‘I’m so glad to be able to meet you at last.’

  ‘Jane . . .’ Mr Kendell murmured warningly. He set himself between Noah and his wife and introduced his daughter.

  ‘Kate,’ he barked. Katlyn darkhair, Noah echoed the girl’s truename inside. He turned to stare into the deepsea blue eyes and found them remote and watchful. Wait and see, her eyes seemed to say.

  Mrs Bourquin prompted Noah to talk, and then went to supervise lunch. By the time she returned, Noah and Mrs Kendell were seated knee-to-knee, deep in conversation. Noah thought her the most wonderful person he had ever met. Her eyes widened when he told her about the time he’d been trapped up the tree all night. She laughed at his description of making nests from pine needles and she looked excited at the idea of seeing his collection of treasures. When he told her his favourite books, it turned out she’d read most of them too. She said she would get one he recommended out of the library. Shyly, he offered to loan his copy to her.

  All the while she held his hand and her golden curls floated between them and against his cheek, smelling sweet and clean.

  Every now and then, Mr Kendell had stopped his restless prowling to put in a question.

  ‘Do you like sport?’ he said gruffly. Noah was tempted to lie because he knew parents liked you to be good at a sport. That was one of the questions they always asked. But the look in Mrs Kendell’s eyes made him tell the truth.

  ‘I’m not very good at sport,’ he offered sadly.

  ‘I hated sport at school,’ Mrs Kendell confessed. Mr Kendell grunted and went back to his pacing.

  Lunch came and went, but Noah hardly ate. He had never talked so much in all his life. When Mr Kendell announced that it was time to go, he had been sorry and he thought Mrs Kendell was too. She held his hand right up to the last moment, and waved until the car was out of sight.

  Adopted, adopted, adopted the pine trees whispered exultantly.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. It’s better not to think about it at all,’ Mrs Belfrey had advised. Sometime before dawn, it occurred to Noah that he’d forgotten to lend his book to Mrs Kendell. It wasn’t until the next day he remembered the cemetery and his search for his truename.

  His heart told him he must find out his parents’ name before the Kendells took him away. (If they took him, warned Mrs Belfrey.) If he failed to find his truename, he would never reach all the things he sensed locked in his chest: all the powers that surged in their cage.

  And now it was the last day. He had sneaked out, climbing over the back gate, holding onto the chain to stop it rattling, and hurrying through the blazing heat for one last search of the cemetery.

  He had hardly been there any time before Buddha and his gang turned up. Unlike the first time, they got hold of him before he realised they were there. Maybe they had been watching and waiting for him. He hadn’t tried to struggle because there were too many of them. He let his arms hang limply, waiting for the two holding his arms to relax too, and give him a chance to pull free.

  ‘We’ve come for you, Spook. We’ve come to put you in your place,’ Buddha leered, his face shiny with sweat. The two boys holding Noah started to walk, dragging him between them.

  ‘Where . . . what are you doing?’ he’d asked warily. He was always a bit afraid Buddha would get carried away one of these times and really kill him.

  ‘We’re taking you home,’ said the bony boy he saw most often with Buddha.

  ‘Yeah, home,’ giggled a girl with dull brown hair and flat eyes.

  Suddenly his two guards stopped.

  ‘Home,’ Buddha announced.

  Noah looked at him uneasily, and followed his gaze. Then his heart started to gallop because Buddha was looking at a freshly dug grave. A big pile of dirt was covered with some green fake lawn, and a stiff green plastic lid concealed the hole for the coffin. The north wind breathed its hot fetid breath in Noah’s face.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Noah asked.

  ‘You like it here s
o much, freak, we’re doin’ ya a big favour. We’re gunna make it so ya never have to leave again.’

  ‘We’re gunna plant ya!’ the bony boy announced with a half-hysterical giggle.

  ‘Lift that thing off,’ Buddha ordered and the gang obeyed, heaving the grave lid to one side. They all stepped forward to stare into the dense darkness of the hole, struck by the rich earthy scents and the depth, struck by the idea that this was where it all ended.

  The moment gave Noah the chance he’d been waiting for, and he twisted violently to free himself from the loose grasp of his guards, running straight for the old part of the cemetery where the gravestones and monuments would give him some sort of cover.

  ‘He must be here somewhere, keep looking,’ Buddha yelled, and Noah’s heart nearly stopped. He’d been daydreaming like a fool and they were all around him. He could see Buddha and it was a miracle Buddha didn’t notice him. He was too scared to move and by the time Buddha shifted away a bit, Noah was wet with sweat.

  It had been too close for comfort. He got up cautiously and made his way round the edge of the building and back onto the path. There was no chance of him getting to the gate or even the fence now, but there must be a better place to hide. He slipped between two graves and walked in a silent crouch. In this part of the cemetery there were no fresh flowers. The graves were old and weathered and hardly anyone went there any more. He came to a whole row of graves with monuments shaped grimly like the real coffins buried underneath. Noah noticed one of the false stone coffins was cracked. He assumed the big rectangles would be solid, but he could see through the crack that the mock stone coffin was hollow.

  He climbed up on the cracked tablet and began to tug frantically at the broken bit. He was pretty small and if he could just budge it a bit farther, he could slip inside and lie there safely until Buddha had gone. Better to get back late than bloody and beaten up.

  ‘Hey!’ One of the gang spotted him. ‘Hey . . .’ he said less certainly, as he saw what Noah was doing.

  Another boy skidded to a halt behind him. ‘Is ’e . . . ?’ He stopped, staring at Noah crouched on top of the grave, fingers in the crack.