The Journey

by John Marsden

  The Second Story

  ‘NEAR the town of Perno,’ Argus began, ‘was a river which ran deep but which could be forded in places if one was careful. At one of the fords lived a man named Sussan. He had placed a rope across the river to aid those who wished to cross. The traffic at this particular ford was quite heavy, as it was on a direct route between Perno and Capital, so people liked its convenience, even though it was one of the more dangerous crossings. But people didn’t mind getting a bit wet if it saved them time.

  ‘One day the river was flowing swiftly; it was dirty, and had risen a good way because of heavy rainfalls further upstream. A man called Marne came to the river with his wife and children. To the wife, the river seemed dangerous and she told her husband that they should walk up to the next ford and try to cross there instead. The children were not really old enough to assess the situation for themselves but, seeing that their mother was disturbed by the height of the water, they supported her pleas and promised their father that they would not complain about the extra walk. But Marne was a stubborn man and, with the rope to hold on to, he was sure there would be no danger. He told his family he would cross first and then they could follow.

  ‘As he began to wade into the water Sussan came out of his hut and watched. Marne was already so far advanced in his course that Sussan felt it was futile to try to recall the man. He watched with increasing fear as Marne, with water up to his waist already, approached the centre of the river. Suddenly a new wall of frothy water swept downstream and knocked Marne off balance. It almost dragged the heavy pack from the man’s back and Marne reached around in an attempt to get it back onto his shoulders. In doing so he lost his grip on the rope and was swept under. He did not surface again and, although his wife and children and Sussan ran along the banks of the river for quite a way, hoping to find him a mile or more downstream, it was not until the river subsided a week or so later that his body was found, trapped under a log-jam.’

  Argus paused in his story and looked around. The drowning of the foolish man was not the point of the tale as his listeners knew. Argus continued.

  ‘When the wife returned to her home in Capital, she had to tell the story of her husband’s death many times to her friends and neighbours and relatives. She did not want to give her husband a bad name by making him sound foolish or lazy, so she explained to them all that he crossed the river because the children were so tired from the long walk that they could not walk the extra distance involved. “Even though they offered to go round the long way,” she would say to people, “we knew that their little legs would find the journey too far.”

  ‘The children also found themselves telling the story; not just when they were young, but again and again over the years, to new friends and acquaintances. The oldest child, a boy, had a vivid memory of watching his father’s face in the water as the man was swept downstream, and he incorporated this dramatic fact into his rendition; and, as time passed, he began to fancy that his father had called out to him as well. The words he imagined that his father had called out were, “My son, my son”. The second child heard her mother’s story about the children being too tired to go a safer way and she felt very guilty, as though she were responsible for her father’s death. When she told the story she seemed to remember a remorseful conversation in which her father had told her she was a lazy little girl, and had then plunged into the water in a bad temper. The last child was too young to remember the actual tragedy, so his version of the events was a colourful one involving a rope bridge breaking and a number of travellers being swept away.

  ‘Back at the ford, Sussan sometimes recounted to passing travellers the story of the drowning of Marne. Indeed it became a popular story over the years, and people often asked for it. Sussan would describe a violent argument with the doomed man, where he, Sussan, would be knocked to the ground in his attempts to stop Marne from dashing suicidally into the swollen river. Marne would then be pictured clinging to the rope as Sussan made frantic efforts to reach him, with poles or a length of rope. Just as his desperate, white fingers clutched at the end of the pole a gust of water knocked him loose and with a despairing look he was sucked away to his death. Sussan did not have to tell the story many times before he began to believe in it himself, as did all the other actors in the drama, whenever they told their different accounts. They could see the drowning man’s face, could remember the words that his lips formed, could even remember how they felt as they relived events that never happened.

  ‘Many years later Marne’s wife came through the ford again. By then a bridge had been built, but Sussan still lived there. Indeed he had prospered, having built a store and a guest house by the crossing. Marne’s widow stayed in the guest house and after dinner she was privileged to hear Sussan, in the midst of stories about the old days, tell of the drowning of her husband. But the story had changed so much that she did not recognise it. She only thought sadly of the many tragedies that the river must have seen, and, not having recognised Sussan, wished that he could have been there when her husband attempted his fatal crossing. “For”, she thought, “we did not try hard enough to dissuade him from going, and perhaps we could have done more to help him when he was washed under.” ’

  Argus paused, having almost finished his story. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘that’s not what really happened. Marne caught cold from crossing the river and died two weeks later from pneumonia. But his children like to believe it was more dramatic than that. That is, if he had any children. And the bit at the end about Marne’s widow hearing the story and not recognising it — I just put that in to make a point.’

  His listeners laughed heartily with him and Argus knew they had understood, and liked, the story.

  The Third Story

  ARGUS said: ‘There was once a field containing many flowers, all of a small blue type. These flowers were unusual, in that they could come into bloom in any season of the year. At any given time there would be some flowers in the field that were very old — almost withered away — and some that would be in full flower, and others that were still folded buds.’ Argus used his hands to sketch in the air the shape of the new buds. ‘And,’ he continued, ‘there were butterflies in the field that were always in motion. They would land first on one flower, then on another. It didn’t matter what stage the flower was at; the butterflies didn’t care. They didn’t understand “forwards” or “backwards”, or even straight lines. They just kept going from flower to flower.’ He paused.

  ‘The field,’ he said carefully, ‘is called Time. And the butterflies, the butterflies are us.’

  The Fourth Story

  ‘ONCE upon a time there lived a girl by the name of Alzire. She was a solitary child who lived near a great hill named Goffa. Every night, as dusk fell, she would climb to the top of this high hill and there she would fly, on the end of a very long string, a star that she had made. The star would be cold and white during the day, when she kept it in a cupboard in her bedroom, but as night approached it would begin to pulsate with colour and life, and glow with warmth. It seemed to take on a life of its own. Every night it would join the millions of other stars in the sky, even though on cloudy or stormy nights Alzire would not be able to see it as it soared high above her in the heavens. But she did not mind its invisibility on these occasions: she was more than compensated on the other nights when her star proudly took its place in the glittering display. As she watched it and felt it tugging on the string, it seemed to her as though the sky were like music and her star an essential note in a concert of triumph.

  ‘Cold nights and warm nights were all the same to Alzire. Every night she stood on her hill, faithfully flying the kite until the greying of the sky told her that dawn was calling in the stars and the cold white moon. Often she would pass the time thinking about the many other solitary figures like herself, all around the world, each standing on his or her own hilltop, each with a bright star on a long string. She felt a great love for them, as though they were all joi
ned in a network of friendship.

  ‘One night, when she was about thirteen, Alzire set off for the hill of Goffa a little before dusk, as she always did. Climbing the hill with her head down, body bent forward and the star under her arm, she did not see until she was nearly at the top that something had changed. Suddenly her way was blocked by a huge shadow. Alzire knew every plant, every rock, every smudge of dirt on the path, and she knew that this shadow did not belong. She stopped and looked up. Straddling the top of the hill, staring down at her, was a dark and monstrous shape, so black that it was impossible to tell where the shadow ended and reality began. It appeared to be a living thing, for it had eyes, any number of them, and all focused on her. Alzire shivered and shook. She could not move from the spot where she stood. At last, realising that she could not stay there forever, and a little comforted by the fact that the monster had not moved, she began backing slowly away. As she did so the baleful gaze of those terrible eyes remained fixed upon her, until a bend in the path took her trembling legs around a corner, and she found herself out of sight of the thing. And then she turned and ran for home.

  ‘All night Alzire tossed and turned, not only for fear of the creature that was on Goffa, but also in distress at the absence of her star from the night sky. She got up and sat at the window for hours, looking out at the brightly splattered heavens. All those stars and hers not among them! She could not sleep, and morning found her in an unhappy state. She kept the star on her bed, where it glowed dimly, casting a faint light on the walls and ceiling of her room.

  ‘The next night Alzire climbed the hill again, but with none of her usual confidence. And her worst fears were realised. When she came to the same bend in the path she looked up with a sense of foreboding, to see, once again, the great monster in the same position as the night before, though if anything it now seemed even bigger. It was crouched over the top of Goffa, in a position from which it could easily launch an attack, and the bulk of its vast body covered the whole summit. Alzire could now distinguish its head from the dark shadows that surrounded it. The head was big as a house and was mounted on a neck that was long and supple as a reptile’s body. Slowly the girl retreated again and returned to her house for another sleepless night.

  ‘This pattern was repeated for seven nights. Alzire was becoming desperate, and thought even of sacrificing her life in a mad rush at the creature. Every night her star grew a little dimmer, as though the monster was sapping light from it. Alzire began to fear that it would go out forever.

  ‘On the eighth day Alzire found herself in the garden, watching the gardener at work. The gardener, an old gentle woman, called Alzire over.

  ‘ “Look at this,” she said, pointing to a leaf. Alzire walked listlessly over and peered at it. She saw a cocoon, with something gradually emerging from it. As the insect chewed its way clear Alzire realised that it was a little black wasp.

  ‘ “I thought that was a caterpillar’s cocoon,” she said in surprise. “Look, that’s a caterpillar’s skin right next to it.”

  ‘ “Ah yes,” said the gardener. “The caterpillar thought so too. But before the caterpillar even lost its first skin, it had a visitor. You see, this type of wasp lays its egg straight into the caterpillar. The egg hatches and the baby grub gets its nourishment by eating the inside of the caterpillar. Not that he knows about it; he goes on eating, too, and getting bigger, but in the end he’s no match for the wasp larva inside him. By the time that last skin came off it was the wasp that shed it, as there was nothing left of the caterpillar. Then the wasp-grub makes its own cocoon and settles down for a while to grow into a fully-fledged wasp.”

  ‘ “That’s horrible!” Alzire exclaimed. “That’s terrible!”

  ‘ “Oh, it happens all the time,” the gardener said mildly. “That, and things like it. Happens with humans too in a way. We nourish evil things inside us, and eventually they destroy us if we let them, and then out they come, triumphant and powerful. Yes, we make our own monsters.” She looked knowingly at the girl, then turned back to her work.

  ‘With a great flash of understanding Alzire suddenly understood what the gardener was telling her. The creature on Goffa was her own creation, born out of her own darkness. It had fed on her moments of selfishness and weakness for all these years and finally it had grown strong enough to survive on its own — and to destroy her star. The girl realised that this was her moment of decision; that unless she could destroy the monster now, she would be trapped forever.

  ‘She ran into the house to find a weapon. But although she searched the contents of every room, there was nothing with the aura of power that she sought. It was not until the late afternoon that she came again to her bedroom and there saw on the bed the only thing strong enough to help her. Taking the star on its string, she set off towards the hill of Goffa once more, but this time with hope and determination in her heart. She did not even see the old woman, the gardener, who watched her go.

  ‘Alzire climbed the mountain, gaining strength from the fact that the star glowed brighter with every step she took. As she rounded the final curve in the path once more she saw the grim creature waiting for her, but this time she felt no fear. Raising the star she started towards the shadowy monster. But as the light fell upon the top of the mountain, the shadows retreated, and the monster seemed to shrink and shrink. The darkness faded before the light. Alzire realised how much power the thing had drawn from her fear; how much fear had magnified its size. When she finally confronted it, on the very top of the storm-tossed hill of Goffa, she was surprised to see how small it really was. But when she raised her hand to strike it, it slipped away, and bounded down through the long grass, disturbing rocks and small stones as it went. It was quickly out of sight.

  ‘It was then, with her new understanding, that Alzire became aware this creature could never be killed, but only kept as small as possible, and stopped from growing. To keep it so small as to be insignificant was perhaps the greatest and most important task that life offered. With a sense of responsibility very different from the light-hearted way in which she had flown her kite before, Alzire unfurled the string and let it soar back into the heavens where it belonged. The star seemed to almost burst with light. And it seemed to Alzire that every other star in the firmament was glowing more brightly than ever before, as if each and every one of them was saying: “Welcome brother! Welcome sister! Welcome at last!” ’

  The Fifth Story

  ‘THE world’s greatest circus,’ Argus began, his voice and delivery showing signs of greater confidence, ‘was always laid out in the form of an avenue. Its owner, a woman named Zexta, had a fine sense of climax. She liked to begin with the smaller acts, to whet the crowd’s appetite. They would pay their money and enter at one end of the avenue, where they would see twisters and rumblers and bouncers. As they went on a little further they would be invited to watch acrobats and stilt-walkers. Beyond them, they would linger at the scrabblers and contortionists.

  ‘As the people made their way along the avenue, however, they would become conscious of a huge pavilion that was waiting for them at the end of it. Zexta, with her magnificent sense of showmanship, had designed it so that it was higher and broader than all the other buildings. She had it draped in curtains, a kind of heavy silver brocade, so that it was always in the corner of people’s eyes. And it was resplendent with banners, all of which bore the same message in different words: “SEE THE FREAK”, “ABSOLUTELY THE ONLY ONE IN THE WORLD”, “A UNIQUE BEING”, “POSSIBLY THE MOST AMAZING CREATURE IN CREATION”.

  ‘So while the people were looking at the roller-boarders and the wobblers, they would also be thinking about the pavilion at the end of the avenue, and speculating about what kind of oddity might be in it. By the time they reached it they had convinced themselves — or rather, Zexta had convinced them — that they were going to see something truly extraordinary. As indeed they were.

  ‘Access to the pavilion was by way of a large set of solid steps. People mo
unted these and then walked along a ramp which started wide but kept narrowing, so that eventually everyone was forced into single file. At this point they passed through the entrance, viewed the freak within, and then were ushered on through an exit which took them right out on to the street, leaving the circus behind.

  ‘And what did they see? Who was the freak?’ Argus smiled. ‘They saw a unique creature all right. For Zexta had placed nothing but a huge mirror in her splendid pavilion.’

  The Sixth Story

  ‘A BOY once lived in a certain place. There were things there. When he was hungry he put things in his mouth and his hunger went away. When he was cold he put things on his body and the cold was gone. When he was tired he closed his eyes and lay down, and something would happen for some time, and the tiredness would be ended.

  ‘One day he heard an old voice talking. The voice kept talking about a “garden”. The boy thought this was a very pleasant word. There was something beautiful about it, that caught hold inside him and would not let go. So he decided to go and find this thing called a “garden”. He began to walk, looking for this thing.

  ‘He walked a long way and did not find any “garden”. But one evening, at around dusk, he heard a sound that he thought the most fragrant and delicate he had ever heard. It shivered and tingled around him in the twilight. The sound seemed to come from a young girl, and near her was sitting an old woman.

  ‘The boy said to the woman, “What is that sound?”

  ‘The woman answered, “It is the sound of a flute, playing music.”

  ‘The boy said, “It is very beautiful.”

  ‘ “Yes,” the woman answered, “It is something like the sound of birds in a garden.”

  ‘The boy travelled on, until one day he came to a huge and ornate palace. He went inside, into a great hall, at the end of which was a man dressed in robes. The boy walked towards him, marvelling at the soft feel of the floor beneath his bare feet.