To difference,
Humanity would be incredibly boring without you
Wraith
James Locke and the Azuriens
First published 2018
Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation
1 Bagot Street, Broome, Western Australia
Website: www.magabala.com
Email: [email protected]
Magabala Books receives financial assistance from the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts advisory body. The State of Western Australia has made an investment in this project through the Department of Local Government, Sport and Cultural Industries. Magabala Books would like to acknowledge the generous support of the Shire of Broome, Western Australia.
Copyright © Shane and Alex Smithers, Text, 2018
The authors assert their moral rights.
All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any process whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.
Cover Design Jo Hunt
Cover Images Tori-Jay Mordey
Typeset by Post Pre-press Group
Printed and bound by Griffin Press, South Australia
Dedication to come
ONE
Kurrajong, New South Wales, Australia
Losing concentration isn’t always disastrous, but sometimes it is. It all depends on what you are concentrating on. Flying straight requires concentration.
James can fly, and not in the boarding a plane and flying to Japan or wearing a jetpack kind of flying. James can, well, kind of, fly like a bird – he doesn’t flap his arms or anything, but he can fly. Deciding to ignore Darren’s instruction to concentrate on flying straight is in the potentially disastrous category.
James knew better than to close his eyes, but he did it anyway. He wanted to relax and block out everything except the sensation of weightlessness. Much better, he thought.
‘Bra’a! Bra’a! What are you doin’?’ shouted Darren, over and over. James was used to his best friend’s bossiness, but sometimes, just sometimes, he wished Darren would chill out. Besides, how could he concentrate, as Darren wanted, if he was shouting at him all the time?
He opened his eyes. Oh crap! He had drifted half-way across the paddock, above the treetops, and was now in a descending pattern. Below him, Darren was running and pointing to something up ahead, at the – Oh, double crap! – duck pond. ‘Nooooo . . . !’ James swore, tried to slow down, change direction, do anything, but nothing worked. He had only seconds before impact. A flurry of quacking ducks flapped and scrambled over one another in an attempt to get out of his way. He screwed his eyes shut and took one last deep breath before nose-diving into the mud. He slid across the boggy ground and plunged headfirst into the ducks’ filthy pond.
Suddenly enveloped in a horrifying world of poo, he floundered about for several seconds trying to regain his bearings. The sludge clung to him like a wet blanket, dragging him down. He managed to clamber to his feet and coughed out a mixture of putrid mud and water, and gasped for breath. It was the most disgusting thing he’d ever tasted – and he’d tasted a lot of disgusting things in his time, like Brussels sprouts, cod liver oil and the occasional fly.
When James had cleared most of the gunk out of his ears, he could hear Darren asking if he was all right. He waded through the waist-high water toward the edge of the pond. Covered in stinking sludge, he took a high step up onto the bank, his foot shot out from under him and he face-planted in the mud.
‘Bra’a, quit hogging the pond,’ said Darren. ‘Give the ducks a go.’ He burst into laughter.
With a groan, James rose to his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way out of the pond. This was turning out to be one of those mornings he wished he’d spent in bed.
‘Man that was deadly! Your best crash yet.’ Darren wiped tears from his eyes. ‘I’ll get the hose.’
James stood up, undid the strap on his Stackhat and tossed it to one side. His hair, normally sandy brown, was caked in foul-smelling dark green goo. He scraped some of the muck off his face and wiped his hands on the front of his already filthy shirt. His wet jeans, which he tried to pull up several times, hung halfway down his backside, revealing his sodden boxer shorts. He stood there, feeling himself go redder and redder under all that mud.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said Darren, returning with a long hose. ‘I’ll clean you up in no time.’ He aimed the nozzle at James’s head and squeezed the trigger.
James let out a high-pitched squeal as a stream of icy water hit him in the face. ‘Stop! Stop it!’ he yelled, holding up his hands to shield himself. His face burned.
Darren ignored him. ‘Don’t be such a sook, it’s only water.’ He fired a jet at James’s chest. ‘Turn around. This’ll only take a sec.’
James faced the other way, grimacing as a river of slurry flowed down his back and into his underwear. When it was all over he could hardly talk through his chattering teeth. ‘I-I’m g-going back to the house to have a shower.’ He wrapped his arms around his sides in an attempt to stop shaking and trudged away.
‘I’ll just make sure the ducks are okay,’ yelled Darren after him. ‘Meet you in the kitchen.’
James kicked off his wet shoes and darted up the stairs, hoping his mother wouldn’t see him. Standing under the hot, steamy shower, one hand pressed against the wall, the water pummelling the top of his head, James wondered why he sucked so much at flying. Not once since he’d started flying had he landed without crashing. He’d crashed into the house, bounced off the roof, missed the roof but still managed to rip off the guttering, flown into trees, and hit the ground more times than he cared to count. He thought by now he should have improved enough to land safely. Superman never had this problem. Three running steps and the Man of Steel was up in the air, holding one arm stretched out in front for stability as he flew – neither of these things had worked for James – and they never did explain how Superman was able to make a perfect landing every time. James guessed that comic books weren’t exactly the same as real life.
Just as James was coming down the stairs, towelling his hair dry, he heard Darren enter the kitchen through the side door. A kitchen chair scraped and Darren said, ‘Morning.’
‘Morning, dear,’ James heard his mother mumble. James stopped in his tracks and peeked around the doorway. Mum doesn’t normally call Darren ‘dear’.
She was leaning against the kitchen bench, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and some work documents in the other. Her long blonde hair was wound in a loose bun with a couple of pencils skewered through it, and her rectangular glasses were seated halfway down her nose. ‘You’ll have to get your own breakfast this morning, I’m running rather late,’ she said, not bothering to look up.
‘Um, okay,’ said Darren.
James’s mother took a sip of her coffee, flicked through a couple more papers and then slipped them into her briefcase on the table. ‘I’ve got to work late tonight, but your father should be home around seven,’ she continued, tipping the rest of her coffee down the sink. ‘I’ll tell him to pick up some takeaway. Okay?’
‘Um, okay,’ said Darren.
‘Be good. And don’t play computer games all day.’ She kissed Darren on the top of the head and then whisked out the side door.
‘Um, okay. Bye . . . Mrs Locke,’ mumbled Darren, looking bewildered as the door slammed behind her.
James walked into the kitchen shaking his head in disbelief. When his mother had work on her mind, nothing else seemed to matter, especially him. Both his parents worked for an obscure little company called Akwatronics. James loved his parents but hated Akwatronics. It took up al
l their time and kept them away from home far too often. He didn’t even know what they did there.
‘Your mum’s gone,’ said Darren, reaching for the cereal box on the table. ‘She won’t be home till late.’
James nodded. ‘I heard.’
Darren poured milk over his cereal and then shovelled a huge spoonful into his mouth.
‘And Dad won’t be home till seven,’ said James, grabbing some juice from the fridge and sitting down opposite Darren.
Once Darren managed to swallow, he said, ‘Which means we’ve got nearly twelve hours to ourselves.’ He spooned the remains of his cereal into his mouth and pushed his chair back. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
‘What? I’ve only just sat down. I haven’t eaten anything yet.’
‘No time,’ said Darren, heading for the door. ‘You’ve got to practise your landings if you’re gonna use the VPR.’
‘The VPR? What’s that?’ said James. ‘Hey! What’s the VPR?’ he called out after Darren, but Darren was already out the door.
TWO
Kurrajong, New South Wales, Australia
Darren picked up James’s discarded Stackhat, gave it a long squirt with the hose and then steered James as far away from the duck pond as he could.
The hours passed quickly. James would have lost count of the number of times he crashed except that Darren kept calling them out.
‘Fifty-six,’ called Darren as James picked himself up out of the dust.
‘You don’t need to keep counting,’ growled James, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. The temperature was easily over thirty degrees. ‘How about we give the landings a rest and try the VPR?’
‘Nope, sorry,’ said Darren, though he didn’t look sorry at all.
It was late afternoon and there were twenty-seven more crashes before James’s landings began to look as though they were deliberate rather than the result of misadventure.
Touching down a few metres from Darren’s makeshift landing pad – an X scratched in the dirt –
‘We goin’ to give the VPR a go, or what?’ James asked.
‘Not a chance,’ said Darren, lazily.
‘Why? That last one wasn’t so bad.’
‘If you were practising crash landings, maybe, but . . .’
Darren was going to make him beg. ‘Oh, come on, don’t be such a . . .’ James couldn’t think of a good word that wasn’t too offensive, so he just made an unflattering face.
‘It’ll be your funeral,’ said Darren, with a half-hidden smile.
James resisted the urge to laugh – my funeral, ha! It had taken nearly all day to get Darren to agree and he didn’t want him changing his mind, so he simply said, ‘I’ll take my chances.’
Darren shrugged, went to his bag and pulled out a small, black metal box with thin plastic tubes hanging from it. He reached into his bag again and took out an aerosol can and attached it to the box and one of the tubes. ‘Okay, listen carefully,’ he said. James could feel a two-hour lecture coming on. ‘This is a Variable Pressure Release unit, or VPR as I like to call it.’ James tried hard not to roll his eyes. ‘It clips onto the front of your pants, like this.’ Darren demonstrated on himself. Then, holding up two long plastic tubes, one in each hand, he went on, ‘These have little jets at the ends which we’ll strap to your legs. I’ve got duct tape to fix them in place.’
James’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘Duct tape? That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?’
‘No,’ said Darren. ‘Now, see this.’ He pointed to a black knob on the front of the box. It looked like the knob from Darren’s mum’s home stereo. ‘It adjusts the pressure.’ He twirled the knob one way. ‘Max.’ And then the other way. ‘Min.’ Then he repeated the process.
This was killing James slowly, one brain cell at a time. He could have been high above the trees by now, having an awesome time. ‘Yeah, okay, I get it,’ he said.
‘You sure?’
James wasn’t stupid. He knew how knobs worked.
‘Yes, it’s not difficult. Max. Min. So, can I have a go now?’
‘I haven’t told you how to turn it on yet.’
James clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘That switch there,’ he said, reaching out to flick it.
Darren smacked his hand away. ‘No! You’ll waste gas.’
James jerked back. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to see if it works.’
‘What do you mean, if it works? Of course, it works.’ Darren unclipped the VPR unit and handed it to James, like a king handing over his sword.
James hooked it on to his pants while Darren ducttaped the tubes to his legs. James tried not to think how they were going to get the tape off his bare legs later.
Once James’s Stackhat was secure, Darren patted him on the back. ‘Good luck,’ he said, sounding more like a technician from NASA than a kid from the outer suburbs.
James took a deep breath, gave the thumbs up, levitated a metre or so off the ground and then flicked the switch on the VPR. He shot up like a bullet, and had to clench his teeth to stop unwanted air forcing its way down his throat. He raced through some low-level clouds, his stomach now situated somewhere between his knees and his feet. Below him, trees and houses rapidly turned into miniature models. Darren shrank to a mere speck on the ground before disappearing from view. Even big things, like roads, were transformed into thin grey lines on the landscape.
When thin, streaky clouds appeared all around him and the temperature began to drop, James realised that he was climbing much too high. He fumbled for the switch, flicked it off. His stomach, still somewhere below his knees, knotted. He wasn’t slowing. James racked his brain, but couldn’t remember Darren saying anything about how to stop. Why hadn’t Darren mentioned that in his mind-numbing instructions?
In desperation, he threw out his arms and legs, hoping they would act like a windbreak, and it worked. He started to slow. But just when he was thinking how lucky he was not to have gone any higher, he stopped completely, hovered for a second, and then plummeted, headfirst, back toward the earth.
The wind whipped at his face, pushing his cheeks back, making his eyes water. His blurred vision made the ground look as if it was racing up to meet him. Suddenly, Darren came back into view. His tiny brown figure was darting this way and that, looking frantic, searching for something to break James’s fall.
James could hear someone screaming. It took him a moment to realise that it was himself. He had to calm down, focus, try to kick his levitation skills back into action. Otherwise . . . the thought was too gruesome. He forced his mouth shut and concentrated on his breathing. He entwined his fingers over his eyes to block out the view, wondered if his life would flash before him, but it didn’t, just tiny spar-kles on the back of his eyelids. The air around him grew warmer. The ground couldn’t be far away now. He braced for broken bones, held his breath ready for the pain. Any second now. Any second . . . now. Nothing. James opened his eyes and peeked through his fingers. He was at a complete stop a few centimetres from the ground, his nose hovering just above the dirt. He let out a long breath. Thud!
‘Bra’a, are you all right?’ asked Darren, running over. He sounded puffed.
James stood up on wobbly legs. His head was spinning and he could feel icicles hanging from his eyebrows and nostrils. Worse still, his Stackhat was missing.
‘I-I think we need to adjust the setting,’ he managed to say.
‘How far up did you go? I couldn’t see you anymore.’ James wiped the icicles off his face. ‘I don’t know, but it got really, really cold. I could barely breathe. I thought my cheeks were going to melt into my ears.’
‘Cool,’ grinned Darren. He unhooked the VPR unit from James’s pants and gave it a quick inspection. ‘It’s not damaged,’ he said, sounding relieved. ‘I’ll just set it at a lower pressure.’
‘A much, much lower pressure. I don’t think I could handle that again.’ James’s heart was still racing. That had been one wild ride, far scarier than anyt
hing he’d ever done before. Darren gave the VPR back, and James’s hands were shaking as he took it; he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or excitement, or both. He swallowed hard, determined not to let Darren see his trepidation.
‘Take it slow this time, Bra’a will ya?’ To James’s surprise, Darren looked concerned. ‘You freaked me out.’
James gave a half-smile and nodded. ‘Sure.’
*
By late afternoon the Mountain Blue-gums were casting long shadows across the paddocks. Darren checked the time on his phone. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Mum’s expecting me.’ They packed up and Darren hopped on his bike. He paused for a moment. ‘Good work, by the way.’ He gave a little nod, spun the bike around and set off. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
‘Yeah, see ya,’ James called back; then, stiff, bruised, exhausted and half-frozen, he hobbled back to the house. He grabbed a snack out of the fridge and slowly climbed the stairs to his room. He had the whole house to himself until seven. Darren would want him to take an ice bath, but there was no way he was up for that. He collapsed onto his bed, asleep in seconds.
His eyes fluttered open and it took him a few seconds to realise something had woken him. Maybe his father was home? Was it seven already? Bleary-eyed, James glanced towards where the clock beside his bed should be but wasn’t. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus. Something was wrong. Where was he? This wasn’t his room. The creaking was getting louder. James rubbed his eyes again and blinked several times. Above him, about an arm’s length away, was a smooth, flat surface. He reached up and touched it. The creaking turned into footsteps not very far away. A sharp knock on his door brought James fully awake, and two realizations hit him – he wasn’t alone in the house anymore, and he was floating centimetres from his bedroom ceiling! Separately they would have been fine, but together they were disastrous.
James felt gravity reach out like a giant, invisible hand and wrench him from the air. He landed heavily on his mattress, the air forced from his lungs in one great whoosh.
Wraith Page 1
