No Stars to Wish on

by Zana Fraillon

  Why did the whale cross the road? To get to the other tide!

  What do you get if you sit under a cow? A pat on the head!

  What is a cow’s favourite thing to do? Listen to Mooosic!

  Ha ha!

  THE spiderlings have hatched. I woke up this morning and saw hundreds, maybe even thousands, of tiny dots spread out across the ceiling like stars in a night sky. I could even see the Southern Cross pointing the way home just as Gran showed me.

  I’ve been whispering to the eggs every night. I sent them one more message, but the words were so quiet I don’t know if the sound even left my lips. Perhaps the spiders understand sign language.

  The window in our dorm is broken. I was cross about that hole. One of the twins, Max, threw his shoe through the window when Gus was getting in trouble with Sister Alberta for sneaking into Max’s bed to sleep. It didn’t help Gus, though. It didn’t help Max, either. Sister Alberta moved up to a ranking of eight after that. And no way did it help us, because now there’s a hole the size of a fist right between the bars at the window. The night wind whistles through and makes us colder than ever, and some kids say it lets in all the angry spirits of boys who have died here.

  I don’t know if any kids have actually died here, but even if they have I reckon their spirits would go straight home. I know mine would. And if I did hang around, I wouldn’t spook the other kids. I’d head straight to the Nuns, straight to Mother Superior, and scare the willies out of her, as Gran says. I don’t know what that actually means; what are willies, anyway?

  There’s one good thing about the hole in the window. At least now the spiders will be able to get out. Without that hole, I don’t think my idea would work. I just hope the Nuns don’t spot the spiders before they get away.

  At breakfast, I was sitting in my spot when I saw another clue. It was so small I only noticed it when I was swapping bowls. I’m never hungry in the mornings, which is weird because I’m always hungry at night. The hunger decides to go away and doesn’t come back before lunch. So I give my left-over brekky to someone whose hunger has come back already. Usually that’s Anthony, but not always. I try to be fair.

  Clue Number 2 was tiny, as tiny as could be. It looked like part of the table, which is why I never noticed it before, but really it was a picture. A real Number 49 picture. I could tell by the way it was drawn. It was a picture of a mouse. And he had his paw over his mouth, like the spider. Now I have to figure out this clue, too. That real Number 49, he’s very clever, hiding clues where I’m the only one who’ll find them.

  This must be a sign that today is going to be a very good day.

  Yesterday was a good day too. Samson showed me that I could hear music, even with my deafness. When we were outside he showed me how to drum. ‘The best thing in the world,’ he said.

  ‘Better even than eggs and bacon for breakfast?’

  ‘Better even than pancakes. When you drum, the music is with you, wherever you are.’ He showed me then, how he drums. He looked the happiest I’d ever seen him, tapping away on the paint tin like that. Happier even than when he smiled at my joke.

  I put my hand to the tin, and I could feel his beats. Every hit on the can went straight up my arm and into my head, and I could actually hear the beats inside me. It was beautiful.

  And then, when I drummed on the paint can, the drum beats went straight through me, right inside my body. There was a roaring in my head, following all the beats and bangs and rhythms that poured out of me. Samson said it sounded good to him too. I can’t wait to show Janey. I wish I was brave enough to sneak out when she’s got Outside Time. I don’t even know when that is, or how I could do it, or what would happen to me if I was caught. Even so, it was a good day. And it doesn’t matter that I’m not brave enough, because I’ll see her today at school anyway.

  It’s time for school. Finally, we’re going. We’re all waiting on the grass outside the big front doors. The air is prickly, the way it is when sparks fly from the wall socket at home if you use the wonky one in the kitchen. The air prickles, then, to warn you before you stick a plug all the way in.

  That’s what it feels like now. Everyone’s excited and our excitement is sending sparks out, warning us not to go too far. Even the kids who don’t like school are excited just to get out of this place.

  The Nuns call this place ‘the Home’. If you call it the home, that means that it’s the best, doesn’t it? As if this is the one to watch and to copy. What a joke. I tell Samson, and he actually laughs. A real laugh. And the boy next to us gives a small smile. See – the plan will work. Another small step. I just need to understand everyone’s humour senses, like Mum said.

  And then Samson does his funny face. Scrunching up his nose. ‘He said the same thing. Thought it was funny and all.’ Samson’s nodding at the number on my shirt. On the real Number 49’s shirt. My nose scrunches up too. It’s weird enough wearing someone else’s things and living someone else’s life. I definitely don’t like thinking someone else’s thoughts. But maybe we both have the same sense of humour.

  The Nuns keep walking up and down between us kids, shoving us back into our lines, even when we’re in our lines already. They must be annoyed that they won’t have anyone to order around all day except for the little kids who aren’t big enough to go to school yet. I feel sad for them – the little kids, I mean. I wouldn’t like to be left behind with annoyed Nuns.

  And even though we were woken up extra early so we could do the cleaning before we left, I feel as awake as ever. What things will they teach us? Will the teacher give us homework and books to bring back here? Even if we can’t have books, at least we’ll have something else to think about.

  All the kids suddenly bend down and start taking off their shoes. I’ve been too busy daydreaming to notice that the Nun up the front was saying something. I take my shoes off before anyone notices I wasn’t paying attention.

  Samson looks at me and mouths the words so I can understand. He doesn’t say them out loud, because we’re not allowed to talk. ‘Bare feet. Gotta walk to school in bare feet. Save our shoes. They wear out if you walk too far.’

  Suddenly, I’m laughing. And I must be laughing out loud, because Samson shakes his head at me. But I can’t help it. The idea of taking shoes off so you don’t wear them out is ridiculous. It’s funnier than all the jokes in my joke book. I even see a comic inside my head: A boy holding his shoes in his hands, with his feet rubbed right off. And the speech bubble says, But I didn’t wear out my shoes!’

  But laughing in line is Against the Rules.

  AMREI walked through the seasons. She felt as if she was on a giant treadmill. If she stopped walking, the whole world would stop turning.

  She didn’t come across many people, and those she did speak to would walk away with a slightly bemused expression on their face, as if they had woken from a dream, or as if she had conjured them in her imagination. Perhaps she didn’t exist, had never really existed at all. Perhaps she was a lonely shadow creature, travelling the earth, caught in an eternal search.

  Amrei watched her feet as she walked. One foot after the other. Step, step, step. Amrei’s sneakers had long ago been reduced to shreds, and the soles of her feet had taken on the hard, leathery quality that her shoes lacked.

  And almost in answer to her yearning for companionship, four black-and-grey paws fell into step beside her. Amrei didn’t look up to find out who they belonged to. She was happy for the comfort of their near-silent patter. And looking up might break the trance that pushed her forward.

  Amrei could feel her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Her lips felt huge, as though they had swollen on her face. She was thirsty. Hungry too, but mostly thirsty. It was hard to find clean water.

  When Amrei stopped, she shared half of her food and water with her travelling companion. Her fingers traced scars on Dog’s back, mapping out the journeys he had already travelled. His ribs were visible through his mangy coat, just as Amrei’s ribs we
re visible through her singlet. But he was clearly happy, smiling through his panting as he rested a paw on Amrei’s knee.

  Amrei tried singing, just to see if she could, and was surprised by the strength of her voice when she hadn’t used it for so long. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as exhausted as she felt.

  Her step quickened, and she found herself humming songs of hope. Dog trotted along happily beside her.

  Amrei wondered if Dog would make it all the way home too. She wondered how GurrGurr would take to him. The thought made her smile. Her first smile in a long time.

  What is a duck? An animal that grows down as it grows up!

  Why did Bo Peep lose her sheep? She had a crook with her!

  What animal always goes to bed with his shoes on? A horse!

  Ha ha!

  AT least I didn’t have to walk all the way to the other town in bare feet.

  At least I didn’t get put with a teacher who was mean or stupid or both.

  At least I wasn’t as tired as the others at night-time.

  At least the regular kids who still live with their families didn’t poke fun at me and call me Home Boy.

  At least I didn’t get in any fights with the regular kids, or watch Janey get in a fight with the regular kids because they were being mean to a boy my age.

  At least it was a Nun with only a half-mean face who pulled me from the line and pushed me towards the Hole, before Mother Superior had a chance to swoop down from the front.

  I started shaking then, when I saw where we were going. I had never been down in the Hole before. But I had heard about it. Samson had been down there. And Janey. And a lot of the kids. The ones who get angry at what’s happening. The ones who are brave enough to talk back to the Nuns, but also silly, because if they didn’t say anything they wouldn’t get hurt. Maybe they have become Nunish enough not to care. If that’s so, they must be winning, because I don’t think the Nuns meant that to happen.

  The Hole is one of the really bad punishments. It’s like a cupboard, a small, dark, nasty cupboard deep in the basement. Kids are locked down there for as long as the Nuns decide. Sometimes a whole day. Sometimes more. Alone. No one visits the Hole.

  Samson said some kids come out after a whole week, and then they aren’t the same kids any more. I guess they really become Nunish. He pointed one out to me. ‘There. That’s the-Girl-Who-Spent-a-Week-in-the-Hole.’

  ‘Did she used to be like that? Why won’t she look at anyone?’

  ‘She used to be just like us kids. But since that week, she’s been stuck in her own head.’

  She was really quiet, even when the Nuns yelled. And her eyes had gone cold and Nunish. She made me feel icky all over, and sad. ‘She makes everyone feel sad. And scared.’ Samson shrugged. ‘Just don’t think about it.’

  It’s hard not to think about things, though.

  So when the Nun with the half-mean face pushed me down there, my eyes started to go black, and for a minute I was blind as well as deaf. I think I started screaming, because suddenly my face was stinging – the Nun had slapped me. But not in an angry way. She looked a bit nervous, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear me. She put her finger to her lips, and for a moment she looked just like the picture of the real Number 49’s mouse. I was so surprised I decided to trust her. She’s a bit shorter than most of the other Nuns, and cuddlier, which Great-great-aunt Jess says is just a nice way to say dumpy and fat. But if I had to cuddle a Nun, I’d definitely go for this one.

  She must be new, because I’d never seen her before, although sometimes it’s hard to tell. They all wear that hard Nun face to hide the way they really feel. Or maybe that is the way they really feel.

  But maybe the real Number 49 knew this Nun. Maybe she has something to do with his clues. Maybe he was actually drawing her, just in mouse form, so I would recognise her when I saw her. I think the real Number 49 wanted me to trust this Nun. Perhaps she helped him escape, and she isn’t telling.

  And while I was looking at her, I decided that this Nun’s face didn’t look mean at all. Not even half-mean, not Nunish at all. And even though all this was happening in not even a second, I started wondering what it was that made someone look Nunish. Or not Nunish. It’s funny that you can think a really long thought, but it takes almost no time to think it. Your brain can stop time while it works things out. Spin time backwards.

  And while my mind was spinning time backwards, I figured it out. She didn’t look Nunish because her eyes were scared. And they weren’t empty. The other Nuns’ eyes are all empty. Like a bit of paper that Janey hasn’t drawn on yet. Like the-Girl-Who-Spent-a-Week-in-the-Hole’s eyes. Great-great-aunt Jess says that eyes are the windows to the soul. But if that’s true, then the Nuns mustn’t have much soul at all, even after all their God classes.

  I knew she was thinking about Mother Superior or the Director hearing. And I didn’t want them to come out. She turned back to me, and nodded. She bent down, so I could see her lips, and said slowly and clearly, ‘I’m not locking you down here. You’re here to clean. I want this place to feel lovely and clean. You can do that, can’t you? For the next child who comes down here. That would make them feel much better, wouldn’t it?’

  I nodded. Because she was right. It would.

  She left me alone with a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush. The Hole was cold and smelly from the overflowing bedpan, but at least the door was open. I saw two other doors, and one was bolted shut, with a giant padlock. So there must be three Holes, not just one. I never knew that. And some kid was in one, right then, while I was there.

  That made me shiver. I was so glad not to be locked up, I scrubbed for ages before I realised something. This meant I wouldn’t be going to school.

  I didn’t cry. I thought I might, but I didn’t. At least this way I’ll have more stories to tell when I go back to my real school. At least this way the other teacher won’t put wrong information in my head. At least this way I can work on my plan. I can work out what jokes will make the other kids laugh. I can start the smiling, and we can all laugh our way back home.

  In the Mary Poppins stories, when Mr Wigg has too much laughing gas in him, he laughs so much he floats onto the roof and can’t get down again until he thinks of something sad. We could do that, laugh ourselves right out the windows, follow the spiderlings on their puffs of wind. When we see our homes we could just think about being taken away, and we would drop straight down, right back into our beds.

  I took the pencil out then, the one the real Number 49 left for me. I’d kept it in the cuffs of the real Number 49’s too-big pants, just like everything I wanted to keep safe. I took the pencil out and I wrote four jokes, one on every wall in the Hole. I wrote them down low where a kid lying on the floor might look. I chose my very best jokes because I reckon that kids here would need really good jokes to cheer them up.

  When Samson came back in the evening, he told me I wasn’t kept back at the Home because I had laughed out loud, but because I was deaf. I was never going to school, after all. I guess the Nuns decided there’s no point going to school if you can’t hear, or talk.

  That was the weak bit of my plan. Letting them believe I couldn’t talk really came back to bite me on the bum.

  Samson also told me that he’d met Janey. ‘Stay strong,’ she’d said. And I will. Even if she hadn’t said that, I would stay strong. Samson said Janey was working on a plan to get us out of here. I’ll have to tell her about my plan and the real Number 49’s clues. Two heads are better than one. Or three, if you include the real Number 49’s head.

  ‘Do you want to come?’ I asked Samson. ‘When we escape? I have it all worked out. Well, almost.’

  Samson shook his head. ‘Nah. I better stay here. You know, Mum and all.’

  I thought about this for a bit. Samson scuffed his shoes in the dirt and I reckoned I could see his eyes starting to water a bit.

  ‘You could always have our mum. She wouldn’t mind. Not one bit.’

&nb
sp; But he still didn’t want to. I understand.

  I can’t remember exactly what Mum looks like any more. When I try really hard, I can see a sort of dream picture of Mum, but it’s not like a photo. I can remember small things, though. I remember exactly the lines next to her eyes that crinkle when she smiles, and the sunspots on her hand. It’s funny, Mum and I have a freckle on the palm of one hand. It’s in exactly the same spot on both of us, but it’s on my left hand and Mum’s right hand, so when we put our hands together the spots match up. I used Number 49’s pencil to draw a dot on my right hand, and tried to pretend it was Mum’s hand, but I couldn’t trick myself. Tricking yourself is hard.

  I can’t quite remember what Mum looks like. But I don’t have to. If you were blind, you could never remember what someone looked like, but you could still remember how you love each other, couldn’t you? The Nuns don’t get that. They say that if we can’t remember what our parents look like, it’s the same as our parents not remembering us. They are really wrong.

  I’VE never been sent down to the Hole to stay. The real Number 49 has, though. He left a clue down there, too. The drawing was a bit wobbly, probably because drawing in the dark is hard. But I know it was his.

  When I was in there cleaning, I shut the door, just to see what it was like. It’s really, really, dead dark, without even the blinking light of the boiler to show you where you are. After a while your eyes would probably get used to the dark, and it wouldn’t be so bad, but I didn’t keep the door shut to find out. I didn’t like it. I hope kids’ eyes do get used to the dark, because otherwise no one will be able to read my jokes.

  The Hole clue is hard to work out. It isn’t a picture of an animal. It’s a hand. Just a hand. It’s really good, with all the lines on it and fingerprints and everything. Except he didn’t draw his lifeline long enough. That line has to be long, but the real Number 49 probably didn’t know what all the lines on his hand mean. I do, because the Greats taught me all about seeing the future in your hands. If Great-gram was here, she’d have looked at the picture and told the real Number 49 his future.