No Stars to Wish on

by Zana Fraillon

  Dog began to howl, a haunting sound flung into the wind.

  As Amrei’s Vision retreated, she watched the few spiderlings who survived the onslaught. They waited until Aunty Nell crumpled in a pile on the floor, all her strength scuttling away into the night. They watched as the Greats found the energy to lift Nell from the floor, and lead her to her bed, and feed her the soup she had made for them.

  And when all was quiet, the few remaining spiders dropped a single line and made their way out the window and into the night. And for once, the image of a spider didn’t make Amrei shiver. It made her heart ache.

  I must be asleep and dreaming.

  Samson reckons we have somehow been squeezed out of Saturday and popped up in another day in another world, where we’re still us, and we’re still here, but everything else is different. An in-between world.

  I hope that Samson is right, and we never pop back into the real world. He’s only joking, though. He says the good stuff never lasts.

  It’s only two weeks since we last got clean pants and shirts, but when we woke up this morning there was a whole pile of nearly-new clothes left at the end of each bed. Not just pants and shirts, but jumpers and woolly socks and even a vest as well. None of the clothes had rips or tears in them, not a single one, even though they had our numbers on them still. I know I’ve never worn this shirt before, because it’s almost new. Not quite, but almost.

  And there were fresh sheets for us to put on. Not the normal sheets that scratch and itch you all night long. These were beautiful, white, soft sheets with no holes in them at all. And a proper blanket. And even an eiderdown with real feathers in it. I almost wished I could jump straight back into bed just to lie underneath the covers and dream of home. I can’t wait until tonight.

  And then, at breakfast, there was fruit on the table. Real fruit. My mouth started watering the moment we walked into the Eating Hall. We were allowed two pieces each. Two! I had an orange, a real orange, and a banana. I caught Janey’s eye. She was eating a banana too. We held them up to show each other. It was great. I had to close my eyes when I ate it, so that I could remember the taste and imagine I was sitting next to Janey on our back porch. The smell and the taste were so strong I almost believed my imagine.

  Samson said the Nuns even put music on while we were doing our morning jobs. I couldn’t hear the music, but I saw that the Nuns were standing back more. There wasn’t so much marching up and down, and when someone got whacked it was only one whack instead of three or four.

  Perhaps this is all because of the shoe. The real Number 49’s shoe. Perhaps the Nuns all got together to discuss the clue. Perhaps not all of them knew. Perhaps they realised they had better start being nice because otherwise we’re all going to up and leave, and there will just be a great big pile of smelly shoes left behind as clues.

  Perhaps that’s why these men are strolling among the kids and the Nuns. The men have clipboards and pens, and they’re taking notes. Perhaps they’re working out who we are, so we can go home. Perhaps they’re looking for me, the un-real Number 49, now that they know I’m not the real Number 49. But even as I think all that, I know it isn’t true. The number one rule of being Nunish is that you never think you’re wrong, even when you are. And if you do think you’re wrong, you don’t tell anyone.

  I’m not sure why these men are here, though, or who they are.

  Men don’t usually come here, except for the handymen, and the doctors who give some kids medicine. But these men aren’t handymen, because they don’t have toolboxes. And they aren’t doctors, because the doctors always wear big white coats, and don’t really look at you. They sort of look through you. Not like Doc Murphy, back home, who always gave us a lollypop.

  The doctors who come here check everyone and then choose some kids to line up outside the hospital wing. They’ve never chosen me. They choose the same kids every time, and sometimes extra kids as well.

  Anthony is one of the kids who has to line up every time. He hates it when the doctors come. The Nuns say the doctors give them special medicine so the kids don’t get sick. But then why don’t we all get the medicine? And it’s the reverse, the medicine makes the kids sick when they were well before. Maybe it’s a kind of medicine to make kids more Nunish. If it is, it isn’t working on Anthony. He isn’t Nunish at all.

  Anthony told me the doctors take some of his blood first. Then they give him a really big injection. They jab it in, then write stuff in their little black notebooks. They come back a few days later and take more blood and write more stuff in their books.

  Anthony showed me his arm the last time the doctors came. Where the injection went in, there was a huge sore. It was all blistering and full of pus. Anthony couldn’t move his arm for ages after that one, and he even got to stay in bed for a whole day because he had a fever. A doctor came and looked at him. Anthony said he was a mean one, who jabbed the needles in extra hard.

  I was cleaning the room when the doctor came back. He was angry with Anthony for being sick, but it wasn’t Anthony’s fault. It was the stupid medicine. The doctor’s big red moustache jiggled every time he sniffed, which he did every time he looked at Anthony. He didn’t do much good for Anthony, though, just wrote more stuff in his little black book. I wonder what he writes.

  Anyway, these men with the clipboards today weren’t doctors. As soon as I got close enough to Samson, he told me they are the Governors. The ones who own all the Homes.

  I always thought the Governors would look majestic. Like a king looking out over his kingdom. Like the kind of person who lives in a big mansion. But these men just look normal. Even the Director looks more kingly than these men. Samson said no one acts up in front of the Governors. But sometimes it’s hard to know what acting up is, here. Sometimes, when I’m doing what I think is a good thing, I get in trouble. It’s very confusing. I hope that today, at least, I can work it out.

  SAMSON was right. The good stuff didn’t last. Not even a whole day. It was all a show put on for the Governors, so the Nuns could pretend they were nice. Samson told me at lunch. It made the warm bread with real cheese stick in my throat. What a mean trick.

  Samson told me to enjoy it while we could. In the afternoon, we didn’t have to do jobs, but got to play outside for the whole afternoon. We even got things to play with – a soccer ball, some footballs, some skipping ropes. There were even hula hoops. But I couldn’t really enjoy it because I knew it wasn’t going to last. I’m not sure why they don’t leave out the stuff for us to play with all the time. Everyone was so excited playing that there weren’t the normal fights going on, at least not until one of the boys kicked a footy too high and broke a window. No one even came out to investigate. If they had they would have found an empty yard, because as soon as that glass rained down, we all scattered.

  After supper, the Governors left. We were told to take off all our nice clothes, even the socks. We wouldn’t be getting them back. No wonder they were hardly worn. I wondered how many In-between Governor Days the real Number 49 had worn his clothes for.

  The worst bit was the bed. We had to take off all the soft sheets and blankets we’d been given that morning, and put back the horrible scratchy ones.

  I didn’t even get to dream about home.

  IT’S one of the hardest things here, knowing when you are doing wrong or doing right. There are times when I know I should get in trouble but I don’t, and other times I get in trouble for no reason that I can think of.

  That happened the other day. It was right before bed. We were in the washroom washing our faces, and in the mirror I saw a little mouse with silvery whiskers and a dash of white on his tail. I saw him in the mirror as he came creeping in the door. His nose was twitching the air and I knew it was telling him all about the cheese in the trap. Even my nose, which isn’t as strong as a mouse’s, could smell it. I had been trying for a few days to get to that trap but it’s hard to get to the washroom without a Nun’s eyes on you.

  I could see
the mouse was heading straight for that trap. I knew I had to stop him. I’ve had enough of things getting hurt. And when you’ve had enough you’ve had enough. Gran says that.

  So I did the only thing I could think to do. I jumped down onto all fours like a cat and I hissed the loudest cat hiss I could. I jumped straight at that poor little mouse. I hope he knows I didn’t mean to scare him. Well, I did, but not just for fun. It was to scare him away and let him know not to follow his nose any more. Not inside, anyway.

  It worked too. He didn’t hang around to see what kind of crazy cat I was. He spun on that white-tipped tail and skedaddled straight out the door.

  I should have got into trouble for helping the mouse. But the Nun, Sister Roberta, started laughing. She was holding on to her belly and actually laughing. Here I’ve been trying to spread jokes to remind the Nuns how to smile and all along all I had to do was pretend to be a cat. And before I knew it, the other kids had caught on and were all pretending to be cats till we had a whole washroom full of kids on their knees pouncing all over the place. Sister Roberta kept laughing and smiling and it was nice. She’s a three. If I wasn’t so confused as to why this was suddenly okay, and why being a cat made Sister Roberta remember how to smile, I think I would have really enjoyed it.

  And then there was today.

  No one bothers me most of the time. As long as I can see their faces when they give me my orders, then it’s okay. I get my work done. But sometimes, when the Nuns bark orders from behind me, I don’t know what they want. Then they get angry, even though they know I’m deaf. They get angry at me for them forgetting.

  But mostly I’m good at staying out of trouble. Some kids aren’t so good. They’re the ones I worry about. The ones who get taken away to see the Director. Or they get put down one of the Holes, and they’re gone for hours, or days. Or they get whacked with belts or canes or sticks. Sometimes, when the Nuns are angry with me for them forgetting, they hit me with their canes and pull my ears and shove my head into the wall.

  Then I have to take a deep breath and think of my family. I have to remember that it’s no use getting sad or frightened or upset because my brain just goes foggy, and then I won’t be able to concentrate on my plan.

  But Janey doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know I’ve learnt to block out the bad and freeze my brain.

  When Janey saw Sister Mary hit my head against the wall, she went crazy. To start with it’s just me, and then suddenly there’s Janey, flying like a thunderbolt across the room. Her face is red with anger and her eyes are shooting daggers at Sister Mary, who is still holding me. Janey’s pummelling Sister Mary with her fists, even though I’m yelling ‘NO’ and trying to stop her. More than anything trying to stop her. I don’t care about Sister Mary hearing me talking. I don’t even care about the plan. I have to stop Janey. Sister Mary is a seven, but a seven can always move up to an eight, or even a nine.

  But I can’t stop her. I can’t stop a thing. Sister Mary is dragging Janey away from me. Down, down the stone steps. I know Janey will be sent to the Director for what she did. I can’t bear to think of the punishment he will conjure up for her. I want to float up high high high into the sky – so high that all there is is white, and nothing else. So high that I don’t have to think about things any more.

  I’M in the laundry today.

  Yesterday they sent me to the kitchen, but I was too small to carry the boiling water. It splashed out of the huge pot that’s bigger than me.

  There are lots of mousetraps in the kitchen, and before I got sent out for spilling the boiling water and burning my arm and leg I managed to undo all of them. I don’t care if I end up eating mouse poo in my dinner. It might even make it taste better.

  But I didn’t mention the mouse poo to Cook. She would probably take me at my word. Before we all knew it, the mice would be kept in cages so Cook could collect their poo. She collects weevils. It’s so funny. Everyone thinks the weevils are in the porridge because Cook can’t keep them out. But I’ve seen Cook put them in!

  Cook says the food the Home gives us doesn’t have enough protein to make us grow up big and strong. So she puts her own protein in. Weevils in the porridge, crickets in the stew. She roasts the crickets and grinds them up small, so no one notices. Cook says crickets have the most goodness of all.

  Old Benny back home eats crickets. He told me they’re good for your bones. In some countries you can buy roast cricket on the street. Old Benny offered us one to try, one time. I didn’t want to but Phin and Janey did. Janey said it tasted like a chicken wing cooked over the open fire. Phiny said it tasted like hot chips.

  I told Cook a good place to find crickets, over near the fence. I don’t know why, but crickets like it there. I’ve collected crickets before, with Samson. We make tracks and have cricket races. Samson’s cricket always wins. Even when I find the biggest, strongest-looking cricket. Even when I find the smallest, fastest-looking cricket. I don’t get it. But it’s fun anyway.

  Crickets are the best things to race. We tried snails, but we got bored and left them racing. When we came back they’d both finished, but we didn’t know which one was the winner. Spiders just won’t race. And we haven’t tried worms – Janey once told me that you can only touch worms when it’s raining because the acid on human fingers burns through worm skin and kills them. That doesn’t happen to caterpillars, though, because some kids here have collected caterpillars and have even made a huge cage for them out the back where the Nuns won’t find it. They’ve filled it full of leaves and branches, and the caterpillars are their pets. They’ve even named them. Cat, Er, Pill and Ar. I wonder if they’ll turn into butterflies and fly away.

  Cook collects other bugs and stuff, too, but she only knows their names in her language.

  I was happy working in the kitchen, the happiest I’ve been since I got here. Samson was right, Cook is nice. She’s lovely. She isn’t looking after Baby Sal, though. I asked, just in case. She laughed at all my jokes. She promised she’d pass them on to all the kids that come into the kitchen to work with her. She thought my plan was a good one. ‘A cracker of a plan,’ she said. Which made me smile because that’s what Great-great-aunt Jess says when she likes something.

  Samson said you get to eat better when you work in the kitchen. It’s true. Cook even gave me bread with jam on it for morning tea. I haven’t had morning tea in a long time. I didn’t even know they had jam here. It must be for the Nuns, when they get peckish.

  When I was in the hospital wing, for my burns, Cook came and slipped me a whole piece of chocolate. I haven’t eaten it yet. I’m saving it under the mattress. I’m sad I’m not allowed back into the kitchen. Cook said I could come back when I’m bigger. I didn’t tell her that I won’t still be here when I’m bigger. I didn’t want the Sister to hear.

  And today I’m working in the laundry. I don’t know that there’s much good about working in the laundry. It’s hot and steamy and dangerous. I have to stand on an upside-down fruit crate so I can reach the ironing bench. Maybe if I drop an iron on my foot, or steam off my face, then they’ll take me out of here too. Ha! I don’t know where’s left to be sent to, though.

  Sister Maxine said that now I’m eight I’m old enough to work in here. I didn’t bother telling her that I’m only just seven. Now the Nuns know I can talk, they seem to think I should be able to hear as well, even if they don’t show me their lips when they talk. But I managed with Sister Maxine. At least, I think I did. I guess I wouldn’t know if she said something when she wasn’t facing me.

  There’s lots of laundry to do. Lots of folding and damping and pressing and ironing. More than just the stuff for the Home. Lots of sheets and bedding and clothes. They’re nice ones, too, soft and silky. I bet the Home gets paid for doing other people’s laundry. Mum had a job in a laundry for a bit. She came home exhausted every day. She said the only thing dragging her back was that pay cheque at the end of the week. I don’t reckon we’ll be seeing a pay cheque, at the end
of the week or any time. I bet we won’t even be getting a Thanks. In fact, I know we won’t.

  Thinking about it makes me angry, and when I’m angry I get all shrivelled up inside, as if I’ve just eaten a lemon, so I decide to pretend that no one has to pay for their laundry. That we’re helping out all the poor people who are too busy working and trying to get food on the table. Even though the stuff I’m ironing is too nice to belong to poor people, I still pretend. That way I feel better about standing on a crate all day.

  At least I have other interesting stuff to think about now, like schoolwork. Samson remembers things just for me. Yesterday, he gave me three sums to do. He made me memorise them, so I can work on them while I iron. He’s going to bring the answers home from school today. I hope I get them right. It’s better than thinking angry stuff. And it’s better than thinking about the real Number 49’s shoe. That still makes me feel sick and not-quite-sure-what-to-think.

  And it’s better than thinking about Janey.

  Janey was in the Line-Up today. You can’t see the Line-Up from the kitchen, but the laundry has big windows that look right out to the front of the Home. If I’d still been in the kitchen, I might never have found out what happened to Janey. But I was in the laundry, so I saw.

  The Line-Up is where the Nuns choose a whole group of kids and make them stand out front, in a line. Then people come and pick which kids they want to go home with them. Like Samson and the capsicum people. And maybe like Baby Sal, who I still haven’t seen, even though I snuck into the Infant Girls’ Room and checked all the babies. She wasn’t there.

  Baby Sal can’t stand up properly yet, so babies probably do a different kind of Line-Up in the Infant rooms. A Crawl-Up or something. A Roll-Up for the really little ones. Ha!

  Janey was in the Line-Up today. And Janey got picked. She was all panicky, as if she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to get picked. I could tell, because she was doing the face she does when she’s made up her mind about something. It’s the only time her eyes look like Mum’s. Her eyebrows creep towards each other, and no one would want to cross her when she looks like that. So I don’t know why the man chose her to go home with him. Maybe she looks a bit like his wife. And where was his wife? Wouldn’t you want to be there to choose the new girl or boy coming into your family? Except this Line-Up was only girls, so maybe they have boys already. Maybe that’s where the wife was, looking after the boys. Janey would like that. She’s more of a boy-girl than a girl-girl.