The Absolutely True Adventures of Daydreamer Dev (omnibus edition, 3 in 1)

by Ken Spillman

  ‘Lhotse Wall,’ said Sherpa Auntie, pointing. A steep, icy incline lay before them. Was it harder or easier than the last? Dev didn’t know or care—he just needed the strength to climb it.

  8.

  Dev felt dizzy.

  Is that why people say ‘dizzy heights’? He wondered. But Lhotse Wall was now behind them, the summit nearer.

  Sherpa Auntie kept a steady pace and Dev struggled to keep up. His school satchel weighed more than a set of encyclopaedia. If not for the chocolate bar, he would have cast it into the void—but how would he explain that to Amma?

  Dev followed Sherpa Auntie around ledges and across slippery platforms of rock and ice. After another sheer climb she halted, waiting for him.

  ‘Do you know what place we will now enter?’ she asked.

  ‘A good place, I hope. A place where escalators and elevators take us directly to the summit.’

  Sherpa Auntie smiled. ‘There is not much to be gained by convenience. We are entering the Death Zone.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Dev. ‘That isn’t the place I had in mind. But Auntie, I must eat first. My jaw won’t have movement if I don’t use it any longer, and my stomach’s drilling through me.’

  Dev unbuckled his satchel and fished inside for the chocolate bar. His frostbitten fingers struggled with the wrapper, but eventually broke through. He eyed the chocolate hungrily, then glanced at Sherpa Auntie. With effort, he snapped it in two and offered her half.

  ‘You are a good boy. But I hunger for nothing and watch my waistline—there’s no weight like dead weight.’

  Dev grinned, cracking his parched lips. He crunched at the frozen chocolate, and slowly it thawed in his mouth. He barely tasted it.

  He didn’t want to ask how the Death Zone got its name.

  He didn’t have to.

  Soon enough, the dead themselves appeared in twisted shapes on the mountainside, with old ropes and other shreds of climbing equipment strewn around them.

  Dev shuddered. Chocolatey acid rose in his throat. ‘Ohh. . . gross!’

  ‘Not so gross,’ said Sherpa Auntie. ‘They are sherpas and mountaineers—dead like me but not nearly as pretty.’

  ‘Gross,’ Dev said again.

  9.

  The plateau looked familiar—like photographs he’d seen of the surface of the moon. The sky had cleared and was deep, deep blue. Dev could see the wide tan plains of Tibet. He thought no more of the dead. Each step seemed one beyond his limit.

  Perhaps, Dev thought, this IS the moon. Perhaps I fell asleep at Kwality Carpets and sailed into space. Yes, that was it—outer space on planet Earth. Somewhere below, the people of every nation lived and breathed.

  Dev longed to breathe. Gasping, he heard Sherpa Auntie urging him on but could say nothing in reply. He also longed to pee—but how could he tell the woman to wait if his voice had frozen up?

  Dev remembered something he had read: ‘The power of the mind is limitless.’ He repeated it over and over, silently. He was determined to reach the summit, determined to hold in his pee until he did.

  Sherpa Auntie announced locations like a tour guide. Dev saw their destination now and felt an unexpected surge of energy. Then, Sherpa Auntie led him through a deep furrow to another sharp slope. His heart sank.

  ‘Knife Ridge and the Hillary Step,’ Sherpa Auntie said.

  The ridge looked deadly, so steep that it blocked his view to the summit.

  Halfway up, the snow gave way and Dev slid back, almost losing his ice pick. Crazy with exhaustion, he abandoned himself to the possibility of slipping and bouncing all the way back to base camp. But a hidden rock caught him, and Sherpa Auntie called him on.

  The famous peak—seen always from afar—was nowhere to be seen. Dev topped rise after rise, driven only by hope.

  ‘Almost there,’ Sherpa Auntie told him.

  She was right. At the next glorious crest, a downward slope greeted them. Sherpa Auntie put down her rucksack, triumphant. For Dev, relief came first.

  Finally, he thought.

  Then joy thawed him, took hold of him. Remembering the miraculous appearance of the chocolate bar, Dev felt in his satchel for a flag. There it was—the tricolour! He wrapped himself in it and stood on top of the world, the curve of the earth’s surface visible in every direction.

  ‘You made it,’ Sherpa Auntie nodded. ‘But remember this—most accidents happen on the descent. You cannot afford to relax.’

  ‘I made it,’ Dev said, finding his voice. Now, he thought, I must pee.

  Sherpa Auntie caught his eye. ‘Dev, a test is a test. Give each part your full attention, or you will surely fail.’

  10.

  Mrs Kaur stood in front of him. OP’s pencil was scratching feverishly at the desk beside him. Dev’s test paper was untouched, but he felt fantastic.

  ‘Dev,’ Mrs Kaur said. ‘A test is a test. Give each part your full attention, or you will surely fail.’

  Pht-pht-pht went the fans. Pht-pht-pht.

  OP looked up. ‘Dev has a very bad headache, Mrs Kaur. He cannot concentrate. Even at lunch time he was telling me this.’

  ‘Is that true, Dev?’

  Dev nodded grimly. ‘It is true, Mrs Kaur. But also I must use the washroom. Please, Mrs Kaur, it is urgent.’

  When Dev returned, OP lifted his eyes, pursed his lips and shook his head.

  I saved you, OP was saying. Dev beamed at him and Mrs Kaur noticed. She beckoned.

  ‘Your head feels better, I see. Is it connected with your bladder? There was a cure for you in the washroom?’

  ‘Mrs Kaur . . .’

  ‘A sick boy does not smile like that, Dev.’

  ‘Mrs Kaur, every bone in my body is aching but I have much to smile about.’

  His teacher studied him. Her lips formed a question, but left it unsaid. Instead, she opened the drawer and took out her notepaper.

  ‘I will write to inform your parents that I detained you after school to complete today’s science test. I do not know where this will end, Dev. Your behaviour in class is not the behaviour of a boy who wants to go up in the world, is it?’

  ‘Mrs Kaur, I am sorry. But there are many ways one can go up, no?’

  DEDICATED TO THE PEOPLE OF PROJECT AMAZONAS

  a non-political, non-sectarian organization working to serve the people of the Amazon and conserve the rainforest

  1.

  Dev heard OP tapping on the front window of the shop. Kwality Carpets was not yet open for business—but OP wanted to see Dev, not Baba’s carpets. It was Sunday, the best day of the week.

  Upstairs, Baba was still applying a fine-toothed comb to Dev’s mid-term report. He had begun yesterday afternoon and then launched into a lecture at dinner. With Amma insisting on Dev’s regular bedtime, the conclusion had been postponed. Baba was not one to leave things incomplete.

  ‘Dev is a capable student who must be more attentive in class and apply himself consistently. What do you think Mrs Kaur means by that? Listening, not your useless daydreaming!’

  Finally Baba stood up. OP was still tapping on the glass downstairs, and Dev raced down the stairs eager to escape. A day free from the classroom gaze of Mrs Kaur stretched in front of him.

  It was already uncomfortably hot outside, but Dev draped an arm over OP’s shoulder as they passed still-sleepy vendors. At the slum, the bare feet of toddlers were treading on ground that would soon burn the hooves of cows. Down on the hard, flat riverbed, boys were playing cricket. The river’s tree-lined banks provided dense shade, like Nature’s AC.

  ‘In Australia, some rivers never run,’ OP stated, making himself comfortable. ‘After heavy rains there is water, but not enough to flow.’ OP’s brain was crammed with facts. Most were useless but he stored them anyway, as if all facts were equal.

  ‘Those are not rivers,’ Dev reasoned. ‘Those are puddles.’

  ‘Australians exaggerate, so they call them rivers.’

  ‘Our mighty Ganga, that is a river. It is the lo
ngest, no?’

  ‘It is not—but the longest river depends on where you start measuring. Some say the Nile, some the Amazon. But the Amazon is the mightiest. One fifth of all the water in all the rivers of the world belongs to the Ama . . .’

  A ball shot past, narrowly missing Dev’s head. Laughing, OP retrieved it and scampered down to the riverbed, signalling six in a comic fashion before flinging the ball back. An older boy instructed him to stay there as a fielder, and despite the heat he didn’t protest.

  Dev climbed a tree and leaned back in one of its forks. There was the faintest puff of hot breeze, and leaves rustled around him.

  Dev closed his eyes.

  2.

  ‘Where am I?’

  The sound of motorcycles and auto rickshaws was familiar, but the air was dank and the sky a brilliant blue.

  Dev climbed down from his tree. A brass band struck up as his feet touched the ground, and a man at the head of a welcoming party extended a hand.

  ‘Welcome to Iquitos,’ said the man. ‘My name is Salomón Arraya, and I am the mayor. We are honoured that you have chosen our city to commence your Amazon journey.’

  ‘Even I am honoured,’ replied Dev. ‘I did not choose Iquitos—Iquitos chose me.’

  ‘Such eloquence!’ Señor Arraya exclaimed. ‘Good fellow, it is no wonder you achieve such great things.’

  ‘Tell me about your city,’ said Dev. ‘Surely it is the finest city in all . . .’

  ‘Peru,’ said Señor Arraya helpfully. ‘Indeed it is! We have many old mansions—one of them designed by Señor Eiffel. His tower in Paris you may have seen?’

  Dev hadn’t, but nodded as if he’d been there only yesterday.

  ‘We have four universities. We also host an important research organization, Project Amazonas, and a field laboratory that catalogues species of animals and plants, discovering new ones . . .’

  ‘Cool,’ said Dev. ‘But maybe I should, er . . . find the river?’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Señor Arraya. ‘Follow me.’

  The band struck up again, marching them past a giant cathedral and the town square to a little quay on a wide expanse of water. An aluminium boat garlanded with lilies awaited Dev. A gleaming engine idled lazily behind it.

  ‘Behold the Amazon!’ Señor Arraya announced triumphantly, silencing the band.

  ‘So this is where the river starts?’

  The mayor smiled. ‘Who can say? We are just downstream from the Ucayali and Marañón, the Amazon’s two main tributaries. For us it starts here. It also ends here, depending on the direction one travels.’

  Dev clambered on board the boat. The mayor signalled to the bandmaster, who raised his baton grandly.

  ‘Buen viaje,’ said Señor Arraya.

  The band played. Señor Arraya produced a sword, slashed the boat’s tether and sent Dev on his way.

  3.

  With the Iquitos quay becoming more distant, Dev heard the music stop and felt suddenly alone.

  He worked to master the bar that controlled the rudder, and carefully adjusted the throttle. It was similar to the one on Baba’s motorcycle, and soon he was beyond the city in waters lined by jungle. A variety of river vessels passed, many with cargoes of timber.

  Dev was sure that tracing the Amazon couldn’t be difficult, but the mayoral reception had distracted him from the task at hand.

  Now, questions fired from one part of his brain bombarded another.

  What if he was totally embarrassing himself by heading upstream?

  Did the food cooler he could see in the bow of the boat hold provisions? Did it contain chocolates?

  Would he have enough fuel? Could he complete the journey and get back to Kwality Carpets before dinner?

  Dev slowed the vessel and studied the water, looking for signs of a current. A small branch floating near the boat reassured him— until he saw its eyes.

  Alligator, Dev thought, breathless.

  It wasn’t nearly as big as some of the alligators he’d seen on TV, but he didn’t fancy being the one to tell it. He steered the boat away, avoiding sharp movement. The reptile might only be big enough to eat half of him, but that was one half too much.

  Taking the boat closer to the shore, Dev heard monkeys feeding in the jungle canopy. The litter they dropped fell directly into the river, and Dev watched it carefully.

  Phew, he thought. I’m going with the flow.

  4.

  Eventually night fell. The stars were bright and the mosquitoes hungry. Dev wondered what time it was back home, and how much longer the journey would take. It would end on the coast of Brazil—but how far was that?

  In daylight he had been able to see sloth-like jungle creatures and huge, colourful birds, but in darkness his adventure seemed less exotic.

  If I wanted to get eaten by mosquitoes, I could stay home and wait for the monsoon, Dev thought.

  He decided to put the engine on full throttle to see what the little boat was capable of. At high speed, perhaps, the mosquitoes would leave him alone.

  Instantly, the engine roared. Dev was almost thrown overboard as the boat zoomed off, its nose in the air and a trail of froth behind it. His heart pumped.

  Awesome! Dev stood up in the boat, the wind tossing his air and the steering bar clenched between his knees.

  He yelled into the night. ‘Yee-ha! Next stop the coast!’

  CRR-ACK!

  Dev’s next thought was about piranhas. He found himself catapulted into the air, with the boat cartwheeling beside him.

  Next stop? Murky water.

  When Dev surfaced, all was silent. The boat was overturned. Keel up, it was floating away.

  ‘Hey kiddo!’

  It was a man’s voice, quite close by.

  ‘Don’t go feeling sorry for yourself. Spare a thought for that giant turtle you hit. She’s like a hundred years old and was only just coming out of her shell. Now you’ve gone and used her for a speed bump!’

  Forgetting all about piranhas, Dev scanned the river’s edge.

  ‘Over here,’ called the man.

  He was sitting on a log, fifteen metres away. Even in the moonlight Dev could see that he was a big guy, with a fair complexion and a strong, bare chest.

  ‘Need some help?’

  Dev thought that much was obvious. The man plunged into the water and disappeared, surfacing finally near the boat. He flipped it over almost effortlessly, then climbed in and unfastened the oars. He manoeuvred the boat towards Dev.

  ‘Hold on and I’ll get us over to shore,’ he said, extending an oar. ‘We’ll need to check this baby out.’

  ‘I thought Tarzan lived in Africa,’ sputtered Dev.

  ‘Don’t insult me,’ the man replied. ‘Tarzan was a man. I’m a legend.’

  5.

  ‘Are you one of those scientists who count species, or what?’

  Dev sat dripping on a small mud bank between the jungle and the river as the man inspected his boat.

  ‘I told you, kiddo, I’m a legend.’

  Well, thought Dev, he’s seriously strong, but that’s no reason to have such a high opinion of himself.

  ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, kiddo, but it’s true—I’m an actual legend. I could’ve told you I’m a dolphin, but right now I don’t look like one.’

  Dev wasn’t sure what to say. Clearly this dude was mad. Dev only hoped he wasn’t dangerous.

  ‘I’m a pink river dolphin, to be precise. Around these parts, the locals call me a boto.’

  I bet they do, thought Dev. Where I come from, they’d call you a lunatic.

  ‘And if you want to know, I’m rare and endangered.’

  ‘Oh right! I’m sorry to hear it.’

  Humour him, Dev thought. Then he won’t be expecting it if I need to hit him over the head with an oar.

  ‘According to legend, a boto can transform into a handsome young man at night. They say we go ashore to chase girls, but that part’s wrong. It’s got nothing to do with gir
ls, kiddo—it’s just because we can! If you guys could turn into dolphins and swim, you’d do it right?’

  The boto was right. Dev could picture himself leaping high out of the water and entertaining tourists, just for the joy of it.

  ‘You’re a lucky kid—your boat’s okay,’ the boto announced. ‘I’ll just get the engine turning over and you’ll be off. And by the way, that’s a tarantula giving you the eyeball . . .’

  Beside Dev, there was a spider bigger than the boto’s hand and with more hair than Baba’s legs. Dev edged away, watching it carefully.

  ‘Those babies eat birds for breakfast,’ said the boto. ‘Come on, I’ll join you and be your river guide till it’s time for me to freak you out and swap these arms for fins.’

  6.

  ‘I’m not like other dolphins,’ the boto said.

  After starting the engine, he had steered the boat just far enough from the riverside to avoid fallen branches.

  ‘That is obvious,’ Dev said. ‘First, you’re talking to me. Second, you look more like an Olympic swimmer.’

  ‘Hey that’s insult numero duo, kiddo— watch yourself. Those swimmers are slow! But here’s the reason I’m one cool dolphin. Being a boto means I’m the only kind of dolphin—get that? The only kind—with neck movement. I can turn my head from side to side.’

  Somehow Dev had never thought of any dolphins as being disabled, but he could see that the boto had a point. A neck that actually moved definitely seemed to be an advantage.

  ‘But enough about me. Since you also turn your head from side to side, you ought to do it more often. This is the Amazon, kiddo—it’s no place for blinkers!’