by John Marsden
In the morning James came down to breakfast very late. It was the third day of the school holidays. His grandmother was there. No-one else seemed to be around.
‘Hurry up,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. You’re coming to stay with us. Get a few things from your room, and I’ll wait for you in the car.’
There was nothing unusual in this, as he always stayed with them for part of the holidays, and often at short notice. He did as she directed. But he soon realised that this time it was different. No-one seemed to want to speak to him. He stayed there a few days, a week, a fortnight. Then, just before it was time to go back to school, his grandmother told him that Ellie had died ‘two weeks ago, the night you were supposed to look after her.’ On the day that school started he found his uniform had mysteriously appeared and was hung on the chair in the room he was staying in. He put it on and was driven to school. This became routine. The weeks became months, and still he was staying at his grandparents’. And still they hardly spoke to him. He had not seen his parents since the night they went to the party, though day and night he longed for them, with an awful deep longing. He longed for their touch. But he dared not ask anyone about them. The kids and teachers at school seemed to be colder too, to be withdrawing. Then James became ill. He had acute peritonitis. He lay in a hospital bed, hoping he would die. One day, after the crisis had passed, he opened his eyes and saw what he had been praying for months to see. His parents were standing by the side of the bed. He closed his eyes and turned away from them. They made many efforts to get him to turn back again, to open his eyes, to speak to them. After a while they gave up and went away. When he was discharged from hospital it was to his parents’ place that he was taken, but he did not speak to them or to anybody.
Time passed.
*
JAMES PRESSED THE Return button. Or did he? Had he really been there with Ellie again? Had he really heard her wheezing giggle when she told him she was too fat? Had he only imagined her darting grateful smile when he told her she wasn’t? Had he imagined standing at her door, the door that he had been afraid to open ever since that night and was still afraid to open? Was it terrible, the knowledge behind that door?
HIS PARENTS WERE sitting at the kitchen table, talking in low voices, when James walked in. They ceased their conversation and looked at him in some surprise, coffee mugs halfway to their mouths. James said, clearly and calmly, ‘Do you think it’s my fault Ellie died?’ There was a long silence. James did not drop his eyes. At last his father put down his coffee mug on the table with a little clicking noise. There was another pause. Then he said slowly and carefully, ‘No. . . No. . . I don’t think that. We never thought that. We just messed it all up. We were so mad with it all, I guess we messed everything up.’ His mother said, ‘We couldn’t think straight. By the time we started to function again, the damage was done.’ James sat down on the chair at the end of the table.
*
JAMES TURNED THE machine on and began keying in the new coordinates. But the machine felt cold and dead. He glanced at the battery indicator and saw with shock that the needle had hardly moved. He flicked the switch on and off several times. Each time the needle gave only a tremble. The last time it seemed not to move at all.
He prised open the cover of the little battery compartment and pulled out the battery. Bright, bright silver, it was like no other power source he had ever seen. It was tiny; the size of a gambling die. And the shape of one. But it was surprisingly heavy, weighing more than all the rest of the machine. James sat and stared at it for several minutes, as it rested in the palm of his hand. Then he made his decision. He ran downstairs, through the front door and across the square to the Technicians’ Store. A tall young man, fair-haired, with a drooping moustache, was standing behind the counter. An array of parts was spread in front of him. James had seen the young man many times. He deposited the tiny battery on the counter.
The man looked at it casually, looked at James, looked at it again, then picked it up. Suddenly his whole expression changed. He was astonished. He seemed almost frightened. He stared at James. ‘Where did you get this?’ he said. ‘Where’d you get this? This isn’t possible. How could you have one of these?’ He turned it over and over, shaking his head. ‘Someone said the other night that you probably see more of what goes on around here than anyone. I’m starting to believe it.‘ He bent towards James. ‘Where did you get it? Why did you bring it to me?’
‘I want you to recharge it,’ James said. His voice sounded perfectly normal, steady and well-modulated. The man showed astonishment a second time.
‘I’ll be,’ he muttered. Talkative little fellow aren’t you? Look,’ he said, ‘you don’t recharge them. They’re not like a battery. But on the other hand, you can’t run them out either. Well, not that anyone’s been able to so far. If you’ve been running your torch off it, then I guarantee you a few millennia of bright light yet. Matter of fact, you could keep this base lit up for way past your lifetime, just on one of these little beauties.’
‘It’s finished,’ James said.
The man looked away, around the store, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think I want to know about this,’ he muttered. ‘Not in my last week. What do you mean “It’s finished?” ’ He waited but James did not answer. ‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll check it anyway. . . That can’t do any harm.’ He took it to a large tank-like container at the side of the room, undid three heavy latches, placed it inside, and sealed the tank again. He used a wheel to spin it shut. Various whirring noises were emitted by the machinery. The man stood there looking at a panel of gauges and dials. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last, flatly. He unsealed the tank and brought the little cube back to James, placing it on the counter between them. ‘It’s impossible but you’re right.’
‘I think I’ve got this figured out,’ he said quietly. ‘Mr Woodforde. You used to hang round there a lot. That old bugger must have actually brought it to the production stage. God knows where or how. It couldn’t have been in that lab. The old devil. He was always telling me he was going to win a Nobel Prize.’ He laughed. James was transfixed. ‘I’m not sure how much I want to know,’ the man continued. ‘I’m leaving next week. Me and my girlfriend are sailing away in our boat. Around the islands.’ He paused again, then drew breath and asked the critical question.
‘Who used up all the energy in this thing?’ he asked. ‘You or Mr Woodforde? And what on?’
The boy took refuge in the time-honoured line of all children, and many adults.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
The man sighed. ‘I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed,’ he confessed. ‘Relieved, I think.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, what are we going to do with it? Do you want me to get rid of it? If they know you’ve got one they’ll never leave you alone. They’ll pressure you till you’re coming apart at the seams. And if they think I even know these little varmints exist they’ll never let me leave. I know you can keep a secret. And I know I can. And I also know how to dispose of it safely. Wanna leave it with me?’
‘OK,’ James said equably. He started towards the door.
‘Been nice talking to you,’ the man said softly. ‘Been. . . nice talking to you.
John Marsden
The Journey
By the author of So Much To Tell You, The Journey is a story of young people in a world so different and yet so like our own. It is a world in which young people must undertake a journey of discovery on their way to becoming adults.
Argus sets out on his journey away from his valley and his parents, never knowing what adventure will befall him next. He learns how to survive in the wild until he meets up with a travelling fair which he joins, becoming the friend of Mayon the storyteller, of Lavolta and Parara – twins who share the same body – and many others.
But it is with the sweet and wise Temora that he learns some of the deepest secrets.
All journeys must find an end. Argus leaves the fair and t
ravels on alone, until his last and greatest adventure beckons him home. There he tells, for the approval of his elders, the seven stories which are now his story. But all is not done.
There is one more chapter to be lived out in the story of Argus.
‘. . . an extraordinary book. . . I would commend it to everybody. Although ostensibly it’s a children’s book it’s something that any adult can read with great pleasure. It’s one of those books that don’t actually belong to any particular age group. . . like The Snow Goose.’ TERRY LANE, ABC RADIO
John Marsden
Letters from the Inside
Dear Tracey
I don’t know why I’m answering your ad, to be honest.
It’s not like I’m into pen pals, but it’s a boring Sunday here, wet, everyone’s out, and I thought it’d be something different. . .
Dear Mandy
Thanks for writing. You write so well, much better than me. I put the ad in for a joke, like a dare, and yours was the only good answer. . .
Two teenage girls. An innocent beginning to friendship. Two complete strangers who get to know each other a little better each time a letter is written and answered.
Mandy has a dog with no name, an older sister, a creepy brother, and some boy problems. Tracey has a horse, two dogs and a cat, an older sister and brother, and a great boyfriend. They both have hopes and fears. . . and secrets.
As Mandy and Tracey swap confidences and share the ups and downs of school, home and friends, they get to know every detail of each other’s lives.
Or do they?
A powerful, compelling novel from the award-winning author of So Much to Tell You.
John Marsden
Take My Word For It
You know what Tracey said to me after English today? She said: ‘The reason you’ve got no friends is that you don’t tell anyone your problems’. . . I hate the way they tell everyone every single detail about themselves. . . If you ask me, it’s dangerous. Once you start, you don’t stop.
Strong, cold, private. . . this is Lisa, as seen by Marina in her journal, So Much to Tell You.
But Lisa too keeps a journal. It’s a record of her friends and family, her frustrations and successes, her thoughts and feelings. As page follows page, the real Lisa begins to emerge. Not always strong, not always private and certainly not cold.
If I could say what I wanted to, if I could bring it out of myself in words, this paper would be buried under the weight of it.
Take My Word For It is Lisa’s story and more. It’s the story of Marina, a girl struggling to find her voice among the turmoil of life in a Year 9 dormitory. It’s the story of Cathy, of Kate, of Sophie.
As in the best-selling So Much to Tell You, award-winning novelist John Marsden takes us into the world of young people trying to make sense of their lives.
Learn great new writing skills, with John Marsden
You are invited to spend a few days with John Marsden at one of Australia’s most beautiful properties.
The Tye Estate is just 25 minutes from Melbourne’s Tullamarine Airport, and is perfectly set up for writing camps and other activities.
Every school holidays, John takes writing and drama camps, where you can improve your skills, make new friends, expand your thinking, and have a huge heap of fun.
Accommodation is modern and comfortable; meals are far removed from the shepherd’s pie they gave you at your last school camp, and supervision is by friendly and experienced staff.
Between the workshops with John, you can explore 850 acres of spectacular bush, looking out for rare and highly endangered species like Tiger Quolls and Powerful Owls, as well as koalas, platypuses, wedgetail eagles, kangaroos and wallabies.
Mountain bikes, bushwalking, orienteering, and a picnic at nearby Hanging Rock, are among the highlights of your memorable stay at the Tye Estate.
School groups in term time are also welcome.
For details, write to:
The Tye Estate
RMB 1250
ROMSEY
VICTORIA 3434
Or fax: (61) 03 54 270395
Phone: (61) 03 54 270384
