Uncovered!

by Paul Jennings

  Suddenly they all speak together as if in one voice. ‘Welcome, brother Hare,’ they say.

  ‘Greetings, brothers,’ I answer politely. ‘Where is Riah Devahs?’

  ‘He has moved on,’ says one of the holy men.

  My heart sinks inside me. ‘Is he coming back?’ I ask.

  They all shake their heads.

  Oh no. Now I will never get my mantra. I will never achieve mind over matter. Riah Devahs will not be there to give me the word I need.

  Suddenly I have a thought. Maybe he has left a message. Maybe he left a message with my own special word written on it.

  ‘This is for you,’ says one of the holy men. He hands me the urn from the centre of the circle. I know that this is a present from Riah Devahs because his name is written on the side of the urn.

  He has not forgotten me. ‘Is my mantra inside?’ I say excitedly.

  ‘Each foot must find its own path to wisdom,’ says a different holy man.

  This means that I must go. This means that I cannot say another word. Riah Devahs always finished our sessions with those words. Once those words are uttered I must leave at once. No arguments. I take the urn and walk outside. I walk for a bit without looking back. Then I turn around. The holy men are filing off into the forest. I wonder if I will ever see them again. Their bald heads shine in the sun.

  After a bit I sit down and look at the urn. I am excited. I just know that Riah Devahs has written my mantra and placed it in the urn. With trembling hands I pull off the lid.

  My heart falls. Dust. It is filled with dust. Maybe something is buried in it. I rummage around in the dust with my fingers. It gets all over me. ‘Achoo.’ It makes me sneeze but that is all. There is no mantra. No paper. No words at all.

  I put the lid back on and try to get the dust off my hands. Why did Riah give me this urn of dust? Why didn’t he give me my word?

  I look at his name written on the side. Riah Devahs. An idea starts to form in my mind. This is a puzzle. Each foot must find its own path to wisdom. There is an answer. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. My mantra is here somewhere. If only I can find it.

  Where is it? Where, where, where?

  Suddenly it hits me. It is there. On the side of the urn. Right in front of my eyes. Riah Devahs. They are the magic words. What could be better? My mantra is the name of my wise and holy teacher. I have solved the puzzle that he set for me. Riah Devahs has not let me down.

  I stare at an ant that is crawling towards me. I concentrate very hard. I will make the ant turn around. ‘Riah Devahs. Riah Devahs,’ I chant to myself. I am concentrating so hard that my eyeballs bulge out.

  The ant turns around and crawls off the other way.

  Coincidence. I mean, it probably didn’t like the look of me. And I wouldn’t blame it either. Still, I might as well try something else. But before I have time to think I feel a sneeze coming. The dust is getting up my nose. ‘Ah, ah, ah, choo.’ Rats, I hate sneezing. So does Mum.

  Mum. That reminds me. She said to be home by five-thirty. It is already five-forty. I clutch the urn to my chest and rush off as fast as I can go. It is best not to be too late. Especially when Mum is in a bad mood.

  4

  On the way home I pass the cemetery. There is a late evening funeral going on. The priest is reading from a book as the coffin lowers into the ground. ‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,’ he says.

  For some reason his words stick in my mind. They make me feel a bit uncomfortable but I don’t know why. A sort of cold feeling crawls all over me. I clutch my urn to my chest and hurry on.

  I push the words out of my mind and think of something else. Phys. Ed. Tomorrow we will have to go to Phys. Ed. and all the boys will line up at the showers. I will get the Peter Hare, pubic hair treatment again. The boys will laugh and mock. I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it. I am blushing just at the thought of it.

  Maybe I can save myself with my mantra. Maybe the magic words will save me.

  I still have some of the dust on my hands. I wipe it off and look around for something to concentrate on. There is a brick on the footpath. I will move it by strength of mind. ‘Riah Devahs,’ I say to myself. ‘Riah Devahs.’ I concentrate and concentrate on moving the brick while chanting my mantra to myself. Nothing happens. I try harder. ‘Riah Devahs. Riah Devahs.’

  It happens. It really happens. The brick starts to slide slowly along the path. It moves along as if pulled by an invisible magnet. This is incredible. Fantastic. I can make things move by thinking about it. As long as I am closing my eyes and saying my mantra.

  I wonder if the magic words can help me with my pubic hair. I mean, if I concentrate and chant my mantra I might be able to get rid of it.

  I close my eyes and start to concentrate on losing my pubic hair. ‘Riah Devahs. Riah Devahs,’ I say. After a bit I open my eyes and take a look down my jeans. But then I stop. I can feel someone looking at me. Someone is looking at me looking at my pubic hair.

  It is Simons. And his mates. Now I am in for it. ‘Still there?’ says Simons. The others all hoot with laughter.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘I have to get home. Mum is …’

  ‘Mummy’s boy,’ says Simons. ‘Mummy’s hairy little boy.’ He looks at the urn. He looks at it with a great deal of interest. ‘What has little Pubic Hare got there?’

  He starts to walk towards me. He is big and tough and I am skinny and weak. He is going to take my urn. I can’t let that happen. I just can’t. I grip the urn firmly in my hands. Then I close my eyes.

  The gang start to laugh. ‘No need to close your eyes, darling,’ hoots Simons. ‘We won’t harm a hair on your …’

  I don’t listen. I concentrate as hard as I can. I will get rid of them. I will say my mantra and get rid of them. I close my eyes. ‘Riah Devahs,’ I say to myself. ‘Riah Devahs. They will steal my urn. They will take it away. I just know they will.’ Rats, I am letting other thoughts into my mind. I must concentrate harder. ‘Riah Devahs.’ I say the words and think about getting rid of Simons and his gang. It is a real strain on my brain but I keep going with it.

  There is a long silence. Then there is a shuffling noise. I still have the urn in my hands. I open my eyes. ‘Hey,’ says Simons. ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ He rolls over on the ground waving his legs and arms up in the air. He looks just like a dog begging to be scratched on its tummy. The others do it too. They look ridiculous lying there on their backs on the ground. Their eyes are bulging out of their heads. They don’t know what is going on. They don’t know that it is me making them do it. I head off around the corner. Their angry voices fade off behind me. They will go back to normal once I am out of range.

  I can’t believe it. It works. It really works. I have made them lie on their backs and beg. Mind over matter. When I say the mantra and concentrate I can make things happen. I run for home as fast as I can.

  Life is good. Well, at the moment it is anyway.

  5

  When I arrive home I cop it for being late for tea. But I don’t care. I just smile and think about my new powers. I also think about Phys. Ed. in the morning and how I will be embarrassed in front of all the boys again.

  After tea I go up to my bedroom and think about my problem. I check out my pubic hair.

  What if I was to say my mantra and concentrate really hard? I might be able to make my pubic hair vanish by wishing it away. It is a good idea but it is filled with danger. What if something goes wrong? What if I made something else down there disappear by mistake? That would be terrible.

  Or the wrong hair could vanish. Then I would be bald. No hair on top and too much down below. No, it is too risky. Much as I like the holy men I don’t want to look like them. I will have to think of some other way of getting rid of the pubic hair. I am still not skilled enough with my mantra to risk changing my appearance.

  There must be some other way of getting rid of the rotten hair.

  An idea comes into my mind. Shaving. Dad shaves his face every day. I cou
ld shave my pubic hair off. Why didn’t I think of it before? Simple.

  I sneak off to Dad and Mum’s bedroom and borrow Dad’s electric razor. That will do the trick. I plug in the razor and it starts to buzz away like a hive of bees. I drop my pants and start to shave.

  ‘Ow, ouch, ooh, ooh, ooh.’ The pain is terrible. The long black hairs are caught in the razor. It is pulling and nipping at me. My eyes water. I scream out like crazy and dive for the switch. Click, it is off. The pain stops. Wonderful. But I still have a problem. The electric razor is stuck to me. Hairs are all fuzzled up into it. The electric razor clings on like a dog biting a shoe.

  Just then Dad bursts into the room. His eyes grow wide when he sees the electric razor stuck to my private parts. ‘Peter,’ he yells. ‘What on earth are you doing, boy?’

  ‘Er, shaving,’ I say.

  ‘Shaving. You don’t shave down there, lad.’

  He comes into the room to remove the razor. He pulls and twists. ‘Ouch,’ I scream. Suddenly it comes away with bits of hair still sticking out. My eyes start to water with the pain. It hurts like crazy but I decide not to say anything. Not under the circumstances.

  Finally, Dad sits down on the side of my bed. He gives me a talk. A long, long talk. About the birds and the bees and all that. It is all stuff I have heard before. But I nod and try to look interested. My mind is just not on it. I am thinking about Phys. Ed. and the showers. And how everyone will laugh at my pubic hair.

  6

  Finally Dad finishes his lecture and gets up to go. But his eye falls upon something. The urn. He picks it up and looks inside. ‘What’s this?’ he says.

  ‘Dust,’ I say.

  Dad stares for a long time. His mind is ticking over. ‘This is not dust,’ he says.

  ‘No?’ I say. ‘What is it then?’

  He utters the dreadful word. ‘Ashes,’ says Dad.

  This word rings a bell in my mind. It takes a few seconds but finally I remember. The funeral. ‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.’

  ‘Aargh,’ I scream. ‘It is human ashes. It is the final remains of …’ I look at the urn in horror. ‘Riah Devahs.’

  Tears rush down my face. My friend is gone for ever. He has moved on to a better place. All I have left of him is his ashes. And my mantra.

  I tell Dad the whole story. Well, not the whole story. I don’t tell him about concentrating. About how I can change things by willpower. I leave that bit out. But I tell him all the rest about how the holy men gave me the urn.

  Dad nods and listens to my tale. He puts an arm around my shoulder. ‘I am sorry you have lost your friend,’ he says. ‘But they should have known better. Giving human ashes to a boy. That’s not right. We have to return these ashes to nature,’ he says. ‘You can’t keep someone’s remains in your bedroom.’

  I think for a bit. What Dad says is true. Riah Devahs left me his urn and ashes as a puzzle. I had to find my own way. Work out the mantra. But now I have it I can return his ashes to nature like Dad says. ‘What about the urn?’ I ask. ‘Can I keep that?’

  Dad thinks for a bit. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I guess that will be okay.’

  Dad drives us out into a lonely part of the forest. We stop at a high cliff overlooking black gum trees far below. Stars twinkle in the sky. A faint breeze is blowing. Dad tips the urn upside down and the ashes scatter in the breeze.

  ‘Look,’ says Dad. ‘The breeze is carrying the ashes into the outstretched limbs of the trees below. The forest is welcoming the holy man back to the earth from which he came.’

  I didn’t know Dad was a poet. It is all rather beautiful actually. I know that Riah Devahs would be pleased at what we have done.

  ‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,’ I say.

  Dad hands me a tissue. ‘Wipe out the inside of the urn,’ he says. ‘I don’t want any human ashes coming back to the house.’

  I take the tissue and do what he says. Then I throw it away.

  Dad frowns. ‘Don’t litter the forest,’ he says. ‘Put it in the bin at home.’

  He is right. Riah Devahs would not like tissues floating around the bush. I pick it up and we head for home.

  7

  That night I have a peaceful sleep. Normally I would stay awake worrying about the Phys. Ed. class in the morning. But I have my mantra to help me. I will use my magic words to save myself from embarrassment. Riah Devahs is gone for ever but his words are fixed firmly in my mind.

  How will I use my magic words? What will I do? I think again about making my pubic hair vanish. Nah, it’s still too risky. But there are plenty of other things I can do. I can use my powers to jam the lock on the shower room door. Then none of the boys or the Phys. Ed. teacher will be able to get in. Or I could turn the water to the showers off. Or maybe freeze the water in the pipes. Or, better still, I could make the Phys. Ed. teacher take a long walk in the bush. No, there is nothing to worry about any more. I sleep the sleep of a boy who knows what it is to be happy.

  The next day we have Phys. Ed. We throw the shotput. We run laps of the oval. We kick the football. The usual stuff. Then, after it is all over, we head off for the showers. We file inside.

  ‘Okay, boys,’ says the Phys. Ed. teacher. ‘Strip off and line up for the showers.’

  I shut my eyes and start to concentrate. What will I do?

  At the last minute I decide to get rid of my pubic hair after all. I don’t want to be different. I want to be like everyone else. No, it is the best answer to my problem. I think about losing my pubic hair and start to chant my mantra. ‘Riah Devahs. Riah Devahs.’ I say to myself, all the time thinking about making my pubic hair vanish. I am nervous but I concentrate really hard. ‘Riah Devahs.’ I open my eyes and look down inside my shorts. Oh no. The hair is still there. It didn’t work. Why didn’t it work? Something is wrong.

  The mind over matter didn’t work. I still have a healthy stand of pubic hair. What is different? Why won’t the words work now? Maybe it wasn’t the words giving me the power. But what else could it be?

  I decide to try it on something easy. I pull a hair out of my head. I take it out and put it on the bench. I concentrate on moving it. ‘Riah Devahs. Riah Devahs,’ I think to myself. My brain is nearly boiling with the effort but nothing happens. I have lost my power.

  Now nothing can save me. I am about to be called Pubic Hare all over again. My private parts will be a public joke. I am history.

  The other boys all start to undress. They don’t seem to care about being in the nuddy. They just drop their pants and hang them up without a thought. Some of them have started to head towards the showers already. They don’t have a pubic hair between them.

  I can feel a sneeze coming on. I pull a tissue out of my pocket. A used tissue. I notice that it still has a few flakes of ashes clinging to it. It is the same tissue I used to clean out the urn. I tap the ashes onto my palm. It is all that is left of Riah Devahs. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

  I remember the first time I had ashes on my hand. And the time after that. Suddenly it hits me. Like a bolt of lightning. It wasn’t the mantra giving me the power. It was the ashes. The power was coming from the last remains of Riah Devahs. Every time I concentrated I had ashes on my hand. And I still do. Only a few but it might work. You never know. It is worth a try. It is worth giving Riah one last try.

  I think about my pubic hair. And how I am different from everyone else. I get an idea. I will risk it. I close my eyes and concentrate. Boy, do I concentrate. I have never thought about anything so much in all my life. Talk about mind over matter. All I think about is pubic hair.

  A sneeze is coming. I try to stop it. The last thing I need is a sneeze, especially when I have ashes on my palm. ‘Ah, ah, tishoo.’

  Did it work? I open my eyes and look. The ashes have gone. Sneezed away into oblivion. I will never be able to work my magic again. But it doesn’t matter. Not if it worked. Not if my one last effort was successful.

  I make a quick check inside my pants. It is still
there. But I am not worried. Not one bit. Because it worked. Yes it worked. I am the same as everyone else. Yes, yes, yes.

  No, that’s not right. I am not the same as everyone else. They are all the same as me. Simons and all the other boys start to scream and cover up. They yell and shout and wrap towels around themselves. Each of them has a thick forest of pubic hair. It is long and curly and wonderful. They are shocked out of their brains. Their faces are so red you could warm your hands on them. None of the boys know where in the heck all the hair has come from.

  But I do.

  About the Author

  Paul Jennings is Australia’s multi-award-winning master of madness. The Paul Jennings phenomenon began with the publication of Unreal! in 1985. Since then, his stories have been devoured all around the world. The top-rating TV series Round the Twist and Driven Crazy are based on his enormously popular short-story collections.

  Paul Jennings has written over one hundred stories and has been voted ‘favourite author’ by children in Australia over forty times winning every children’s choice award. In 1995 he was made a Member of the Order of Australia for services to children’s literature and was awarded the prestigious Dromkeen Medal in 2001. Paul has sold over 7.5 million books worldwide.