Have You Seen Ally Queen?

by Deb Fitzpatrick

  I turn around to check it out and there’s Rel, grinning and looking pretty damn cute, I must say. His shell is hiding under his T-shirt, but I know it’s there and it makes me think of my bracelet, and for a minute my face flushes up with the thought, and the thought of that arvo on the beach, and the starfish and mulberries, and hanging out at his place the other night with the moon glowing down.

  He looks at me and smiles. He reaches into his pocket and across the whole bus of kids he chucks a Killer Python over to me.

  I catch it perfectly—one-handed, as if I’m just adjusting my headphones, or something.

  There’s a sort of gap in the noise.

  The world blurs past outside.

  Let’s get this show on the road.

  STIRLINGS

  It’s freezing. I mean, freezing— for summer in WA, anyway. I’ve got my Polartec zipped up to my nose and I’m still cold. But it’s kind of alive-cold, if you know what I mean. ‘Cos I’m standing in the middle of nowhere, and ahead of me is this amazing blue line of mountains, about to go down with the night. The dusk lights it up like the ridge is on a stage, all soft blues and greys and surrounded by this super-crispy air that’s making my eyes water. The Stirling Ranges. I hadn’t realised how impressive they are. I mean, they’re big. They’re, like, mountains. And tomorrow we’re heading up there, with our backpacks and food and everything. Bloody hell. I’m nervous all of a sudden.

  ‘Righto, everyone, let’s get back to camp,’ says Mr Taylor. ‘We’ve got dinner; then I’ll brief you on tomorrow’s hike.’

  He’ll brief us? I look at Rel. He’s trying not to laugh.

  ‘What’s the joke, Mr Anderson?’ Mr Taylor says.

  ‘Oh, nothing, Sir. Just...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The thought of your brief—s.’

  Even Mr Taylor has to laugh. Some kids slap their thighs and bend over with silent laughter.

  We all head back towards the camping ground, across the scrub. It’s remarkably flat for miles around, given that there are mountains just nearby. Grass trees poke their spiky heads up everywhere, and there’s this sweeping sky that seems different from the sky anywhere else. Ultra-beautiful. Expansive.

  Rel comes over and walks with me. ‘I didn’t know we had a comedian on tour with us,’

  I say, grinning at my feet.

  He laughs, then goes deadpan. ‘Neither did I. Who is it?’

  Man. This guy’s too much.

  ‘What’s for dinner, Mr Taylor?’ someone shouts out from the back.

  ‘Spag bol.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘Spew!’

  ‘We need the carbohydrates,’ he says, turning around to look meaningfully at the Stirlings. ‘Don’t forget what we’re doing tomorrow.’

  ‘No, how could we,’ someone moans.

  ‘Well, no one has to go, remember. It’s not compulsory,’ he says.

  Yeah, but will we be hauled in for counselling if wedon’t? I wanna say. Actually, he hasn’t been too bad so far. He’s much better when he’s not in that poxy office of his.

  ‘You going on the hike tomorrow?’ I ask Rel.

  ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’

  ‘I hope not,’ I say, looking around nervously.

  He laughs. It’s a great sound.

  HIMALAYAS

  My pack’s got rocks in it, it must have. Or ten sacks of rice. What’s going on? It’s pulling down on my shoulders and I’m walking half bent over, trying to take the weight off my legs. People are groaning all around me. I’m sweating and my face is cut beetroot. My knees wobble, and as we go higher I’m having to stop every ten steps or so.

  This is hard.

  It’s mainly the water, though; I know that. Each person has to carry three litres of water, and Mr Roberts reckons that’s less than the recommended amount. But he says we’ll just have to make it last, so I’m trying not to skol every time I stop. It does make your gear lighter, though, every time you have a big guzzle.

  Rel’s up ahead. I’m somewhere in the middle of the line. Right in front of me is Karen Mason, complete with brand new Mountain Designs backpack and Gore-tex boots and perfect hair. I want to either shake my head in pity or spit on her gear. I guess that’s the kind of hiker Dad was talking about. Somehow, it’s very annoying, and very unnecessary. My Blundies are actually fine. I mean, they’re embarrassing, but my feet don’t hurt at all. Who cares what you look like when you’re sweating like a pig, anyway?

  One, two, three, four—God, this bit is hell steep—five, six, seven—aarggghh—eight, nine, te-e-e-e-e-n. Water!

  I skol; I just can’t help it. I lean my pack against a tree at the edge of the path and let the others pass me.

  Some kids stop with me.

  I swing around to look at how far we’ve come, and I almost fall over from the view. We are way up! I can see Mt Barker and some of the farms from up here. It’s incredible. You can see the way the land has been cut up like a slice for different pastures and crops. You can see canola a mile off, it’s so insanely yellow. There are clouds below me. I can’t yet see the top of the ridge, but it’s pretty spectacular just to see how far we’ve walked.

  Jamie lets out a low whistle. ‘Shit. It can’t be much further to the cave from here.’

  I look at my watch. ‘It’s 1.30. Probably another couple of hours, hey.’

  Grumbling all around.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I push myself off the tree and get my balance again. I look up. Jesus.

  CAVEWOMAN

  I’m a caterpillar in my cocoon. The sleeping-bag comes right up to my neck and tapers down around my legs and is all puffed up around me from the feathers inside. Dad said it’s a really good one, especially for cold places.

  And it’s cold. It’s white smoke around my mouth, and a ridiculous beanie that Mum knitted on my head, and a freezing red Rudolph nose.

  It’s also quiet. I mean: it’s silent.

  It’s about five in the morning and everyone’s asleep. The sky is peach, like a yoghurt advertisement, and the sun is coming through weakly, as if it’s trying to break the night. I sit up in my sleeping-bag, making sure I keep my arms in, like some kind of mummy. Around the cave are the kids and teachers, sleeping curled up to stay warm. Mr Roberts has got a special Polartec beanie on, and Ms Carey has a stripy woollen scarf wrapped around her head like a turban.

  They’re all asleep.

  The cave is smaller than I expected it to be, but just big enough for our group. It backs into the mountain and yawns out over the way we came. To wee, you have to climb down a few rocks, unless you don’t mind weeing in front of everybody, which, of course, we all do. It’s a bit dangerous, and Mr Taylor said that we have to always carry a torch, and take someone with us, just to be nearby in case anything happens. He started blabbing on about teamwork and looking out for one another, blah, blah, blah, and then he told us this story about a guy who was hiking in Queensland and he went out for a wee one night, and to make sure he didn’t go in the river he walked a little way away from their camp. He slipped and a huge boulder rolled down onto him and pinned him down in the river for a whole night and a whole day. It started to rain and the river began rising. The guy was freezing to death and scared out of his mind and couldn’t feel his legs— and he was totally on his own, because the guy he was camping with had hiked out for help. Eventually, he came back with the paramedics, but by then it was too late and the guy’s legs (both of them) had to be amputated.

  By this point, some of the kids were going, ‘Oh, yeah, right, what is this, scary stories around the campfire?’ but Mr Taylor was dead serious and said the guy had written a book about it and how it had felt to go from someone who was uber-fit to a doubleamputee.

  So I always get someone to stand guard for me now, when I go for a wee. And I check for huge boulders.

  Rel is a couple of people away, and I expose an arm to hypothermia to pick up a small stone and plop it onto the middle of his sleep
ing-bag. His eyes flip open and I watch while he focuses.

  He turns my way.

  I grin.

  He blows a funnel of white smoke out in front of him. ‘Bloody hell. Cold,’ he says hoarsely.

  ‘Did you sleep?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yeah, apart from the rock that was right in the middle of my back. You?’

  ‘Not much. It’s so quiet, isn’t it?’ I nod towards the cave entrance. ‘Check out the view.’

  He leans up in his sleeping-bag and pulls it tight around his neck to stay warm. His eyes widen as he gets the sunrise and the view down. ‘Wow,’ he says quietly.

  I nod, smiling.

  ‘Wow.’

  I think he’s struggling for something to say.

  I can’t believe I nearly missed out on this.

  I look down at my bracelet and feel glad and lucky for a long, warm moment.

  MOUNTAIN GOAT

  It was when I got up this morning—and I mean when I actually managed to crawl out of my sleeping-bag—that I knew today was going to be another thing altogether. I mean, in terms of challenge. My body lashed out big-time when I tried to straighten it up. I have bruises, swellings, grazes and just all-out pain this morning. There are dark red chafe marks where my backpack was tight around my hips yesterday.

  Putting the pack on again today was like entering my very own torture chamber. Bruises hurt when you press on them for hours with a heavy, lumpy pack. The thought of walking another fifteen ks! The only redeeming thing is that the walk is meant to be relatively flat compared with yesterday’s vertical effort. We’ve had to refill our water bottles today, though. There was a water tank not far from the cave, so now it’s back to full H20 loads.

  We’re walking now, and I guess it’s good to know where all those muscles they teach us about in biol. actually are. It’s like I’ve got a whole different body on today. Getting going for the first k or so was pure hell. I started mentally going through all the things I’d packed that I reckon I could do without, to make the pack lighter. Like, that spare pair of jeans. My journal. The family-size Cadbury’s brazil nut I’ve got stashed away. A bottle of moisturising cream. They don’t sound like much, but they all add up to make this sack of spuds I’m hauling around a mountain. I can’t believe Jaya’s got some beers in her bag.

  The pain seems to have become part of the day. It’s sort of melded in, and doesn’t seem so bad. There are clouds slivering between us, just wispy things; they disappear as quickly as they show up. But how cool: clouds around my legs! In between clouds, you can see the whole world from up here. It’s like you’re standing on the very top of the world, tightroping along, with the two sides of the mountain at your feet. Go left, and you’d end up back at the camping ground. Go right, and who knows? Apparently, it’s all largely unexplored down the southern slope. It looks kind of wild.

  I look back and see the line of kids, and Ms Carey right at the end. Rel is in front of me and has found a long, strong stick that he’s digging into the ground every few steps. He’s not saying much, but then nor is anyone. This is hard for everyone, teachers included. And beautiful. I realise I’ve never been on the top of a mountain, or a big hill, or whatever it is—a really high place—and looked down. There’s something very cold, thin-airish, about it.

  It hurts and it’s worth it.

  God, I sound like Mum.

  ROCKY TERRAIN

  We’re walking out, down, down, dirty down. My pack feels like a happy little balloon on my back. I’ve got a litre of water only, and that’ll be heaps. It’s a cool and cloudy day, and though I’m sad the hike is nearly over, I feel like I’ve really done something these last couple of days. I also need a shower, badly. I stink.

  Ms Carey is in front of me this time. She’s wearing a cool pair of Thai striped pants, and an old T-shirt. Everyone else has got on various versions of cargo pants (pockets-on-the-legs deal), including me. How predictable. She is sweaty and young-looking and lovely. I am sweaty and lanky-looking and daggy.

  ‘How’s your new English class going, Alison?’ she says over her shoulder.

  Shite. I knew that would come up eventually. ‘It’s fine,’ I lie.

  ‘What are you guys doing at the moment?’

  Oh, God, I hate this conversation. I try to answer like nothing’s wrong. ‘Advertising.’

  She stops, almost making me bump right into her back.

  ‘Advertising?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But you’ve already done that in my class.’

  ‘I know.’

  She looks at me. ‘You must really like advertising.’

  ‘I’m pretty good at it these days.’

  ‘Does the other teacher—’

  ‘Mr Kent.’

  ‘Aah, Kenty—I mean, Mr Kent. Does he know you’ve already done that part of the syllabus?’

  We’re walking again now, so there’s no eye contact, and I almost forget I’m talking to a teacher. ‘Nah.’

  ‘Oh, Alison.’ She shakes her head and a line of sweat runs down and disappears into the neck of her shirt. ‘This could be really bad for your end-of-year marks. You won’t have done an entire part of the course.’

  I know.

  ‘And that might affect things for you in Years 11 and 12—especially if you want to go on with English or English lit. And I think you should definitely consider that.’ She takes a loud breath and stops again for a moment. ‘I’m going to speak to Kenty—ah, Mr Kent—about it,’ she says finally.

  My head flicks up from its study of the terrain beneath my tired feet. ‘What do you mean? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Well’—she adjusts her pack, tightens up the waist strap—‘you might have to swap classes.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Well, I know, but you’re required to learn certain things in certain courses, Alison, and it’s our job to make sure that happens.’

  I scan my mental picture of the Year 10 English teachers. ‘But there’s only Mrs Calder’s class left.’

  ‘And mine.’

  My backpack feels very heavy all of a sudden. I can’t go back there. Not after what happened. I stop and fiddle with the shoulder straps of my pack. This sucks. There’s no way I can rejoin Ms Carey’s class—no way. I would look like even more of a dickhead. She can’t make me do this. I don’t want to swap! How can she not understand?

  I look up and she’s waiting for me. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll sort something out, okay?’

  I can’t say anything.

  My stomach churns.

  Things were finally getting better, too.

  DEPARTURE OF STUFF

  ‘It’ll be cool, Ally!’

  That’s what Rel has to say on the possibility of me going back into Ms Carey’s (and his) English class.

  ‘Yeah, and what about all the other kids?’

  ‘Who cares?’ he says. ‘They’re all pus-heads, anyway, remember?’

  Oh yeah, I remember.

  ‘Wanna go for a walk?’

  ‘I thought we’d done enough walking the last few days,’ I say glumly.

  He looks at me like I’m feeling sorry for myself.

  ‘This is different. It’s just with me.’

  I don’t say anything. I don’t really feel like it, but don’t want to tell him that. He’ll probably take it the wrong way.

  ‘I have Killer Pythons.’ He pats his pocket.

  I sigh. ‘Okay, then.’

  Parrots squall and yark as we make our way along a trail from the back of the caravan park, which is where we’re staying tonight, our last night. Today is free time for everyone—we’re allowed to do whatever we want, so long as we don’t break any laws. Basically, it means no compulsory group activities. So really it means a break from everyone you can’t stand being around any longer. Some kids are sleeping, others reading, others have gone exploring. Mr Taylor gave out a bunch of compasses when we arrived and showed us how to use them, but I still don’t get the whole concept. What’s the p
oint in knowing what direction you’re facing if you’re lost? I mean, to make it work, you have to know which direction you need to go in—like, which direction you would take to get home. And if you knew that, you’d just go, wouldn’t you? Or you’d actually have to be able to read a map. I dunno, I don’t have a clue about those things. Compass or no compass, I’d be just as lost.