Things a Map Won't Show You Read online

  Contents

  Out of the Yellow

  JAMES ROY

  Cloud Busting

  TARA JUNE WINCH

  The Two Little Round Stones

  OBED RAGGETT

  Milford Sound

  PETA FREESTONE

  The Price of a Sword

  ALISON LLOYD

  Ice-Cream Headache

  TIM SINCLAIR

  The Exotic Rissole

  TANVEER AHMED

  The True Story of Mary

  JANE GODWIN

  Learning to Fly

  SOFIE LAGUNA

  Integration

  JACK DAVIS

  Australia Day

  URSULA DUBOSARSKY

  Sea Scene

  HORIGUCHI DAIGAKU

  Only a Game

  RUTH STARKE

  Stark’s Statues

  TOHBY RIDDLE

  Snow Falls on the Subway

  YOON ZELIM

  Introducing Wendy

  OLIVER PHOMMAVANH

  Smarty

  DOUG MACLEOD

  Smiley

  DOUG MACLEOD

  The Second-Last Baby Tooth

  SONYA HARTNETT

  The Year King

  MICHAEL PRYOR

  The Legend of Lungalunga

  SAMSON TAVAT

  Yinti’s Kitten

  PAT LOWE & JIMMY PIKE

  Chewing Gum

  ANONYMOUS

  The Art of Hunting

  BRENTON MCKENNA

  A Dozen Bloomin’ Roses

  PAUL JENNINGS

  A Guide to Better Kissing

  CHRIS WHEAT

  How I Taught My Grandmother to Read

  SUDHA MURTY

  All One Race

  OODGEROO

  Dr Susan La Marca is a consultant in the areas of children’s and young adult literature and school libraries. She is currently Head of Library and Information Services at Genazzano FCJ College in Melbourne, and also an adjunct lecturer in the School of Information Studies at Charles Sturt University.

  Susan is the editor of Synergy, the research journal of the School Library Association of Victoria, and associate editor of the quarterly review journal Viewpoint: on books for young adults. She is the co-author of Knowing Readers: Unlocking the Pleasures of Reading and author of Designing the Learning Environment.

  Susan was the Children’s Book Council of Australia Victorian judge in 2006–2007.

  Dr Pam Macintyre teaches language and literacy and children’s and young adult literature at The University of Melbourne. She is the editor of the quarterly review journal Viewpoint: on books for young adults. She has been a judge for the Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards, Aurealis Awards and the Children’s Book Council of Australia Book of the Year Awards, and is the co-author of Knowing Readers: Unlocking the Pleasures of Reading.

  Pam has been a recipient of the Dromkeen Librarian Award for Services to Children’s Literature and the Leila St John Award for Distinguished Services to Children’s Literature.

  Ernest Hemingway is reputed to have said his best work was a short story in six words:

  ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’

  There’s something appealing about an economical story, whether it be prose or poetry, written or visual; how writers, poets and illustrators can compress ideas, feelings, characters and settings into a few frames, lines and words.

  The stories in this collection were selected with the curriculum in mind and for their appeal to Year Seven and Eight readers.

  Writers were offered free range to choose genre, location or form. Contributing authors include established writers who will be familiar to many readers, along with some whose work might be met for the first time.

  Some of the stories are playful, inviting us to see the world as a place of wonder and ambiguity, while others are set firmly in the day-to-day life of family, school, friendship and holidays. There are stories that take us to past times, to new shores, and inside diverse cultures, and others that are set in created worlds that excite imaginations.

  Indigenous Australian voices, the voices of newcomers to Australian society, and voices from Asia and the Pacific region enrich the collection. Urban and rural Australia are the backdrop for both serious and humorous events. Stories from beyond Australia give readers an insight into the culture and lives of people from various countries on our region’s map, and offer a different way of seeing the world.

  Poems are included in this collection, some because they tell a story and others because they capture a moment or experience in the same way that a story does. Illustrated stories using photographs or a comic book format, or that play with fonts, demonstrate the importance of visual images to storytelling and the role powerful images can play in creating, extending and adding depth to a narrative.

  We thank the writers for their stories and poems, and recommend their other works to readers, who are sure to find there the reasons we all read: to escape, to find new horizons, to see ourselves in a new light and, above all, for pleasure and delight.

  The thought comes to you: are little sisters born irritating, or do they take a special course? She’s excited about your holiday – she’s told you this several times. She’s thrilled to be going to the coast for the first time ever – so she’s mentioned, once or twice. She’s going to see the ocean at long last – she’s had something to say about that, too. She’s even got a map which she studies frequently.

  ‘This is where we live,’ she says, jabbing with a stubby finger, ‘and this is where we’re going. That blue stuff’s the ocean. Look, Alex. Look!’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it.’

  ‘But look!’

  ‘I’ve seen it! Fine, I’ll look …’

  It’s your first trip to the coast as well, but you’re not going on and on about it. After all, it’s not really such a big deal. You’ve seen it on TV and in the movies, and you’ve looked at postcards and pictures on the net. Your friend Jenny went to Hawaii with her dad and sent you a card from Waikiki, and that didn’t look so great. Just a bit of sand and some greenish water. Not even any waves.

  The birthplace of surfing, read the back of the card, and you’d laughed out loud.

  Aunty Rose sent you a photo from the Victorian coast once, and that was a little more impressive. At least the water looked like it was moving in that one, crashing at the base of those huge pillars of ragged rock rising from the boiling ocean. But she said it was like nothing she’d ever seen, and she’s been to a lot of places, so you can’t imagine that the ocean you’re going to see now will be all that brilliant.

  You’ve grown up all your life on a wheat farm in the middle of nowhere, so of course you’ve wanted to go to the sea, wondered what it was like, studied the pictures. But you’ve never rabbited on like Kellie, because to be honest you can’t see what all the fuss is about. So it’s all this deep blue water. Hardly worth going on and on about.

  She’s at it again.

  ‘How much further, Dad?’

  ‘A few hours yet, Kell.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know. Six or seven, I guess.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a sleep?’ suggests Mum helpfully, but you just know that Kellie’s not going to sleep.

  ‘I can’t wait to see the ocean,’ she says for about the millionth time, leaning so close to the map that her nose is almost touching it.

  ‘So you’ve said,’ you mutter.

  ‘Alex, leave her alone,’ says Mum. ‘She’s only six and she’s excited.’

  You shake your head at Kellie, rolling your eyes, and she pokes out her tongue at you. You retreat to your headphones. There’s no poin
t continuing this particular argument, because you know you won’t win. You can’t. The referee’s biased.

  ‘How much further now, Dad?’ Kellie asks suddenly, sitting bolt upright and rubbing her red, sleepy eyes. With the back of her hand she wipes away the little line of dribble that’s been creeping down her chin. ‘Are we nearly there?’

  ‘A whole hour closer than the last time you asked,’ you tell her.

  ‘Mum –’ she starts to wail in protest, but Mum’s asleep.

  ‘Keep it down, you two,’ says Dad. ‘We’ve got a long way to go yet.’

  Kellie’s at the top of the Macca’s playground equipment, yelling like mad at her new friend.

  ‘Careful,’ says Mum, but of course Kellie doesn’t hear.

  You suck on your chocolate shake. Mum’s watching you from the other side of the table, gentle amusement on her face as she stirs her tea with a little plastic stick. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You look like you’re about to die of boredom.’

  ‘I am.’

  She smiles. ‘I know it’s tough, but it’s only for a couple of weeks. They’ll all still be there when you get back.’

  ‘I was meant to go in at number three this time. Craig promised.’

  ‘It’s just a cricket match.’

  ‘Try not to make it sound like such a big deal.’

  ‘I know it’s important to you, Alex, but it’s not as if it’s the last time you’ll ever play cricket.’

  ‘Forget it. Just forget it.’ You should have known she’d never understand.

  ‘Besides, you’re going to see the ocean.’

  Apparently this is meant to make you feel better.

  ‘I can’t wait to see the ocean,’ chirps Kellie, who’s stopped by just long enough to grab a couple of fries.

  You pull a face at her. ‘I’ll drown you in it when we get there,’ you say as she dashes off.

  ‘Alex!’ scolds Mum, but that hint of a smile is there.

  Dad’s finally woken up and has wandered in from the car for a coffee.

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ he mocks in a falsetto as he nears the table.

  ‘Shut up!’ you and Mum say together.

  The numbers on the big green roadside signs are getting smaller. Sydney was 1034 when you left, 854 a while later, and then when you stopped for lunch it was 722, with a coffee break at 560. Now as the sun falls behind you the sign says 337, and you know it won’t be long. Kellie’s questions about how much longer are getting further apart. Maybe it’s because everyone keeps telling her to shut up, or perhaps it’s because she’s just sick of asking.

  She’s playing games on your phone. There are only two good reasons you’ve let her borrow it. First, it keeps her quiet. Second, you’re bored with it. All of it. You’re bored with the music, the games, everything. You’re bored with this car, you’re bored with the countryside beyond the window, and you’re kind of bored with your family.

  The biggest body of water Kellie’s ever seen was the dam at your place, which is pretty big, maybe even the biggest in the area. You’ve been waterskiing with friends at the Reservoir a couple of times, but Kellie’s never been there. So you can sort of understand why she’s so excited about going to the beach. You just hope she won’t be disappointed.

  She’s asleep again, her head leaning against the window in the dusty orange light. Mum and Dad are talking quietly in the front while the radio plays softly.

  You take the map from beside your sister and study it closely. To help Kellie, Mum has made two red crosses – one where you live and the other on Sydney – and then joined them with a red line, which runs along the highway. It doesn’t look all that far on the map – maybe only five centimetres. From one side of Australia to the other is at least twenty centimetres. But what really blows your mind is the distance around the country, the distance along the wiggly black line which divides the yellow land from the pale blue sea.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m a bit frightened to ask this, but –’

  ‘About three hours, Alex. Maybe a bit less depending on the traffic through the mountains.’

  You lean your head back against the headrest and close your eyes.

  Mum is at the open door, shaking you gently. ‘Come on, Alex, we’re here.’

  ‘Where?’ you ask, blinking and confused.

  ‘Aunty Rose’s. They’ve got dinner waiting.’

  After chops and veggies you get ready for bed and climb between the cool crisp sheets. You can hear Kellie in the bathroom talking to Mum. She’s going on and on excitedly about the ocean and how you’re going to see it tomorrow, how she’s going to dig in the sand with the new bucket and spade she got for Christmas.

  ‘Only if the weather’s okay,’ says Mum. ‘Now clean your teeth and go to bed.’

  You can’t sleep, probably because you slept in the car, so you lie there listening to Kellie. She’s holding a private conversation with herself, using two different voices.

  ‘Where are you off to? Why, I’m off to the beach! Can I come? Of course you can! Oh, I’m so excited! I’ve never been to the beach before! I’ve got a new bucket and spade that I’ll share with you –’

  ‘Kell.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  So she whispers instead, which is even more irritating.

  In the living room the adults are chatting and watching TV. You can hear the actors saying their lines and then the audience laughter which follows. Occasionally Uncle Phil laughs. It’s a show you get back home too.

  Cars groan by in the street. It’s weird, hearing the cars and knowing that you’re in a different place, surrounded by millions of strangers all going about their lives not knowing who you are or even that you’re there. City people in their houses watching the same shows you get back in the country.

  Then you hear the gradually increasing hiss of rain on the roof, and after a while it becomes a roar.

  Looks like no beach tomorrow after all.

  You wake up to the sun streaming through the window, and immediately feel strangely relieved. The bedroom door is open, and you can hear the rattle of plates in the kitchen and the sound of Kellie’s voice, taking up where she left off last night.

  Aunty Rose is in the kitchen, bravely withstanding the barrage from your little sister. Mum’s having a shower and Dad and Uncle Phil are in the front drive looking under the bonnet of your red-dusty car.

  ‘Morning, Alex,’ Uncle Phil says as you emerge into the sunshine, chewing on a piece of toast. ‘How’d you sleep in the big city?’

  ‘Okay, I guess.’

  ‘Off to the beach today?’

  ‘I think that’s what Kell’s got in mind,’ you say.

  ‘Got that right,’ answers Dad.

  ‘It’s the weather for it,’ observes Uncle Phil, squinting at the blue, cloudless sky. Seems that even in the city he still talks like the country boy he is.

  You’re finally on your way. Mum’s got her enormous straw hat on, and Dad’s wearing his Akubra, just like always. Anyone who bothers to look will know immediately that you’re all from the country.

  So at last you’re going to see the ocean. Your family’s about to have its first picnic by the seaside, just like English people in old books. You wonder if there’ll be brightly coloured little sheds down by the edge of the sand, and people in deckchairs under umbrellas. For two days now you’ve tried to work out what Australia’s fascination with the beach is, but you still don’t get it.

  Kellie’s got her head down, playing a game on your phone again. Now that you’re on your way to the beach at last she doesn’t seem to care. That’s pretty typical.

  You spot it before anyone else, just a strip of rich blue above roofs and trees as you crest a hill. The line of the horizon stretches from your far left to your far right, long and ever-so-slightly curved.

  ‘Hey, Kell, there it is,�
�� says Mum. ‘There’s the ocean.’

  She looks up and sees it, her eyes widening. ‘Hey, yeah!’ she says. ‘The ocean!’

  ‘See it, Alex?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, I see it.’

  ‘Well, what do you think, boy?’ asks Dad.

  ‘Yeah, cool, I guess.’

  ‘Worth waiting for, then,’ says Mum under her breath.

  ‘Help your mother carry some stuff,’ says Dad, handing you the picnic basket. You take it without dragging your gaze from what you see before you. Stepping onto the hot sand, you put the basket down, your eyes still on the ocean, big and blue. From the top of the hill it shimmered like the smooth flank of a fish, but down here, so close, it moves. It seems to be breathing. You’ve read it described that way before – breathing – but now you understand.

  You walk closer, your gaze fixed on the ocean. You watch the swells rise, growing and growing until their bulk is too great and they trip, thumping down with a sound like sharp-edged thunder, spray flying up. And after they’ve reached as far up the beach as they can, they slide back, hissing and sighing.

  You stand there for a time, just watching the waves roll in, one after the next. Further up the beach is a small group of surfers, only their torsos and heads visible as they wait for the perfect wave. And there are people lying on the sand, but there are no little shacks, and few umbrellas.

  You walk right down to the damp sand, your feet sinking into it. So this is it. This is where Australia ends and the rest of the world begins. This is what the black wiggly line means – this very spot is somewhere on it. One more step and you’re off the edge of the map, out of the yellow and into the pale blue.

  Another wave comes in, a bigger one. The frothy stuff washes up over your shoes, but you don’t even care. You’re on the very edge of the country. At this moment, no one is more On The Edge than you are.

  ‘How’s this, then?’ asks Mum, who’s snuck up beside you. Her jeans are rolled up and her feet are bare. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s … it’s amazing,’ you say. ‘Where’s Kell? I want to show her.’

  ‘Back there,’ says Mum, and you turn to look. She’s sitting cross-legged in the sand, wearing her swimmers and her mad sunhat. She’s already digging with her new plastic spade.