The Glass Mountain (8 page)

5

There's this spot where a stream drops to join the river on its journey to the sea. A spot where it tumbles down a rock face overgrown with sapling and scrub.

No path tells of its presence, no trampled thorn bush. Possibly no one has ever sat on this smooth warm rock and heard the trout stream's song, watched a fish swimming against the flow, the willow tree reflected there, light on water.

As Ossie does this twilight time.

It's mid-autumn now, and though the sun has gone, its luminescence lingers, staining in rich ochre each rock and tree.

On an overhanging branch a blue-green kingfisher sharpens its bill and stares into water.

A fish slashes downstream.

On the rock seat Ossie sits, attaches a fly and drops in his line. Ripples form and fade. He studies pebbles blue and pink, brown and grey. Tiny gemstones shaped and smoothed by the crystal stream. He reaches down and slips a pink one into his pocket.

In the gathering twilight he hears the current run. In the treetops birds are chirruping bed-time tales. Above the rest a long mournful note is intoned again and again. Below, a trout darts by, a dragon-fly lights on a reed, and rising in the sky is a full moon.

Now from the rocks above and the earth beneath comes the rhythm of night. The calling of crickets, the wark-wark of frogs, the wheeling of moths. The gurgling and glugging of the stream.

On a stretch of river sand Ossie lies, staring into the silent silky night.

The moon and stars look down.

He thinks this must be heaven, the place where the dead people are. The Big Man, Alexander the Great an' Phar Lap. That's if animals get to heaven. The dog-on-the-tucker-box would, betcha life. But elephants? And ants? Little ants what build nests for other little ants must have souls. Unlike mothers that leave their kids.

Perhaps the stars are the keepers of souls, a million souls per star. That wouldn't be easy for the Big Man. The Big Man's soul wasn't big enough to accommodate one other, let alone another 999,999.

Perhaps in heaven that's what ya learn, to accommodate. Perhaps that's why yer gotta die — to be born again, like the minister man said at the service. An' become more accommodating each round till you end up loving everybody …

An' what would the Big Man come back as? Perhaps he's here already, perhaps he's one of them singing frogs. Or a butterfly, a moose … Maybe he's a millipede, like the one I squashed yesterday. That little creature coulda been the Big Man taking his first step — his first thousand steps. Then what? A sea-horse, a snake, a spider? Spiders accommodate little flies. They eat 'em but then that's what spiders do. Then on an' on till yer an elephant or a lion. Like the lions ya see with their little lions, licking them an' all and being very loving too. An' elephants. Elephants probably don't lick 'cos of their trunks and tusks an' all, but ya see pictures of little elephants running with their dads … And some birds hang out for life. An' some mammal types … An' if ya want to see a real family, just eyeball the monkeys …

An' when ya pass the monkey stage ya'd be accommodating very excellently … An' when ya that good ya become an angel upon a star, helping God grant all the wishes of the world …

“When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are —”

Suddenly there's a pull on the line. He springs up, reels in the flapping fish, flicks the hook from its mouth and drops it back.

He remembers a wish. It had to do with fishing too …

‘Ya wanna come fly fishing, Kid?'

‘Yeah Dad.'

‘Found this bloody beautiful spot by the river. Real personal like.'

‘Wow.'

‘But ya gotta shut up and be quiet.'

‘I'll be quiet — can we have a picnic?'

‘Ya gotta be real quiet or the fish'll hear ya and bugger off.'

‘I'll be real quiet — can we have a picnic?'

‘Real quiet.'

‘Mum, can we have a picnic? You an' me an' Dad? He's got this real personal spot by the river …'

‘You two go, I'm busy.'

‘But it's a real personal place, Mum —'

‘You don't need me.'

‘Aw Mum —'

‘Well —'

‘Just the three of us —'

‘Oh alright. You can start buttering the bread. What are you grinning about?'

‘Be like the picture in my reading book. My reading book's 'bout what the family does —'

Silence.

‘Mum —'

‘Yes?'

‘Can ya make us a pie?'

‘A pie?'

‘In my reading book the mum makes a pie ya can smell all the way up the street.'

‘Oh Austin, for God's sake shut up and get out the vegemite.'

Time to go home.

He thinks that of all the words in the whole fuckin' world these must be the loveliest. He repeats them aloud as he climbs the cliff to the road.

6

He's thinking the Big Man's right. Doors do open when ya least expect it an' in the most surprising places. He's got a cheque in his pocket (a predated cheque an' all) an' a bed with sheets to cuddle into.

He leans against a tree and lights up. The smoke rings waft westward and return in the shape of smiles. From a low window comes a very loud, very unmusical burst of sound. The Major's on his bugle.

Today it's warm. He takes out his water flask and drinks. Hears the hum of an engine, the quiet crunch of wheels, knows it's the death wagon, knows its sound. It's a gentle crunching, respectful. It slides to a halt, picks up its parcel and steals away. An arm waves as it passes, and Ossie waves back. He knows them now and they, him. A distant recognition.

Today puffs of grey cotton-wool block the sun. In oppressive heat he clips, returns the front hedge to its square box shape. Two pigeons watch, peck at seed, nod in time to the click clack …

At last he skims down the ladder and unwraps a sandwich. Hard work makes you hungry and it's corned beef. He takes a bite and watches her crossing the lawn. She's all in grey and she's carrying a book. Grey dress, grey day, with just her and him and the lowering clouds for company; the rest are having lunch. She stoops as she walks, like she's shrunk overnight.

‘From reading too much,' she says.

That's not the truth. She's not telling him the truth and he wonders why. ‘Essie,' he begins, but suddenly she's pale, coughing —

‘Essie!'

She coughs and coughs, starts to gurgle, and staggers to a seat. ‘It's alright,' she gasps. ‘It's alright.'

On the grey grass pigeons coo, dip their heads and waddle past.

‘Here,' says Ossie. From a pocket he produces the pink pebble. ‘Ya can have it if ya stop that racket.'

She dabs her forehead, her lips. ‘It's lovely,' she says. ‘Comes from a special place.'

‘Oh?'

‘My place. It's fuckin' beautiful, my place.'

‘I shall treasure it.'

There's a comfortable silence.

‘Ya got a beautiful voice, Essie, like my river.'

‘So have you.' She straightens up then goes on, ‘This is my very favourite book. It's really about people, though the characters are a mole, a water rat, a badger —'

‘What about ya lunch?'

‘They'll save it … And a toad. Wayfarers —'

‘What's that?

‘Wayfarers travel the open road. They're free spirits, Ossie — like you. And as they go, like these little creatures, they're tested and at times found wanting and at others, not. And along the way they find friendship and lose it. And are together, and alone …'

She flicks over a page.

“He had the world all to himself, that early summer morning. The dewy woodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still; the green fields that succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road itself, when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere, seemed, like a stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company.

Toad, however, was looking for something that could talk, and tell him clearly which way he ought to go …”

She stops, smiles. ‘Though you are more Mole than Toad. The words mean so many things, you can read them over and over. The more you read the more you'll find.'

Above them black clouds are gathering.

Ossie says, ‘Ya didn't have books, no photos neither.'

‘My daughter came in yesterday. She'd kept a few things.'

‘So ya lived in her little white house what I visited?'

‘In my little white house. My son-in-law's business failed, they lost everything, including their home. They had to live somewhere …' She pauses. ‘I miss my little house. They're doing it up, I believe.'

‘It's not their fuckin' house to do up.'

Essie smiles. ‘Don't get old, Ossie,' she says. ‘Nobody wants you when you're old …'

Suddenly, something slams shut, the world darkens and across the heavens lightning streaks.

‘Essie, you get inside —'

Now heavy drops start to fall, bounce off head and arms, as Ossie races to grab his tools. He gets to the bull-nosed veranda as the sky splits apart.

Rain hammers in fortissimo on tin …

He's seven years old. He's on the veranda and the rain's hammering on tin. He's about to open the door and go inside. But he stops, for he hears voices, raw as blood.

His father's. ‘Ya bitch, ya lying' fuckin' bitch —'

‘Stop it. Stop it.' Now it's his mother's. ‘Don't hurt me …'

‘Ya screwed me. Ya fuckin' screwed me from the beginning. We coulda had a life — the two of us on the road. Ya conned me. “I'm takin' the pill, Dusty.” Like shit —'

‘I didn't wanna lose ya.'

‘Ya wanna fuckin' well lose me now though, don't ya?'

‘Stop it —'

‘An' ya take the kid, see.'

‘I can't. Wayne says —'

‘I don't give a fuck what that bastard says. I'll kill him … Ya go, ya take the kid. I'm outa here.'

The door spits open. Bang.

He stands there. Everything freezes.

His mother is on the floor, her hand over one eye. Blood oozes from her lip.

Seven-year-old eyes look from one to the other, the other to one.

‘Say it, say ya don't want me,' the kid screams.

His father looks at the floor.

His mother continues to cry.

Lashed by the wind, the rain teems from the sky. Spits gravel, tears trees, hurls branches …

Through it he runs, pounds the force with his fist. His face is raw with pain.

He splish sploshes across the lawn, his clothes sticking coldly to his skin. His boots leak, squish squash. He pushes against the gate held fast by the battering sky, kicks hard with a leaden heel. It smacks open.

Apocalyptic, this, the sound of one door closing.

He charges through the gate into the garden, lunges past the lighted window of the kitchen and slips inside. Puddles form on polished vinyl as bowed heads dribble tea. Up the passage he squelches.

‘Ossie's all wet!'

He feels a sob rise in his throat. He gets to her room and throws open the door.

‘Fuck 'em. Essie.'

A man sitting by the bed looks up. Sees a young person, wild, dishevelled and dripping.

‘Who's this?'

‘That's Ossie,' Essie replies.

She goes to a small cupboard and takes out a towel.

‘Here, dry yourself.'

‘Why aren't ya fuckin'mad? It's your house, an' your kettles and your photos an' your little yellow roses. Ya should be there, Essie, not in this fuckin' place.'

‘I wouldn't have met you,' she replies.

‘That's fuckin' stupid.'

“There's a divinity that shapes our ends/Rough-hew them how we will.”

‘I'm shit sick of homilies.'

‘That's Shakespeare, Ossie.'

‘I don't give a fuck. That's the sorta shit the old man went on with. He could quote all that Shakespeare crap an' look where it got him.'

Essie smiles. ‘I must admit one has to encourage fate a bit. But things have a habit of working out. You'll see.'

‘Well, fuck 'em anyway, they're not worth it.' He stops. ‘Who was that just left?'

‘That was the doctor.'

‘Are ya sick?'

‘He checks on me and the others.'

‘Fuckin' doctors —'

‘Ossie —'

‘Fuck the whole world, Essie.'

‘No, Ossie, the world is beautiful. You told me so yourself. Think of the freshness of a blossom, the design of a shell, a ghost gum. Think, Ossie, of your own special place. The world is beautiful.'

‘Yeah. It's just the fuckin' arseholes in it.'

Silence.

Then Essie speaks. ‘The English language is beautiful too. Did you know it has more words in it than any other language in existence? It does seem a shame to use — some words, when there are so many other rich and wonderful ones to choose from.'

Silence.

‘Ossie?'

‘Just working on some rich and wonderful words …'

7

Ossie pauses, swats a fly. Again the midday's humid. Damp warmth brings winged things that drone and dive and clothes that stick to skin.

On a garden table Henry munches on fish flakes. Above, branches dipping low drop their leaves of red and gold.

‘Essie, it's lunchtime. Whatcha doing out here?'

‘Thinking,' she replies.

He's found her in the tiny walled garden in the shade of a tree.

‘Thinking won't put little pink patches on ya cheeks, Essie. Only gobbling will. You just stay there, quiet like, with Henry. I'm gonna get ya something.'

He returns with soup. ‘Pea an' ham, Essie, yer favourite.'

‘Oh Ossie, just leave it. I'll have it when it's cooler.'

‘It's very excellent now … Come on, ya gotta eat. Ya know what happens if ya don't eat.'

Silence.

‘Don't ya?'

‘I'm not a child, Ossie.'

He fills the spoon and puts it to her lips. She sighs, takes it, sips, dips, sips again.

‘Someone who's most perspicacious might say we're witnessing a small attention seeking here.'

Essie smiles slowly. ‘I've spent most of my life attention seeking.'

Suddenly both are aware of a third person moving into their space.

‘Marjorie!'

Mrs Marjorie Butcher faces her mother. ‘I saw it,' she cries.

‘Saw what?'

‘He put something in your mouth!'

‘It was soup.'

‘Mother, tell him to go. Get rid of him, do you hear?'

‘Marjorie, come and sit down —'

‘Get rid of him!'

The woman switches focus. ‘You get away from my mother and stay away. I know about you —'

‘Marjorie, stop!'

‘I've been watching you. And I warn you, if I see you anywhere near her again I'll call the police —'

Ossie has jumped up, has grabbed one cold hand, two. ‘Essie … Essie, what's the matter?'

‘I know what you're up to,' Marjorie Butcher screams over him. ‘I've seen you —'

‘Look what ya done, ya bitch.'

‘Oh!'

‘Ya rotten bitch —'

From somewhere comes a nurse, running, followed by Sheralyn. And now Essie's stopped choking and is throwing up the bit of pea soup. And blood too.

‘Leave us, both of you,' orders the director, and they get her inside.

At the nurses station her daughter is banging on the desk.

‘Mrs Butcher, calm yourself.'

But Marjorie Butcher will not be calm. ‘He's a thug, a thief, a criminal!' She sputters, stutters, flings her arms skyward. A straw hat floats to the ground. She scoops it up and jams it on. ‘He's a bikie, for God's sake!' She edges closer. ‘He robbed a friend of mine …' Closer still. ‘Knocked her over in the street! Him! Him — in a place like this! Easy pickings in a place like this —'

‘Mrs Butcher —'

‘You must get rid of him!'

‘Mrs Butcher, control yourself!'

‘At once.'

‘No.'

‘No?'

‘I'll do no such thing.'

‘Then I will. I'll call the police. They'll do something about it pretty smartly.'

Mrs Marjorie Butcher would like to slam the door. She steels herself for the hiss of sliding glass and storms out. As another storms in …

Kate Curran, geriatric nurse, glares down on her superior. ‘I don't care if he's got six dictionaries propped on his mower,' she says. ‘He's a hobo. I mean, those clothes — and that hair!'

‘How he wears his hair is neither your concern nor mine,' replies Sheralyn evenly.

‘His language is.' Eyes narrow behind rimless glasses. ‘Or should be … I don't mean to cause trouble, Sheralyn, but it's a case of standards —'

‘Leave it with me.' The director scribbles something on a pad.

‘Every second word is the f-word.'

‘I'll speak to him.'

‘Thank you. And Sheralyn —'

‘Yes?'

‘You look more professional with your hair up.'

‘Thank you, Kate.'

Sheralyn Smythe sighs, picks up the phone and dials.

She needs to talk, to be listened to, to expunge the loneliness of office.

‘… So that's about it. By the way, the name's Butcher. And darling, do a bit of investigating. Find out why she's so scared of him.'

At the window Ossie studies clouds.

‘It's a mackerel sky, Essie. An' a mackerel sky means good luck, the Big Man said.'

‘I'm sorry about this afternoon.' She falls back onto the pillows, her eyes closed. He thinks, perhaps she too, like Alice, has drunk from the bottle marked “Drink Me”, for she's shrinking fast. Drowning in pillows.

For a while she sleeps or maybe she's unconscious or in a coma or something. He doesn't know. He listens, watches, measures her breathing …

He returns to the window and watches the tracery of scales drift westward …

‘Ossie —'

Was that her? He swings around. ‘Yeah?'

‘Where's your bike?'

‘My bike?'

‘Where is it?'

‘There's not very much left of my very excellent bike, Essie. Not since its abbreviation on account of a particular tree.'

‘I see.'

‘I think ya must be feeling a bit perky, Essie, to be contemplating Yamahas an' all —'

‘I am, Ossie, I am … You know there used to be a bike shop here.'

‘A new one's just opened an' a very excellent Wheels City it is too. Got Harleys, Essie.'

‘Well, well …'

Mrs Esther Ellis closes her eyes. And sleeps again.