Read The Glass Mountain Online
Authors: Celeste Walters
The Glass Mountain
Celeste Walters
was born and educated in Melbourne. She has been a primary and secondary school teacher, an art gallery director, a children's theatre actor/manager and, for thirteen years, a lecturer in drama and language and literature at Victoria College (now Deakin University). In 1989 she was Writer-in-Residence at WACAE (now Edith Cowen University) and from 1990, a part-time lecturer in drama at La Trobe University and an invitational lecturer at Deakin.
Celeste Walters has published playscripts for children and adults, novels for younger readers, texts on developmental drama and the writing of eulogies and three books of whimsical verse for all ages. She has written two highly acclaimed novels for young adults,
The Killing of Mud-Eye
and
The Last Race.
Also by Celeste Walters
The Killing of Mud-Eye
The Last Race
CONTENTS
For
Tim and Carena and Annie and Michael
And there was a great silence in the House of Judgement. And the soul of the man stood naked before God.
And God opened the book of the man's life and said, âSurely thou hast been very evil. Since thou hast done all these things, even into hell will I send thee.'
And the man cried out, âThou canst not send me into hell.'
And God said, âWherefore can I not send thee into hell?'
And the man answered, âBecause in hell I have always lived.'
And there was a great silence in the House of Judgement.
And God said to the man, âSeeing that I may not send thee into hell, even into heaven will I send thee.'
And the man said, âThou cast not send me into heaven.'
And God said, âWherefore can I not send thee into heaven?'
And the man said, âBecause I have never been able to imagine it.'
And there was a great silence in the House of Judgement.
Traditional Irish folk tale
THEN
Thinking back, I didn't mean to kill myself. But nobody told me little old ladies were dangerous. Not even the Big Man an' he knew a lot. An' then some.
The Big Man hadn't meant to kill himself either. But he always said, “Kid, if ya gonna do something, make sure ya do it proper.” An' he did. Over a fuckin' cliff at two hundred ks. Ya can't get more proper than that.
I stood at the window the day they buried him, watched the dawn come slinking like some cat over a roof, slow an' lazy, stretching out time. Tried to remember. Worked on bits, eyes, ears, mouth â¦
They were gonna bury my dad an' I didn't know what he looked like. I'd lost his face. All that was left was his smell an' the yakking on. An' this painting in my head, that wouldn't go away, of bodies an' bike bits splattered all over like in war. 'Cos the Big Man was knocked off. An' not by me. Not then anyway â¦
They had this service thing. Grey sea an' rain an' the slow rumble of motor bike engines following a hearse. Death's heads flapping. The Big Man would've said it was fuckin' beautiful. Probably have come over emotional an' all. 'Cos this here little spot, he'd say, 'd be about the best place to laze around in with the wind in ya leather an' the sea spray in ya face. He'd say it every time we rode by on our way out of town. 'Cept he won't be feeling much spray 'cos the sea's too far below. An' that's sad. Everything's sad about this nowhere bone-yard, plonked so close to the edge ya reckon it'll tip over. An' no fence to stop it. No gate neither. It's only when ya start bouncing over these speed humps an' observe a chipped upright or two that once was a cross that ya know yer there. Even the angels â an' there's one an' a half â smile sad little smiles as they droop over more valuable humps with bits of marble plaque. The whole place is seriously leaning back like it's trying to stop falling. Even the grass.
They all came, rode two abreast at sixty-five ks. Death calls for a show of strength in the bikie fraternity and some only knowing the Big Man enough to knock him senseless.
That's loyalty for ya.
A million bikies in full gear at a sad little cemetery in the wind, around a casket on which the Big Man's goggles and jacket waved and waggled. All of them heaving and blubbing and blowing their noses.
An' it wasn't as though he was any sort of leader type. He was a loser, one hundred per cent. And a little loser at that. Little Big Man.
I reckon it should be made law that kids are allowed to hate their dads when they heave off into the ground like that. He took his goggles. He took his jacket. But he left his kid. He left his kid with fuckin' nothing. Except homilies. He was good at homilies, the Big Man. Getting drunk and homilies. He was head-and-shoulders stuff. Who'd want a snotty-nosed kid around anyway? “A rolling stone gathers no moss,” he'd say.
He practised what he preached too. He never clobbered anyone skint or light in the head. And sometimes he'd hand over a whole job's worth just because they were pushing a pram. Particularly when he'd had a skinful. I guess that's why there was so much heaving and blubbing. They all loved him. Everybody loves a loser.
I watched my dad and his homilies go pissing down six feet of shit.
If someone, anyone, had put their hand on my shoulder or anywhere else ⦠But no one did.
I stood there, worked on bits, eyes, ears, mouth, while the wind rolled the grass an' the bits of crosses creaked an' the throaty singing round me echoed to the tune of pounding waves.
Then he was gone.
If I'd felt the pain I knew I should, maybe, just maybe I could've forgiven him. An' me as well while I was at it.
But anger's stronger.
The Pres said one day ya'll be a Pit Viper.
I was eleven.
I had no mum, no dad. No one but them.
PART 1
THE STONE
THROWER
“You knew it must come to this sooner or later, Toad,' the Badger explained severely. âYou've disregarded all the warnings we've given you, you've gone on squandering the money your father left you, and you're getting us animals a bad name in the district by your furious driving and your smashes and your rows with the police ⦔
The Wind in the Willows
Kenneth Grahame
1
In his service station on the highway the manager is worried. The airconditioner's rattling, he's running out of water and a gang of bikies has pulled up outside. The manager wipes away sweat. He was always a bit afraid of Darth Vader, didn't like
Star Wars
at all, and now he's got a whole galaxy of them right on the other side of the road. He goes to the counter, sloshes sauce onto pies, chips into buckets, smiles at the small child demanding the last of the bottled water, and peers through this window and that as he collects plates.
Over the road they're slouching about or stretched out under trees. All of them in twos and threes except for one who's wandering around kicking up dirt with a stick. The manager watches as suddenly the piece of wood's flung into the air and the solitary figure starts towards him â¦
The man trembles, thinks of guns, needles, knives. He hurries to the counter, opens the till, grabs a paper bag (he's not thinking clearly), stuffs in notes, grabs another, stuffs that full, shoves both inside a biscuit tin, takes a deep breath and goes on serving. The place is full.
There's a click, the manager jumps, the aircondi-tioner's dead. He shrugs nervously in the direction of tidy tables. What can he do?
Suddenly everything's still. The door has swung open and a spectre in black has entered, goggles glinting. His hair is wild, his body tattooed and grubby. The squeak of boots echoes in the glare of silence.
At the magazine rack he pauses, flicks through a glossy on bikes, then shambles across to the counter.
âYes?'
âPacket of Blue Label.'
The manager starts, the sound is not what he expects. He thinks, if voices were instruments, this one would be the cello. He fumbles along a shelf, spilling cartons to the floor. Packets tumble out.
The bikie, who's no more than a boy, a teenager, puts down the money. As he steps back he collides with the small child standing behind him.
âSorry.'
âJack, come here!'
But the child is studying a T-shirt.
A hand brushes dirt from black fabric. âPit vipers'.
âI seen a snake,' replies the child.
âJackson, come here at once!' A woman grabs a small arm and the child is yanked away.
The bikie mosies over to the drinks cabinet, wonders how much they slug you for a coke in a dump like this.
âA dollar fifty â¦'
He fishes in a pocket, pulls out a dollar, twenty cents, ten â¦
âThat'll do.' The manager stumbles, thinks, if you'd only go, just go â¦
He watches as the figure in black saunters out. As the door slides shut he springs open the till, slots in coins and gasps â turns hot and cold. How could it be? It's impossible but true. He's been robbed!
It's then he remembers the biscuit tin.
In the dirt by the roadside the young bikie surveys the landscape. Looks out into nothing but rows and rows of telegraph poles that disappear way into the mountains where they're heading. Just telegraph poles and butter-coloured fields with a few sheep in between â¦
He hates these meets, these get-together times, where the grog flows and the violence after. He hopes there'll be no women, though plenty reckon being screwed by a bikie's cool ⦠He threw up this morning, said he was real sick. It's worked before. But now he knows too much to be left behind. To be trusted â¦
In the lay-by on the other side of the highway, the President is sprawled against a tree, downing coke and heat. It's only spring but that sun's got power. He unfolds a map. They've still another eighty ks to ride before they reach the township and the campsite beyond.
Around him his family, his tribe, are preening machines, flicking dust from handlebars, scraping insects off chrome.
He stretches out, watches an old vet, curls dripping like a tap, scrub chrome crystal, sees him step back, trip and swear loudly. For Hambone this lump of steel is everything, is better than sex. It's the only love this man will ever know. Or want to.
The President slops down the last of the can and reaches for another.
Over by the truck, stacked high with provisions, he studies a bike that stands alone. It's older, shabbier than the rest, it needs more cleaning.
The man turns and trains his goggles on his youngest follower. Watches him leave the restaurant, wander around a bit kicking up dirt then amble across the road and over to his machine. He watches him polish the handlebars with a sleeve in a desultory sort of way. Perhaps he really is sick. Still ⦠He continues to watch as the boy knocks a cigarette out of a packet and lights up.
In a flash the man's on his feet.
âNom!'
Eyes look up.
âYa wanna start a fuckin' fire?'
In the President's goggles the young bikie sees his face reflected, long as sadness. And distorted. He grinds the smouldering ash into the earth with his boot.
âHow many times do I have to ram it into your fuckin' head? The law's only waiting for some fuckin' idiot to shit themselves in some fuckin' public place and they'll be looking into things that it's not their business to look into â ya hear me?'
âYeah.'
âYer ride with Hambone rest of the way. I'm not havin' this meet fucked up 'cos a you â¦'
The boy drops his head and goes on polishing, as from the shade of a spindley gum Hambone watches, spits gum. And smiles.
âNom!'
He looks up.
âNom, ya know what'll happen if ya â shit!' The Turk, soft as butter and as thick, has emerged from behind a bush, struggling with his zip.
âIf I what?'
âIf ya lose it.'
âPres'd probably let me ride with you, Turk, if ya asked real considerate like.'
âAw I dunno, Nom, ya heard what he said.'
âGo on â¦'
But the President is speaking. The gang moves closer, his gang, this brotherhood, where identity's marked by the sign of a snake and the bike comes first.
âLet's move,' he yells.
There's a shaking of dust from helmets and a straddling of machines. With a kick they burst into life.
Heat rises at the gearing down, at the roar of the Harleys, as four abreast the gang takes to the road.