The Glass Mountain

By Celeste Walters

Ossie is an outcast - he is the cat that walks alone. This is, until he crosses paths with Mrs Esther Ellis and he is caught up in a world of shadows and secrets - a world in which the legend of a freakish mountain tells a story that will become his own. A very powerful crossover novel for young adults and adults alike from the award-winning author of "The Killing of Mud-Eye"

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Queensland Press
• Release date: Nov 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9780702258060

Book preview

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 …

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 …

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 — an’ there’s one an’ a half — 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. ‘You’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 …

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.

‘Yes?’

‘Packet 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.

‘Sorry.’

‘Jack, come here!’

But the child is studying a T-shirt.

A hand brushes dirt from black fabric. ‘Pit vipers’.

‘I seen a snake,’ replies the child.

‘Jackson, 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.

‘A dollar fifty …’

He fishes in a pocket, pulls out a dollar, twenty cents, ten …

‘That’ll do.’ The manager stumbles, thinks, if you’d only go, just go …

He watches as the figure in black saunters out. As the door slides shut he springs open the till, slots in coins and gasps — 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 …

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 …

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.

‘Nom!’

Eyes look up.

‘Ya 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.

‘How 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 — ya hear me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yer ride with Hambone rest of the way. I’m not havin’ this meet fucked up ’cos a you …’

The boy drops his head and goes on polishing, as from the shade of a spindley gum Hambone watches, spits gum. And smiles.

‘Nom!’

He looks up.

‘Nom, ya know what’ll happen if ya — shit!’ The Turk, soft as butter and as thick, has emerged from behind a bush, struggling with his zip.

‘If I what?’

‘If ya lose it.’

‘Pres’d probably let me ride with you, Turk, if ya asked real considerate like.’

‘Aw I dunno, Nom, ya heard what he said.’

‘Go on …’

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.

‘Let’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.

2

Mrs Esther Ellis, bored with her day, stares into the mirror. Listens to the noises of the street beyond the little white cottage with its frilly curtains and picket fence. Hears the community bus pull up at stop fourteen, the one she used to catch before they moved the step higher. Mrs Ellis likes to go shopping. She likes to look in the windows, browse about, have a cup of tea at Chinwag, sit on a seat in the square and feed the birds. In a country town you’re bound to run into somebody you know.

The sun beams into her small lavender-laced bedroom, and from the trees comes the chirruping of birds, happy in their freedom.

Mrs Ellis stares into the mirror. A little old lady in mauve with grey curls and little round glasses stares back. The problem, Mrs Ellis thinks to herself, is that she doesn’t feel old. Not in her head.

She glances at the phone at her bedside. Soon it will ring to check on whether she’s resting.

To be resting on such a beautiful day …

Suddenly she goes to her cupboard, gets out her most comfortable shoes and fossicks around for her umbrella. She loves her umbrella. It’s in the shape of a sunflower with every spoke a petal. She places it by the door and goes to the phone.

‘… Yes, dear, but I want to get to the bank … I’m feeling quite chirpy … yes, it is a long way and of course I won’t walk … I’ll get a taxi … and you can pick me up on your way home. I’ll be sitting on the seat by the bridge … 4.30? Lovely. Bye, dear.’

It is a long way. Mrs Ellis will need a drink and maybe a biscuit or two. She gets out a bottle, a Sports Ten, like the ones the footballers use, fills it up, pops a couple of ginger nuts into her bag, picks up her umbrella and sets out.

3

The gang swerves west, straight into the setting sun. The young bikie grips the handlebars tighter, his eyes ooze grit, his hands slip on sweat-worn rubber. By his side rides Hambone on his thoroughbred, his king’s charger. This machine has handlebars and headlights for burning the heavens, chrome dagger rails for slicing stars. And no front fenders to stop the wind.

The bikes swerve right, left again, then gear down to take the hill. From the back the young bikie watches the formation rise like black migratory birds, predacious and hungry. Before their eyes mirages form, upon their flesh the north wind sears and the falling sun digs deeper.

At last, as they turn south-west, the world comes into focus and they see in the distance the outline of silos and spires. The shapes of a country city.

‘60 ks ahead’, the sign reads. 110 becomes 80, 75 …

They ride into town in pairs. Over the railway line, past the station, by factories and farmhouses, schools and churches, along the main street and into the centre where cars idle on corners and shoppers and shopkeepers stand and watch.

The President, riding as he always does in front, swings left into a side street that leads to the camp site. Then everything stops. A police car slides noiselessly past.

Carver, two ahead of the young bikie, half turns. ‘Fuckin’ road works up ahead.’

Hambone eases off his helmet, flicks sweat. ‘Jist remember I’m watchin,’ he croaks. ‘An’ them’s Pres’s orders.’

The young bikie turns away. Opposite is the post office, next to it the bank, the supermarket, something that looks like a brotherhood shop, a hamburger joint … Along the street mums with prams and kids with dads and office girls and grandpa types stare into the road then proceed with their comings and goings. A little old lady tries to put up an umbrella in the shape of a flower and the wind blows it shut. In the end she gives up. The young bikie knocks out a cigarette and continues to watch. There’s the little old girl again, this time coming out of the bank. He watches as she flops down onto a seat, takes a drink from a water bottle, then rummages in her bag. Again she struggles to put her umbrella up.

‘We’re movin’.’

Slowly, in low gear, the riders inch along. As the tail enders turn into the side street, again the column stops.

‘Fuckin’ hell!’

‘The light’s are red.’

‘I can see the fuckin’ lights.’ Hambone spits. ‘There’ll be no fuckin’ thing left by the time we fuckin’ well get there.’

The young bikie stares into the sweating bulk of the old vet, the grimy jeans with its fat wad of notes sticking out. In his mirror he sees the transport that’s loomed behind them for the last few ks dip its lights. He throttles back and the lights dip again. The driver in his lofty cabin looks nice, has a kind face … Lucky he, to roll along the highway, high above the street, above the world to where the air is clean …

They’re still not moving. Now’s his chance. Now he’ll jump out. He would if there was somewhere to dump the bike and the road wasn’t clogged up.

From ahead comes the sound of laughter. Ugly laughter, intimate and mean. And how they’d laugh, Carver and them, when they found him, as they would, riding high above the world to where the air is clean …

The roadtrain pulls off and the young bikie goes on studying the street. He sees people gather together friends, parcels and