A Web Of Stories E-Book

Tristan A. Smith

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Life spins stories around us as we slide through time, anchored by our secrets.

Tristram Jones has an opal that is of deep significance to his teacher, Ivan MacAllister: a compelling and charismatic mentor haunted by a trauma caused by the witch doctor, Dinewan.

Named after the Great Emu Spirit of the Dreamtime, is Dinewan just a bitter, hateful misfit, whose mind has been warped by an old family legend... or something far more dangerous?

Tristram is haunted too, by dreams that feel like memories, of a terrifying monster that is waiting to pounce from the still waters of the billabong.

A web of stories surrounds Tristam and Ivan, and the truth of them must come out as life goes on with adventure, romance, and danger. The witch doctor is coming, and he will have his due.

Bunyip is a modern tale influenced by much older stories and spiced with science, legend and sensual experiences. It is gruesome in places, funny in others and tender where it counts.

This book is intended for a mature readership and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

A WEB OF STORIES

BUNYIP BOOK 2

TRISTAN A. SMITH

CONTENTS

An Unexpected Train Journey

Sorrowful One

Ivan MacAllister

Fact and Fiction

The Robbery at Eumundi

Dinewan

Fragments

Think of The Devil…

Separation

A Week of Surprises

Five Words

Joseph Jones

Love at First Slight

The History With Ivan MacAllister

Hester’s Heart

Life’s Arrows

The Beast on the Beach

A Change in Season

Unforgivable

Dream Spirit

The Past Stirs

Theatre and Secrets

Symbols

Motives

Family Legend

Distractions

Memories and Dreams

Dinner at the Joneses

Dishes

Senoi Dream Theory

A Promising Good-bye

Flambeaux

The Bunyip’s Opal

Pyran’s Plan

Fred’s Advice

The Rainbow Serpent

The Bunyip’s Lair

The Nature of the Bunyip

The Dawn Sighting

On the Road

Yes, No, Maybe?

An Exclusive Interview

The Stranger at the Concert

Sisterly Advice

Seven Boys

The Magician

Queens of the Desert

Sensations

Confessions

Discipline

The Feather

The Familiar

The Emu

The Chase

Approaching the Fire

Opening Words

The King of All Birds

Mayrah

The Great Emu Spirit

Revelation

Journey Home

The Final Concert

The Last Watchdog

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Tristan A. Smith

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To my parents, Ross and Pauline, with all my love and gratitude.

AN UNEXPECTED TRAIN JOURNEY

Six months ago, I boarded the Vic-rail train at Traralgon station to travel to Bairnsdale. A forty-one-year-old working man does not catch economy class public transport if he has a vehicle of his own – but I had just put mine out of action in the hilly forest-country north of Traralgon. I had completely torn out the under-carriage of my trusty old Toyota Landcruiser. Hence, on that windy Friday night, I would be slumming it on the train.

The train journey to Bairnsdale always seems to do one of two things to me. Either I end up listening to the life story of some wretched stranger, or my mind is saturated with painful memories. There is something about a train journey that makes me reflect.

On this journey, I really wanted to avoid reflection. I had lived two very different lives and I was trying to forget them both. In the end, I had to choose one or the other to brood upon – so I chose my first life – the first thirty years of my life that I lived in Australia. My secret second life, which I had made for myself in Japan, was unknown to anyone that I knew in Australia – not even my immediate family. They will never know. There is nothing left of it, anyway.

As I boarded the train, a slim brunette woman ahead of me reminded me sharply of Helen. There was a terrible shock of recognition – then she turned around. It was not Helen after all. This lady had a kind face.

I sighed bitterly.

Thanks for reminding me of my first wife.

Helen was an astonishingly attractive woman. I am struck now, as I was then, by the sudden memory of her.

Dark brown eyes with a hidden agenda. Long dark hair, soft lips, and curvy, lean figure…white, ample cleavage.

A passionate memory of sex stirred me.

Textures and smells and wild animal longings. The smell of her conditioner. Her lips on my neck. My fingers lifting the elastic cup of her bra.

I exhaled and then tensed as her betrayal suddenly accosted me. Desire, guilt and rage brawled for my mood.

A memory. A scar. Let it go.

The train was full of loud and drunk miscreants – smelly, bawdy, and inescapable. The men I passed as I sauntered down the aisle were aged between about eighteen and fifty. Mostly lower-class whites, but also a handful of aborigines. Everywhere I looked: beer guts, tattoos and five o’clock shadows. A few of them were young fathers; their brats drawing on the seats. They eyed me up and down coolly, with a trace of menace.

I returned their looks. None of them were a match for me.

I looked their women over. Most of them were over-painted and screeching over a can of some alcoholic drink. Hideous creatures – all flannelette and wrinkles, stained teeth and clown-like make-up. They looked me over approvingly. I gave them an amiable grin – but not too amiable.

“Darl’, I’m goin’ for a smoke.” Cawed a particularly horrid woman. Her voice recalled a thousand nights in smoke-filled pubs. “Watch the kids and get one of ‘em to yell out if the inspector comes.”

I shuddered. She had large hoop earrings, copious eye shadow, and hair permed to hell. I started at her long, dark red nails – probably a throw-back to her harpy ancestors.

“How’s it goin’?” She grinned.

“Good thanks. You?” I returned politely.

“Hmph. Could be better, but why complain? No one gives a fuck, eh?”

“I suppose not.” I shrugged as I moved away.

I hate these people.

Then I saw him in the corner by himself, his attention deeply engaged in a copy of “The complete works of Oscar Wilde”.

This was a coincidence of some magnitude. I had caught the train to come to Bairnsdale with the express intention of seeking this young man out – and there he was in front of me.

Tristram Jones was sometimes handsome, but never striking. Tall, lean and strong, he had his dad’s broad shoulders and large forehead. His nose was prominent, but well proportioned and his face was neither rounded nor square. He had a confident and intelligent expression, with more humour in his face than when he was a boy. His almond, hazel eyes were still bright and perceptive. He was wearing navy cargo pants, and a black denim jacket. I had known him since he was ten and could hardly believe that he was now twenty-nine.

As I moved in, an aborigine approached Tristram from the opposite side of the train. His clothing reeked of beer and cigarette smoke, his hair was oily and his eyes were glazed. He was probably in his early forties.

“Oi…’scuse me, brudda.” The aborigine drawled, patting Tristram on the shoulder.

Tristram looked up and smiled warmly at him. “Yes?”

“You gotta spare cigarette, mate?”

“Nah…sorry, mate, I don’t smoke, eh?”

Tristram waited patiently for his response to register, and his analytical eyes did a quick sweep over the man.

“Oh…” The man mumbled finally.

An elderly woman sitting opposite Tristram, sat in an uncomfortable and judgemental silence. The man considered her briefly. She was unapproachable, as she looked determinedly at the night rushing by the window. He turned to Tristram again, who was still paying attention to him.

Click-clack went the train…

“Goddolla?”

“Hmm?”

“You got any spare change?”

“Um…yeah, let me just check – I might be able to help ya.” Tristram pulled out his wallet and gave the man a handful of shrapnel. “There ya are – that’s all the change I got.”

“Good on ya, brudda. Thanks, mate. Take it easy, eh?”

“No worries, mate. You too.”

As the wretch staggered away towards the refreshment car, Tristram smiled and shrugged at the old lady.

“You could have pretended not to hear him.” She smiled sympathetically.

“No…that’d be rude, and there’s no need for that.”

“He was rude. His behaviour was disgraceful.”

“He was just asking for what he wanted.” Tristram shrugged.

“He is putting strangers on the spot for money. And your charity only reinforces it, you know. As your hero Oscar Wilde once said, charity creates a multitude of sins.”

“Alright! Alright!” Tristram exclaimed jovially. “Jesus, lady, nobody is perfect. He who is totally uncharitable cast the first stone!”

I chose that moment to throw my empty drink bottle at him. He caught it quickly just before it hit his face. His reflexes had improved markedly since he was last in my own dojo. I think he was pleasantly surprised by them himself.

He frowned, then looked up at me, recognised me and beamed. “This is not a stone.”

“Hello, Tristram Jones.”

“Ivan MacAllister!” Tristram boomed heartily and stood up to shake my hand. “I don’t believe it! I have been thinking of you all day!”

“No kidding? I was coming to Bairnsdale to look you up.”

“No shit? Well, lucky I met you on the train. I live in Melbourne now.”

“Yeah? Well, I figured you would be back in Bairnsdale this Saturday morning anyway.” I answered with a knowing smile.

Tristram returned the smile. “So, you did get my email. Well, sit down and let’s catch up. It’s only been twelve years!”

I hoisted my backpack up onto the bag rail and sat down next to him.

“Elspeth,” He began, “This is Ivan MacAllister. He taught me martial arts when I was a kid, and then English when I was in high school. Ivan, this is Elspeth Lawson, a very nice lady who has patiently put up with nearly two hours of my waffle.”

“Not at all, it has been a most interesting conversation. I think I have learned more zoology in the last two hours than I have in my whole life.” Elspeth interjected charmingly.

Elspeth was not quite the stereotypical old lady that I had first supposed. Her grey hair was long and flowed about her shoulders, and she wore a heavy purple dress that had sapphire floral patterns. She had well developed crow’s feet about her intelligent dark blue eyes.

“Anyway, Ivan,” Tristram continued exuberantly, “Elspeth has lived a very interesting life. She has travelled through Hungary recently, lived in Vienna and painted in Switzerland. Now she has decided to be a teacher – despite her potential.”

Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted by the nasal screech of the awful woman who had spoken to me earlier.

“Bradley! Stop fuckin’ around and give me back me smokes! Jesus Christ, don’t ya know how to behave in public? Now siddown an’ drink ya Coke before ya dad goes crook at ya again. What? Ya finished? Alright, ya can have the rest of this UDL.”

Tristram raised his eyebrows, then muttered to us. “UDL? That would be soft drink with vodka in it. Way to go, Mum.”

As I considered the woman and her snot-nosed child, a hot surge of resentement accosted me.

“It’s just so damn stupid, isn’t it? Thoughtless, moronic and irresponsible.”

Tristram searched my face.

“It’s not the best idea, no.” He conceded with a shrug.

“Children are precious things.” I continued, a bitterness bubbling out of me from nowhere. “Yet…well…they are given by chance to any pair of deadshits who fuck, aren’t they?”

I noticed that Elspeth was taken aback.

“Excuse me.” I smiled, calming down. “It’s been a long day – a long year, actually.”

Elspeth nodded politely. “Things like that do make you wonder how we made it this far as a species.”

“Not really. Evolution is not survival of the fittest – it’s survival of those who breed.” Tristram rejoined.

“Do you seriously believe that? That seems very cynical.” Elspeth asked.

Crows feet tightened about Tristram’s eyes. “I don’t seriously believe anything anymore. I knew everything at fourteen and nothing at twenty-one. I am getting more ignorant with each passing year.”

Elspeth chuckled. “Well said.”

“So, Ivan?” Tristram began, his perceptive hazel eyes considering me. “Why did you get so angry just now about that woman and her child?”

“Heh. Did I? Well, I don’t know. I am tired and impatient and a bit out of sorts – that’s all. Nothing that requires any kind of deep psychoanalysis.” I returned with a cool smile.

“Heh.” Tristram beamed. “Fair enough.”

It was time to deflect, and I had just the thing.

“So, Tristram, are you a racist?”

He frowned. “Hmph. That’s quite a segue. Why do you ask?”

“I just saw you give all your spare change to a koori man.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I wonder if you would have done so if he was white.” I rejoined.

Tristram thought about it.

“I don’t know. But I felt a bit guilty when he asked – I felt I needed to give it to him.”

“Why?”

Tristram turned to Elspeth. “When I was growing up, I knew an aboriginal elder called Fred Morris. He liked me and I liked him, and we shared a special friendship – or at least, we should have. But I never really visited Fred as often as I meant to – in fact, I haven’t seen him in years. And tomorrow… well, tomorrow Ivan and I are going to his funeral.”

Elspeth nodded understanding. “You were unconsciously giving change to your old friend, Fred?”

Tristram returned a vulnerable smile. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know…maybe.”

Elspeth sighed. “Well, this conversation suddenly got very deep!”

“Heh. Ivan and I do that.” Tristram explained fondly. “In this case, Ivan did it as a deflection because he doesn’t want me to pry into the reasons behind his anger at that bogan woman giving alcohol to her child.”

“Heh. Now, on the subject of deflection…” I began with a grin.

“Ha! He’s at it again!”

“I recently read your novel – at least part one. That was all you sent me.”

“So, the attachment to my email worked?”

“Yes. Have you written any more?”

“Oh yes. You remind me, that I need your permission for something.” Tristram eyed me cheekily.

“You are writing about me?”

“Yes, but I am doing that whether you like it or not. What I was referring to was Melvin Dubrelle’s account.”

“Heh. That story really struck a chord with you, didn’t it? You have been obsessed with the bunyip for years.” I smiled fondly.

“It’s my favourite work of fiction.”

I flinched at those words, but Tristram didn’t notice as he explained our situation to Elspeth.

“I realise that our conversation has suddenly taken an unexpected turn, Elspeth. But this subject is much more interesting. Have you ever heard of the bunyip?”

“Yes, of course I have.”

“Well, I wrote a novella about one – and my novella was inspired by an account that our good friend Ivan had inherited from his great, great grandfather. Ivan believes, rather optimistically, that there might be some truth in the account, and that one of his ancestors saw a bunyip.”

“Really? Well, that is interesting.”

“It’s got bushrangers, Scottish highlanders, a bunyip and a witch doctor!” Tristram beamed. “What more could you ask for in a tale?”

“Tristram was inspired by the account, because he was in possession of an opal like that described in my ancestor’s tale. His grandfather also talked of an encounter with a man that fitted the description of a witch doctor in my ancestor’s account.”

“Yes…a witch doctor. Elspeth…there is a man out there – with orange eyes and a peculiar walk – who thinks he is the very same witch doctor from that old tale.” Tristram added, his eyes sparkling. “He gave us a bit of trouble, didn’t he, Ivan?”

“Dinewan.” I nodded, and my jaw clenched at the thought of him.

“Excuse me?” Elspeth asked.

“His name is Dinewan.” I answered. “It means Emu.”

“This is very intriguing.” Elspeth remarked. “I’d love to read these stories.”

Tristram suddenly stood up and searched through his bag up on the bag rail. He pulled out several folders, each with pages of text. He handed the thickest one to Elspeth.

“This is my novella.” He announced proudly, with a lively grin. “I’ve called your bluff, Elspeth. If you really want to read it, now is your opportunity. Publication is a little way off, I think. I have the rest of the novel to write – which is what is in these folders.”

Elspeth opened the folder good naturedly, and dutifully flicked through the pages.

“I’m kidding of course.” Tristram smiled humbly. “You don’t have to read it. But if you want to-”

“I will need you to shut up and let me read.” Elspeth interjected playfully as she put on some fine-framed glasses.

Tristram blinked. “Right then. Thank you.”

He sat down, grinned and shrugged at me.

“So Tristram,” I began. “I’m eager for details. First or third person narrative?”

“Third.” He replied seriously. “I want to give the illusion of objectivity. Ideally, I would like to write in both first and third person, but I’m not clever enough to figure out how to do that.”

“Character driven or plot driven?”

“Character driven, of course.” He beamed. “Plot is merely an excuse for characters to interact.”

“Is it autobiographical in anyway?”

He smiled sheepishly. “It is inspired in part from my own experiences – but I have taken giant liberties with the truth.”

I chuckled at him.

“When do I get to read this masterpiece?”

“As I write it, Ivan. There is some history between us that has found its way into my writing. I would like you to have some input as to how it all works out.”

“I’d be delighted, Tristram.” I answered, disguising my anxiety with my most confident smile.

He handed me a skinny folder with some loose pages of text.

“Have a read of this and tell me what you think.”

“What is it?”

“Among other things, it’s how we first met.”

What follows is what I read.

SORROWFUL ONE

“Just because you can bash me up, doesn’t make you right!”

Ten-year-old Tristram Jones was in yet another fight at school.

“Shut up, Animal-man!” Snapped Rick Weston. He was a fat and freckled grade-six boy. He was also two years older and a foot taller than Tristram.

“Or what?” Tristram scoffed.

Rick then punched Tristram hard in the solar plexus.

Tristram fell to his knees, winded. He was grateful to be fighting on the grass of the school oval instead somewhere on the asphalt.

“Get up, coward!” Sneered a pretty little blonde girl from Tristram’s year. Her name was Stacey Frampton, and she was one of the twenty or so children watching.

“Everyone but you, Animal-man, thinks it was OK to piff a yonnie at that magpie.” Rick leered. “Everybody realises that I was doin’ what is best for all the students at this school. Everyone but you…and you had to open up ya big mouth and call me a ‘fat, stupid prick’. And then you pissed off like a coward.”

“I was outnumbered eight to one.” Tristram rejoined, glaring through his fringe. “Could you fight that many? Maybe you could – you’re certainly fat enough.”

Rick slapped Tristram across the face. Tristram fought back tears.

“You’re not very bright, are ya?” Rick crooned. “Yeah, we all know you’re a square, a goody-goody, a smart little boy who gets ‘A’s in everything…but you don’t know when to shut up. You don’t know when to admit that you’re wrong.”

“I’m not in the wrong. I am in the right. You attacked a harmless, defenceless animal.”

“You are not in the right! You didn’t see it, but these boys are my witnesses. You all saw it didn’t you, fellas? That bloody magpie was eyein’ me off.”

“You’re so ignorant, Rick.” Tristram scoffed.

The mob jeered “Ooooooooooo. Ignorant.”

“There he goes again.” Rick smiled mockingly to the crowd. “Using big words like a smart-arse, that nobody normal would use. So, tell me, Tristram. What does ‘ignorant’ mean?”

Tristram gave a sardonic smile. “You don’t know what ‘ignorant’ means? I shouldn’t be surprised. You really are a fat, stupid prick.”

Tristram was punched again.

“Come on, smart-arse. What does ‘ignorant’ mean?” Rick spat between clenched teeth.

“It means you don’t know anything!” Tristram bellowed.

“That’s dumb, Animal-boy!” Screeched the princess. “Rick is in grade six, while you are only in grade five. I think he would know more than you.”

“That’s right.” Rick agreed, grateful for the suggestion.

Tristram countered hotly. “If you knew anything about magpies, you would know that they only swoop people in Spring, because that is when they defend their territory. Seeing as it’s only Autumn, the bird was harmless. So, you see, Rick, you were an idiot and a bully – and you still are.”

Rick was about to administer another blow, but there was a shout from the crowd.

“Teachers are comin’! It’s Mrs. Phelps! And Mr. Johnson!”

“Shit, Johnson’s alright, but Phelps’s really strict.” Rick breathed. He considered his options quickly. “Throw him to the ground and kick him, then run before she gets here.” He decided.

His orders were carried out and Tristram was left alone, bruised and stinging on the grass. He sobbed mournfully at his powerlessness. He had a strong sense of right and wrong, as well as an iron resolve to voice it. Unfortunately, these character traits were nestled in a skinny, asthmatic body with hunched shoulders.

Tristram fought many battles like these, not because he thought he could win – but because he strongly believed that he did not have a choice. Unfortunately for the boy, he was a Jehovah’s Witness. He believed that adversity was a true test of his character that must be endured and not avoided.

Tristram never told the teachers about the offending students. He upheld the school-yard code of not being a ‘dobber’. For that, he had a little respect from some children and managed to hang onto a group of friends.

Noel Richards and Samuel Naughton approached Tristram as he lay in the foetal position, drying his tears and hardening his resolve to walk boldly into the classroom when lunch-time ended.

“You alright, Tris?” Asked Samuel. He had a quiet, high-pitched voice.

“Yeah, I’m alright. They are all piss-weak.” Tristram sulked. Later, he would pray for forgiveness for his foul language – but he was only new to his religion and was still shaking off the speech habits of his friends.

Noel and Samuel helped Tristram to his feet.

Samuel was a good-looking, light-blonde haired child with twinkling blue eyes. He was shy and had a nervous laugh that was absolutely infectious to those in the act of bashing him up. He was lean and wiry, and the fourth fastest runner in the school. Like Tristram and Noel, he was immensely thoughtful and reflective. He was also an incredible whinger and scavenger. Nobody could ever eat their playlunch without the forlorn supplication of the ‘starving’ Samuel.

Noel was the very epitome of politeness, neatness and civility. His black hair was always immaculate, and he never engaged in any activity that might result in lost buttons or grass stains. He was pale, with very dark brown, caring eyes, and a rounded face. Like Tristram, he was skinny and his shoulders hunched.

“You know, Tris,” Noel began, “Maybe you should just not say anything – especially when you’re out-numbered… which for you seems to be all the time.”

“You’re a dork!” Samuel chided. “You know you can’t outrun them all. And even when you do, you know they’re gonna wait and get you later. It was just a stupid magpie. Who cares if some fat, stupid prick throws a rock at it?”

“Besides,” Noel interjected smoothly, “The magpie wasn’t in any danger. Rick is a terrible shot.”

“It’s the principle.” Tristram rejoined. “Some one’s gotta stand up for what’s right.”

“Well, yes…” Noel agreed. “But shouldn’t that someone be…taller?”

“Well, yeah, I could have used a bit of help.” Tristram retorted. “Why didn’t you guys jump in?”

“I have a headache.” Samuel shrugged, with a deadpan expression. Tristram also detected a faint twinkle of humour in his eyes.

“I’m just not built for it.” Noel added. “A man’s got to know his limitations – and I’m discovering new ones everyday.”

Tristram chuckled as he often did at Noel. He had a very mature wit for a boy so young. Perhaps that’s why they were friends.

Suddenly an electronic bell sounded over the speakers.

“There’s the end of lunch time, fellas.” Tristram sighed. “Let’s get to class. I’ll see ya after school, eh, Noel?”

Noel bowed. “As per usual.” He was in a different class to Tristram and Samuel, but he lived only a street away from Tristram, and so they often walked home from school together.

As the class prepared for the start of the afternoon session, Tristram was pleased by his results in a math’s test that they had had yesterday. As usual, he had achieved a near perfect score

Samuel was less pleased with his own result.

“I’m dumb!” Samuel whinged.

“You’re not dumb, Sam. You only got two less than me.”

“This is too hard! I’ve done a whole page of sums, but I keep getting them wrong.”

“Keep trying.”

“What exercise are you up to?”

“Twelve.”

“See? I’m only up to nine!”

“That’s because you were passing notes with Rachel!”

“I wasn’t passing notes with Rachel! She keeps tryin’ to make me do her sums for her because she’s a stupid bitch. I only helped her because I had to.”

“Why did you have to help her?”

Samuel looked sheepish. “She gave me a Tim-tam from her play-lunch.”

“Look, Sam – I’m trying to work, alright? You’re not dumb, you just think you are.”

“You’re being unfair.” Samuel whined. “Not everyone is as brainy as you, you know? Some people have enough brains to be top of the class…whereas others have only just enough to get by.”

“So, get by!”

“You’re a bastard.” Samuel moaned, frowning. “You never help.”

“I’ve been helping you all afternoon!”

“I feel sick.”

“You always feel sick. God! You are such a whinger!”

“Fine then, dork. I guess I’ll do my own work.”

“At last!”

Suddenly they noticed a tall girl standing haughtily in front of their table.

“What do you want, Regina?” Tristram asked caustically.

Regina Wilde was Tristram’s archrival. She was fiercely competitive with him in everything, and they were a close match across the board.

Regina was an attractive, athletic girl, with smooth, lightly freckled skin, and bright hazel-green eyes. She had sensual lips and long, fine, auburn hair. To Tristram, her look was usually one of cool disdain, but he knew that she could be absolutely charming when she wanted to be. Her smile was warm and engaging, and Tristram longed for it, even though he would never admit such a thing to anyone – especially himself.

“How did you go in yesterday’s test?” She asked coolly, clutching her math’s results.

“None of your business.” He returned sharply.

“What’s the matter, Animal-man? Afraid that I’ve beaten you again?”

“If I recall correctly, Regina, I beat you in the last test.”

“And if I ‘recall correctly’” mocked the girl, “It was only by one mark, and I beat you in the two tests before that one.”

“And I beat you in the three tests before that!”

“Let’s stop living in the past, Tristram Jones, and see how things stand now, shall we? What score did you get?”

“Rack off.”

Regina gasped in mock indignation. “Um-ma…That sort of bad language will get your name written on the board. I’m going to tell Mrs. Kelly.”

“It was nineteen out of twenty, OK?” Tristram sighed.

Regina grunted. “That’s not bad.”

“I didn’t think so.” Tristram rejoined, looking her steadily in the eyes, hope rising in his chest.

“Still…” Regina continued deadpan, before smiling smugly. “It’s not exactly…perfect, is it?”

Tristram thumped his head down on the table.

“Better luck tomorrow, Animal-boy. Don’t cry too hard…like you did on the oval today.”

“I wasn’t crying!” Tristram shouted, but the chuckling girl had left to join her leering friends on the other side of the classroom.

The afternoon rolled by, and finally it was ‘home time.’ Tristram and Samuel hustled out the door quickly to avoid being ‘body-slammed’ by some of the bigger boys in the class. They said good-bye to each other as Samuel got into his mother’s car. As usual Noel was waiting by the gate near the school crossing.

Conversations between Noel and Tristram as they walked home from school were either a light-hearted exchange of wit and trivia, or a deep philosophical discussion. Today was no different. They began with a few reminiscences about ‘Transformers’ and ‘Voltron’ – their respective toys, cartoons and characters. Then they moved onto music, comparing the merits of ‘Nothing but a good time’ by Poison, and Robert Palmer’s ‘Simply Irresistible’. Finally, as they turned into Tristram’s home street, the discussion became more serious.

“So, what are you up to this afternoon, Tris?” Noel asked.

A wave of melancholy washed over Tristram.

“I’m going to the river, as usual.” He answered. Then he added smiling. “I’ve gotta get some more shrimp for my tortoise.”

“Oh yeah?” Noel rejoined politely. The change in Tristram’s mood did not escape him. “So…” He resumed carefully. “How’s your dad?”

Tristram smiled at his friend’s astuteness. “Dad’s alright, Noel. He’s been out of hospital for a while now.”

Russell Jones had slipped while carrying an old, heavy type-writer up some stairs at the rural Primary School of Woodglen, where he taught. He had totally shattered a vertebral disc in his back, and required an operation called a ‘back fusion’. Holly had told her three children matter-of-factly what was going to happen. Tristram, and his younger siblings, Saffi and Jase, were told that Russell would be in pain for the rest of his life, and that he might end up in a wheel chair. He would not be able to kick the footy with them, and he would have to spend most of his time in bed. Twice Russell had to go to hospital, and twice they were told that there was a chance that he would not come back. The family did a lot of praying.

Specifically, when Saffi and Jase had gone to bed, Tristram was told that he might have to become the man of the house, and that he would be responsible for his brother and sister. This terrified the child, as he not only loved his father, but feared all the things he would have had to do if Russell died. Tristram was physically weak, and he didn’t know how to drive a car or how to earn money. He couldn’t fix things around the house and he didn’t know anything about first aid. He couldn’t lift much, he couldn’t defend the house against attackers and he didn’t know how to bank or pay bills. He couldn’t cook either. When Tristram looked hard at himself and assessed his skills, all he could come up with was that he was a good boy who didn’t swear, didn’t steal and didn’t lie. He could also mow the lawns.

The operation happened, and Russell came home after weeks in hospital. He would be able to walk. He would be well eventually…and so the jester called Life continued his merry dance. However, Tristram would never forget the cadaverous face he had seen under the jester’s mask.

“I heard last night that my granddad is dying of bowel cancer.” Tristram told Noel simply.

“Oh…I’m sorry to hear that…” Noel reacted sincerely. “Can I…um…well…I dunno…can I…” He shrugged “Help?”

Tristram raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Are you a doctor by any chance, Noel?”

“Ah…No.” Noel sighed sheepishly.

“I didn’t think so, otherwise I woulda asked you sooner.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s alright, Noel. The doctors can’t do anything, anyway.”

“Oh well, it’s lucky I’m not a doctor then – I wouldn’t want to feel useless.”

Tristram grunted appreciatively.

“Well…” Noel continued. “I had a feeling something was up. You always go straight to the river when you need to think about stuff.”

Tristram smiled. “Ah well, Noel, Granddad will be alright. He is a good man, and Grandma is a good woman, and so Jehovah will look after them both. What are you doin’ this arvo, anyway?”

“Visitors are coming, so I have to help my mum tidy the house.”

“What a drag.”

“You can say that again. What gets me is the house will be tidy before I get there. Mess doesn’t last long in our house. I think it feels embarrassed and leaves before anyone sees it.”

“Don’t tell my mum that. She thinks we’re all lazy and untidy – I don’t need you and your family proving her right.”

They had arrived at Birchwood Court, in which Noel lived.

“See ya later, Noel.” Tristram said as he headed over to his own house on Moroney Street.

The Jones’ residence was a welcome sight to most. The forest-green weatherboard home had a northerly aspect, with twelve-foot-high ceilings and enormous front windows that let light freely into the spacious lounge. However, the character of the place was really defined by the mature specimen trees that had first attracted Tristram’s mother to it, particularly a giant old claret ash tree in the front garden. Holly had further augmented the splendour of the garden with beautiful additions of her own. Before Russell was injured, she had compelled him to construct raised, curving garden beds with quarried granite. These beds were then filled with a daunting diversity of specimen plants. In truth, no one besides Holly really knew just how many plant species flourished in her ebullient, rambling cottage garden.

A swing was suspended from the largest branch of the claret ash, and on it sat Tristram’s little brother, Jase. He was four years old, with curly blonde hair and grinning hazel eyes. During most days, there was nobody in the house besides himself, Russell, and a sleepy, overweight golden retriever named Penny. Russell was not much company for the inquisitive, energetic little boy, as he was in pain most of the time, and sat absorbed in a book for most of the day. Hence, Jase had a very quiet and lonely start to his childhood and had learned to amuse himself.

Today, Holly had had a day off work, which pleased Jase mightily. He was able to talk to her all day, and she had listened to everything he said. They had gone for a walk with Penny to the local shop, and Holly had bought him an ice-cream. All day, Jase had looked up to Holly and asked eagerly “Are Tristram and Saffi coming home soon?”

Holly was standing at the kitchen sink, looking over her front garden when she noticed Tristram saying good-bye to Noel. She noticed Tristram’s smile vanish once he had turned towards their house.

He’s always so serious. Holly thought and sighed. Where is Saffi? Don’t they walk home together? Holly searched the street and relaxed as she saw her daughter walking with her best friend Michelle, only a hundred metres or so behind Tristram.

Holly then turned her attention to Jase who was playing under the great claret ash tree. She smiled with deep pleasure as she watched Jase look up with excited joy at the sound of the gate.

Jase ran to Tristram down the short gravel path that curved through a lavender bed.

“Hello, Tris!” He shouted at the top of his voice.

“Hi, Jase.” Tristram muttered flatly.

Jase tried to give him an enthusiastic hug, but Tristram walked quickly past him, and up the steps into the lounge. A needle pierced Holly’s heart as she watched Jase look after Tristram bewildered and hurt.

“Do you want to play with me, Tris?” Jase asked quietly.

“Not now, Jase, I’m too busy.” Tristram answered without turning around.

The curly haired child sat down on the gravel path and bowed his head.

“Hello, Trissy-babe!” Russell beamed, as he looked up from his book at Tristram’s entrance. He was in a navy dressing gown.

“Hi, Dad.” Tristram returned. He frowned with annoyance at the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that always filled the lounge and kitchen. He couldn’t wait to get out of there.

“How was your day, mate?” Russell asked amiably.

“Fine. I’m goin’ to the river, OK Dad?”

“Is something the matter, Tris?”

“No.”

“Your shirt’s ripped…and you’ve got bruises on your arms. Are you being bullied again?” Russell suddenly became very protective.

“Not really.” Tristram answered.

“What do you mean, ‘not really’?”

“I got the bruises from playing, that’s all.”

Holly had entered the lounge and caught the last of the conversation.

“Shoulders back.” She commanded.

“Not now, Mum. I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s your posture. You look like a victim. Put your shoulders back.”

“Just leave me alone! I just want to go to the river.”

“Why don’t you take Jase?”

“He doesn’t walk fast enough.”

“Surely it wouldn’t hurt to spend a little time with him. He’s been waiting all day for you to come home.”

“Saffi can play with him.”

“Saffi always plays with him. Tonight, she has a friend over, and I think they would rather keep to themselves.”

“Saffi always has friends over! Why should I be punished just because I like to be by myself?”

“You’re being very selfish, Tristram.”

“I don’t want company. I have serious things to consider!”

“Oh, what are you talking about? I’m sure Jase won’t get in the way of your shrimp catching-”

“I don’t want to be responsible for him, alright? I just want to be by myself!” Tristram snapped fiercely.

Holly decided to let the issue rest for now.

“Be back here by five o’clock.” Was all she said.

“I’m always back by five o’clock or five thirty – I always ask if I want to stay out later, don’t I?” Tristram retorted.

“Tristram,” Russell interjected coolly. “Are you being disrespectful?”

Tristram blushed. “No…I just want to go…now.”

“There’s no need to snap at us. We just want you home at five o’clock because we want you to meet someone. Is that so unreasonable?”

“No…” Tristram agreed reluctantly. “Who is it?”

“A martial arts teacher.”

“Why do I want to meet a martial arts teacher? You know that violence is against my religion.”

“He’s a Christian.”

“Then he is also a hypocrite.”

Russell sighed menacingly, whilst Holly inwardly smiled.

“We’ll see you at five, Tristram.” Russell said with a stern finality. “Hope you catch a lot of shrimp.”

“And I hope my good-natured son returns to me in a better spirit.” Holly added.

The remark stung Tristram with guilt, but he was sufficiently angry to ignore it, at least until he got to the river.

His first move was to his room, which had two large, bubbling aquariums in it. One had a black axolotl called Gomez, and a white axolotl called Jakeeta. The other tank had Tristram’s favourite animal, a tiny specimen of Chelodina longicollis – the eastern snake-necked turtle. Its name was Titch.

Tristram’s room was covered in animal posters, most of which were of Australian flora and fauna. He had every free pamphlet he could get his hands on from the Department of Conservation of Forests and Lands stacked on his desk, next to his double bunk bed. He had to share the room with Jase, so he was not surprised to find the floor covered in paper, toys and crayons. Tristram grabbed his prize possessions: his grey felt Stetson hat, his gum boots and his red shrimp net. Only one thing more remained to get ready.

“Wake up, Penny.”

The fat golden retriever started awake and gave Tristram a goofy smile. She thumped the veranda with exhuberant wags of her tail.

Tristram smiled. “C’mon dog. You need some exercise. How did you get so fat?”

As he left the front yard and headed north towards the river, his spirits relaxed. With an empty bucket in one hand, his long-handled shrimp net over his shoulder, and Penny’s gentle, happy presence beside him, Tristram found peace.

Tristram continued north through a reserve before ascending the hill towards Picnic Point Hall. The hall was a small, red-bricked church-like building with a dark green tin roof. Directly opposite the hall was an uninspired, dark brick house. Tristram tensed, as he prepared to pass through a vacant block to the right of this house.

“Halt! Who goes there? Speak up!” Came a familiar voice.

Regina Wilde appeared beside her fence in Tristram’s path. She was wearing a dark green base-ball cap. Her hands were on her hips in a playful imitation of a military figure.

“Hello, Regina.” Tristram sighed.

“What’s that you say? State your business!”

“I’m just passing through.”

“Lower your weapons and prepare for inspection.”

“Whatever.”

Tristram continued walking.

“Hostile action in progress – deploy defences!”

Suddenly Tristram was pelted by three water bombs. He sighed at the laughter.

Three new faces appeared over the fence. Two were Regina’s friends, both blonde and blue-eyed. One of these was a frumpy girl with freckles named Amanda Gale – nick-named ‘Amanda Whale’. The other was Stacy Frampton – the princess. The third face belonged to Jake, Regina’s younger brother who was the same age as Jase. His face resembled Regina’s sunny countenance, but his eyes were dark blue and his hair was strawberry-blonde.

“Thanks very much, can I get past now?” Tristram sighed.

“What are you doing anyway, Animal-boy?” Jeered Amanda.

“I’m going to catch shrimp for my tortoise and axolotls – like I do every day.” Tristram said flatly.

“You look like such a wanker with that bucket and net.” Stacy interjected. Peals of laughter followed her comment. “And what’s with the hat? Are you trying to be Indiana Jones or something?”

“No Stacy,” Regina answered smugly. “He is just the poor Tristram Jones.” She turned to look at him with her familiar bemused disdain. “Do you know what the name ‘Tristram’ means, Animal-boy?”

“It means ‘herald’.” Tristram answered. “That’s what my mum reckons.”

“Wrong!” Regina countered. “Tristram is a stupid name with a boring meaning. It doesn’t mean ‘herald’, it means ‘sorrowful one’. I know, because I just looked it up.”

Tristram was surprised, but he believed her.

“What does ‘Jones’ mean?” He asked, as his curiosity trumped his offence.

“Who cares?” Was the scornful reply. “It is just a common name – worse than ‘Smith’, because at least that has a meaning. I’d change my name if I were you. As it is, your name means ‘sorrowful… commoner’!”

They laughed and Tristram went red in the face.

“Yeah?” Tristram retorted viciously. “Well, Jones is better than ‘Wilde’ – which means ‘unrefined, shabby, unkempt’…and nobody knows what a stupid name like ‘Regina’ means.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Animal-man.” Regina replied with triumphant cool. “Regina means ‘queen’ and so that puts me far above the likes of a common ‘Tristram Jones’.”

Tristram had no answer for her, as she held her head up regally; her hazel-green eyes looking very supercilious.

“What’s the matter, Sorrowful One?” Regina continued. “You usually have some smart remark to offer. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft.”

Tristram sighed and looked Regina sadly in the eyes. “I’m not in the mood for this today, Regina. My dad is constantly in pain, I’ve been bashed up and picked on all week and I just found out that my granddad is dying. So, if it’s not too much trouble, and seeing as I haven’t done anything wrong to you recently, I’d like to go to the river now.”

Regina softened instantly, blushed and lowered her eyes from Tristram’s gaze. Amanda and Stacy scoffed.

“Boo-hoo, my heart bleeds for you, Animal-man!” Stacy crooned sarcastically. A sharp look from Jake and Regina shamed her into silence.

“Give my regards to your family.” Regina said quietly.

“Thanks.” Tristram mumbled, surprised at her courtesy.

Moments later, the boy was past Picnic Point Hall and down the gravel road that descended into the valley, through which the deep and brackish Mitchell River wound. He breathed deeply and relaxed as he took in the autumn colour of the large oaks and the setting glow of gold upon the hills on the other side of the valley.

Tristram knew every tree along this stretch of the river around Picnic Point. He knew where to find eastern water dragons and turtles in summer, where the nankeen night-heron nested, and which grassy banks had good populations of freshwater shrimp. Every visit he looked for cormorants, whistling fly catchers, willie-wagtails, superb blue fairy wrens and tawny frog-mouth owls. His favourite bird was the sacred kingfisher. This little bird would catch his eye as a sudden, azure flash in the scenery, and he would watch eagerly to see if it would catch a small fish from the slow, deep water.

The river was his sanctuary, and the trees his hiding place. Here he was left in peace, and he could mull things over.

Tristram shed a silent tear as he thought of the hurt in his brother’s innocent face.

I am a failure as a Christian and a big brother.

Tristram could only stand such self-accusation for so long, before the pain became too intense, and he let his mind wander in more positive directions.

I can do better than this…I will do something nice for Jase.

His soul warmed again at this thought, and he exhaled slowly.

Suddenly he reflected on Regina’s peculiar change in attitude when he had appealed to her. Tristram had not expected that. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it.

Could we become friends? How weird would that be!

Suddenly his wrist-watched beeped. It was twenty to five. Time to go.

He sighed, called Penny and took one last longing look at the peaceful river.

Sorrowful one.

He picked up his bucket of shrimp – a good catch today. He had even managed to get a tiny fish, and he knew that Titch would enjoy catching and eating it. His situation was looking just a little bit better than it did an hour ago.

I wonder what this martial arts teacher will be like!

IVAN MACALLISTER

As Tristram entered the lounge room of his house he found his parents waiting for him. They were very serious.

“Am I late?” Tristram asked politely. “Because my watch says it is five to five.”

“No, you’re right on time, Tris.” Holly smiled sadly.

“Is that martial arts teacher here?”

“No…we have cancelled his visit today. Something has come up, Tris.” Holly said quietly. “Pack your bag, we’re going to Geelong.”

“Geelong? When?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight? Why?” He looked to Russell, who sat silent like a man abandoned in the wilderness. A cold terror crept into his stomach. “It’s Granddad Toby, isn’t it? He is dead.”

“He hasn’t died.” Holly answered seriously. “But the doctors say that he doesn’t have long to live.”

“But…I thought they said he might go into remission…”

“I’m sorry, Tris.” She hugged him tightly to her, and he sensed her trembling.

“Where’s Saffi and Jase?” Tristram asked.

“They are crying in her room. Saffi is taking the news very hard.”

“I see…” Tristram had become suddenly detached. He knew that he should be feeling grief, but all he felt was surreal. “I’d better put these shrimp in Titch’s tank.”

Tristram was puzzled by his lack of feeling. He had reacted the same way when Russell was in hospital, and whenever Holly had told him of her depression. Whenever he was told of suffering, part of him just wandered away.

I’m just not a very nice person…He concluded with deep shame. It’s too hard.

A few days later, Toby Jones died. There was a funeral, a lot of hugging and crying, and then suddenly, before Tristram could really comprehend it, he was back home. The next day he was back at school, and eagerly awaiting a camping trip with his cousins in the high country of Victoria.

Life, to Tristram’s melancholy wonder, just went on.

Before Toby died, he gave Tristram a precious jewel. It was a beautiful, polished opal. Toby had told the boy that the tiny colours he could see in the azure orb, were pleasant memories. If Tristram looked hard enough, he could experience them for himself…

It was about five o’clock in the evening, the day before the family were to go into the high country, when a very handsome young man knocked on the front door. Holly answered it and was immediately affected by his appearance. A coalescence of masculinity and grace; he looked as though he had been sculpted by skilled artisans of an ancient and superior culture. He was tall, with flawless skin that had been toned pleasantly by sunshine. Hair that was luxurious and dark played over his broad shoulders. His manly, square face was given character by an aquiline nose and graceful eyebrows. It was softened however by sensual lips, and large eyes with long lashes. His eyes were a startling sapphire, that contained a depth and spark that elicited intrigue. They danced with a white smile to produce a most potent charisma.

“Hello,” Holly beamed. “Come in! Are you one of Peter’s friends, are you?”

“Peter? Who’s Peter? No. I am afraid I don’t know the man.” His voice was a smooth, clear tenor that fell upon the ear like a spell.

“Oh…” Holly was taken aback. She found herself blushing and smiling involuntarily at his playful, roguish countenance. “Sorry – I thought you were a Jehovah’s Witness – my son Tristram has a bible study today, but Peter rang earlier to cancel it. I thought he might have arranged for someone else to do it, and Russ forgot to tell me – ah well! You know how it is, what can I do for you?”

“Actually, I’m here to see you and Russell about your interest in the martial arts.”

“Oh! Of course! Ivan! I should have recognised you by the delightful voice you have – your phone manner is lovely – most people don’t know how to be nice on the phone, do they? At least not in Bairnsdale. Anyway, I had forgotten all about you – as you know it’s been hectic here with Russell’s father dying – and I’ve got a camping trip to organise with my sister – and the garden needs weeding and the house is a total mess.” Holly turned to shout into the house after her husband. “Darl! You there? Ivan, the martial arts teacher is here.” She turned to Ivan again. “Russ is probably in the kitchen – I’m glad you’re here, Russ has been wanting to get back into karate for five years now – he’s already got a black belt in one style, I forget which – but it’s really my son Tristram that I want you teach – he is being victimised constantly and doesn’t play any sport – he won’t have a bar of any martial arts though, since he started studying with the Witnesses – but you’re a Christian, aren’t you? Maybe you can persuade him.

Sit down somewhere, Ivan, and I’ll find Russell.”

Ivan sat down in a cushioned chair by the fireplace and assumed a comfortable air. A fat golden retriever approached him quietly, and he smiled and patted her head gently. Ivan then delighted in the aroma and noise emanating from the kitchen. He could smell fresh capsicum, onion, garlic and ginger.

What is Russell making in there?

“Coffee or tea, Ivan?” Holly asked, as she headed for the kitchen.

“Coffee would be lovely, thanks, Holly. White with one sugar, please.”

“Certainly.” Holly smiled. Love that voice. She thought to herself.

As he listened to Holly chatting with Russell in the kitchen, Ivan made a quick study of his surroundings. The first thing that he concluded was that Holly was an artist and nature lover. The walls were adorned with her own oil paintings of Australian bush and farm scenes, and also water colour paintings of horses, tigers, blue fairy wrens and ring-tailed possums. They were excellent, he decided, and admired the detail.

Hmm. All the paintings are her own work and the frames are expensive. She takes pride in what she does – I should have concluded that already from her garden.

Ivan noted the expansive bookshelf, with a complete set of modern, leather-bound encyclopaedias. There were also books on craft, gardening, classic literature and a plethora of modern novels and children’s books.

Not surprising in the house of two primary school teachers.

There were small plastic animal figurines scattered over the lounge room floor. This was clearly a house with young children, but he knew that already.

What else?

There was a reconditioned samurai katana complete with sleek, black scabbard above a large mirror above the fireplace. On each side of it, were a pair of sai.

Those weapons will belong to Russell. They are well made and nice to look at – that’s why Holly has let him display them in the lounge. Holly wears the pants in this family.

Finally, he noted a four-foot-long fish tank, in an opposite corner to that of the television cabinet. It was beautifully planted with living fresh-water plants. He was about to make a note of which species were swimming about, when his train of thought was derailed by Russell.

“G’day Ivan! How are you? Sorry I didn’t hear you come in, I was making a lot of noise in the kitchen.”

“Oh hello, Russell!” Ivan beamed, matching Russell’s level of enthusiasm. “Yes, I noticed you were busy in the kitchen. It smells wonderful! How are things, anyway?”

“Well thanks, Ivan…considering.”

“Yes…” Ivan answered carefully, compassion emanating from his pleasant features. “My condolences for the loss of your father, Russell.”

“Thank you.” Russell was not sure what else to add, and so he changed the subject. “I’ve decided that I would like to join your dojo. I’ve always been interested in jujitsu. I already have a black belt in judo, as well as some training in kempo and gojuru karate.”

“Oh…well, that’s very impressive.” Ivan answered as he accepted a cup of coffee from Holly. “Thank you, Holly. Well, Russell, you are most welcome to join my class, but I feel it should be you teaching me!”

“Why do you say that?” Holly asked. “Russell seemed very impressed with what he saw two weeks ago.”

“Well…I am only twenty-two, with experience in only two styles – jujitsu…and a little Wing Chun.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter.” Russell rejoined. “I don’t know your style, and you seem to be a very competent teacher with a mature philosophy – which is everything, really. How long have you been training?”

“Since I was seven. So, what’s that? About fifteen years.”

“Long enough.” Holly said with approval.

“Actually, Holly, a lifetime isn’t long enough.” Ivan answered charmingly.

“Too right.” Russell agreed. “Listen, while you’re here-”

“You’d like me to talk with your son, Tristram?”

“Yeah, there’s that – but what I was going to ask is: would you like to stay for tea? I’ve made plenty.”

“Oh…” What is the polite thing to do?

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Russell announced deadpan with a twinkle in his eyes. “It’ll be ready in about twenty minutes. Tris is in the backyard. Now if you will excuse me, I’ve got things cooking.”

Ivan had just enough time to say, ‘thank you’, before Russell had disappeared back into the kitchen.

Holly rolled her eyes and smiled at Ivan. “Russ takes a lot of pride in his cooking. He is very good, I must admit. Just come this way, Tris is in the backyard. I don’t know if he is expecting you…”

They had approached the back door and Holly was about to lead him out, when Ivan suggested that he could introduce himself. Holly seemed to like the idea, and so Ivan ventured out into the yard alone.

The yard was divided into two parts by a pine trellis covered in jasmine, passionfruit and potato creepers. Two thirds of the way along the divide were three steps up to an entry into the second part of the yard. This entry was marked by a wire archway that suspended a wisteria.

As he passed through the archway, he saw a young boy. The child was standing quietly, waiting for Ivan. He was serious, with perceptive hazel eyes and fine brown hair.

Around him on the lawn was a worn, brown circle of dirt track, about three metres in diameter. Should the circle have been a clock face; the boy would have stood at twelve whilst Ivan stood at six.

“Hi.” Ivan smiled.

“Hello.” Returned the boy.

They stood and considered each other for a few seconds. The boy noticed a long, fine white scar on Ivan’s forearm. Ivan noticed that the child was holding something tightly in his left hand.

“I’m looking for Tristram.”

“You have found him.”

Ivan was surprised, and Tristram noticed.

“What is it?” Tristram asked.

“You’re much younger than I thought. The way your parents talk about you, I was expecting a teenager.”

“You must be Mr. MacAllister.”

“That’s right.” Ivan smiled charismatically as he gave a gentle bow. “Pleased to meet you. Call me Ivan.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Tristram returned politely. “I would like to call you Ivan, only I have been brought up that it is disrespectful to address an adult by their first name.”

“Huh. You’re very well spoken for – how old are you?”

“Ten.”

“Ten?”

“I’m very mature for my age. Most adults say that.” Tristram answered matter-of-factly.

“Well, Tristram, I don’t like to consider myself an adult. I’m only twenty-two.”

“You look thirty.”

“Thanks.” Ivan returned with playful sarcasm. “But if you wouldn’t mind, I would rather you called me Ivan. It will make me feel younger.”

“As you wish.”

Ivan looked quizzically at the worn circle of dirt between them. “So, what’s with the circle?”

“My pacing has worn it.”

“Your pacing?”

“I pace when I think.”

Ivan’s expression softened with kind concern as he reconsidered the circle. “That’s a lot of thinking.” He observed seriously.

Tristram shrugged. “I have a lot to think about.”

Ivan narrowed his eyes sympathetically. “Is it really all thinking?”

Tristram grinned shyly. “Also some playing.”

“Thank God for that. I was very worried for a second.”

“Why?”

“So much thinking for someone so young.”

“The bible encourages us to seek out wisdom, discipline and thinking ability. Especially young boys. Just read the proverbs of King Solomon.”

“I have. They say that wisdom is better than riches…that it is like comb honey upon the lips… So, what do you think about as you pace this circle?”

“Everything…” Tristram said earnestly. “I imagine a lot.”

“I see.” Ivan smiled. “So, what were you thinking just now, before I arrived?”

Tristram frowned sadly. “I was thinking about names. Do you believe that a name shapes character and destiny?”

Ivan raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Ah…yes, actually.”

“So, do I.” The boy answered solemnly.

Ivan was perplexed. “Oh…OK. So why are you thinking about names?”

“Well…I was thinking about my name,” Tristram answered, “and I’ve decided that I don’t like it. I think it will hold me back.”

Ivan chuckled and shook his head incredulously. “Why do you think it will hold you back? I think your name is wonderful. It’s not common.”

“Like ‘Jones’?” Pouted the boy.

“No…like Ivan.”

“Ivan’s not that common.”

“It is in a lot of places. It’s just Russian for ‘John’, you know. John is terribly common. ‘Ian’ in Scotland, ‘Sean’ in Ireland, and ‘Jean’ in France. They all mean just plain old ‘John’.”

“What does ‘John’ mean?”

“Glorious gift of god.” Ivan shrugged.

“The meaning is nice.” Tristram objected. “Do you know what ‘Tristram’ means?”

Ivan locked eyes with Tristram. “Yes, I do. What do you think it means?”

“Sorrowful one.” Tristram spat bitterly.

“Wrong.” Ivan answered simply.

“Wrong? I looked it up.” Tristram replied firmly. “This girl in my class looked it up and I double-checked in our library. ‘Tristus’ is Latin for sorrow.”

“True, but Tristram is not a Latin name.” Ivan returned with a wolfish smile. He delighted silently in the surprise on Tristram’s face.

“So, what does my name mean then?” Tristram asked.

“Well…Tristram and Tristan are Welsh names, and both mean ‘bold’. But that’s not all. Tristram is derived from Tristan, and Tristan was probably derived from ‘Drystan’, a Celtic word that means ‘tumultuous outcry’.”

Ivan’s eyes sparkled triumphantly as he watched Tristram digest the information.