The Hunt For The Bunyip E-Book

Tristan A. Smith

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

"Magic is a fact of life, like murder, sex and monsters."

So says Dinewan, the old aboriginal witch doctor with bright orange eyes. In this final installment of the Bunyip series, what began from family legend will culminate in a zoological hunt of the millennium.

Tristram Jones and his teacher, Ivan MacAllister, must again contend with Dinewan. His tactics have become more dangerous and determined; the lines have been drawn and the stakes have never been higher.

From the university to the wild high country, Tristram once again follows the call of the mysterious Bunyip. It will be the last time he does.

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

THE HUNT FOR THE BUNYIP

BUNYIP BOOK 3

TRISTAN A. SMITH

CONTENTS

A Dreadful Meeting

The Courage to be Ordinary

Professor Burt. D. Whiteside

Implanted Hearts

Warning Signs

Promises, Promises

The Return of Ivan MacAllister

Prawning

Cocktails

Shit Happens

The Bat and The Raven

Eve’s Decision

Recurring Motif

The Warning

Fred’s Funeral

Threatening Gestures

The Misemployed Zoologist

The Sighting

Cryptozoology

The New Watchdog

The Abduction

The Quinkin Mistake

Outnumbered

The Agreement

Greener Pastures

The Masters

New Year’s Eve

Sandcastles

Bushfires

The Parts We Play

Over

Put Away Childish Things

The Wombat

Night Vision Footage

Into the Fire

The Monster

Finding Tristram

Death and Judgement

Tears

Rightful Heir

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.

A DREADFUL MEETING

Thirty-year-old Pyran Zumstein sat on a large, stringy-bark log and stared into the campfire. Rich orange flames reflected in his green, red-rimmed eyes. His long red hair framed his pale, gaunt face. It was lank and greasy – he hadn’t had a shower for two days.

He smiled absently at the drunken laughter, filthy language and stoned humour that droned around him.

The stars twinkled above on yet another warm, late spring night near the Gold Coast of South-east Queensland. The sun had set only a few moments ago, and so there was still a bright glimmer of light in the west. Not a breeze stirred the surrounding gum trees of the bush.

The site of the camp was a favourite haunt of Pyran’s group. It was a sheltered little clearing beside railway tracks a mere ten-minute drive out of town. Many a Friday and Saturday night had been passed there. Many a fight had taken place in the clearing, and much fornication accomplished under the nearby trees.

There were about fifteen or sixteen there, and they were a mix of white and Murri blood. The sex ratio was even. The girls were aged between fifteen and nineteen, but the boys’ ages varied much more – the youngest was fourteen, the oldest thirty-five.

Pyran had slept with at least half of the scrawny, laughing girls that were there that night. So, had his mates. Whilst the female company varied from party to party, the males were mostly the same.

Pyran sat in dazed reflection. He had marijuana smoke in his lungs and the taste of cheap, bitter beer in his mouth. His head was heavy, and he was uncomfortably close to the fire. His shins were too hot, and his can of beer was nearly empty.

With a final swig, he finished the can. The beer was warm and unpleasant.

“Fuck.” He grumbled and threw the empty can into the fire.

Pyran was normally talkative on nights like these. His ambitions on most occasions were simple: he would play a little acoustic guitar, laugh at jokes, listen to stories and make moves on an easy girl for the night. These were distractions. Pyran didn’t like to think too deeply for too long. However, tonight he couldn’t help himself.

What the fuck am I doing with my life?

He sighed deeply and gazed sadly at his friends. They were doing and saying the usual things. The same sort of fights were brewing, the same sort of debauchery was being planned. Bitter hatred, drunken escape, unrealistic dreams…

Fuck it. This is a party. Snap out of it.

“Man…” He drawled. “I wanna get more drunk without havin’ to drink more of this fuckin’ warm beer, eh?”

Brian sniggered at his side. The smile was a temporary relief from his perpetual snarl. He was thirty-five but looked forty. His once pitch-black hair was now starting to grey. He was well muscled, with a broken nose and a lazy eye.

“You didn’t have to pay for it, so just shut up and drink it, ya ungrateful cunt.” Brian muttered.

Pyran let out a guffaw. “What are ya talkin’ about, bruz? I gave a twenty to Rick before.”

“Well, go an’ fuckin’ get it off him. We five fingered these fuckin’ slabs, la.”

“What? Ya fuckin’ jokin’?”

“Nah, bruz. It’s true. Rick! Rick, ya theivin’ cunt! Give Pyro back his twenny!”

A skinny Murri called Rick smiled broadly from across the fire at Pyran. He was about eighteen with smooth dark skin and wavy, coal black hair.

“I’ll pay ya back next week, bruz.” He promised.

Pyran waved him away. “No worries, bruz. But gimme some of ya smokes, eh?”

“I only got four left, la. I’ll scab some off Brian for ya though, eh?”

“Fuck off.” Brian scoffed.

Pyran laughed drunkenly. “Why do I hang around you fuckin’ povo cunts?”

His companions laughed with him.

“Have anothery, bruz.” Rick smiled and tossed Pyran another can of beer.

“Thanks.”

Rick then realised that the card-board slab box was empty.

“Aw shit, bruuuuuuz!” He wailed comically. “I think we’ve finished the grog, eh?”

“What? Bullshit.” Brian glowered. “You said yous got enough for the night.”

“Someone’s gotta go to a bottle-o, la. We’re cleaned out, bruz!” Rick shrugged.

Brian’s face set cruelly. Violence simmered in him.

Rick’s shoulders sank under the bully’s glare. However, he was spared by a sudden distraction.

“Hey, who’s that?” Pyran frowned.

The group turned their attention to the railway tracks.

A stooping figure in a trench-coat and floppy hat was balancing his way along one of the rails on the railway line. His arms were stretched out to his sides to help him balance, yet he seemed very unsteady. With the last of the dying light in the west behind him, he was a perfect silhouette.

“Haw! I reckon that cunt’s more pissed than we are.” Rick muttered with a drunken grin.

Chuckles followed as the figure got and more unsteady. His arms were making rapid circles and he swayed erratically.

“Fuck, even I can walk along the rail when I’m pissed. This cunt’s got somethin’ wrong with him. Look at his legs.” Brian drawled.

A feeling of dread accosted Pyran.

As the figure got closer, they could see that one leg bent at an unnatural angle.

“Hey look – he’s only got one boot, man! His other one bare foot, la!” Rick laughed.

“Man, I gotta bad feelin’ about this.” Pyran murmured.

There was something familiar and disconcerting about the figure that was now just a few metres from their camp.

“What are ya talkin’ about, bruz?” Brian asked.

“Dunno. I just got a bad feelin’, eh? Do ya know him, Bri?”

“Nup. He’s just an old man, eh? Shit, here he comes. Stop grippin’, bruz. He can’t fuck with all us brothers, eh?”

As the figure left the track and shuffled towards them, Pyran noticed that one of the girls was whispering urgently to the others. Within a minute all the girls and four of the boys had began to move away towards their cars.

“Oi!” Brian shouted. “Where the fuck are yous goin’?!”

He did not receive an answer.

Now, only Pyran, Rick, Brian and a twenty-four-year-old called Brett remained by the fire.

“Man, this is not good.” Pyran muttered.

Suddenly the figure was only a few feet away. They could see that he was an old aboriginal man. His left leg was encased in a knee-high leather boot, his right foot was bare and heavily calloused.

“What’s up, my niggers?!” The old man suddenly shouted, then burst into a rattling cackle.

“Who are you?” Brian asked flatly.

“I’m just a lost old coot, eh?” The old man drawled. He lifted his head up so that the light from the fire flickered upon his face. Orange eyes gleamed at them with amusement.

“Fuck…” Rick murmured. “He’s got trippy eyes, la.”

The old man let out a bark of laughter.

“It runs in my family, unna?” He burbled. “What’s the matter? Ya grippin’, bruz? Ya freakin’ out? Can’t help da eyes ya born with, unna?”

“Sorry.” Rick blushed. “Didn’t mean no offense.”

“Oi…where ya mates goin’?” The old man asked with playful disappointment. “One da girls gimme filthy look, unna? Look, she’s got em all grippin’.”

They heard car doors slam, and then the engines started and two car-loads of people drove away.

“Hmm.” The old man mused. “Maybe they’ll be back directly.”

“Fuckin’ cunts.” Brian muttered.

The old man suddenly reached into his pockets. He pulled out three fifty-dollar notes.

Rick and Brett’s eyes lit up.

“I know what’ll bring em back, boys. Don’t worry. I heard one of ya say that ya all out o’ grog.” The old man smiled. His teeth were small, yellow and sharp. “Got a remedy, la. Whose gonna go get it then?”

“You serious?” Brian asked, his attitude to their visitor now much more amiable.

“Yeah, bruz. Gotta look after ya own, unna? Here ya are. One fiddy each. Come back with plenty, eh?” The old man beamed.

“Shit! That’s deli, man!” Rick clapped.

Brian stood up and shook the old man’s hand. “You’re alright, eh?”

“I do what I can, unna?” The old man grinned. “Now, why don’t you three fellas bugger off and get the grog, then come back directly. Let the others know I’m alright, eh?”

“Fuck, yeah!” Brett clapped.

The three Murris were on their feet.

“Oi, ya cunts, what about me?” Pyran objected petulantly.

“Stay here with me. You’ll be right.” The old man smiled wolfishly. “Unless ya think I’m gonna rape ya or somethin’.”

The lads laughed heartily.

“We’ll be back in less than half an hour, bruz.” Brian smiled. “Just stay here, eh?”

Pyran wanted to flee. Yet he could think of no excuse to leave, so he sighed and said. “Hurry back. I’m gettin’ sober, eh?”

With a whoop of joy, Brett ran to the last remaining car. Laughing, Brian and Rick ran after him.

When the sound of the car engine had faded, the old man came and sat on the log beside Pyran. He was just a little too close for comfort.

Pyran raised his eyebrows, then let out a long sigh.

“So… how’s it goin’?” He asked wearily, staring at the campfire.

The old man turned to face him. He waited for Pyran to make eye contact before he spoke.

“They say that it takes all sorts to make a world.” The old man suddenly announced. The brim of his floppy hat shadowed his eyes, yet they gleamed.

Pyran grunted. “So they say.”

“I’ve met so many people, ya know, over the years. All sorts. Yet – many of them the same sort. Know what I mean?”

“Yep. Sure.”

The old man grinned impishly.

“So, be honest. What sort do you reckon you are?” He asked.

“Eh? What sort am I? I dunno.” Pyran grinned sheepishly.

“Ya dunno, eh?”

Pyran shrugged. “Yeah. Look…I’m just an easy-going sort of guy, eh?”

“An easy-going sort of guy? And what does a guy like that want to do with his life?”

Pyran frowned thoughtfully. “Funny you should ask that.”

“Nah, mate. When ya as old as I am, ya know what’s brewin’ in a young fella’s head when he stares a long time into da fire, with the chatter of his brothers swirlin’ round him…” The old man answered, his voice becoming musical as he spoke. “It’s usually one of the da big questions, unna? Whether he should stand up an’ do somethin’, or he misses someone, or he doesn’t know what to do with himself. But for all da big questions, one thing come first, unna? And dat’s what sort ya are. See?”

Pyran nodded his appreciation for the philosophical pearl.

“I’m an artistic sort, eh? I want to be an actor.”

“Yeah?” The old man beamed. “What sorta actor?”

“Oh…well, you know – the tragic hero type.” Pyran grinned amiably.

The old man returned the smile. “Oh yeah? Is that all? I see a guitar there, is it yours?”

“Yeah.” Pyran nodded softly. “I also wanted to be a musician.”

“A musician?”

“Yeah…” Pyran chuckled gently at his admission.

The old man smiled at him fondly. He reached into his trench-coat and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. He held it out to him. “I’ll swap ya, kordah.”

Pyran tilted his head politely. “Swap me for what?”

“The beer. I’m thirsty as, unna?”

Pyran shrugged, then gave him the can. He accepted the cigarette.

“Cheers, eh?” Pyran smiled, as he lit it.

The old man watched him take a drag.

Pyran nodded thoughtfully at the smoke. “This is different. Fruity.”

Crow’s feet tightened about the old man’s eyes. “Yeah. I’ve heard a few people describe it that way. Ya should roll yer own, brother. Better for ya, unna?”

“Yeah…yeah, I reckon you’re right there.” Pyran agreed.

Suddenly the old man’s eyes sparkled cheekily.

“Oi, I gotta question for ya.” He said.

“Yeah?”

“Do you know why we don’t generally fuck our mothers and our sisters?”

Pyran sputtered in surprise and then laughed. “Aside from the obvious, you mean?”

The old man grinned. “Yeah, aside from the obvious.”

“I dunno. I s’pose most of us aren’t attracted to our mums and sisters that way.” Pyran answered.

“It’s the smell.” The old man rejoined.

“Eh? Their smell?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh yeah. Like pheromones or somethin’?”

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that. Point is, they give off a certain smell that turns ya off em. Most people don’t even realise that they are reactin’ to a smell. But they are. The closer the bloodline, the more attractive they are unless it is too close – like a sister or a mother.” The old man explained. He took a sip of beer.

Pyran gave a bemused frown. “So why are you telling me this?”

“Hmpf.” The old man grunted with amusement. His eyelids drooped languidly. “Because, I can smell the bloodlines, you know.”

“Eh?” Pyran asked. A shudder went through him.

The old man turned to stare into Pyran. Suddenly he spoke in a clear, bell-like voice with a sophisticated English accent.

“You smell very much like someone I once met. A cousin, perhaps.”

“Is that right?” Pyran breathed.

“Oh yes. He would be about your age by now. Though he has more English blood, and you have more German…and Italian.”

Pyran sat and stared into the old man. “I know who you are.”

The old man smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Indeed?”

Pyran swallowed nervously. “I wasn’t sure at first, but you’re him, aren’t you? You’re…Dinewan?”

The old man’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

Pyran did not answer.

“Well?” Prodded Dinewan mockingly.

Pyran steeled his nerves and spoke very carefully. “Please. I don’t want any trouble with you. And I don’t want to disrespect you, but I am not going to tell you my name.”

Dinewan shrugged. “Have it your way, Pyran.”

“Oh shit.” Pyran groaned.

Dinewan chuckled merrily. “Hmm. I like you already.”

“OK. What do you want with me?” Pyran asked warily.

Dinewan looked to the stars and sighed. “I want you to tell me a story.”

Pyran frowned. “A story? What do you mean?”

“Tell me a story…about the opal, the boy…and the monster.” Dinewan continued, his eyes gleaming in the fire-light.

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.” Pyran answered flatly.

“Hmm.” Dinewan drawled. “According to the story I heard, a little boy named Tristram and his cousin Pyran, went down to a water-hole in a gully deep in the High Country of Victoria. There, they met a monster – a bunyip. According to the story, their lives were spared by the bunyip because Tristram gave it a magic opal.”

“You’re nuts.” Pyran rejoined.

“Come, come, Pyran. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I know that Tristram once had a very special opal. I know that you have seen it. I know that he believes that he has lost it. I also know, that he and you saw a bunyip.”

“Man, that’s just a story that Tristram tells based on what we imagined when we were kids.” Pyran waved dismissively. “Look, what do you want with me? You already tried to take the opal from Tristram all those years ago, and he told you then that he doesn’t have it any more. So why are you talking to me?”

“I no longer care about the opal. It is lost. I want to know where to find the bunyip.” Dinewan announced.

“There is no such thing as a bunyip!” Pyran shouted. “We were just wound up by the stories that a koori elder told us!”

Orange eyes rolled in thought. “The watchdog. The man you called Fred Morris.”

“Yeah…how the fuck do you know about him?”

“I heard that he died two days ago. Pity.” Dinewan’s eyes betrayed a dreadful glee.

Understanding dawned on Pyran. “Fred Morris knew about you.” He breathed. “He told us that you could never come into East Gippsland.”

“Nonsense, Pyran.” Dinewan laughed. “I would have visited Tristram a long time ago if only I knew where he lived. But I don’t really need to now. I just need you to tell me where you saw the bunyip.”

“I don’t know! No one knows where to look!”

“Tristram does.”

“He won’t help you.”

“Yes, he will. You are going to talk to him for me.”

“Like hell!”

“You are, Pyran. You are going to deliver this to him personally.” Dinewan rejoined sternly. He pulled out a small, yellow padded envelope.

“What’s that?”

“It is a message. The time is coming for Tristram and I to meet again. The tide for magic is rising.”

“Magic? Tristram told me about your plastic skulls and your…” Pyran suddenly realised something. He looked at his cigarette and then violently threw it into the fire. “You fuckin’ cunt!”

“Settle down, Pyran. There is no need to be uncivil.” Dinewan chuckled.

“Listen, you are not going to fool me. I know that you aren’t really magic. There is no such fucking thing!” Pyran growled hotly.

His pulse was now racing, and he had to fight a growing panic within him.

Dinewan held Pyran’s eyes coldly. He shook his head mockingly at the frightened young man. Then he slowly reached down and pulled the long leather boot from his left leg.

Pyran nearly fainted at what he saw.

Instead of a human leg, it was an emu’s leg…complete with a three-toed foot.

Dinewan lifted the leg up for Pyran’s inspection. The flames reflected in the grey scales, and the toes wiggled grotesquely.

“Magic is a fact of life, like murder, sex and monsters.” Dinewan crooned. “Now, just sit there and relax, Pyran. We have lots to talk about.”

THE COURAGE TO BE ORDINARY

“Welcome to Emu Post, this is Tristram.”

Twenty-nine-year-old Tristram Jones worked in a call centre for a rival postal company to that of Australia Post. He was excellent at his job – and he hated it with all his heart.

Today he was taking calls, which was unusual these days, as he was a team leader. However, the centre was under-staffed and so he found himself on the phone again.

“Oh thank God, a real person.” The customer responded. She was a well-spoken woman in her fifties.

“We are programmed to sound real.” Tristram answered with a gentle hint of humour. “How may I help you?”

The customer laughed politely.

“I have a complaint about your Speedpost product.” She began.

Tristram sighed inwardly. It’s always the same – a lost or late parcel, or a failed redirection…

“Oh Yes?” Tristram responded courteously. “What’s the complaint?”

“Well, how can I put this? A three-legged tortoise could have delivered my satchel faster than Emu Post.”

Tristram responded drily. “We did look into using three-legged tortoises as couriers, however the vet-bills for removing the fourth leg made the whole thing unprofitable.”

This will either backfire and make her angrier, or…

“Heh.”

We’re OK.

“Alright, so the Speedpost satchel was late?” Tristram resumed.

“Worse. It is lost.”

“I see. Did you keep the tracking number?”

“Yes. It’s SJK764531.”

“Thank you. And may I have your name, please?”

“It’s Judy Wilson.”

“Thank you, Ms. Wilson. I will just put that number into our system for you and see what comes up. What date did you post it?”

“A week ago. The thirteenth of November.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, the first time I used your service, I posted my package in one of your ordinary Emu Post satchels.” Judy informed him coolly.

“Oh yes?”

“You lost that one too.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“That is what the last operator said. Apparently, you can’t track the ordinary satchels, so she recommended the Speedpost Satchel. However, you have lost that one too, so tell me: what’s the advantage of Speedpost?”

“Well, I can prove that we lost the Speedpost satchel faster.” Tristram quipped.

“Ha!”

“I have a scan here showing that it went through our delivery centre on the fourteenth of November.”

“Well, it didn’t get to my mother.” Judy sighed.

“OK…I know I seem to be taking a light-hearted view of the situation, Ms. Wilson, but I assure you, we will sort the issue out.” Tristram continued amiably.

He then explained in detail what searches they would do and took the details of both the ordinary and speed-post satchels. He advised that he would organise compensation on both if they could not be found and sent her two speed-post satchels for free as a gesture of good will.

“I must say, your service is an improvement over the first operator I spoke to.” Judy said warmly as the call came to an end.

Judy Wilson was one of the good customers. In fact, most people were good. Yes, they had a question or a complaint – but they were generally reasonable and civil. However, the minority of rude people still represented over a dozen calls per operator per day. They ranged in attitude from petulant and sarcastic, to downright aggressive and abusive. The worst offenders were generally escalated to Tristram Jones. This was punishment, Tristram supposed, for being good at diffusing irate customers.

Tristram finalised Judy’s inquiry file and sent a fax off to the delivery centre. He then checked another computer screen beside him for the current statistics. He gave a deep sigh. There were twenty-one calls in the queue and some of them had been waiting over twelve minutes. He lifted his head above the wall of his cubicle to see how his team were doing.

All of them were talking to customers – none of them were doing after-call work. He smiled to himself. They were a handful at times, but they were on the whole a good team.

“Tristrammmmmm…” Whined a tall, blonde girl.

“Yes, Tiana?” Tristram smiled coolly.

What will it be this time? Headache? Stomach cramps? Over-it syndrome?

Tiana was twenty-two and well aware of her sexual attractiveness. Today she wore a black top that clung to her lean figure like a glove. Her chocolate business pants accentuated her long, shapely legs. Long honey-blonde hair with dyed cherry highlights played over her delicate neck. She had warm hazel-nut eyes and a white, elfish smile.

Tiana sauntered over to Tristram and sat on his desk. She eyed him coquettishly.

“I haven’t been late to work for two weeks now.” She began.

“So?”

“So, you should give me a Tarot reading.”

Tristram scoffed. “What?”

“Come on! You’re so good at them.”

“I don’t think so.” Tristram grinned.

“But it’s only fair!”

“It’s only fair that you get back on the phones. We have twenty-four in the queue now.” Tristram answered with an authoritative smile.

“Excuse you, I’m on my break.” Tiana responded with a censuring raise of her eyebrows.

“And you’re spending it talking to me?”

“You’re fun to talk to. You’re different.”

“Don’t you want to go outside for a smoke?”

Tiana sighed petulantly. “Whatever. I quit.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Didn’t you think I could?”

“Well, congratulations.”

“I also quit pot.”

“Glad to hear it. Good for you.”

“And I quit alcohol.”

“Alcohol?!” Tristram expostulated. “Why?”

Tiana giggled. “Actually, that one is just for Sunday to Thursday.”

“Ah. Fair enough. No more whiskey with breakfast.”

“I quit my boyfriend.” Tiana watched Tristram’s face carefully as she spoke.

Tristram waited for her to say more.

“Yeah?” He rejoined finally.

“Yup.”

“How are you holding up?”

“You know we have been together two years. And we have been on and off all year. I think it’s for the best.”

Tristram nodded kindly. “I hope so.”

“I know so. Like you said, I am an attractive specimen with many choices.” Tiana parodied a sultry supermodel pose. “Right?”

“Right.” Tristram beamed.

“So how are things going with your chick?”

Tristram sighed. “You know how I said a week ago that we were finally back on track?”

“Yeah. She liked the story and the present – you won her over again for like, the eighth time this year. Man, I hope she knows how lucky she is to have you. I wish some guy would write stories just for me.”

“Yeah, well…I don’t think she does feel lucky to have me. We are on the rocks again.”

“What? Why?”

Tristram shrugged. “She’s had another change of mind.”

“Dump her. Just dump her – and go out with me.” Tiana smiled charismatically.

“Ha! A gorgeous thing like you has far better choices than me.”

“Yeah right. I know that you don’t think I’m intelligent enough…”

“Tiana…”

“Relax, I’m joking, man!” Tiana smiled warmly. “I don’t think either of us are ready for a new relationship. But if you and I are both still single in five years…we should so give it go.”

Tristram nodded. “Thanks. Although, you know what they say. You should be careful what you wish for.”

“I am being careful…this time.”

Tiana gave Tristram a look that made him blush. Her smile broadened.

Tristram sighed sheepishly. “Um. OK. Right. You’re on. Five years. If we are both still single, we’ll go out.”

Tiana sighed longingly. “Do we really have to wait five years?”

Tristram grinned shyly. “Where do you think you’ll be in five years?”

“I dunno. Not here, that’s for sure.”

“Amen to that.”

Tiana thought about the question. “Five years, eh? By then I will be a successful dancer and you will be in the middle of a jungle somewhere being Mr. Zoologist.”

“You want to be a dancer? What happened to being a famous painter?”

“I’ll do that, too. I will be very successful, you know. And once I leave this call centre, I will never answer the phone again.”

“Heh. Me neither. There will be no reception in the jungle anyway.”

Tiana fixed him a stern, flirtatious look. “I heard that you were going back to zoology and that you haven’t told anyone.”

Tristram’s eyes sparkled. “I wish. No, it is just a rumour. I’m taking a few days off from tomorrow – going back to Bairnsdale for some much-needed fishing. But, before I go down, I am helping my old supervisor out with a practical class at the university.”

“You should do that for a living instead of working here.” Tiana answered.

“Not enough hours.”

“You would like to, though, wouldn’t you? It’s your passion.”

“It was. Now, though, my zoology career is looking like it will never happen.”

Tristram’s face hardened.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Tiana rejoined kindly. “You have nearly finished your Masters, yeah?”

“That’s the story. But I don’t know if it is really true. Over six years ago, my supervisor told me that I had only two weeks to go.”

“What’s the hold up?”

“It’s a long and boring story. And I believe that your break is almost over.” Tristram returned with a sympathetic grin.

Tiana sighed and a give a little moue of disappointment.

“Now, now.” Tristram soothed. “We must have courage. As my father once said to me – and still says, from time to time: we must have the courage to be ordinary.”

“What?!”

“Heh. That was my first reaction, too.”

“The courage to be ordinary?”

“Uh-huh. Once, when Dad and I went to the supermarket in Bairnsdale, he asked me to consider all the people working around us. He pointed out a few different people: some who were serving at the registers, some who were the cleaners, and the guy who was collecting the trolleys. Then he pointed at a guy driving a delivery van – and then the butchers working behind the meat counter, the bakers in their bakery and so on…”

Tristram paused and looked into Tiana.

She took the bait. “Yeah, and?”

Tristram grinned. “That’s just what I said. Well, Dad just reminded me that all of these people would have had childhoods full of dreams of what they wanted to be when they grew up. And it was a fair bet that most of them did not imagine a boring nine to five job. But they all have obligations and responsibilities – families and what-not – and so they put aside their own dreams and have the courage to be ordinary. And because they have that courage, the rest of us have the things we need every day.”

Tiana considered the idea. “I see the point your Dad was making. But why would he tell you something like that?”

Tristram smiled. “Because I was bitching and moaning about being in a call centre instead of being a writer and zoologist. I was telling him how humiliated I felt working in a place like this. And Dad was just trying to tell me that most people are doing jobs like mine – and that the job I was doing was not demeaning, but an important service to others.”

Tiana winced. “So, he wants you to suck it up and be happy with the ordinary lot?”

Tristram laughed gently. “Again – that’s what I said. And then Dad said this: sometimes we don’t succeed straight away with our dreams – if at all – but the ordinary things we do to meet our responsibilities in the meantime are not without dignity and virtue. They are important services to others – even if they don’t realise it at the time – and we should show courage as we do our best in them every day.”

“Hmm. Well, I still don’t want to be here forever.” Tiana shrugged with a sigh as she sauntered away to her desk.

“You won’t be.” Tristram called after her.

And neither will I.

PROFESSOR BURT. D. WHITESIDE

“Science is a lot like sex. It is much better to do it than to read about it – but if you read about it, you’ll be better at doing it.”

That was Professor Burt. D. Whiteside’s opening sentence to the two thousand first year Biology students that sat expectantly in the Copland Theatre. It was delivered with roguish abandon, and his bright blue eyes sparkled cheekily at his young audience.

Tristram smiled at the memory, as he sat on the morning tram that made its way up Elizabeth Street in the central business district of Melbourne. It was the day after his conversation with Tiana. He was on his way back to a place that he loved: the Parkville Campus of The University of Melbourne, where he met the best teacher he had ever had and finally got a real taste of his childhood dream, zoology.

Tristram would never forget that first encounter with Burt, in the first semester of First Year Biology, 1997. It was a late lecture that began at five pm, well after the time that students had an attention span. A lot of the students were settling down for an hour’s snooze – Tristram among them. Tristram took biology very seriously, but he found that he learned more about it by reading the textbooks and paying attention in the practical classes, than by listening to bored old academics drone through a dry lecture. Furthermore, the conditions of the Copland Theatre were designed to send students to sleep. The seats were very deep and comfortable, the lighting was low, and the monotone of senior academics was very soothing – perfect conditions for catching up on sleep – and Tristram had a lot of sleep to catch up on.

Tristram’s first year at university hurtled by. The curriculum was year twelve all over again – but with double the material in half the time with three hundred times the students – most of whom seemed to be much richer and much smarter than he was. Furthermore, Tristram was staying at University College, which was like being in a hotel with a hundred and fifty of his friends. His social life exploded. He was surrounded at all times by young, intelligent and stimulating personalities. Tristram embraced it all – drinking, movies, restaurants, plays, parties – and just hanging around in the common room of the college, talking into the small hours of the morning. Tristram got little sleep even when he finally went to bed, as his room at the college was right next to the very busy Royal Parade. Hence, he was wide awake from the noise of heavy traffic early in the morning. It was a blessing in disguise, for he had to be up early anyway for classes or to go to the gym.

When could he sleep? Evening naps were out of the question. He worked evenings at the supermarket on Lygon Street near the university – college fees were expensive. He also had late chemistry practicals that ran from six in the evening until nine. If Tristram thought that he was exhausted in year twelve, it was nothing to what he crammed into his first year at university. There was only one good opportunity for sleep, and that was during lectures…

However, for Professor Burt Whiteside’s lectures, Tristram was enchanted and wide awake from the very beginning.

Before that first lecture began, the theatre was abuzz with chatter as the students awaited their lecturer. He was five minutes late. Then suddenly, he appeared.

Burt had an enormous presence – he loomed into view like an elephant in a parade. He was six feet, five inches tall and had very broad shoulders. Though he was very tall, he did not stoop. Burt had a thick mane of greying black hair that hung well past his shoulders, and a long, grey bushy beard that stopped at his navel. Burt had large, round blue eyes that blazed out at the world from under wild bushy black eyebrows. He had a large forehead, and a strong jaw. His demeanour could easily have been intimidating, were it not for the deep crow’s feet about his eyes that were formed from a lifetime of cheeky smiles.

“My name is Burt Whiteside.” He had continued in a dry, booming voice. “I am one of the two current professors in the Zoology department. The other one is the head of the department. Me? Well, I’m just wanking off in the Faculty somewhere. I teach the third-year Animal Physiology course, the second year Cell Biology and Bio-med. You’ll also probably see me for a couple of your practical classes. And yes, I also give three or four lectures in this course – First Year Biology. So… today, we are going to talk about echinoderms. These animals are among my real favourites…”

Burt had then launched into a fascinating lecture on the physiology and behaviour of starfish and sea-cucumbers.

Burt was a perpetually animated spectacle. He gesticulated widely as he injected wit and warmth into every piece of information. He took the great, complicated puzzle of science and delivered it as a humorous after dinner anecdote – with copious warnings that he was oversimplifying things.

Eighteen-year-old Tristram Jones had found his academic mentor. He wanted to teach the way Burt taught. He wanted to speak and think like Burt. He knew from that very moment that he must follow the colourful and ingenious giant – that the presence before him would change his life and illuminate the way to his destiny.

Tristram attended all of Burt’s lectures with relish – he even went to the lectures for the other two streams just to watch him in action some more. Tristram discovered which subjects in second year would be taught by Professor Whiteside and ensured his enrolment. It was during his second year that he became known to Burt, and by third year Tristram had secured him as his supervisor for a research project on the sea cucumber Lipotrapeza vestiens. They were trying to elucidate the physiology behind the mutable connective tissue of these fascinating animals. Seacucumbers resemble a muscular sausage, and via chemical changes unknown at that time, can make themselves as pliable as playdough or as rigid as concrete within a second.

Tristram was not the most scientific or brilliant student that Burt had had, but Burt did concede that Tristram could write better than all but one of the students that he had taken on in the last forty years.

“And you also have another quality which is absolutely essential in this game.” Burt continued in his deep, rumbling voice. He was frowning seriously at his young student, as they sat outside Burt’s lab with a cup of coffee.

“What’s that?” Tristram asked earnestly.

“You’re decidedly odd.”

“Thanks.” Tristram smiled ruefully.

“I’m being deadly serious. And complimentary. You should lap it up, Jones – I don’t stroke egos if I can possibly avoid it. The only thing I stroke on purpose is my wang.”

Burt then exploded into a helpless, smutty guffaw. Tristram could not help but join him. The man’s often self-induced laughter was incredibly infectious. It echoed down the corridors of the Zoology building and brought a smile to people working quietly in their offices.

“Seriously, though.” Burt continued. “You are odd.”

“Um…right.”

“And you need to be odd. Of course, you have to be odd! You know what interests most people? I’ll tell you. It’s what’s on television. Or who’s sent them email, or what’s for lunch or when they’re gonna get their next root. That is what occupies the mind of most people. But us? We wonder how a bloody sea cucumber can make its body go from limp to concrete and back again. We wonder how a toad can regulate its heart rate if we take the cardiac nerves away. These are fucking odd interests, and you need to be fucking odd to pursue them.”

“I see. And you think I have this oddness?”

“Oh yes. These plays that you write – what the hell was the last one called?”

“A play for Kate.” Tristram answered. He had given Burt a free ticket to the first play that he had ever written and directed.

“That’s the one. I’ve told you what I thought of it.”

“You said that you enjoyed it.”

“I did. You managed to write a musical play with a coherent and interesting plot that included an alien, a robot, a zoologist, drag queens, a giant penguin, God, The Devil and host of others. And you managed to include pirates. The song they sang about mermaid fillets had me and Nathan totally enthralled. The lyrics were a stroke of genius. Remind me, what was the chorus again?”

“Mermaid fillets: you can kiss one half and eat the other.” Tristram grinned.

“That’s it. Heh. It was clear to both of us that you are madman – but a talented madman, and that’s what I’m getting at.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t get too excited. Talent is nothing if you can’t back it up with good work. And that is what I think you are: undirected talent. Your results so far at uni are middle of the road, aren’t they?”

“They are getting better with each semester. Most of them are second class honours.” Tristram answered defensively.

Burt’s eyes twinkled. “Relax. You are not bottom of the class, but you are not at the top. And I think that is more a reflection of how you have scattered your energies rather than your actual ability. But that’s the point, isn’t it? Sooner or later, ability has to be proven before it is rewarded.”

“I agree.”

“Tristram…you are clearly intelligent enough, and you are clearly odd enough – but are you actually a scientist? I don’t know. But next year, if you get the necessary results from your third year, we’ll work together on something and find out.”

“You’ll be my honours supervisor?” Tristram smiled eagerly.

Burt chuckled. “Yes. But do me and yourself a favour and get some good second semester marks, alright?”

Twenty-nine-year-old Tristram’s reverie was broken by announcement of the tram driver.

“Next stop: Melbourne University.”

Tristram smiled to himself. My old stomping grounds.

Within a minute, he was at the next stop and disembarking. He strode across Royal Parade and made his way to the Zoology Building of the University of Melbourne.

Everyone is so young. Tristram mused ruefully. Young, and for the most part, attractive.

Tristram reached the door of the Zoology building.

He stopped and sat down by the brick wall. When they had arranged the meeting, Burt didn’t know whether they were running the practical class in Zoology or one of the biology labs in the Redmond Barry Building, so they decided to meet at Zoology and go from there. Normally Tristram would go upstairs to the third floor and wait outside Burt’s office – but Burt had retired a year ago. The professor now had neither a laboratory or an office.

As he waited, Tristram reflected on his tumultuous honours year.

IMPLANTED HEARTS

Twenty-one-year-old Tristram had been waiting outside Professor Whiteside’s office for an hour. It was early February in 2000, and Burt was late. Tristram knew he would be, and it did not bother him. He had plenty of scientific papers to read.

Burt’s office was a large one at the very end of the third-floor corridor. The space outside his office had been made into a private waiting area, with a grey metal bookcase acting as a wall to the rest of the corridor. There was a bar fridge and a kettle, and two comfortable chairs.

Suddenly, Tristram heard a breathless, heavy stride up the corridor.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Burt groaned as he reached his office.

Tristram smiled.

Burt peered around the bookcase and gazed amiably down at Tristram.

“Well fuck my old boot, you’re on time.” Burt beamed.

“And you’re late, Professor.” Tristram beamed back.

Burt frowned and looked at his watch. “What? I said eleven, didn’t I?”

“You said ten. You always do this.”

“Well, it takes all my strength of character to come into work. Especially now that I have an obstreperous little bastard like you as an honours student.” Burt retorted with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Glad you made it, Sir.” Tristram grinned.

“Right. Let’s get this kettle on…” Burt sighed, as he slumped heavily into the chair beside the bar-fridge opposite Tristram. “Christ, I feel like I’m a million years old.”

“I put some chocolate biscuits in the fridge.” Tristram chimed.

“Excellent!” Burt answered, breathless. “That’s a good start.”

“You OK? You seem a little worse for wear.”

“Oh Jesus…” Burt moaned as the kettle gurgled to life. “I’m so fucking out of breath these days with the mildest exercise. It’s because I am a fat bastard who has smoked most of his life – and I probably have emphysema.”

Tristram didn’t know what to say, so he nodded kindly. It seemed to amuse Burt.

“So… let’s get on with it, Jones.” Burt grinned drily. “What the fuck is your Honours project going to be about?”

“Not sea-cucumbers.” Tristram answered. “You promised. Besides, those Japanese scientists have already figured all that out. The sea-cucumbers change the viscosity of their connective tissue with four bio-active peptides, remember?”

“Mm-hm.” Burt nodded seriously. Then he frowned thoughtfully. “Yes, Tristram. But you know, I haven’t been able to verify their results in my lab. It has left me fantastically suspicious of their literature.”

“Well then, I guess their findings must be complete nonsense.” Tristram returned cheekily.

“Ha! Of course. Anything that I can’t verify in my lab must be bullshit. But fine, you’ve had enough of sea cucumbers.” He eyed Tristram playfully. “My, what a petulant little fellow you are.”

“You said last year that I would be doing a broad project, measuring heart rate during feeding in a variety of simple vertebrates – cane toads, other frogs, maybe flathead fish – and maybe also turtles.” Tristram continued.

Burt considered him. “I do remember talking about that. So, that appeals to you, does it? A kind of general stamp collecting exercise?”

Tristram detected a hint of contempt. “Stamp collecting?”

Burt grunted good-humouredly. “Don’t get me wrong, stamp collecting has a very important place in science. It is the collection of facts from which more interesting experiments are devised. But stamp collecting itself is, well, boring.”

“It was your idea.” Tristram shrugged.

“Every honours project should have two basic components.” Burt continued. “One is a good, solid, piece of bread and butter. Stamp collecting – a nice, safe set of experiments or data collection, that furthers our knowledge on a particular subject, is a good example of what I mean by bread and butter. It is important to have a good piece of bread and butter to show examiners that you can do science and get results. But the more interesting second component – the jam – is what will distinguish an honours student from all the others.”

“Right. So… what’s our jam?”

“That is what I need to discuss with you. The project I have in mind is risky, because if it goes wrong, you are not left with any bread and butter.”

“What’s the project?”

“Postprandial tachycardia in Bufo marinus.” Burt announced, looking into Tristram.

Tristram blinked. “The rise in heart-rate after feeding in cane toads?”

Burt grinned. “That’s right.”

Tristram frowned. “Didn’t Lucien’s student do that last year?”

“Yes and no.” Burt answered. “She demonstrated once and for all that postprandial tachycardia happens in toads and that they increase their blood volume after feeding – and that the volume remains increased for at least six hours after feeding. She also showed that if you take water away from the toad, it is unable to expand its blood volume and most of the postprandial tachycardia goes away.”

Tristram nodded. “That’s right. It confirms Lucien’s idea that the heart rate increase is caused by the change in blood volume.”

Burt leaned forward with playful suspicion. “And just how would an increase in blood volume increase heart rate?”

“The greater blood volume stretches part of the heart and that makes it beat faster.”

“Which part of the heart?” Burt prodded.

“The pace-maker.” Tristram answered. “The sinoatrial node.”

“The WHAT?!” Burt bellowed incredulously.

Tristram’s smile turned sheepish. “Is it not the pace-maker?”

“The sinoatrial node?! Do toads even have a sinoatrial node?”

“I’m guessing…no?”

“Sinoatrial node in a toad! How outrageous!” Burt boomed with theatrical disgust.

“Sorry.”

“You’re thinking of the mammalian heart, Tristram. The pacemaker in mammals is the cluster of cells called the sinoatrial node. However, toads and frogs do not have a sinoatrial node. They have a separate structure that sits above the atria called the sinus venosus.” Burt explained.

“I see.”

“Lucien’s theory – which he based on one of my ideas from a paper I did in the late eighties – is that the sinus venosus is stretched by the increased blood volume after feeding, and that causes the sinus venosus – and therefore the rest of the heart – to beat faster. Right?”

“What about nerves?” Tristram asked.

“We got rid of them. Or so we thought. What do you know about cardiac nerves, Tristram?”

“Not much.”

“Give me a better answer. What did you learn in third year physiology? Or even first year biology?”

“OK. Well, there are two nerve groups. The sympathetic nerves which speed the heart up, and the parasympathetic or vagal nerves which slow the heart down.”

“And? What else? How do nerves work?”

“They release chemicals which act on tissue receptors.”

“These chemicals are called?”

“Neurotransmitters.”

“Good. What are the main neurotransmitters for each type of nerve?”

“It is acetyl-choline for the vagus and… for the sympathetic nerve it is…ah… noradrenalin?”

“That’s basically right. Mammals use more noradrenalin, but in toads, the sympathetic uses mostly adrenaline.”

Tristram frowned. “But I thought that adrenaline came in the blood-stream from the adrenal glands?”

“Remember that there are two main types of adrenaline receptors, alpha and beta.”

Tristram sighed. “Should I write this down?”

“Heh. You’ll get used to these facts, trust me. You will be thinking about them a hell of a lot over the coming year. But yes – you are basically right. Now, there are two ways to take out the cardiac nerves – one way is to use drugs, the other way is surgery. In the past, we have used a combination of both. Sympathetic denervation is relatively easy – vagal denervation is bloody hard.”

“Wouldn’t surgery also cause more stress on the body?”

“Well yes, that is a basic problem with doing animal physiology. But remember, we don’t have to do surgery to take out the sympathetic nerves. We can use bretylium or phentolamine to take out the neurotransmitter from the sympathetic. We can block the circulating adrenaline from the adrenal glands with propranolol. And finally, Mr. Jones, just to cheer you up: we use atropine to block the acetyl-choline from the vagus.”

“I see.” Tristram lied. He was deeply lost.

“So, we have all the influences blocked. Right?” Burt barked, his blue eyes ablaze.

Tristram’s mind was overwhelmed with terminology.

“Right.” He bluffed.

“Wrong!” Burt beamed, with a sparkle of glee. “There is a problem. A problem that, as far as we can tell, is unique to the cane toad.”

“Yes?”

“The fucking cane toad has two neurotransmitters in the vagus nerve!”

“Bummer…” Tristram shrugged with a hint of humour in his eyes.

Burt chuckled. “Yes, it is a bummer. In fact, it is an act of spectacular bastardry.”

“Why?”

“Atropine treatment blocks the acetyl-choline, right? But within an hour the vagus nerve recovers function and it is not because the atropine has worn off. We discovered a few years ago, that cane toad vagal nerves have not just acetyl-choline but also somatostatin.”

“You can’t block somatostatin with drugs?”

Burt smiled broadly. “Nope. And there you see the problem. In all past experiments, we can be confident of removing the sympathetic effects – AND – the adrenaline hurtling through the blood stream – BUT – not the actions of the vagus – because we have blocked only one of the two neurotransmitters. You see?”

“I think so. So, are there only two neurotransmitters in the cane toad vagus? Are we sure about that?”

“A few years ago we did some good old histology to see what the fuck else is hidden in their cardiac nerves. That is when we found somatostatin and galanin – but we don’t think that galanin has any cardiac effect.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, we know that the vagus can operate with somatostatin when its acetylcholine is blocked by atropine. And THAT has completely fucked all of our conclusions about previous experiments.” Burt concluded with comic dismay.

“I see. But why are you so worried about it? I mean, Lucien’s student has made it clear that it is the expansion of blood volume that increases heart rate anyway. So, who gives a shit about the nerves?”

Burt chuckled derisively. “Sorry, Tristram. We can’t blithely dismiss the nerves just yet. There is a flaw in Lucien’s theory. Have a look at this…”

Burt handed Tristram a graph. It was a plot of heart rate against blood volume.

“Um…what am I looking at?”

“This is from Lucien’s student’s data. We know that blood volume goes up after feeding, we also know that heart rate goes up after feeding. So, if there is a causal relationship between the two, then a high blood volume should be concurrent with a high heart rate. Yes?”

“Yes.” Tristram nodded. He frowned as he stared at the graph.

“Well? Anything strike you about that graph?”

A whirl of terminology clouded his thinking. He took a deep breath.

Just look at the graph…

“Huh.” Tristram suddenly grunted as the penny dropped.

“Yes?” Burt asked eagerly.

“The blood volume and the heart rate are both higher after feeding – but they don’t get higher at the same time.”

“Exactly!” Burt thundered triumphantly. “Blood volume takes at least an hour to get high – but heart rate is up instantly. So, for the start of postprandial tachycardia, you cannot use expanded blood volume as the explanation. AND you can’t use adrenaline, because we blocked that with propranolol. And the sympathetic is out, because in these experiments, it was surgically removed.”

“So… that just leaves the vagus…but hang on, that can’t be. The vagus…lowers heart rate…right?”

“Yes.” Burt nodded happily.

“But heart rate is higher – and it is not adrenaline or the sympathetic nerves doing it in these experiments.” Tristram added, perplexed.