Slice by Steven Herrick

Author:Steven Herrick
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: History/General
ISBN: 9781864716030
Publisher: Random House Australia
Published: 2008-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Noah

Noah wakes impulsively early, pokes his head out of the sleeping bag and whispers, ‘Psst, Darcy. You want to watch the sunrise?’

Short answer?

‘Piss off!’

Long answer?

‘Piss off, Noah!’

Noah shuffles around in his bag until I begin to get a little suspicious of what he’s doing. I hope no-one wakes and hears him.

Can’t he do it somewhere discreet?

Like Africa, or the wild jungle of his bedroom.

Noah rolls over and grunts, banging his head on his boots beside the sleeping bag. He says ‘damn’ quietly and then unzips the bag and quickly climbs out, rubbing his hands with the cold. He’s fully dressed.

So that’s what he was doing in the bag. Thank God and the Cat Empire.

He reaches across for his boots and slips them on.

He walks down to the river and sits beside the bank.

The mist rises from the water and a long-legged bird on the opposite bank searches for food. The dull orange glow of the sun peeks over the hill. It’s like a romantic early Australian painting of the virgin bush. If only the virgin Noah wasn’t sitting in the foreground.

The sound of snoring comes from beyond the fire. There’s no chance of more sleep, so I try to get dressed undercover.

No wonder Noah did all that grunting.

After ten minutes of wrestling with jeans, shirt, sweater and socks that really should visit a laundry immediately, I climb out of the bag and walk down to the river.

The virgin bushman has the only log dry enough to sit on. I deposit myself a suitable distance away, hoping he’ll let me quietly enjoy the sunrise.

‘I slept fine, Darcy. Just like in a real bed.’

‘Ugghh.’

‘That was pretty funny last night. Tim sure looked stupid. And scared.’

Not half as scared as you’ll be when he tries to get even later on, Noah.

I look at the dreaming mist, the glassy river, the soft light, a whisper of cloud. Which reminds me.

‘So what is it with you and poetry, Noah?’

He looks at me, confused.

‘Rescuing dead books from rose bushes. Remember?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, Noah. Fess up.’

He glances back at the sleeping camp.

‘Can I tell you a secret?’

‘Not if it involves plastic snakes and chess.’

Noah’s voice is quiet. ‘My dad came home from work on Monday last week. First thing he does is switch on the television for his favourite quiz show. He tries to beat the contestant, you know. He can’t hear the correct answer over his own voice. He thinks he’s right, even when he’s wrong. Sometimes I sit with him and we both yell at the screen.’

‘That’s not much of a secret, Noah.’

‘We were watching the show and Dad starts stammering, trying to get the words out, only nothing comes, just a squawk, like a sick bird. A little bit of dribble leaks from his mouth, not foamy or anything, just dribble. He still can’t get the word out. Mum looks at me as if I know what to do? Dad reaches up to wipe his mouth and his arm starts jerking and waving uncontrollably in front of his face, like he’s conducting an orchestra.

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