blue. Meanwhile heâs busy at the other end, doing a touch-up.
It has only taken twenty minutes.
A few nosy taxi drivers slow down and check us out, probably phoning the cops. We stand in the middle of the carpark, a little wind scurrying around our feet. The piece looks good. We shake hands and smile.
What more do you need: a wall, a spray can, a mate and a good dark night?
I donât need anything else.
Underneath, Lou had written a note to his teacher.
Dear Sir,
Sorry itâs late. All of this is complete fiction but it makes a good story, doesnât it, Sir?
L.P.
17
T HERE WAS A KIOSK near the Falls. The river was fat and full-bodied. People sipped cappuccinos on the outside tables, covered by market umbrellas. Children squealed and giggled, hopping in and out of the rental canoes tied up at the jetty, like a line of horses tethered to a rail.
Max noticed nothing and seemingly cared for nothing. In his pocket lay Louâs writing, wrapped in a sealed plastic bag. He could hear the faint rush of water around the bend. On his left, a cliff with a lookout perched on top. The cliff rose and then dropped to a patch of grass that was almost level with the water where it lay calm after the wrath of the Falls.
This time there was no argument raging in his head, no decision to be made. No hesitation, no panic. Max and his kayak knew exactly where they were headed. He kept his eyes fastened on the bow, slicing through the seemingly placid water. But currents were already beginning to quicken, gathering steam in the deeper river flow. No sound deflected his trance, except the rustling of paper in his pocket.
For a second he wondered if a crow would grace his craft with its presence. Then a familiar shiver ran through him as he felt eyes watching from the top of the yellow-rocked cliff. The Falls were only one hundred metres away now. Wind from the blast of the crashing turbulence rushed back through the trees. But Max kept paddling â he was a runaway train on a track that had been laid some time ago.
He heard the rumble of the Falls and as he drew closer he felt Lou all around him. Max saw his friend swinging from the bridge, saw the funeral al over again. In the mist that blew off the thundering water, he began to hear voices and saw Mrs Petrocelli as she sobbed â heart-wrenching cries racking her body. As he paddled towards the waterfall Max saw her as a young mother, a fawn-coloured shawl wrapped around her shoulders that kept her warm on a cold winterâs night as she suckled her baby, holding him as though he might die if she let him slip. A young mother who didnât want much out of life. Just a family who loved her, children to give her grandchildren in later years, a son who wouldnât die before her.
Like the young man who was headed for The Falls.
Max felt the deceptive calm before the storm. Branches stuck in the water shuddered, trying to tear themselves loose as he passed them by. Bending his body to the task, he felt a band of pain around his chest. Max wanted to be rid of the pain. He was sick of the words that came from nowhere, he was tired of the whirlpool of confusion and anger that beset him. He was fed up with his world going up and down like a yoyo. Even beautiful Mai couldnât stop the cacophony of his life. One minute he was kissing her and the next all he had was tears and hurt that seemed to have no end. And even if he had second thoughts about what he was doing, there was no turning back now. The kayak was champing at the bit, its nose snorting at the chance. And its rider wanted nothing else.
The boat leapt at the water as it folded over the edge. Max felt the overwhelming rush of a torrent of water whose turn had come. For a second the front of the kayak careered into mid-air. Then the bow dipped, catapulting the kayak over the edge. Foam and roar surrounded it. Through the billowing mist, Max thought he felt eyes upon him again.
The kayak was airborne,
It has only taken twenty minutes.
A few nosy taxi drivers slow down and check us out, probably phoning the cops. We stand in the middle of the carpark, a little wind scurrying around our feet. The piece looks good. We shake hands and smile.
What more do you need: a wall, a spray can, a mate and a good dark night?
I donât need anything else.
Underneath, Lou had written a note to his teacher.
Dear Sir,
Sorry itâs late. All of this is complete fiction but it makes a good story, doesnât it, Sir?
L.P.
17
T HERE WAS A KIOSK near the Falls. The river was fat and full-bodied. People sipped cappuccinos on the outside tables, covered by market umbrellas. Children squealed and giggled, hopping in and out of the rental canoes tied up at the jetty, like a line of horses tethered to a rail.
Max noticed nothing and seemingly cared for nothing. In his pocket lay Louâs writing, wrapped in a sealed plastic bag. He could hear the faint rush of water around the bend. On his left, a cliff with a lookout perched on top. The cliff rose and then dropped to a patch of grass that was almost level with the water where it lay calm after the wrath of the Falls.
This time there was no argument raging in his head, no decision to be made. No hesitation, no panic. Max and his kayak knew exactly where they were headed. He kept his eyes fastened on the bow, slicing through the seemingly placid water. But currents were already beginning to quicken, gathering steam in the deeper river flow. No sound deflected his trance, except the rustling of paper in his pocket.
For a second he wondered if a crow would grace his craft with its presence. Then a familiar shiver ran through him as he felt eyes watching from the top of the yellow-rocked cliff. The Falls were only one hundred metres away now. Wind from the blast of the crashing turbulence rushed back through the trees. But Max kept paddling â he was a runaway train on a track that had been laid some time ago.
He heard the rumble of the Falls and as he drew closer he felt Lou all around him. Max saw his friend swinging from the bridge, saw the funeral al over again. In the mist that blew off the thundering water, he began to hear voices and saw Mrs Petrocelli as she sobbed â heart-wrenching cries racking her body. As he paddled towards the waterfall Max saw her as a young mother, a fawn-coloured shawl wrapped around her shoulders that kept her warm on a cold winterâs night as she suckled her baby, holding him as though he might die if she let him slip. A young mother who didnât want much out of life. Just a family who loved her, children to give her grandchildren in later years, a son who wouldnât die before her.
Like the young man who was headed for The Falls.
Max felt the deceptive calm before the storm. Branches stuck in the water shuddered, trying to tear themselves loose as he passed them by. Bending his body to the task, he felt a band of pain around his chest. Max wanted to be rid of the pain. He was sick of the words that came from nowhere, he was tired of the whirlpool of confusion and anger that beset him. He was fed up with his world going up and down like a yoyo. Even beautiful Mai couldnât stop the cacophony of his life. One minute he was kissing her and the next all he had was tears and hurt that seemed to have no end. And even if he had second thoughts about what he was doing, there was no turning back now. The kayak was champing at the bit, its nose snorting at the chance. And its rider wanted nothing else.
The boat leapt at the water as it folded over the edge. Max felt the overwhelming rush of a torrent of water whose turn had come. For a second the front of the kayak careered into mid-air. Then the bow dipped, catapulting the kayak over the edge. Foam and roar surrounded it. Through the billowing mist, Max thought he felt eyes upon him again.
The kayak was airborne,
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