Date: Thu, 4 Jul 2013 12:48:31 +1030
From: Robert A. Armstrong <rob.aa@hotmail.com>
Subject: Schoolie - chapter 1

I hope you enjoy reading my first story, which is a work of pure fiction -
just an expression of a fantasy. The resemblance of my characters by
action, name, location or description to any real person is purely
coincidental - if it seems to be you, or somebody you know, I apologise.

If relationships between boys and men is not your scene, or if you're under
age, or if it is not legal for you to be reading this, then please leave,
now, before somebody finds out!

Otherwise, enjoy! What you might expect, does not happen quickly - but it
does happen.

I will endeavour to respond to all comments, questions and positive
suggestions.

Support Nifty if you can to assist making available these stories for your
reading pleasure.



Chapter 1

In Australia, the school year consists of four terms of approximately 10
weeks each, with a two week vacation in between each and six weeks over the
summer (Christmas) period. Terms one and two may vary slightly so that the
vacation coincides with Easter whenever possible. New teaching appointments
are usually taken up at the end of the summer vacation.

-------

Checking yet again that I have remembered to attach the school keys to my
key ring, having picked them up at the remote Post Office, I reduce speed
as I draw nearer to a cluster of trees and buildings that herald the
"village". I glance in my rear vision mirror a couple of times and observe
the trail of dust that has been chasing me for the past many kilometres,
watching its redness settle back down on the western side of the road,
concluding that there must be the semblance of an easterly breeze in the
heat outside.

As I approach the corner formed by two intersecting red dirt "roads", I
become suddenly aware of the much-heralded country pub, shielded mostly by
two large eucalypts and the gnarled peppercorn tree - now old and scarred
by multiple human interventions (most possibly alcohol-fuelled). The large
crumbling-stone building, fortified in places by a random assortment of
mortars and bricks, is topped by clusters of tall chimneys that are clear
indications of multiple internal open fireplaces. Now ravaged by time, the
exterior of the once-grand hotel can be best described as
'maintenance-neglected' - except for the odd panes of glass that have been
replaced by pieces of board or corrugated iron. Its almost indiscernible
late nineteenth century small advertising billboards are only afforded a
measure of protection from further decay (and visibility) by the bowed
roofline of the wide verandah. And yet the cacophony emanating from within
the pub at noon on a Friday still proclaims this as the local oasis for
thirsty travellers and locals alike - perhaps both drunks and the not-yet
drunks.

At the same time I experience a strange feeling of familiarity with the
building, although I don't know why. I've never been here before. Perhaps
it's just the iconic image of the typical country pub, as seen in magazines
and on outback documentaries, which evokes an unexpected alertness.

I slow my car to almost a stand-still. The other three corners of the
crossroads are now devoid of buildings, displaying instead collections of
weeds that I muse would keep an aspiring botanist busy for many
days. Glancing to the left I see a shack, standing far enough down the
track so as to be not immediately visible to a stranger; its grey-streaked
timbers providing an almost perfect camouflage amongst the weeds and
scrubby gum trees. Another iconic outback image. Straight ahead in the
direction of the river I can make out another cottage in better condition -
potentially inhabited.

I resist a fleeting urge to investigate at this time and, while noting the
diversity of randomly-parked country autos of various types, ages and
conditions, I proceed around the corner to the right, and past the pub's
corner-facing double doorway. My eyes are drawn from their brief glimpse of
the patrons inside to a surprising sight. About 50 metres ahead of me, a
tiny wooden church, previously concealed from view, stands starkly
alone. It is smaller than a city suburban single-car garage. Taking in the
arch of its pitched-roof, my brain playfully morphs it into a tombstone for
the village itself. There is no obvious sign to denote a denomination. It
seems ironic that there would be a church in a village with only two
discernible houses and a minimal number of residents. This `headstone' is
the remnant of obviously better days, when the village, then a town, would
probably have been a bustling horse and coach stop, on the way to somewhere
else.

To say that it, too, has not been well maintained would be an obviously
redundant statement. And yet, word has it that it is still used, whenever a
visiting priest, minister or well-intentioned evangelist is able to make
the pre-arranged 90 minute trip from either of the closest "big" towns of
population 3,000) - in a reliable vehicle, in favourable weather, in
anticipation of a congregation. There it stands, the (presumably)
consecrated reminder of Christendom, in its own patch of sacred ground,
disengaged from the world by its semblance of a fence.

I draw my car to a halt and decide to wait for the small puff of tailgating
dust to settle before continuing on foot. Opening the door of my air
conditioned car, I instantly become aware of the extreme midday temperature
and of why the pub is full of people seeking liquid refreshment from the
heat. The smell of eucalyptus oil, released from the gum leaves by the
heat, invades my nostrils. The sun feels as though it is focussing its
strength directly onto me as I step out. Behind me I can now clearly hear
those people who are quenching their thirst while, muffled ahead of me
somewhere, I hear the familiar sound of children's voices - probably some
of my soon-to-be school students!

My eyes fall upon the church-yard gate, an amateur welder's fabrication of
some years past which appears now firmly held together by rust. The decayed
hinges have more recently been fortified, although even the thick-gauge
fencing wire no longer seems capable of allowing the sagging gate to
swing. Any intending visitor would need to lift it tenderly out of its
space in the fence, and then reverse the process, for whatever irrational
reason the gate and fence might need to be `closed'.

In the majority of places the post-and-rail fence itself is no longer
complete and appears to have been feasted upon by termites, although closer
inspection reveals that it is more the result of years of weathering -
through blistering summer days, like today, and sub-zero winter nights -
year after year after decade. I wonder what purpose the gate and fence
serve, when any intending worshipper, stray cattle or disoriented drunk
could easily take a more direct route.

The grass must have been cut at sometime within the past year but little
evidence of that remains, except for the uniform height of the knee-deep
brownness. More fodder for the botanist. The only sign of animal life is a
few grazing sheep which, even to the untrained eye of a "city slicker", are
in need of shearing. I feel a smirk cross my face as I wryly consider where
the sheep might rate on a smart-scale of local life, obviously having
avoided using the gate.

Not far beyond stands, in stark contrast, the school. There it is - the
object of my imagination for the past three months since my appointment as
"Teacher In Charge". I start walking. It stands in a very short "street" as
identified by two just-noticeable tracks where the grass has been worn down
to the bare red dust by occasional cars, horses and feet, probably having
had little to no traffic at all during the six weeks of the school
vacation. Then, a short way beyond the school, the street stops abruptly at
two rows of white-trunked gums - the river, the now-obvious source of the
`children' sounds.

The school is surprisingly much closer in size to that of the pub than its
immediate neighbour. But, what signals its difference from the other
buildings in the village is its well-maintained condition. As I pause to
take it all in, I jiggle my key ring and bring the two school keys to my
finger tips. One is obviously for the newer padlock on the gate, and I
again wonder at the intelligence of putting a gate in a fence of four
strands of wire that a body could easily step through. Who would it really
keep out - or in?

Padlock key at the ready, I stop abruptly at the gate when I hear a
siren-like voice, possibly female, from the direction of the river, "Hey,
kids, the new schoolie's here!"

Turning towards the direction of the voice I see a mini stampede of
squealing, scantily clad, dripping characters that could be straight from
Lord of the Flies, heading straight towards me in full flight. I fumble
with the padlock and drop the keys in semi shock. Nowhere to hide! My car
is 75m behind me. While quickly scanning to see if they are carrying sharp
sticks and half expecting to hear the chant of "kill the pig, kill the
schoolie", I take a deep breath, engineer a brave smile and turn to
confront them head on.

"Hey guys!"

The leader, a dark-haired girl of about 13 or 14 comes to a sudden halt,
too close to me for comfort, with the odd assortment of youngsters quickly
catching up to her. She looks at me; no, she stares at me, then turns to
the others, some of whom look at her, then at me, and shrug their
shoulders. She turns and stares again. I have the feeling that there is
something on my face that I forgot to wash off this morning, or, maybe like
a college prank, somebody shaved off one of my eyebrows while I was
sleeping.

"You are the new schoolie, aren't you?" the already-familiar voice
enquires, louder than is necessary considering the within-reach distance
between us. I nod. "I'm Jane!"

I'm still being stared at. Perhaps it is because I look young for my
age. Not baby-faced - just young. That has always been a problem. When I
first got my driver's licence, I was always being pulled over, suspected of
being under age. But the look that I am getting from the children is
somehow different.

"Hello Jane. Yes, I'm Mr Grant. Pleased to meet you. And who are all of
these other handsome children?" I emphasise the `handsome'.

The sudden wave of broad grins and giggles from the band of urchins is
priceless. This unexpected compliment dispels any unease between us. The
hunters have morphed into cherubs. Jane introduces the other eight to me in
rapid fire. I manage to remember only the last one - Eric, the smallest who
can be no older than five - curly red hair and a little round face full of
freckles.

"Are you all of my school students?" I ask.

Jane is the spokesperson. "Oh no, sir. There are a couple more of us who
only come into town from their properties on school days." Scanning again
everyone standing in their still-dripping and clinging underwear, Jane
squawks, "Hey! And where are Jake and Little Willie?" Then, turning up the
volume (if that is possible) she hollers, "Jake! Little Willie!" as if to
summon a pair of working dogs from a far distant paddock.

"Little pair of buggers! Oops. Sorry Sir. They were with us at the
river. C'mon, we'll show you."

Grateful that my ears may be subjected to no further immediate punishment I
follow a little more leisurely as I watch the variety of still-wet little
backsides dash away from me, with Jane determined to be first back to the
river. Walking the additional 75 metres or so, I see the actual 'river' for
the first time.

It's not as wide as I had imagined. In fact we have housing estates on
canals that are wider than this at home. After I received that dreaded
appointment letter, my expectation of the river's size had been far too
generous. I was sadly misled by its photo in Wikipedia (obviously taken way
downstream and after generous rain). And, being on a tributary of the
'mighty' Darling River I expected much more, with my dreams of water skiing
or even canoeing now erased in a single glance. I should have suspected as
much when the address of the school included `via Cunnamulla', and by the
excessively-thick blue line in the old family atlas that I used to locate
the little village with the almost-unpronounceable aboriginal name - far
western Queensland. "OMG!" had been my initial reaction on finding it -
around 950 km west of my cosy family home on the Gold Coast. Actually, I
think I let my guard down and dropped the f*** bomb in front of Mum. She
was not happy. Dad's broad grin helped ease my pang of guilt. Both of them
seemed amused at the geography lesson though, reminding me that neither had
travelled much farther west than the coastal urban sprawl.

I remind myself that this area has been in an unusual and severe drought
for a number of years. Nevertheless, the river is certainly more than just
a trickle here because of the weir, which is almost 3 metres above the
river level below. It has enough mud-coloured water banked up behind it to
provide ample water for local needs, including a swimming hole for the
kids. I immediately recall, in great contrast, the crystal-clear,
chlorinated water in my backyard pool at home and the aquamarine surf with
its invigorating salt spray immediately across the highway from our house.

"Jake! Little Willie!" I am brought back to reality and refrain from
sticking my fingers in my ears. No need of a public-address system in this
school, as long as Jane is around! Then I embrace another moment of ensuing
blissful silence.

Everyone is looking around expectantly and, while awaiting the emergence of
the two missing boys, I cast my eye a little more observantly over those
present. Apart from Jane in her one-piece swimsuit, everyone else is
wearing only briefs and no top. Two young girls are immediately
identifiable by their long braided hair; the boys by their little bulges up
front in their universally-white, clinging, almost transparent
underpants. Two in particular catch my eye with considerably more to show,
or hide, than the rest. I look from one of them to the other and, raising
my gaze up to their faces, conclude that they are not only brothers, but
probably twins about 11 or 12 years old - their similar height, blond hair,
blue eyes, square jaw and slim (without being thin) bodies with evidence of
well-defined musculature. Very handsome!

Without warning, a shriek something akin to the call of Tarzan breaks the
peace, and a body drops from a thick tree branch just above us, striking a
pose that is obviously meant to scare us, or just me, and I do gasp a
little at the suddenness of his appearance. He maintains his stance and his
eyes widen while peering at me curiously. I glance from him to Jane and
back again: another pair of siblings - as if the voice hadn't already
betrayed that!

"Where's Little Willie?" Jane demands.

So, this one must be Jake! Hmmm - Jake and Jane. `Tarzan' would definitely
have been appropriate. This good-looking lad is the oldest of all the boys,
perhaps a year or so younger than Jane and standing somewhat over five feet
tall. Slim like Jane with similar dark hair and facial features - same
mouth, same nose, same hazel eyes and long eyelashes, although his chin is
a little squarer with a pronounced dimple in the middle. And, just like the
`twins', I can't help but notice that this country lad is well-endowed!

"Hiding," Jake chuckles, turning his inquiring gaze back upon me, then
adds, "as usual".

I imagine Little Willie to look something like Tarzan's Cheetah, a younger
brother to complete the jungle trio. Or maybe a little fat kid whose penis
is cruelly undersized.

Silence. Stillness. I scan the tree branches. Nobody else up there! My head
starts a slow 360 degree scan, using my best powers of observation to
locate a Little Willie hiding behind a tree or a riverside log. Nothing.

Then, as I turn back towards the weir, I detect a movement on the
down-river side, just below where the overflow is creating a bubbling
disturbance in the water. What appears at first to be a dog or a sheep,
rises just sufficiently to reveal a pair of piercing blue eyes below the
mop of mid-brown curly hair. This new alligator-like lifeform surveys the
scene on the river bank for a moment then appears to fix its gaze squarely
on me. The engagement is sufficiently long enough for me to feel my
heartbeat quicken, and then there is a sudden movement. With water gushing
from it, a body stands bolt upright, in the thigh-deep river. Facing me
directly, it pauses then turns its back and dives under the spill-over.

"What...? Or who... was that?" I ask hesitantly.

"Little Willie!" jubilantly choruses everyone around me. Then I feel every
pair of eyes on me, as if anticipating some reaction.

I stand transfixed, staring at the spot where the unexpectedly man-sized
body disappeared, replaying in my mind, in slow motion, the few seconds of
action that I have just witnessed.

The hair. The eyes. The stare. The gush of water. The body. The turn. The
dive.

Slowly: The eyes. The stare. The body. The turn.

Slower: The stare. The body. The turn.

Pause: The body.

"That," I ponder to myself, after multiple replays, "was definitely not a
little Willie!"