Date: Wed, 28 Oct 2015 22:47:27 +1100
From: Robert A. Armstrong <rob.aa@hotmail.com>
Subject: Schoolie - Chapter 47

I know that 47 chapters seems long. But, if you are new to this story, may
I suggest that you read patiently from the beginning, to understand the
plot and the characters. You'll enjoy it more and understand what's going
on!

If you are a regular, thank you for your continued interest!

Warning: 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!


From Chapter 46


The surrounding dust settles and my vision clears.

I stare.

It looks like a homestead.

But there are, supposedly, no buildings out here.

Except for...

But, that would have disappeared after the helicopter crash claimed the
curse's latest victim, wouldn't it?

Unless...



Chapter 47

I sit in my car and stare at the building dominating the landscape ahead of
me. Is it the dreaded homestead, the object and source of the Jintabudjaree
curse? How could it not be? But... this is so soon after its last victim!

I struggle to recall details of the curse that I heard in the pub. Is it
possible that it's returned so quickly? And unexpectedly? But, then, every
re-appearance is unexpected, isn't it?

Am I now cursed too? Am I going to die? Or have I jeopardised the lives of
those people closest to me? Who? How? My mind is befuddled with
possibilities. Why did I come here at all? Where is my common sense? Why
was I drawn out here to investigate?

Is it possible that it did not disappear at all during this past week? What
would that mean? Has the last aboriginal murdered by the landowner so long
ago been avenged? Is that what I heard somebody say in the pub... that at
some point in time, it would stay? If only my memory was a little sharper!

And, yet, what I can see appears different to the building which we three
observed from the helicopter.

OK, then! What could be worsened by investigating it more closely?
Anything?

I drive on, then pause in front of the building.

Is this the same homestead? It appears to be in excellent condition for a
building that is so old! Maybe it's the wrong one. But who owns this house?

I turn off the ignition and stare, taking in its features. It is of obvious
Victorian, colonial design; a broad-fronted double-storey building with a
cluster of chimneys at each end. The woodwork appears to be freshly-painted
or stained. It sits about 2 metres off the ground with ornate railings
surrounding both the lower- and upper-level verandahs. And, are those slate
shingles on the roof? There is vacant space below the building - enough to
walk through, or where to store things because there were no garages in
those days because there were no cars. Perhaps it was for a horse-drawn
buggy.

I've not seen such an example of period architecture except in
photographs. Ash would love it! I want my new house in the village to look
very much like this one in style!

Surely this is not the decaying building that was out this way last week! I
saw it. Will saw it. Uncle Bill remarked on its dilapidated condition.

I decide to introduce myself to whoever lives here and maintains it so
beautifully.

I climb the broad wooden stairs to the lower verandah then take four paces
directly to the front double doors with their polished brass
ornamentations. The large, heavy knocker invites use. Three loud raps echo
sonorously within.

I wait then knock again, and grasp the brass door handle. This time the
door swings silently ajar.

"Hello?" I cry out. No response.

I step inside. "Is anyone home?" I call. Absolute silence follows the last
echo of my voice subsiding.

I'm not accustomed to entering a person's house uninvited, but...

I step into a large entry hall. It has polished timber floors with dark
wooden panelling all around. Paintings and animal skins decorate the upper
walls. The large red and the grey kangaroos are almost anticipated, as are
the cow hides. However the single zebra pelt dominating the extreme end
looks totally out of place. What appeared to be the `ends' of the house
from the outside are actually the side rooms.

I'm bewildered. Not a skerrick of dust! I imagine that one of a crew of
house staff (maids or butler) could emerge at any moment and ask, `Good
morning, sir. May I help you?'

Perhaps the most imposing feature that I see is the grand staircase at the
far end of the hall, overseen by the zebra, branching to the right and left
and connecting to upper balconies that overlook the entry, and which form a
horseshoe that matches the external verandahs.

The doors on this lower level are mostly wide open. I meander towards the
stairs and, while over to the right, discern what appears to be a
well-stocked library, then a lounge room. To the left is a formal dining
room. Beyond it, hidden by the only closed door, must be the food
preparation area, the kitchen.

In one corner of each of the visible rooms is a fireplace which sits
back-to-back with its counterpart in the adjoining room. They are ornate,
marble!

Where is everyone? The house is so clean and tidy that there must be staff,
somewhere.

"Hello?" I call again.

I decide to explore the upstairs, and discover two sets of 2 double
bedrooms with two bathrooms, one on each side of the house at the rear. The
furnishings in the wood-panelled bedrooms are plush. Each bedroom has its
own fireplace and is directly above the one on the floor below. The
bathrooms are finished in marble and brass. This is one impressive
building! The landowner must have been very rich!

My fertile mind wonders whether there are any secret passages!

I exit the corridor onto the verandah at the front of the house, looking
east, above the entry.

What I see is breathtaking. Virtually nothing! I am surrounded by a vast
flat plain of reddish brown earth, scarred only by a single pair of wheel
tracks that leads directly towards me, to my stationary car. Upon the
horizon there lies a thin line of greyish-green - the river gums at The
Village!

I immediately wonder whether this place is visible from the top of Marty's
windmill, perhaps with binoculars.

I wonder about lots of other things to do with the house: its immaculate
condition, its age, its curse. Why did I come here? Why was I drawn here?

I spread my arms 180 degrees to embrace the dry panorama and, for no
logical reason, I scream out the name, "Jintabudjaree". Is it in defiance,
or in recognition, of some force, unseen and not understood?

I feel a sudden iciness.

I hear the door behind me shut. But there was no wind!

I open it again and hurry back downstairs and head for the front door. I
reach for the handle and freeze. Something is different. I slowly turn and
look around. I realise that all of the doors, previously open, are now
closed. They were open, weren't they?

I've seen enough. I'm out of here!

Leaving the front door open, I take the stairs down two at a time and feel
a sudden urge to urinate. I struggle with my zipper and almost make it in
time - but not quite! 90% actually reaches the ground. The wetness of my
trousers will dry.

A large patch of earth beside the stairs turns dark brown. I draw my
initials, `TG', as my bladder empties. Thomas Grant was here!

I breathe and exhale deeply at the relief, which is short-lived. I hear two
loud `bangs'. I look upwards. The front door is closed. So is the door
above that I left open.

Still calm? You've got to be joking!

Tracking back along my tyre impressions, I drive I don't know how many
kilometres before I feel the pounding in my chest and head ease.

I pull the car to a stop. I raise my hands above the steering wheel and
stare at them shaking. I force myself to breathe deeply until the trembling
stops.

What the hell just happened?

What have I found?

Or, what just found me?

I replay everything, over and over, in my mind as I continue to drive.

I'm fearful of acknowledging things that I cannot logically explain, or do
not believe!

Maybe I just imagined it all. It never happened. What did I eat or drink to
induce this hallucination? Was it something in Di's cooking? Is that why
Reg was in such a happy mood? Or did Will slip something into my coffee as
a joke? No, actually, I made the coffees.

I reach the road. Left would take me to Whispering Gums. Right to The
Village.

Instead of driving straight back to Thunungara, I decide that something
cold at the pub might be helpful.

My haphazard `parking' is not out of place amongst the other cars, utes,
SUVs and small trucks.

"Hello, Tom, love," Julie Smith greets me, as I step up to the bar.

She pours me a lime juice and sparkling mineral water over crushed ice
without asking what I would like. She remembered! I actually could have
done with something alcoholic, I think!

I quickly scan the patrons. The `regulars' are all here, at least the ones
that I saw previously. I join the younger guys.

"Still on the wagon?" one jokes, looking at my limed water and ice.

I reply jovially, "Yeh, I'm doing a Peter Pan. Not ready for a man's drink
yet!"

They all laugh at my self-deprecation. In the back of my mind there is a
pressing need to find out as much as possible about the homestead and the
curse. How can I best initiate that discussion?

I join in their nondescript conversation. I could learn a lot about the
habits and diseases of sheep, cattle and horses by hanging out in here more
often!

In the midst of a discussion on the promise of rain based on `all the
signs', one of the young guys throws in, "How's the Jintabudjaree thing
treating you? Anybody die yet?" Given the fact that no local has been
affected, his tipsy mood is light-hearted, if not cynical. Not for long!

"Yes, actually," I reply.

There is instant silence all around me, as though somebody pressed a `mute'
button. I look up. Every face and body in the place is turned towards me.

They don't need to ask who, when, how and where? The question is implied by
their expressions.

Davo, the `old timer', steps across and lays a consoling hand on my
shoulder.

I take a large mouthful, swallow, breathe deeply and relate those
happenings hitherto unknown to the locals. "The funeral is on Friday in
Cunnamulla." I add, "Will O'Brien and I will both be going. The pilot was
our dad's best friend."

The immediate active exchange of glances around the bar does not elude my
notice and I suddenly realise what I have just said and that I might have
imparted some new, startling, information to the locals. `Our dad' I said,
following mention of Will and me.

I suppose that it's inconsequential but, in the broader scheme of things,
it could be for the best and explain why Will and I would be living
together. Two brothers sharing a house will be far less scandalous than a
teacher and one of his teenage students.

A chronology of the curse's victims is collectively reviewed by those in
the bar during which the details of the curse are expounded again.

There are still questions in my mind. I make no mention of the homestead
being in pristine condition or of any `spooky' manifestations.

"When will it all end?" I ask, knowing already that deaths will continue to
occur until the total number of murdered aborigines is avenged. I add,
"What then?"

There is a buzz of comments around the bar.

Again, it's Davo, obviously respected by everyone else as the `authority'
on the subject, who speaks.

"Nobody knows for sure how many of the natives were murdered. We'll only be
aware of that when there are no more deaths," he begins. "And we'll only be
sure that there'll be no more victims when the homestead no longer
disappears after somebody has died."

"Has anyone here actually seen the homestead?" I ask.

"The publican's nephew and his mates described it, as I remember," the old
timer relates, "as an old run-down two-storey house. That was only a couple
of years ago."

I think to myself that I've seen the wrong place. I'm relieved and breathe
a heavy sigh. But, now, I have a question about that property upon which
I've intruded.

"Are there any other houses out that way?" I ask.

"Nobody would dare to live out there, son!" I hear from a raised voice
somewhere in the crowd.

Davo adds, "Can you imagine anyone wanting to live anywhere near the
homestead? They would always be the first to see it whenever it
re-appeared, and become the obvious targets of the curse."

There is a murmur of agreement from all of the patrons, including the
semi-inebriates. When it subsides, Davo adds, "That is why all of the folk
here in The Village agreed, many years ago, that the first person to find
the house when it finally returns without anyone dying, would be granted
ownership of the entire property, over 200,000 acres or almost 100,000
hectares, stretching north, west and south." He pauses. "Not that there is
much out there, as anybody knows. People don't go out there in case the
homestead has returned and they could be the next victim of the curse."

"The ownership papers are all drawn up, and ready," Julie Smith says. "They
have been kept here, in the pub, for decades now." She leaves the bar then
returns a couple of minutes later displaying what appears to be a document
wallet, leather-bound and secured by a faded ribbon. "My drunken cousin and
his moronic university mates thought that they'd claim the place which is
why they rode out there, he told everyone. The next day my father died and
the idiots all headed back to the city."

Her contempt for her cousin and his friends is obvious.

I turn squarely to Davo and ask, "Sir, how would you explain the fact that
there is a beautiful, well-kept two-storey house sitting out there, right
now?"

Again the bar falls silent.

"What are you saying, Tom, dear?" Julie Smith asks. "What are you talking
about? There are no buildings out there."

I turn towards her.

"Julie, I can't explain why, but this morning I felt an overwhelming urge
to drive out there." People look at me and there is a collective gasp.

"You've been out there?" Davo asks me. "Even though you know of the curse,
and have already witnessed the truth of it for yourself?" There is a tone
in his voice of admonition at my foolishness.

The bar is still shrouded in expectant silence.

"I know that it wasn't a smart thing to do," I reply, "but I almost
couldn't help myself. It was as though some force was drawing me to it."

"So, you've seen the place?" Julie Smith asks me.

I pause before I answer, and consider what to say. "I've not only seen the
place, but I've been inside it."

I'm not sure if the buzz is disbelief, shock or in anticipation of hearing
a long-contained secret. I would guess that most here would not have seen
the place in their lifetime and none would have been inside it.

I describe the place in detail - the outside, entry, rooms, stairs, marbled
bathrooms and the view. Everything. Well, not everything: I omit the
strange events that I experienced.

"How is that possible?" I hear. "Julie, didn't your cousin say that the
place looked ready to fall down?"

"I can only tell you what I saw," I say, looking around at them all.

"It hardly seems possible at all," the old-timer mutters. Then, turning to
all of the patrons, he announces with some obvious emotion, "There can only
be one explanation. Do you all know what this could mean?"

The buzz builds to a level of excitement.

"Is it finally over?" Julie Smith says, wiping her eyes with her apron. "Is
it all over?"

"I was beginning to think that I'd never live to see the day!" Davo
exclaims, almost dancing a jig. Then he stops and says, "And, do you all
realise what else this means?"

"What, Davo?" my tipsy young drinking buddy asks, somewhat loudly. "What
else does this mean?"

"It means that we all have a new neighbour," Julie Smith chirps.

"If he's still alive tomorrow!" a sceptical voice interposes, only to be
quickly hushed by those close to him.

"Not only a new neighbour, but a young, smart, handsome one!" Julie Smith
adds. "Any girls around looking for a rich husband?"

I feel myself blush, and drink the last of what is in my glass in an
attempt to assuage the heat and colour in my face.

I endure much hand-shaking and back-slapping while, at the same time,
wondering what I would do with a second house `out of town'.

"Give the man a real drink!" the young guy demands. "Peter Pan just grew
up! He's a landowner now, and he might want to hire some farm hands, like
me." He receives an admonishing punch to the arm by one of his mates. "Hey,
I'm not against a bit of `brown-nosing' to get some work to pay off my
drinking tab!" That evokes a good laugh all `round, even applause.

I'm inclined to decline with thanks, but then realise the importance in a
small community of accepting another man's offer of a drink. His `shout' is
not to be refused. One won't hurt. I smile to myself, it's not as though
the local cop (Chad) is going to bust me for drink-driving. There would be
many here way ahead of me on that charge!

While I'm indulging in my celebratory drink, I sense from various comments
that people would like to see `my' homestead. They are too polite to ask,
so I offer, "Would anyone like to come out with me and check out the
place?"

"What? Now?" Davo asks.

I reply, "I need to pick up Will from Thunungara first and do a couple of
things at the school. What if I meet you all back here in an hour, and we
can go out together - anyone who wants to come."

"Are you joking?" Julie Smith asks. "There's not a single person around
here who wouldn't want to see that place, after all the years of fear and
heartache that the curse has inflicted upon the people of The Village."

I'm glad that she didn't say `Village People', an unintended reference to
the performers of one of my favourite `action songs' - YMCA. That would
have caused some mirth which I would have found hard to explain.

"OK." I say. "I'll be back in an hour."

"I'll even close the pub and come too," Julie Smith announces.

I offer to return the young guy's shout when we all return. Then I say, "In
fact, I think I'll shout the bar." Everyone cheers at the thought of free
beer. As I head out I repeat, "Drinks all round when we get back from the
homestead."

As I leave I see Marty's SUV pulling up and I walk across to him.

"What were you doing in there?" he questions, knowing that it's not where
he would normally expect to see me.

"I didn't think that a bit of liquid refreshment would hurt after my horse
riding lesson," I chuckle. Then I add, "Besides, I've just been chatting to
the locals about their new neighbour."

"What new neighbour?" he asks, probably curious that Acacia had mentioned
nothing to him; she being the first to know (or want to know) everything
that's going on around here.

"They'll tell you, I'm sure!" I say. "I'll be back soon. I'm just going to
pick up Will from Reg and Di's."

I smile at being able to maintain a serious face to Marty. Just wait `till
he finds out!

But, in the back of my mind, troublesome thoughts emerge. Is it fair that I
should come into a curse-decimated town and `inherit' one of the
potentially best properties around? Maybe Acacia should own it seeing that
she lost her husband to the curse. Despite the resolve of The Village folk
years ago, I wonder whether some of the locals will resent me having it,
especially those who have lost a loved one - like Julie Smith.

Anyway, I suppose, it would be mine to do with as I please - even to give
it to somebody else. But... would they actually want it? That's the thing
isn't it?


"You lied to Jake and me," Will confronts me with while driving us back.

"Why? How?" I reply. "What did I say?" I try to recall my advice during
`the talk' and wonder what I said that was wrong.

"About having a sore arse," he replies.

"I never said any such thing," I tell him. "I only pretended to be sore
because that's what you and Jake expected. I didn't want to disappoint you
both."

There is momentary silence while Will concentrates on avoiding a couple of
stray sheep.

"Uncle Reg said that you were pretty good for a `first timer'." He smiles
at me. "Full of surprises, aren't you?"

"You don't know the half of it, brother!" I smirk and stare at him.

"What the hell does that mean?" he asks, turning and locking eyes with my
own.

"Watch the road!" I tell him. "You'll find out soon enough!"

He shakes his head at me and concentrates on his driving.

As we near The Village I ask him to drop me at the school so that I can
deal with a few administrative matters that I forgot yesterday. "Why don't
you go and visit Karl and Kurt?" I put to him. "I'll walk over when I'm
finished. I should only be 15 or 20 minutes."

He pulls up outside the school gate, uncouples the ring holding the school
keys from my car keys, and says, "No, that's OK. Just pull up one blind,
like before, and I'll drive over and get you."

It crosses my mind that he doesn't want me to interrupt any fun and games
with the twins by me turning up without warning.

I'm sitting at my desk, filling in attendance details on a Departmental
report form when I hear footsteps. With all of the verandah blinds down, I
can't tell yet who it is.

Kurt appears in the open doorway. "Hi, Mr Grant," he says cheerily. "May I
come in?"

I'm always impressed by his impeccable manners. His parents have taught him
well!

"Sure, Kurt. Come in!" I smile.

As he enters, he closes the door behind him. I know instantly what is on
his mind. I hadn't expected this, but I feel an immediate stirring within
my pants. Do I have time for this? Time for him?

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" I say, most politely. It's
politically correct talk for `What do you want?'

As he walks towards me, the outline of a chunky, elongated young cock is
clearly visible in his shorts.

Behind my desk, I swivel my chair to meet him and he stands in front of
me. I almost instinctively look from his face to his bulge and he follows
my gaze downwards. Then he looks into my eyes. "We don't have long, I
think," he half-whispers as if telling me a secret that nobody else,
including the walls, should hear. He looks at the growing prominence in my
own pants then smiles at me. "You too, huh?" he asks.

I reach forward to ruffle his already-untidy hair, and he moves in close
between my parted legs. I close my legs as if to hug him with them, then I
relax. With him standing and me sitting I slide slightly forward so that
his erection is softly greeted by my own. We make them touch and engage in
some mutual rubbing against each other.

He drops his shorts to the floor and increases his action against me to
thrusting. I notice the precum on his white undies. "You gonna take yours
off?" he asks, which almost sounds like admonition for being so slow to
follow suit.

I'm too much into this to mount any kind of defensive argument, to him or
to myself.

I stand, drop my trousers and he points. We both note, with amusement, the
dark patch on my light blue CK's.

I resume my seat. He places his hands on my upper thighs and I reach around
and grip his firm young butt cheeks. We re-commence our mutual stimulation,
with very little thickness of materials now between us.

Then, using one hand, he deliberately and carefully guides his wet patch at
the end of his erection to my own. He begins rubbing the head of his hard
cock back and forth against mine, glancing up at my face occasionally. I
savour the feeling of his firmness pressing and rolling over mine then back
again.

He confidently grasps my cock and squeezes it. I shudder, and my wet patch
grows.

I love that he is taking the initiative but I wonder if that is in any way
stressful for him. Is it unfair of me to place the onus on him to do
things?

My duty of care to one of my students is already shot to pieces and my
ethics is also in tatters so I decide to ease his possible burden by
assuming the lead. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and
lower them slowly, past his patch of hair, taking his spike with them,
causing it firstly to point directly outwards and then strain against the
descending fabric until it pops free and stands tall, eliciting from him a
giggle of pleasure.

He stares directly into my eyes. I get the message. I stand and repeat the
process upon myself, although I would have been happy for him to do it. His
eyes widen in anticipation of my straining cock's snappy appearance. He is
not disappointed and chuckles as his face deftly avoids a blob of precum
flicked upwards in the process.

I continue to lead by cupping his round balls and rolling them gently in my
palm. He's certainly going to have big ones in only a couple of years.

He looks at me, hopefully, and I nod. He extends his left hand and I raise
myself slightly to allow my balls to rest on his upturned fingers, then I
resume the edge of my seat to allow freedom of movement for his hand and my
jewels.

I take his cock in my other hand. He reciprocates. He repeats my every hand
movement. My sliding actions are slow and firm. Our precum, a measure of
our enjoyment, is providing quite sufficient lubrication. I speed up. He
follows. I slow down. He follows. I squeeze. He follows. He laughs. I
follow.

We are both enjoying our little game.

His breathing starts to become erratic and I feel his balls move of their
own volition. I release them and, with that hand, reach for the box of
tissues, grabbing a handful, ready for his eruption. He begins to thrust
into my slippery fist then he freezes. I wrap the tissues around his cock
as it pulses, and catch everything.

I haven't cum yet but, with Kurt's stimulation, I'm too far gone to pull
back now. I envelop his fist that is gripping me with my own and I
encourage his actions, masturbating myself using his hand.

I grab more tissues, telegraphing to him my closeness to spouting. He puts
out his `free' hand to take them. "I want to feel you shoot," he tells me.

I try to hold back as long as possible, savouring the anticipation as the
deep stirrings begin. I guide his handful of tissues close to my
shaft. When I say "Now!" he covers my head and has a grip of me with both
hands. I twitch and pump and groan, and he hums and moans with delight.

We clean up, pull up and zip up. Mutual hugs and thanks follow.

I lock up and we head for the toilets with the tissues.

On the way back, Kurt says, "Mr Grant, do you want to sneak up on Karl and
Will and see what they're doing?"

"You mean spy on them?" I put to him.

"Not exactly," he replies. "It would be more like going home early and
looking through the window to see if it's OK to go inside."

"You mean spy on them!" I say with a different intonation.

"I like my version better!" he chuckles. "Besides, if we see what they are
doing then it should be OK for you and me to have a go at the same stuff."

"I think that, maybe, we could even be one step ahead of them Kurt," I say,
sucking my middle finger to clarify my intent.

He giggles, "Oh, yeh, well I won't tell if you don't."

"Kurt, would you like them to come over while we are here together and look
through the windows `to see if it's OK to come in'?" I ask.

"You mean spy on us?" he replies, smiling and clearly understanding my
meaning. "Heck, no!"

"Then we should respect their privacy just the same, don't you think?" I
put to him.

"Yeh, I guess," he replies. "But it's not the same! You already know that
Karl, Will and I do stuff together."

"Maybe so," I begin, "but there are times when people like some
privacy. I'm sure there are times when you just like to be alone, without
your brother watching you."

He is silent momentarily then says with a cheeky grin, "Yep!" I don't ask!

"So we're not going to sneak up on them, are we?" I say. It's more of a
statement than a question.

"What are we going to do then?" he asks.

"Go over to your place." I reply.

"But, you just said..." he starts.

"I said that we wouldn't sneak up on them."

He looks at me, confused. I say, "You know the song that we've been singing
this week?" (I've been teaching them a series of colonial folk songs.)

"Yeh, I really like this one," he replies.

"Well," I explain, "when we get close to your place, we'll start singing
it, then continue straight inside. They'll know we're coming. So, that's
not sneaking or spying then, is it?" I ask him, smiling.

He grins an evil grin. "I like your style, Mr Grant. But let's wait until
we get really close, eh, before we start singing?"

"But not on the front verandah," I say, ruffling his hair. I can tell what
he was plotting!

"Awww!" he responds light-heartedly.

He leads us across the paddock on the now-well-defined track. He must have
been over at the school for not even ten minutes so no casual observer from
the pub should suspect anything untoward. For once, I'm glad that he's a
quick cummer!

The closer we get to the house, the more antsy he becomes. He keeps looking
around at me for the signal to start our ditty.

When I think that we're close enough to alert them, but without giving them
too much time to disguise what they've been doing, I burst out in a clear
voice, "There was a wild Colonial Boy, Jack Doolan was his name..." Kurt
joins in as we swagger with the tempo towards the house. "Of poor but
honest parents he was born in Castlemaine..." We don't even finish the
first verse before I'm mounting the few front steps. Kurt takes them in one
leap, and boldly strides through the front door.

"What the hell are you doing back so soon?" Karl almost shouts at him. His
tone changes when he sees me as well. "Umm... we didn't think that you'd be
so quick." He looks around, grabs a cushion from the lounge and clutches it
in front of him to hide his erection.

"It's OK, Karl," I say, smiling. "I have seen you naked a few times, you
know."

"Yes, Mr Grant, but not exactly like this..." he replies. He slowly removes
the cushion to reveal an exact duplicate of his twin brother's stiffness
that I was playing with not five minutes ago.

He grins with embarrassment, and yet I admire his nerve to bare all to me.

I try to encourage him with, "Well, it looks as though you've grown since I
saw you last!" That elicits a proud smile.

Will is standing, muted, erection in hand, and stroking it slowly.

"So you guys haven't finished with each other yet?" I ask almost
matter-of-factly.

Kurt giggles at the naked pair. Will scowls at me for my intrusion. Karl
replies, "No, Mr Grant, but we were close."

I smile at him. "OK," I say. "Come on, Kurt. Let's leave them alone. When
they are ready they can walk over to the car at the pub. I have a surprise
for everyone." The anticipation of a mysterious surprise should ensure that
they `get on with it' in a hurry!

"Don't be long," I tell them.

"I think they're both already as long as they get," Kurt laughs as we
leave, for which he receives `the finger' first from Karl and then from
Will.

"Happy now?" I ask Kurt. He nods and beams broadly, as if embarrassing his
brother was his sole objective.

I drive the short distance to the pub and pull up. There is a small crowd
waiting. "Back in a minute, mate," I say to Kurt.

I go into the bar and announce, "OK, folks. Who's coming?"

Julie Smith tells them all to drink up because the pub is about to close.

Marty empties his glass into his mouth then walks up to me. I'm not sure
whether he wants to hug me or hit me. (I can't tell from the expression on
his face.) He settles for a firm handshake and a chest-bumping man-hug. "I
don't believe it," is all that he says.

"Come in my car," I tell him. "But we'll have some young company."

The crowd empties from the pub and begins filling various vehicles
(hopefully with the most sober as drivers). It looks as though we will have
a convoy of six.

Kurt climbs into the back seat and Marty takes the front one. Karl and Will
come running and pile into the back, with Will between the twins.

"Hi guys," Marty says.

"Hey, Marty," they chorus back, somewhat out of sync.

Will asks, "What's going on?"

"Don't you know?" Marty puts to him, then the twins.

The negative answers and head shaking only cause Marty to laugh and say,
"Well, you are in for as much of a treat as the rest of us!"

I lead off, cross the bridge and turn onto the track. I follow my previous
tyre impressions and the vehicles behind me spread out in wild-goose
formation to avoid being enveloped in my, and each other's, dust.

Will and the twins are at first fearful of our direction and potential
destination, having been warned for their entire lives of the curse. Will
is now aware, first hand, of its reality through the death of our dad's
best friend.

Marty does his best to reassure them that "It's OK now. It seems that the
curse has been broken."

"But why are we going to see the old place?" Will asks, cognisant of its
condition when he saw it from the air.

"You'll see!" I say as the homestead looms in front of us.

The six vehicles pull up abreast of each other and the occupants allow the
dust to settle before clambering out.

"Oh, my gosh!" Julie Smith is heard to say. "Will you just look at this
place! It's not what I imagined at all. It's absolutely beautiful!"

There are `oohs' and `aahs' and even some blatant expletives from the small
crowd.

Davo stands motionless, as if attempting to reconcile his knowledge and the
history of the place with the vision before him. He wipes tears from his
eyes, perhaps in remembrance of those lost to the curse or the wanton loss
of the natives at the hands of the murderous land owner. Perhaps from
relief!

While everyone is taking in the majestic architecture and sharing personal
thoughts, my eyes fall upon something that is very much out of place. I'm
the only one who would know! Adjacent to the front stairs, in the exact
place where I relieved myself not two hours earlier, is a knee-high rose
bush, covered in blood-red flowers. "How the hell...?" I think!

Julie Smith notices it. Trust a woman's aesthetic nature! She walks over to
it, crouches to smell the flowers and comments on their strong perfume. "I
cannot imagine how this thing of beauty could grow out here!" she
says. "It's so dry all around!"

Davo, also being the district's walking encyclopaedia on local flora and
fauna, comments, "I've never seen one of those before. Ever! I have no idea
what type of rose it is. I'll have to check old man O'Sullivan's journals
that he compiled and gave to me before he died. I must have missed this
one! He told me that his journals were a smaller, draft version of a set of
more detailed drawings that he was putting together in a portfolio for his
granddaughter."

Helen O'Sullivan had told me of her grandfather's passion for drawing
wildlife. His work is supposed to be the definitive catalogue of everything
in the district.

We ascend the stairs. The boys are not as enthusiastic as I might have
expected and they hang back, letting the adults go first. Perhaps it is
just their good manners.

I offer for Davo to `do the honours'.

He reaches for the large brass door handle, turns it and pushes. It does
not yield. "It appears to be stuck," he says, shoving a little more
forcefully. Nothing happens.

A few of the others, including Marty, try their hand. "It appears to be
locked. Did you lock it, Tom?" Julie Smith asks.

"No," I reply. I didn't find any keys, besides which I don't even see a key
hole on this side. I walk to the door myself and lay my hand on the
handle. The door opens with absolutely no effort, almost of its own accord.

"How did you do that?" Marty asks me.

"No idea!" I say, then add, jokingly, "Maybe it just likes my gentle
city-slicker hands." I sense from Will's face that he is about to comment
but my frown prevents him from vocalising whatever he is thinking.

We all file into the expansive entry hall which, I consider, would be
perfect for holding a large, local function. All of the internal doors are
open. I shudder. Somebody, apart from me, has been here and opened them.

The boys' inhibitions have diminished and they take off up the stairs - one
twin to the right, the other to the left, with Will.

I find myself perusing the books in the library with Davo. He comments,
"Tom, from what I can tell, most of these are first editions, well over a
century old. Any single one of them might be worth a fortune!" I handle
them with more respect.

After about a quarter of an hour everyone is congregated on the upper front
verandah, commenting on the stark contrast between the austerity of the
landscape and the lavishness of the house.

"It's almost as though time has stood still and the house is exactly as it
would have been over a century ago. This is really weird!" somebody
comments.

"Well, so was the curse. There are some things that you just can't
explain!" another adds.

"It looks like you've got yourself a real treasure, love," Julie Smith
says.

Will is standing alongside me. "What do you mean, Mrs Smith?" he asks her.

"Hasn't he told you yet, dear?" she says.

"Told me what?" Will replies, then looks at me, puzzled.

"Tom is the new owner of this property," she replies.

Will stands with his mouth open. I push his chin up. "Close your
mouth. You'll catch flies!" I tell him. It was one of my mother's favourite
sayings when I was little.

Will's next sentence consists entirely of `what?'s, `how?'s and pauses. No
words of any sense are strung together.

Julie Smith explains what was the resolve of the inhabitants decades ago
that the first person to `discover' the house after the last murdered
aboriginal was avenged, should own the house. "And Tom discovered it. So he
owns it - just as soon as the papers are signed."

I think of the potential for a great murder mystery called, `Who Killed
Thomas Grant, The City-Slicker Schoolie?' The motive might be obvious -
jealousy, and, of course, in the plot, he would die prior to the ownership
papers being signed and registered. Just about everyone in the district
could be a suspect!

Will's fly-catching mouth drops open again. I move to close it but he
manages to do it himself before I make contact.

Still talking, everyone files downstairs and heads for the front
door. Marty says to Will and the twins, "Did you guys go around and close
all of the doors down here?" They look at each other and deny doing it. My
skin creeps. That's twice!

I'm the last one out and I close the door. One of the men says, "Sorry,
Tom, I left my hat on the stand just inside the door. I won't be a minute."
He grabs the handle. The door is firmly secure and won't budge. "Not this
again!" he says.

I walk to the door, lay my hand upon the handle, and it opens with ease. I
shrug, "It likes me!"

He retrieves his hat, looks at me strangely, almost with suspicion, sidles
past me, clutching his hat in both hands, and heads for one of the cars.

"I could have sworn that rose bush was a bit smaller," Julie Smith
comments. I walk past the thigh-high specimen and head straight for the
car.

There is something very weird about this place! Scary even! I'm not sure
that I'd be comfortable living here!

Questions! Questions! How can a rosebush grow out of nothing but pee and
dirt in two hours then increase its size by 50% in 15 minutes? Why was I
the only one who could open the door? And what about the open/closed doors
inside? Why is everything preserved precisely as it might have been on the
day of the murders? Who cleans it? Somebody must!

On the trip back to town, Marty, Will, Karl and Kurt ply me with their own
questions, to most of which I can provide no logical or sensible answer.

While I go into the pub to make good on my offer to buy everyone a drink,
the boys head back to Karl and Kurt's place.

The mood in the pub is euphoric. The curse has ended and people will no
longer live in fear of their lives or for those of their loved
ones. However, I think that talk of a public holiday is a bit over the
top. Julie Smith suggests that next Saturday she will provide free food and
beer for the day and that people in the district from hundreds of
kilometres away who weren't here today will all want to come and celebrate
and to meet the owner. I think, `and to hopefully get a look at the
place'. Why not? No problem!

Julie Smith says that she will invite local council officials and police to
witness and ratify the signing of the ownership document (potentially Helen
O'Sullivan and Chad O'Brien). The day will be the biggest event that The
Village has `seen' in living memory.

I suddenly think, `Acacia is going to be furious! The greatest occasion in
her lifetime and she will be among the last to know!'

I share my thoughts with Marty who slaps me on the back, begins to laugh,
almost manically, then manages, "Furious nothing! She will be absolutely
pissed off, big time!" Then he cackles, trying to contain his mirth, "Let's
not tell her! At least, until everyone else knows!"

His laughter is contagious - especially when the reason for it spreads
around the bar. Acacia's reputation of `grandstanding' with new information
is, apparently, legendary. This could be people's perfect opportunity for
`payback'.

Taking the coward's line, I say to Marty, "I think that I'll just lie low
and keep out of her way! I've seen her with dog bones in her hand. Her aim
is awesome! I wouldn't want to be around when she finds out, especially if
she is carving meat at the time." That starts a new round of guffawing.

I hear a spoon or knife tapping on an empty glass - the traditional call
for silence. The patrons respond to the chiming sound.

Davo, The Village's senior resident, says, "Good people, today we are
indeed privileged to witness the end of the Jintabudjaree curse, something
that our parents and grandparents had long anticipated and wished for. We
have lost many a good friend to its sinister repercussions. I would like to
propose a toast to the brave young man who has delivered us from its
domination of our lives, to the man who can open locked doors without a key
and who might even be prevailed upon to use his influence to break this
drought!"  There is laughter at his last comment. "To Tom!" he calls,
raising his glass high.

"To Tom!" they all chorus in response, then drain their glasses.

As if the deities want to add their affirmation, there is an immediate long
peal of thunder, which silences everyone. Looks of disbelief are exchanged.

"Oh my god!" somebody says. "If it rains, we'll probably have to make him
the Mayor of The Village too."

"The Village doesn't have a mayor," somebody reminds him.

"It will if we get rain," the reply comes, causing great mirth all `round.

There is another rumble from the sky and, for the second time in as many
minutes, the bar quietens.

One of the men who is drinking just outside the pub yells, "Hey! You'd all
better come and see what's happening out here!"

There is a surge of bodies towards the double doors. I join them. What we
observe could hardly be called `rain', as I know it from back on the Gold
Coast. However, the fine mistiness is definitely precipitation!

There are cheers, hurrahs, laughing and even some tears.

"Hey, Tom, do you slay dragons too?" a voice calls to me.

"Show us your magic wand, Harry Potter!" the now quite-inebriated young guy
declares loudly, sitting alongside me.

"Leave him alone, Jacko!" I hear Marty say. "He's not showing you his magic
wand, and we don't want to see yours again either!" Then he adds, "Come
on. I'll drive you home to your mother's place."

"It's OK Marty. He came with me," one of his friends says. "I'll take it
from here. Righto mate! Time to go!" he says to Jacko who staggers to his
feet to compliantly follow his pal. On the way he grabs me in a hug and
plants a kiss on my face. "Bless you Harry Potter!" he mutters before being
`escorted' outside.

"Sorry, Tom!" Julie Smith apologises. "He didn't mean any offence. He won't
even remember it in the morning." Then she announces, "Order your last
drinks gentlemen. We're closing promptly today! I hope that your wives and
girlfriends won't have heart attacks when you arrive home before dinner
time!"

Some groans! I'm not sure whether they are for the humour or for the
turning off of the grog.

As people drift out, I endure much back slapping and hand shaking, despite
my protests of `innocence' at contributing to the start of the rains, the
signs of which have been around for a while now, as everyone has previously
discussed.

Marty calls to me, "See you at home, Mr Mayor!" and leaves, laughing.

I head for the door. One guy bows and addresses me as `Your
Worship'. Another repeats Jacko's reference to Harry Potter's wizardry
(without the `magic wand' jibe).

I'm surprised when I arrive at Jan Andersen's place that Karl, Kurt and
Will are all fully dressed and displaying no chunky evidence of their
favourite adolescent pastime.

They are all seated around a Monopoly board on the dining table.

"Thank goodness!" Will exclaims. "These two were taking me to the
cleaners!"

"Would you like to play with us, Mr Grant?" Karl says, swivelling on his
chair to face me.

Kurt, from directly across the table, grins cheesily at the innuendo in his
brother's words (most probably unintended by Karl). I give Kurt a quick
frown of warning then address his brother, "Thank you, Karl, but maybe some
other time. OK?"

"Sure, Mr Grant," he replies, "But, we'll take that as a promise."

As Will drives us home, he says, "I caught the frown that you gave Kurt,
virtually saying that you didn't want to play around with him. He really
wants you to. I've told you that before. I'll bet that you've really upset
him now."

"It's complicated," I tell Will.

"Just so you know, Kurt is always asking me why you won't do stuff with
him," he replies. My immediate thought is that Kurt is a master of this
charade and he's got both Will and Karl fully convinced that his lusty
feelings for me are totally unrequited. I realise that he's protecting
me. What a cherub! If I could love somebody so young, he would definitely
be near the top of my list (after my little brother).

Will continues, "I've even seen him crying and say, `Is there something
wrong with me?' And he wants me to jack him off every afternoon and tell
him how great and sexy and smart he is, because you won't."

Again, I think, `Will, you don't know how smart he actually is!' So, my
little cherub is getting it from both Will and from me, eh? Who said that
Karl was the hornier twin? I just hope that Kurt doesn't overdo the acting!

"Are you listening to me, Tom?" Will asks.

"Yes, I am," I tell him. "I'm just thinking about what you're telling
me. Like I said, it's complicated."

"How?" Will asks, throwing me a quick sideways glance from the driver's
seat.

"Well, mucking around in the weir was easier because... because... It just
was! Doing stuff at school is harder. Maybe because it was easy to play
games in the water where our bodies weren't totally exposed."

"Then keep your clothes on. Who said that you had to take them off?" Will
says, again looking at me. "You don't have to get naked to just play with
him!"

"I'm his teacher and he's one of my students," I say, with genuine
feeling. But who am I trying to convince? Him or me?

"You're MY teacher and I'm one of your students!" Will retorts, seeking to
invalidate my argument.

"You're my young, sexy brother," I tell him. "It's different."

"Yeh, well, we didn't know that when we first `got lucky' together," he
replies. "Did we?"

He's got me there!

He adds, "Do you remember that first day? When I came into the school room
after swimming in the weir?"

"How could I forget the day that we met?" I ask, smiling.

"Just about the very first thing you did was check out my package. Didn't
you?" He taunts.

"Yes, well, your wet shorts were almost transparent, and I didn't see the
`little willie' that I was expecting. It was almost as though you wanted me
to look at it," I tell him.

He is silent.

"Oh My God! You did want me to, didn't you?" I ask, almost shocked.

"I needed to know!" he answers.

"Know what?"

"Whether..., perhaps..., whether you might be more like me than just in
looks. It wasn't just to confirm what I saw from the river that I wondered
about. Then when I caught you checking me out, I knew. You were like the
secret me in that way too!"

"You little devil!" I mutter.

"Hey, no `little' words, remember?" he replies.

I slip my hand onto his thigh and slide it up to his crotch. He parts his
legs, giving me fuller access.

"Yep, definitely not little!" I laugh, cupping his manhood.

"You wanna get lucky tonight?" he asks.

"Let's see how long we can keep our clothes on," I suggest.

He thinks about it and agrees. "That could be fun." Then he adds, "Why
can't you do that with Kurt?"

"I suppose," I tell him. My mind immediately races beyond this simple
enjoyment, to the pleasures that Kurt and I have already experienced.

"Tell you what," Will says, turning off onto the road to Marty's. "Why
don't I pretend to be Kurt tonight and you can practise what to say and do
with me? I'll even help you to get it right."

"So the little brother, sorry, the `younger' brother, is the teacher and
the older brother is now the student?" I joke. He laughs.

"Hey! Even better," he quickly suggests, "let's swap roles. You can be Kurt
and I'll be you. That way I can actually show you what to do instead of
just telling you."

"Yes, sir, Mr O'Brien," I answer.

He laughs, then stops the car in that very memorable spot where we first
fondled each other to confirm our mutual feelings.

"I will always remember this place and that day," he tells me, initiating
some memory-induced thigh rubbing and crotch fondling which I, of course,
reciprocate.

We are both really stiff when, unlike that day, I lean across and kiss
him. "Let's save it for tonight," I whisper seductively to him.

"Why?" he asks, obviously turned on.

"Because Kurt can't cum twice in the same day, you know!" I reply,
reminding him of his (erroneous) assertion previously.

He lowers his hand, squeezes my leg just above the knee, hard, as I have
done to him on previous occasions. I jump.

He drives on.

The 3-way discussion over dinner is all about the homestead, the curse and
what I might do with the place. There are many unknowns.

Will's mood is very upbeat. Marty picks up on it and says, "Do me a favour,
guys. Please close your door tonight when you go to bed." Then he adds,
"I'd like a good night's sleep." The three of us laugh, cognisant of the
unspoken reasons.

"OK, Cuz. You got it!" Will says, "but maybe you'd better close yours as
well, if you don't have any ear plugs."

I thump him. Marty does the same from the other side.

Will's bedtime lesson for me in how to `seduce' and play with Kurt is
hilarious. I play dumb and exasperate my instructor. But we have a lot of
fun, especially with all of the re-takes!

Finally satisfied that he thinks I've `got it', as Professor Henry Higgins
would say of Eliza Doolittle, we pile into bed, naked, and enjoy each
other's body, already over-stimulated and horned up. He enjoys punishing me
for my `stupidity'.

Monday morning. I drive past the pub, and those on the verandah bow to
me. I give them a `mayoral wave' in return.

Will reminds me, "So after school, Kurt is going to stay with you and you
are going to do what we practised. OK?"

I make a show of swallowing hard. "Umm..."

"Don't back out on me now," Will continues. "He wants you. He needs
you. You can do this. Forget that you're his teacher after school and just
do it! It's not as though you're being asked to rob a bank. He'll enjoy it,
and so will you, if you just relax."

What I am really enjoying is the comedy of Will coaching me to do things
which Kurt and I have already surpassed! Kurt will be thrilled that his
acting has had this result - Will tutoring me in how to do simple stuff
with him! My brother seems to have overlooked the fact that I'm well
experienced in this area!

Kurt stays after school. I explain to him what I am supposed to say, in
case Will (or Karl) asks him. Then, following Will's instructions, I have
him stand next to me while I explain a Maths problem. Then I move him to
stand between my legs while I continue. Then I sit him on my knee. Then I
move him to my lap. I put my hands around him and rest them in his
crotch. He gets hard. End of maths lesson. I play with him. I slip my hand
inside his shorts then his underpants.

"End of Will's lesson," I tell Kurt. "He didn't say whether I had to
continue to jack you off. So you can tell them everything up to this point
if they want to know."

"This is so funny," Kurt says.

"And just so that you can tell them the absolute truth, I'm not going to
jack you off," I say. He looks disappointed. "But, we know another way of
achieving the same result, don't we?" He understands what I'm saying and he
beams.

He needs no further encouragement to strip naked and lay himself on my
table after clearing everything, except the box of tissues, to one end.

I stroke his pubic hair then hold his hard spike up away from his body. I
lower my mouth onto him and he gasps. "I love this," he growls. Then he
adds, "Please take off your clothes too, Mr Grant. I'd like to hold yours
while you are sucking me."

His touch, and stroking, is so tender that I almost cum before he does. I
swallow his and he catches mine with the tissues.

He stands and we share a naked embrace as our cocks soften. He has his arms
around my chest. I have my hands on his backside.

"I need to pee," he tells me.

"Me too. Let's go and hang out together!" I say. He laughs at the double
meaning. We do remember to get dressed first!

Having disposed of the tissues, we stand side by side and let fly
together. He smiles up at me and I ruffle his hair then put one arm around
his shoulders and hug him to me.

We go back to the school room and I raise one blind as the signal to Will.

It's more than five minutes before I hear my car purr to a standstill. I
can guess why it was delayed! Will is the first through the
door. "Everything OK?" he asks.

"Yep," is all that Kurt says, although I can tell that Will wanted to hear
the details. He doesn't get them from Kurt, nor from me!

I drive back to the boys' place and they both get out. "Thanks for the
extra help with the Maths, Mr Grant," Kurt says.

Will and Karl look at each other. Will jumps out. "I think I left my,
umm... something... inside," he tells me and follows the twins into the
house. I know what he's doing! Asking Kurt questions! Grilling Kurt for the
specifics, in case I backed out and stopped at the maths!

He returns to the car. The boys wave us off from their verandah.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Will queries me.

"What, you asked him?" I say, feigning indignance.

"Of course, I did!" Will says. "What did you think?" There is a pause
before he adds, "So why did you stop there, without jacking him off?"

"Well, I did everything that you told me to do. Everything that we
practised!" I say, perhaps overacting slightly.

"You're hopeless!" he mutters. "I think that you need another lesson
tonight."

"No argument from me!" I reply, putting my hand in his lap.

Tuesday. I explain to Kurt after school that today I'm supposed to continue
everything from yesterday except I have to jack him off as well. Kurt
giggles his agreement.

On our own initiative, we undress first. For the sake of the retelling, I
ask him, "What's 1 and 1?" I explain to him why the answer could be 11, and
the Maths lesson's over. We repeat our positions and actions from
yesterday. It's much better without his shorts and undies and without me
being restrained in my clothes. When we get to the point of him being in my
lap, the only comfortable position is him sitting on my pubes with my cock
protruding from below his balls. He doesn't object and neither do I. Today
I complete the task, and he does me, concentrating on my cock head between
his legs.

"That was fun, too, Mr Grant," he comments, still breathless from his
orgasm.

"Let's save some other things for tomorrow," I encourage him. We raise the
blind. Will drives over.

"He's happy!" Will tells me on the way home, after another debriefing
session with Kurt.

"You must be a good teacher!" I tell him. "Any more lessons tonight?"

"Just do more of the same. He's not ready for anything else at the moment,"
Will replies.

"No, but I am!" I tell him. "We'd better get Marty to close his door again
tonight. I think it's my turn to punish you!"

"Oh, yeh," Will says almost apologetically. "I was forgetting about you!"

Each night brings more drizzle. Not enough to turn the dust into mud. Most
of it soaks straight in.

On Wednesday, I suck Kurt off twice.

On Thursday, he wants to try sucking me as well. I let him, but he can't
get more than my head and a bit more into his mouth. Then he finishes me
off manually, and appears incredibly happy.

Friday. No school. It's the day of the funeral. Everyone knows the reason
that the school is closed. Many have expressed that their condolences be
passed on to Uncle Bill and the family.

It takes us a couple of hours to reach Cunnamulla and I drive straight to
the `airport' as arranged with Uncle Bill.

A Lear jet lands and taxis to within 50m of the small `terminal'. It takes
a few minutes for the door to open and the stairs to swing downwards.

Uncle Bill steps down, sees us, smiles and waves. I really don't expect him
to maintain this composure during the whole day.

Someone else emerges from the plane. I choke with emotion. It's Mum! Uncle
Bill offers her his hand as she descends the stairs. He didn't tell me that
he was bringing her. Apart from some obvious weight loss, she looks
well. "Hi Mum!" I call excitedly across to the plane. She waves and blows
me a kiss.

Another lady emerges. I don't think that I know her. She descends
confidently then turns and looks back into the plane. Somebody else appears
in the doorway. I instantly recognise this person. OMG!

"Hey! Look! It's Andy!" Will shouts, waving.

Young Andy as well as Mum! Both here! I'm overcome with emotion. I lose it
and burst into tears. I'm glad that Mum insisted, when I was young, that I
always carry a handkerchief.

Will and I remain behind the gate, obeying the sign affixed to it.

Andy walks with a little less confidence than how I remember him running up
the beach! His hand waving doesn't stop as he calls, "Tom! Tom!" I blow my
nose, although it's really my eyes that need the handkerchief.

Meeting us at the gate, Uncle Bill shakes our hands. "Thanks for coming
guys. I appreciate it."

Mum throws her arms around my neck, hugs and kisses me. Then Will.

"Why...?" I begin to ask her.

"Danny was my friend too," she says. "Nothing that Bill or your father said
could have stopped me from coming. Mrs Thompson, Enid, wanted to come and
assist me, like I've supported her. Then, when we mentioned that you'd be
here, no way was Andrew going to be left with somebody to mind him, or go
back into the hospital. `I wanna see my friend, Tom,' he kept pestering his
mother. Arguing with him was futile. It was much easier to agree, and the
doctors thought that it could also be useful in aiding his recovery."

Andy latches on to me, wrapping his arms around my body. "Hello, Tom!" he
declares. "You're my friend. I missed you!"

I can tell that his language skills have been affected in his ordeal.

"Hey, buddy!" I tell him, returning his embraces. "Wow. You've grown! What
did they feed you in that hospital?" He reminds me so much of Kurt, as I
had previously noticed, that it's uncanny.

"Hello, Tom," Andy repeats, holding me tightly. "You're my friend. I missed
you! Lots!"

I hug him. His infirmity makes him all the more endearing to me and
heightens my resolve to help him, as much as is possible, in his recovery.

"Hey, buddy," I tell him, "I'm so glad that you're here. So is your friend,
Will." Will nods.

Andy lets go of me long enough to hug Will, then he returns his attention
to me.

"We have a lot to talk about," I tell him.

"I like to talk to you, Tom!" he replies. "You talk good!"

"He's improving daily," Mrs Thompson says. "The doctors are very
hopeful. I'm sure that being here and spending some time with you will help
him."

"That's why I've booked two nights' accommodation for us at the pub in The
Village," Uncle Bill says. "Helen Smith was very helpful. Apparently
there's some big shindig on tomorrow and nearly all her rooms were
taken. You and Andrew can spend some time together. He'll appreciate it."

"So will I, Tom," Mrs Thompson adds. "Would you please?"

"Of course," I tell her. "It will be my great pleasure." Then I add for
everyone's benefit, "They tell me that the shindig could be the biggest
celebration in The Village's recent history. I'm sure that you'll hear all
about it from the locals, seeing that you're staying."

I look over at my recently-cleaned and polished pride and joy, the set of
wheels that I bought after graduating from university. Then I count
heads. I assumed that I would be providing transport only for Uncle Bill
today; I hadn't counted on six bodies. "Umm, there's six of us, and my car
only..."

"Don't worry!" Uncle Bill cuts in. "I do plan ahead! Unless I'm mistaken,
that shiny silver people mover standing over there is for me. It seats
seven. Tell you what," he continues. "Why don't we all use it during the
day then I'll follow you back to The Village after the funeral."

While we walk across to it, Uncle Bill says, "I'll just duck inside and
pick up the keys, as I arranged."

We walk around it. Not a scratch on the silver paintwork. I admire the
chrome, `roo bar with a strip of four large spot lights attached, rear
checker-plate bumper with tow bar, large communications aerial attached to
the 'roo bar and running boards. 4.5 litre turbo diesel, according to the
chrome letters on the rear-opening door. Neat! Perfect for country
driving. Will utters a "Hell, Yeh!" then he adds, "What a beast!" I have to
agree with his assessment. `Beast' is a perfect description for it. I'll
bet it growls!

I ensure that my own good-looking vehicle is secured, although I have been
so impressed by the honesty of country folk that I feel I could even leave
it unlocked with the windows down, and it would remain untouched when I
return later.

We quickly decide on some pairings for the day. Mum and Mrs Thompson, Will
and his father, Andy and me. I look at Mum almost apologetically, torn
between having time with her or Andy.

"Don't worry, Thomas," Mum says, "I intend spending time with you too!"

She addresses Andy, "Andrew, would it be all right with you if I spend some
time with Thomas some time? Then you can have him back!"

He replies, "Yes. That's OK. He can be your friend too. We can share."

Mrs T. smiles and I hear her faint comment to Mum, "I can already see a
difference in his confidence. Bringing him was a brilliant idea."

During the funeral service, Mrs T. stays by Mum's side, Will lends support
to his emotional father, and Andy clings to my arm albeit slightly back
from the main activities.

Mum and Uncle Bill both speak, honouring their friend. Uncle Bill's eulogy
is a mixture of humour and tear-jerking emotion. I'm proud of him and I can
tell that Will is, too.

"Why are some people crying, Tom?" Andy asks, as though he fails to
comprehend the significance of the `funeral'.

"Their friend died, Andy. That's why they are all upset. Sometimes our
friends die."

He bursts into tears and almost succeeds in suppressing a wail, which draws
a few quick glances from those near us. "You're my friend, Tom. I don't
want you to die!" he chokes out.

I hadn't anticipated that response and I don't want to broach the issue of
his own near-death experience, without talking to him about other things
first. "I'm not going to die Andy," I console him. "I want to spend a lot
of time with you and to help you get well. Will and I want to do some body
boarding with you again at the beach." Then I add, "And some tandem runs."
I throw in, much more discretely, "Then wash off all of the sand in the
showers."

There is a moment of silence, followed by some clapping and a broad grin,
as if some locked-away memories have been released. He mimics my discrete
voice, "That was good fun. I remember. I like you, Tom. You're lots of
fun!"

Mum and Uncle Bill spend almost an hour after the funeral service, talking
to Danny's family and friends in the local hall, utilised for the
wake. Will stays with his dad, and Mrs Thompson goes back and forth between
Andy and Mum, spending some time with each in turn.

"I need to pee," Andy tells his mother upon her return to him.

She looks embarrassed, and turns a pleading eye in my direction. "Could you
take him, please, Tom? Sometimes he still needs a bit of help with the
zipper."

"No problem, Mrs Thompson," I tell her. "Come on, Andy, the `Gents' is over
in that corner!"

We walk at a reasonably slow, but urgent, pace. There is no urinal, but two
stalls. "Hurry!" Andy pants. I select one and close the door. "Hurry!" he
repeats.

"You want me to undo you?" I ask him.

"Hurry, Tom!" he declares, beginning to dance a little jig and grasp the
front of his pants.

I stand behind him, undo the zipper and fish out his cock for him. He lets
fly instantly, spraying the back of the uplifted toilet seat before he
manages to gain control and point it into the bowl.

"You want to pee too, Tom?" he asks. I'm not sure whether it's said with
child-like innocence or with some adolescent ulterior motive. "We can
share," he adds.

"Yep, I want to take a pee too," I tell him then I unzip and let fly. We
pee together until his runs out first.

He takes a great interest in my activity, and makes no effort to tuck
himself in. I'm sure that his cock is slowly starting to thicken.

I do myself up then ask him, "Do you need help to put yours away, buddy? Or
can you do it yourself?"

"Help, Tom," he says, and thrusts his hips forward as if that will assist
me. I gently stow everything discretely back in its rightful place and pull
up his zipper.

"There you go, buddy," I tell him. "Push the button, then we have to wash
our hands."

He flushes. We wash and use the air dryer for our hands, then return to
join the others. Mrs Thompson meets us. "Everything all right?" she asks.

"Fine, Mrs Thompson," I tell her. "We made it in time. Just."

I think that her eyes show the beginnings of mistiness. "Oh, it's so
wonderful of you to help him. He's always mumbling about you being his
friend. I can tell that he loves being here with you. Look at his face."

I look at his doting puppy-dog-like countenance. It's all I can do to not
scratch him behind the ears! But I do pat him and rub his back.

We return to `The Beast' and Uncle Bill gives me the keys. "Want to drive
it?" he asks. Stupid redundant question! We keep our pairs. Andy sits up
front with me, Will and Uncle Bill are behind us. Mum and Mrs Thompson sit
in the third row.

I start it up, and for the second time today I enjoy its throaty growl!

We take less than ten minutes to return to the airport. "What do you think
of it?" Uncle Bill asks.

"Amazing," I tell him. "But why would a rental company give you a brand new
one? It only has a handful of kilometres on the clock."

There is an unexpected duration of silence. It's Mum who speaks. "It's not
a rental car, Thomas."

"You bought it, just for this occasion?" I ask Uncle Bill, looking at him
as though he has wasted a lot of money for one or two days. "What will you
do with it when you fly back? You could sell it, but that could take a lot
of time."

"I'm not selling it." Uncle Bill replies.

I consider what he has said. "Oh, so you're going to leave it here at the
airport for when you come back?" I put to him, thinking that this is a more
logical, however not very sensible use of his resources.

"Nope," Uncle Bill responds.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Bill," Mum says, "Stop teasing him. Enough of your
silly games!"

Uncle Bill turns and looks at her, then he says to me, "Thomas, why on
earth would your parents and I give you an ex-rental car for your
birthday?"

Birthday? I think. What's the date? Oh, shit. I'd completely forgotten!
I've been so wrapped up in everything and everyone else.

"What?" Will says rather loudly, startling almost everyone in the
car. "When's his birthday?"

"Tomorrow," Mum says. "He'll be 22."

"You sneaky dog!" Will says to me, flicking the back of my ear, both of
which draw a look of confusion and a scowl from Andy.

"He's not a dog!" Andy almost reprimands Will. "Tom's my friend. He doesn't
bark. He talks to me."

We laugh.

I'm speechless, almost. Then what does come out is confused. "I'd
forgotten. Car? I have a car. Twenty two! Wow, I'll soon be as old as you
two."

I look in the rear-view mirror to see Will pounding one palm with his other
fist and mouthing, "... nine ... ten ... eleven ..." I know what he's
doing. The school tradition - `birthday bumps'. I try to do the mental
calculation 22 times how many students?? I give up. The answer is `lots!'

Then, with a little more composure I turn and say, "Are you serious? But,
why? My car is practically new anyway. I've only had it since I finished
uni."

"From what I have seen, the children and the parents have really taken to
you, and we have the impression that you could be teaching here for quite a
while. So we discussed it and agreed that you might need something with a
little more `grunt' than what you're currently driving," Uncle Bill says.

"Wow," I say, and grip the steering wheel, attempting to feel `right at
home'. Then I add, "But what about my car?"

"Can you think of anybody who might like a late model, well-kept sedan?"
Mum asks. I look in the rear-view mirror and see her pointing at Will,
behind his head.

I can play games, too. "You mean give it to Amelia? She's too young to
drive." I look at Will's face and see an expression of positive expectation
melt away. I'm cruel, and I cannot bear to see him upset. "Then again, I
know somebody else who might appreciate it, if he guarantees to look after
it!" Will's face brightens again. "When's his next birthday?"

"Thomas!" Mum chides. "You're as bad as Bill!"

"Hey, bro!" I address Will, "I don't suppose you'd like your own set of
wheels to go visit Jake and the twins whenever you feel like it, would you?
No! Didn't think so," I add before he has a chance to respond.

"OMG. Me? My own car?" he manages to let out. He grabs me from behind and
hugs me, then makes no pretence about kissing me on the side of the
face. "Thank you. OMG. OMG."

"Hey! You're choking me," I tell him. "Let me go. And, I think you need
some more English lessons to expand your vocabulary."

He has the situation summed up rather quickly. "So, I'll drive MY car back
and Dad can travel with me. You can drive `The Beast' with Andy, Aunty
Susan and Mrs Thompson. How does that sound?"

I had hoped to have Andy all to myself and to talk with him for a couple of
hours on the way home, but, under the circumstances, I yield to Will's
suggestion, and contemplate how I might arrange some quality time alone
with the young guy. "That suits me, if everyone else agrees," I say.

No dissenters.

"You know the way home?" I put to Will.

"Yep, not too many options. One road in; one road out. Easy!" he replies,
and extends his hand for the keys.

"Better give me the ring with the school keys on it." I tell him. "Pull up
at the pub, and we'll get everyone settled," I tell him. "You can lead, and
I'll be about a kilometre behind you, so that we're not driving in your
dust."

Will and Uncle Bill lead off, and I give them a couple of minutes head
start.

Mum and Mrs T. remain in the third row, which gives Andy and I a measure of
privacy. While first exploring the colour-screen, multi function sound
system and GPS, I select a radio station (there aren't many out here from
which to choose, but the reception is crystal clear) then I balance the
sound output towards the back.  That will make it harder for the ladies to
hear what we guys are saying.

During the trip, I talk with Andy about hospital food, nurses (male and
female), animals that we spot on the way; lots of things; everything except
his ordeal. That can wait until tomorrow sometime.

"I hope you don't mind, Tom," Mrs T. says loudly from the back. I turn down
the volume. "Andrew will probably need a nap when we get to the hotel. He
needs to recharge his batteries every afternoon. Besides, I could use some
rest myself."

I think that I can then spend time with Mum. "That's fine Mrs
Thompson. It's not far now," I say. I turn and ruffle Andy's hair. "You
gonna take a nap and then have dinner with me later?" I ask him.

I see some wheels turning in his mind. A nap is probably an integral part
of his daily routine, and dinner afterwards will be his reward.

"That's OK, Tom. I like to have a nap," he says.

We pull up at the pub, probably only a couple of minutes behind Will and
Uncle Bill. `The Beast' draws a lot of attention, especially since people
would have heard it coming. Uncle Bill has gone inside, and Will is just
parking at Karl and Kurt's place.

"So, this is The Village," I say to Mum and Mrs T. I indicate the school
and the road down to Marty's.

Uncle Bill returns with keys. I help him carry the baggage. There's not too
much for two nights' stay. He says, "Julie Smith has gone out of her way to
fit us in, but she just asked me if there is any way that we could make do
with two rooms instead of the three that I booked. They have more visitors
for tomorrow's festivities. I had a twin room for Enid and Andy, a single
for Susan and a single for me."

I think that it would not be a good idea for Uncle Bill and Mum to share a
room, so I offer another alternative, "What if Julie Smith can change the
two singles for another twin room? I'm sure that it would mean just moving
beds around. And, if it's OK with everyone, Mum and Mrs Thompson can share,
Uncle Bill and Will can share, and Andy can have Will's bed?"

"And Andy's nap?" Mrs T. asks.

"Andy can nap in with you, Enid," Mum says. "Then I can move in later and
Andy can go with Tom."

"That works for me," she replies. Then she asks her son, "Andy, honey,
would you like to sleep at Tom's place tonight?"

"Andy, obviously drowsy from the trip and needing his rest, replies. "Uh,
huh! I like Tom. He's my friend."

"I might take Will's car," Uncle Bill starts, smiling at me, and go and
visit Acacia and Marty for a short while. You and your mother can catch
up. Ring me if you want me to come back." He leaves and walks across to the
Andersen's place. I watch as the three amigos come out to greet him. There
is some discussion, nodding of heads, then both Uncle Bill and Will give me
the `thumbs up'. Jan is still at work. The twins have been introduced to
WILL'S car.

I drive Mum across past the old church and, before giving her the quick
tour of the school, I talk about the weir. We stroll across to look at
it. "This is the one in Will's painting," I tell her. "Obviously done from
the other side of the river!"

We sit on a fallen log and talk about her health, the treatment, Dad,
Amelia, Auntie Doris and cousin Karen. She assures me that all is well and
that she is regaining strength and has actually started to put some weight
back on.

She reminds me of the family relationships with Doris and Karen, in case
I'd already forgotten, then we somehow get back into some family history,
which I didn't know.

"My grandmother told me that she was descended from an aboriginal girl and
an explorer who travelled western Queensland looking for inland rivers and
their legendary big fish. They ran off together and eventually settled back
in the eastern hinterland behind the Gold Coast. Our family has been in the
area ever since."

Mum continues with her elderly gran's memories. "Her recollection was that
the girl's nickname was `Gin and Barramundi' or something like that. She
wasn't sure whether the `Gin' was anything to do with her drinking habits
or was because that's what an aboriginal woman was called, a `gin'. The
`Barramundi' was an obvious reference to the big fish. So there was either
a fish and alcohol diet going on, or it was the aboriginal girl who knew
where the big fish were. Nobody ever knew for certain which it was!"

Then she adds, "Can you imagine a nickname of `Gin and Barra?' Gee! That
would be embarrassing."

"Yeh," I agree, then think, without saying it aloud, almost as bad as my
`Virginia'.

Then I freeze. Mum's last words trigger something deep within my
mind. "What did you say just then?" I ask her, running the words through my
head. "The last thing you said!"

"Gin and barramundi," she replies.

"No you didn't." I tell her. "You said something a bit different."

"OK, to be precise, I said, `gin and barra'. Everyone knows `barra' is
short for `barramundi'. You did knew that, Thomas, didn't you?" she
questions me, as if doubting my education or general knowledge.

I ignore the question and continue, "What did you say straight after that?"

She looks at me strangely and I can see her attempting to recollect her
exact words.

"I don't know. What did I say? Gin and barra, Wow? Gin and barra, gosh? Gin
and barra, Gee? What does it matter, Thomas?"

"Gin and barra, gee!" I repeat, loudly then in almost a whisper,
"Gin-and-barra-gee! Gin-ta-barra-gee! Gin-ta-burra-gee! Gin-ta-budg-aree!"

"What on earth are you babbling about?" Mum asks. Yes, and grandma always
added `Gee!' after she said `gin and barra' as I recall. Maybe that's why
it just slipped out."

"Gin-and-barra-gee! Jintabudjaree!" I say, almost fearing the coincidence
of the similarity. The faster I recite them the more alike they
sound. Again. Faster. Again. Great grandma could have misheard the name and
substituted words that she knew!

The next thing I remember is Mum shaking my arm and calling my
name. "Thomas... Thomas... Thomas..."

"It's not possible," I murmur.

"What isn't possible?" Mum asks. Getting no response from me because my
mind is racing, she asks, "Thomas are you all right? You look sick and you
sound almost incoherent. Maybe you should see a doctor."

"Which doctor?" I ask, then burst into fits of laughter at my own
words. Yes, maybe I should find a witch doctor!

I regain my composure and say, giving her a kiss, "It's OK, Mum. I'll tell
you later. It's all good. I'll show you the school and then I want you to
come for a drive. I have something to show you."

I ring both Will and Uncle Bill and ask them to come and accompany us. I
tell Will that he can walk over when he sees Uncle Bill arrive in HIS car.

Mum sits alongside me in the front seat of `The Beast'; Will and his dad,
our dad, are behind us.

Will soon picks up on where I'm heading. I haven't mentioned the homestead
to Mum or Uncle Bill by email, by phone or even face to face. I've also
told Will not to say anything about it to them.

I pull up in front of the house. Mum's words for it are `simply
beautiful'. Uncle Bill, on the other hand, says, "What a magnificent
example of early colonial grandeur. I think that it's the best I've ever
seen. Ash is going to love this!"

I reply, "Yes, I want him to see it before the final drawings are completed
for the place in town. Come on, I'll show you around."

"Are you sure that it will be OK?" Mum asks. "Is the owner at home?"

"Oh, yes," I assure her. "The owner's here." I wink to Will. He smirks.

"In fact, we're allowed to come and go and let ourselves in, anytime," Will
says. "The owner is a very friendly guy!"

Mum and Uncle Bill look at each other. Their expressions are those of
disbelief. I know that it sounds fishy... at the moment.

Mum admires the roses on the waist-high bush and comments on their heady
perfume.

Then we ascend the stairs.

"Look at these broad verandahs and ornate railings," Uncle Bill comments,
"And all of the decorative lacework above the posts. And did you see the
gable fretwork ornamentation and the shingled roof?"

I say to Will, "Why don't you knock first, then let us in?"

He bangs the brass knocker three times, lays his hand on the door handle
and turns it. Nothing happens. The door doesn't budge. He looks at me
questioningly.

I step forward, turn the handle and open the door. Then I close it
again. "What's the problem?" I ask him.

"Uncle Bill?" I ask, indicating for him to open the door. He knocks, turns
the handle and, again, nothing happens.

"It's locked!" he says.

"No it's not," I reply. "You just saw me open it."

"Then there's a trick to it; a secret button or something. You're having me
on, Thomas, you cheeky pup! You're playing one of your get-even tricks on
me," he says.

"Mum?" I say, and point to the door. My heart begins absolutely racing.

She steps forward, politely raps twice then turns the handle.

The door swings wide open.

OMG! The hair on my arms and neck stands upright. My scalp tingles and I
feel tears well up in my eyes. My almost fearful contemplations have just
been confirmed...!

As was great grandma, Mum and I must be distantly descended from perhaps
the last remnant of the Jintabudjaree aborigines.

And the old house recognises us both!



(To be continued...)

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