Grant - The Honeyman and the Hunter

ALSO BY NEIL GRANT

The Ink Bridge

Rhino Chasers

Indo Dreaming

From Kinglake to Kabul

(edited with David Williams)

This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

First published by Allen & Unwin in 2019

Copyright Neil Grant 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

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ISBN 978 1 76063 187 1

eISBN 978 1 76087 100 0

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www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

Tiger of One Thousand Bees, photo composite and cover design by Amanda Gibson, Rare Metal Design

Maps by Amanda Gibson, Rare Metal Design

Font design by Khyati Trehan, Indian Type Foundry

www.neilgrant.com.au

For Marjorie Grant (19372017)

whose homeland vanished as surely as Didimas.

And for Amanda

who knows the storms and the lulls.

And also for Emma, Matisse and Calum

for whom India is much more than a story.

CONTENTS

RUDRA SOLACE IS CROSSING THE CHANNEL with his best mate, Maggs Briley Rudra with his heart clambering in his chest and Maggs powering through, born to it. The summer storm has left bruises in the sky great welts of cloud up high and others, blotchy stains, above the headland. Last nights rain set the creeks to flooding, vomiting branches and beer cans from the neck of Brisbane Water. The outward tide is in their favour, helping them to the break that is spitting and cracking in the middle distance.

This is a sharky paddle all the talk that ever was points to it. Men in grey suits hazing boats. A local nabbed by a tiger off Lobster Beach last summer (or the one before), returning shaken and pulpy, stitched and glued back together at Gosford Hospital.

We are just meat, thinks Rudra. Him on his old six-four with glass as yellow as a smokers fingers. This board has lived for too long beneath his house, that much is obvious. Shell never win a beauty contest, as Maggs says, but at least she floats. Rudra isnt a surfer, not really, but when your best mate calls and schools out for summer, you have to go.

Maggs, on the other hand, has a brand-new McCoy hes been saving for this swell. He snaps at least one board a season pulling in when he should not, in Rudras opinion. Maggs has neoprene skin. He fits well here on the Central Coast.

The paddle is long and brutal, and Rudras arms are burning by the time they reach the line-up. There are a couple of guys from school here and some older surfers on longboards. Rudra doesnt know the school guys well ex year twelves, finished exams and back at year zero. They were once the gods of the corridors and open spaces, cruel rulers. Now they are fallen.

One of them is called Judge Dredd; sometimes just Judge. Because of his dreads, Rudra imagines, or maybe because everyone just dreads being around him. Not much going on upstairs with these guys they will never conquer the world. Maggs gives them a nod and paddles right inside. Past the longboarders who stare at him like hes a piece of flotsam. Past the year zeros shooting him foulies. Not giving two shits. Cocky as.

The first wave of the set breaks tumbling wide, sucking Maggs up and spitting him down the face. As Rudra claws his way over the lip, he sees Maggs pull in and set a rail for a barrel that is one hundred per cent guaranteed.

Rudra sits there for a moment, stilling his heart. The next one in the set is smaller and one of the longboarders paddles hard, moving his whole upper body like a beached seal, legs beating the air behind him. But he misses, slapping the water in disgust as it carries on towards the year zeros, and to Rudra.

Dreadlocked Judge paddles. Hell never make it, thinks Rudra. Too far out. So Rudra goes for it and, as he does, he feels the wave rise and steepen. All the chunky energy born over a hundred sea miles out unwinds itself beneath him. He jumps into a crouch and cuts a track across the face. He knows there is nothing fancy in his style everything about it suggests a down-the-line bolt from danger.

Hey! Rudra hears the shout behind him. My wave!

Rudra checks quickly and glimpses the wall hammering at Judges broad shoulders. Technically Rudra should pull out. But he doesnt. Judge is way too far inside and he, Rudra, is in perfect position.

The wave knows it too willing him on, throwing out little fringes of white from its lip. And the sun sneaks through, and its all going to be okay. He sets up for the barrel one of only three in his whole surfing life so far. Judge is already shrouded in foam, sucking gulps of sand. Maggs, paddling back out, rips a howl that blesses this wave and their friendship and makes this a sacred run at whatever. And the wave stretches on and on and folds over like a blanket and Rudra crouches and drives for the winking eye of headland and then he is out into the summer air and the sea is hissing like Dr Pepper.

He paddles back to the line-up, all smiles, the taste of adrenaline bright and coppery on his tongue.

Maggs high-fives him. Whered you pull that from?

And Rudra tries to be cool, to stifle the elation that is brimming over. But all he can do is smile.

A segue (Media Studies, year nine) makes the transition from one scene to the next, smooth and unsurprising. From this scene, where he is smiling and the sun is shining and his best mate has just seen him on the wave of his life, there should be a segue into what happens next. But there is no segue. None at all. Just a jump cut a blunt chop to the back of his head.

That was my wave, you maggot, Judge snarls.

Rudra fixes his gaze on the Southern Cross tattooed on Judges overworked right delt. Anything but look him in the eye.

No you dont, shouts Maggs paddling over.

Judges mate growls and blocks his path. The longboarders mutter their agreement.

Sorry, mate, starts Rudra. I didnt think you were going to make it

Judge Dredd holds up his hand. It was a drop-in, plain and simple.

Plain and simple, chimes the mate.

Bit like you, really. Judge nods at Rudra.

Sorry? Me? Plain and simple?

A drop-in.

What?

Why dont you go back to where you came from.

Patonga?

Dont be smart with me, curry-muncher.

Got nothing to do with that wave, says Maggs.