The Journey Read online

  John Marsden accidentally put himself through the perfect training to become a novelist.

  He read vast numbers of books, acquired a love of language, and became insatiably curious about other people. He also had a variety of jobs, 32 at the last count, including working in abattoirs, hospitals, morgues and a haunted house.

  In 1985, rather to his own surprise, he found himself teaching English in the Australian bush, at Timbertop School. Noticing a complete lack of interest in reading among his Year 9 students he tried his hand at writing a short novel that he thought they might enjoy.

  The rest is history. John Marsden is now the world’s most successful author of teenage fiction. He has sold a million and a half books world-wide, and has won awards in Europe, America and Australia. His first love however is still teaching, and he spends most of his time running writing camps at his property, the Tye Estate, near Hanging Rock, Victoria.

  You can visit John Marsden’s website at:

  www.johnmarsden.com.au

  Also by John Marsden

  So Much to Tell You

  The Journey

  The Great Gatenby

  Staying Alive in Year 5

  Out of Time

  Letters from the Inside

  Take My Word for It

  Looking for Trouble

  Tomorrow . . . (Ed.)

  Cool School

  Creep Street

  Checkers

  For Weddings and a Funeral (Ed.)

  This I Believe (Ed.)

  Dear Miffy

  Prayer for the 21st Century

  Everything I Know About Writing

  Secret Men’s Business

  The Tomorrow Series 1999 Diary

  The Rabbits

  Norton’s Hut

  Marsden on Marsden

  Winter

  The Head Book

  The Boy You Brought Home

  The Magic Rainforest

  Millie

  While I Live

  A Roomful of Magic

  Incurable

  The Tomorrow Series

  Tomorrow, When the War Began

  The Dead of the Night

  The Third Day, the Frost

  Darkness, Be My Friend

  Burning for Revenge

  The Night is for Hunting

  The Other Side of Dawn

  Pan Macmillan Australia

  First published in hardback 1988

  First Pan edition published 1989 by Pan Macmillan Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © JLM Pty Ltd 1988

  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.

  National Library of Australia

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Marsden, John

  The journey

  ISBN 978-1-74334-616-7

  I. title.

  A823’. 3

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  This electronic edition published in 2012 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  The journey

  John Marsden

  EPUB format 978-1-74334-616-7

  Macmillan Digital Australia www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  TO A GOOD FRIEND,

  WHO IN MANY DIFFERENT WAYS

  INSPIRED THIS BOOK

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Though I’ve known much kindness from many people in recent years, some have given me particular help in writing this and other books, and I’d like to thank them here. They include the Austin family of ‘Mundarlo’, the Laycock family of Khancoban, the Madin family of Christ Church Grammar, the Montague family of ‘Osterley’, the Rose family of Mosman, the Utz family of Mosman, and especially, Mary Edmonston, of all over the place. And I thank my own family very much for their support and loyalty.

  A voyage that never leaves shelter

  Is one for the weak and the small.

  The strength a ship has, comes from its fight

  To weather the rips and the rocks and the squalls . . .

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by John Marsden

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter One

  Every year Argus asked his father, ‘Is it time yet? Am I old enough?’ And every year his father replied, ‘No, you’ve got a while yet’ or ‘No, sorry son’. The first few times he laughed as he said it, as though the question were a droll one to be asked by someone of his son’s age. But as Argus grew older his father ceased to smile and instead answered irritably, as if he didn’t want to think about the matter. Perhaps though, his impatience was a reflection of his son’s; for every year Argus put the question in a more insistent tone, feeling guilty as he did so, but driven strongly to ask.

  Once, Argus tried to gain some insight into his father’s mind, and in so doing to bring about a change in his attitude. He asked him, ‘Why do you think I’m not ready?’ But his stern father, busy trimming a new curb for a horse, replied briefly, ‘You can’t even do your jobs around here properly. I asked you two days ago to fix that fence in North Austin.’ And after a moment’s silence the boy walked away, trying to maintain his dignity. He was too proud to say that he had fixed the fence when asked, but a fox had made a new hole in it overnight, three panels along from the repair.

  One afternoon, when Argus had just turned fourteen, he and his father were working in South Austin, checking for cows that might have calved in the long grass, and tagging the ones they found. Argus held a wet and slippery new calf between his legs while its anxious mother hovered nearby. Somehow the calf got the boy slightly off-balance; sensing its advantage it twisted, bucked, flung its head and escaped, treading heavily on Argus’ father’s foot as it fled. Argus was buffeted about the face and body by a storm of angry words as his father raged. Knowing his father had lost his grip on two calves one morning just a week earlier, the boy said nothing. For the rest of the day the two worked together in silence, each reliving the argument in his mind, each trying to convince himself he was right. The unease between them lasted through the evening.

 
It was this incident that convinced Argus his time had come. In recent months he had been asking his father not ‘Am I old enough?’ but ‘How soon before I go?’ Now he decided he must take matters into his own hands; yet so great was his awe, love, fear and anger that it was three more days before he was able to speak of his decision. Finally, one night as his parents were folding astronomy charts, he told them.

  Their reaction was an anti-climax: they both barely hesitated, but went on with their tasks, until his mother asked, ‘When do you want to start?’

  ‘At the end of the week,’ he replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

  ‘You can’t go,’ his father said. ‘I’ll need you for the harvest.’

  But Argus was prepared for this. ‘You can use Ranald again, the same as you did when I was ill.’

  No more was said that night; no more was said on the subject for two days following. But on the eve of his going, his father brought Argus the book from its glass case, and placed it in his hands. ‘You’d better read it,’ he said, ‘and then it will be time for us to talk.’

  Argus was not able to look at his father, but instead watched his own hands, damp on the soft leather, as the silver-haired man left the room. And the boy, full of nervous excitement, began at last to read.

  Argus learned from the book that there were seven stories, and the journey would not be over until he had discovered and could tell all seven of them. The seven stories that he found would be uniquely his, yet they would also be the stories of all people — the same for everyone, recognisable by everyone. The harder he searched, the more difficult the stories would be. The book warned him that nothing was simple: everything was complex, whether it be a leaf, a human, an idea, a word. Even the statement that nothing was simple was too simple, and was probably not wholly true. For the book also warned him that there were no absolutes; such extreme terms as good and evil, true and false, alive and dead, might be convenient words, but should only be seen as indications, not as definitions.

  Argus read slowly, trying to understand and remember everything. He felt his mind opening up to infinite possibilities, yet at the same time he was disappointed that there were no practical directions in the book. His mind was sated but his body was restless. The book seemed to assume throughout that the journey was dangerous; it was implied in every sentence. Yet there was no indication of the form the danger might take, nor any suggestion of how to overcome it.

  His father was of more practical help, though still vague. ‘You take what you choose, and go where you choose,’ he said when he came back into the room. ‘What you take and where you go will tell you a good deal about who you are. Each item you pack will slow you down with its weight. If comfort is important to you, then you might take toilet paper. If safety is important to you, take bandages. If time matters, then take a clock. But remember, speed is not everything. The slow traveller sees detail.’ He laughed. ‘But as for me, I always regretted not taking toilet paper.’

  Chapter Two

  When Argus left, mid-afternoon, he was surprised to find that it was his father who seemed most affected. His mother was grave, almost detached, but his father could hardly speak and, as Argus hugged him, his eyes filled with tears. Argus strode away. To his disappointment his dog, whom he had imagined would have to be chained up to stop him following, did not even notice him go.

  His father had told Argus that everything he saw would be important and should be noted. Knowing this made Argus more observant. He felt fresh and aware and, although he was still in familiar country, he found himself seeing things he had never seen before. The way in which a tree seemed to have one side dominant over the other. And the apparent symmetry of a tree concealed so much internal variation and chaos. ‘Trees don’t bother about how big or small they are,’ Argus realised with some surprise, thinking about how he had worried lately about his own size and shape. ‘They just keep growing upward and outward until they’ve finished. They’re beautiful, no matter what.’

  But for Argus, who had been living in the country for almost as long as he could remember, it was the towns and villages that were exerting a powerful influence on him now. He wanted to mix with crowds of people, to meet strangers and to smell their sweat, to hear their conversations and to watch their faces. He was intensely curious. He quickened his pace, not to get to some unknown destination more quickly, but simply to get away from the valley that he knew and the sights to which he had been long accustomed.

  At around dusk he passed through the town of Random where his parents did their trading. He did not pause, but was aware of the curious stares of the adults in the street, who knew at once what he was about, but were forbidden by the strongest customs (those who knew him) to speak or wave to him, as he was forbidden to speak or wave to them. But he felt no inclination to jeopardise his new independence by doing so.

  Argus walked on into the night. He took apples from an orchard and ate them as he went, and then had some bread from his pack. He wasted twenty minutes trying to pick some blackberries in the dark. Although he succeeded in picking quite a number, he did not find them particularly filling, and the scratches were discouraging. Nevertheless the food he had eaten gave him the energy to climb the pass out of the valley. He topped it at around midnight, with a sense of tired triumph, and soon afterwards dropped down into a gully, where he rolled himself up in his blanket and, trying to ignore the shuffles and whispers of the night, closed his eyes and fell asleep. He slept well. A few times he woke to change position when his hip became uncomfortable, but he quickly went back to sleep each time.

  In the morning he was hungry, but he knew from experience that the hunger would pass; he ignored it and climbed back up to the road to resume his travels. Once he had walked off his early-morning stiffness he was again able to set a good pace. He was still in a valley that he knew, but he had not been this far often and he kept onwards with a growing sense of excitement.

  In the early afternoon he passed the gate that led to the Kakas’ farm; this property, belonging to friends of his parents, marked the limit of his known territory. From this point on, although the landscape had not changed significantly, the boy was vividly aware that each stone and each tree, each view of the distant mountains, was new and fresh to his eyes.

  When he bedded down, at a comparatively early hour, Argus had spent a day with virtually no human contact, though he was hardly aware of the fact. He had been yelled at by a distant farmer, when he hopped a fence to pick some sunflower seeds, but he had met no-one on the road. As well as the sunflower seeds, he had eaten more bread and blackberries, and had stolen some potatoes from a paddock. That evening, for the first time, he lit a fire, for comfort mainly, but also to cook the potatoes. He lacked the patience, however, to wait for the fire to settle down into the coals that he needed for cooking; as a result, he ate the potatoes half-raw.

  He lay that night looking up at the stars. As the fire faded and its light dimmed, Argus’ night sight improved, and he was able to discern more and more stars, until the black sky was richly alive with them: a staggering coruscation spread across the dark backdrop like huge numbers of glow-worms in a cave. ‘Perhaps that’s what I’m living in,’ Argus thought, ‘a cave with a ceiling that keeps changing colour . . . and all those stars are really insects … friendly insects, though.’ He turned over and considered another problem. ‘If it takes the light from the stars years to reach us, then when I look at the stars now, I’m actually seeing the past … it’s a fire that was burning millions of years ago, and might have gone out hundreds of thousands of years ago, but I’m seeing it now. Not a picture of it but the actual thing, a fire that’s actually out.’ He asked himself another question: ‘Is this the only time we ever get to see the past?’ He realised then with a shock that, because light takes time to travel, everything he saw was already something from the past, had already happened.

  His mind drifted on, to think of incidents from his own life. One of his first memories was of being
in the house alone one afternoon and lighting a fire on his bedroom floor because he was cold. He remembered how he carefully assembled and ignited the kindling, and got a small but cheerful blaze going. He remembered the reaction when his mother found him and the chaos as the fire was extinguished. Later, when everyone had calmed down, his grandmother said to him, ‘You know, your father did exactly the same thing one day when he was your age. Nearly burnt the house down.’ Now he wondered, ‘Is everything new, everything that happens? Is it like walking down a road where you can’t go backwards, or is it like I pick moments out of a big collection of moments, and relive them? The way a parrot picks at seeds on the ground?’ As he drifted into sleep he began dreaming of a huge library of books, in which men and women and children were constantly taking down the volumes from the shelves, and glancing at them, or browsing through them, or reading them thoroughly, and then replacing them. Some books would then be immediately taken down by someone else; some would sit back on their shelves for quite a time before being touched again; but all the books were handled more than once by the people in the library.

  In the morning Argus was hungry, but he was anxious not to eat too much from his pack, and so he pressed on. The land was opening out now into a flatter, more arable terrain, different from the valleys in which he had spent his childhood. Away to his right, on the distant horizon, was a thin column of black smoke. Around mid-morning Argus came to a gate and driveway that clearly led to a farmhouse; without much hesitation he opened the gate and walked up the drive to the house. Dogs barked at him as he approached, but as soon as he made friends with one, the others forgot their hostility and they all ran to him, fawning and licking and snuffling. An old man came out of a shed and looked at Argus who had prepared his speech and now delivered it.