The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) (71 page)

“
I am you,” the boy said.

Wally gazed at the boy. He looked past him into the distance. He saw a line of people dancing. He heard the sound of didgeridoos and sticks, and low singing. He saw the paint on the faces and the red dust rising up from the bare feet as they danced. He heard the laughing of the kookaburra.

“
Time to go,” said the boy.

“
I reckon, son,” Wally said.

The boy helped Wally to stand, and took his hand, and together they walked slowly toward where the people danced and sang. The people stopped dancing and singing and they came around Wally and smiled and put their hands upon him.

Together they began to the walk toward the horizon where the sun waited, pulsing softly like the golden heart of great Australia, and Birring Barga disappeared into the glistening mirage and was gone from the world of men.

***

It wasn’t much of a Christmas. A rag-arsed gang of stumblebum winos gathered around a brazier in an alley under a shit-colored sky. A few of them were out of the game already, passed out in piss-stained castoffs in pools of vomit. The only good news was the bucket and Matilda. The bucket was filled with the dregs from every bar that was willing to indulge in a spirit of goodwill to all and heave whatever spirits were leftover into whatever receptacles the boys could come up with. The bucket was being constantly topped up throughout the night as more drunken, destitute, scarecrow desperados joined the party.

Matilda was lying in the deepest part of the darkness, with a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other, taking on anybody that could still crank one up for the price of a cigarette or a slug from a rusty tin can.

Somewhere, somebody sang in a remarkably pure and clear voice, “I’m dreaming of a shite Christmas…”

Monsoon sat on the periphery of the group, the flickering light from the fire illuminating the side of his face as he sat huddled in a blanket clutching his tin cup full of who-knew-what, staring into the night at the images of an incomprehensible past, and the road strewn with shards of broken glass, gypsy kisses, and angel farts that had led him to this.

A rummy with toxic breath and a face like a warthog’s sanitary towel staggered over and sat next to him. Monsoon ignored him. The hobo stared at him intensely. Monsoon took a deep swallow from his cup of whatever. At that particular moment it was the nectar of paradise. He closed his eyes.

The bum suddenly began to shout. “Hey. Hey. Fucking look at this. It’s fucking Tiger Woods.”

Monsoon stood up as all heads turned toward him. He walked up to the bucket and dipped his cup in, filling it to the brim, and walked away from the light and the mob. At the corner of the alley, a solitary yellow bulb held the night at bay, and by its dim light, the tears that ran down Monsoon Parker’s cheeks glittered like rivers of gold.

Finis.

Dedication

This installment of The Big Bamboo novels is dedicated to Sara Bangs, its editor, for once again turning a clapped-out Model T into a Ferrari.

Without Sara and her inspiration, this book would never have been written.

About the Author

A line in Ulysses reads, “Only the sacred pint can unbind the tongue of Dedalus.” Shane Norwood firmly believes this, just as he believes that it would be foolish in the extreme to argue with James Joyce. For this reason he has dedicated himself to the diligent consumption of copious amounts of booze before sitting down to write, in an effort to emulate the great ones. How successful this experiment turns out to be remains to be seen, but in the meantime it can be safely said that Shane Norwood seriously enjoys his writing.

Shane is a devoted family man who keeps food on the tables by walking around in circles in Chile masquerading as a casino manager, and occasionally pretending to be Robert Mitchum. Shane was born in a steel town in the north of England in 1955. Shane has five children. He is engaged in a breeding competition with his eldest daughter who is currently winning six to five. Although his soul knows it is English because of the larceny that lurks therein, the rest of him is no longer sure. One daughter is American, one is from Kenya, one son is from South Africa, two sons are from Chile, his wife is from Argentina, his horse is an Arab, and his dog is Italian. At one time Shane was a fisherman in Hawaii. In his heart he still is, although he hopes that, pretty soon, he will also be able to think of himself as a writer.

Credits

This book is a work of art produced by The Zharmae Publishing Press.

T. Denise Clary |
Editor-in-Chief

Sara Bangs |
Editor

Tony Kuoch |
Artist

Star Foos |
Designer

Benjamin Grundy |
Typesetter

Rachel Garcia |
Reader

Allison Oesterle |
Copy Editor

Sarah Landauer |
Proofreader

Ally Boice |
Copy Writer

Andrew Call |
Reviewer

Edward Mack |
Coordinating Producer

Erin Sinclair |
Managing Editor

Travis Robert Grundy |
Publisher

January 2016 |
The Zharmae Publishing Press