The Turning

Sand

FRANK AND HIS OLDER BROTHER MAX walked behind the men along the white beach at sunset. They walked for ages. The sun boiled in the sea and the bare dunes turned pink. Tackle jingled and pattered on the rods over the men’s shoulders. Frank listened to the rhythmic clink of the lantern glass and fell into step with it, singing under his breath: hot cross buns, hot cross buns. Veins stood out in his father’s legs. The men’s footprints were deep. They were like mouths with tongues of shadow hanging out of them. One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns. It wasn’t Easter but Frank couldn’t get the song out of his head.

Now and then Max darted ahead to walk amongst their father’s mates. He said things that made them laugh. He was ten already and could make men laugh. He didn’t miss their mother. Frank knew he should shut up about her; it was only two weeks.

When they finally came to the rocks the men shoved pipes into the sand to stand their rods in and their father lit the gas lamp. The sun was gone but the sky was still light; it swirled yellow and green and blue like a bruise. When the tackle boxes opened he smelt whale oil and mulies. Frank watched his father tie on a gang of hooks whose curves flashed in the lamplight. Around them the others muttered and smoked. They were just like ladies knitting, like his mother’s friends. Max was down at the water’s edge skimming shells out across the tops of waves that spilled across the shelf of reef.

Now that he was used to him, Frank loved his father. It took a few days every summer to like the sweet and sour smell of him again, to understand the dark cracks in his palms and the way he squinted behind the smoke of his fag. Frank watched him pick up a half-frozen mulie and stitch it up the hooks. Max came up and threw himself down on the sand between them.

Now you boys behave yourselves, he said getting up off his haunches. When the tide drops you can come out onto the reef with us, orright?

Can we play in the sandhills? Max asked.

Yeah, but don’t go far. We might need someone to run the gaff out for us.

The other two men were wading out across the reef, the baits swinging in the last of the light, and before their father could join them they were casting into the gloom.

For a while Frank knelt in the warm sand to watch. You could see their heads and the curves of their rods against the sky. They were laughing. Moths came out of the dark to butt against the hot white glass of the lantern.

Max picked up the pack of matches that lay on the tackle box.

Let’s go up the hills, he said, slipping the matches into the pocket of his shorts.

Orright.

They walked over to the steep foredune and clawed up it and on the other side the sandhills rolled on and on forever. Frank jogged behind his brother down into long gullies and for long stretches the sand was firm under foot. All the way Frank heard the matches rattle in Max’s shorts. He breathed in time. He began to sing.

One-a-penny, two-a-penny—

Shut that up.

Sorry.

They ran until a wall of sand loomed and they kept at it until the slope made Frank feel they were running on the spot. In the end they clambered to the crest and straddled the knife edge of the dune so sand ran down the insides of their legs and spilled from the tips of their toes. If you listened hard enough you could hear the sand hiss as it slipped away. Max pulled out the matches and shook the box until it sounded like a rattler on a cowboy show.

What’re you gunna do? said Frank warily. You had to be careful with Max. He had side teeth like a dog and a way of looking at you that you could feel in the dark.

You don’t know what a blue flame is, do ya.

A what?

Watch this.

A match flared between them and Max lifted his legs and farted. Nothing happened until the flame scorched Max’s fingers and he dropped it and left them in darkness.

That was it?

No, stupid.

Frank looked seaward. He couldn’t see the beach or the grownups but the glow of the lamp was visible.

Max lit up again but nothing happened.

Here, he said, chucking the matches. Help me. Light one and hold it close.

Close?

To me bum, stupid.

When after several tries Frank got the match lit he saw that Max had slid his shorts off and was arched back with his bum off the sand.

Carn, hurry up!

Frank leant in and found himself peering at the dark squint of Max’s bumhole. He began to tremble with pent up laughter.

Closer, stupid.

Frank took the flame right in but he wasn’t very steady. He had the giggles now and something fizzed and Max recoiled with a howl.

You bastard!

Frank lurched to his feet. Max lunged at him and Frank spun away down the incline while his brother grabbed at his shorts. Frank could hear himself laughing as he went. Max was stronger and he could punch fast but Frank knew he could always outrun him. He spilled down into the hollow and found hard, flat sand as Max came roaring. The more he weaved and feinted the madder Max got. It was always like this, with him giggling nervously and Max bellowing behind. Frank knew how much Max hated him being faster. He could really duck and dart. At school lunchtimes the big boys always picked him for their footy team and they didn’t care what Max said. Their mother called him Rabbit and she didn’t care what Max said.

But the more he thought of Max behind him, boiling and spitting as he was now, the heavier Frank felt. He knew he could outrun him but the idea of Max got to his legs; the fear seeped into him and bogged him down until he just gave up and fell to his knees and waited for the flogging he knew would come. But when Max caught up he just sprawled out, panting.

I didn’t mean it, said Frank. It was an accident.

His brother rolled over. A fat red moon emerged from behind the highest, farthest dune. Frank felt sand in his shorts. His undies sagged, full and bulky with it, the way they were the day he pooped his pants at school. He remembered the way he had to wide-leg it to the toilets. With all the kids laughing. And how he locked himself inside to wait for his mother. How Max came in and said he’d kill him if he didn’t stop bawling and clean himself up. You’re adopted, he said, they found you on the tip, in a kennel. The day went on forever and their mother never came.

Max, I didn’t know how to do it.

Aw, shut up, said his brother.

It was an accident.

Orright, it was an accident. Let’s dig.

Dig what? said Frank carefully. He was surprised at how fast Max was forgiving him and a little uneasy at how suddenly the moon had appeared.

A hole, dickhead. A tunnel. Like in the movies. An escape tunnel. We can come back to it, hide stuff.

Okay, said Frank, picturing it.

Over here, said Max. This bit’s kind of wet and hard.

In the strange light of the moon they dug into the side of the bare white hill, just bored right in like dogs. They didn’t speak. Frank was spurred on by the intensity of Max’s work. He dragged away what Max scooped back between his legs and after a while all you could see was Max’s feet sticking out of the side of the dune.

Funny, said Max, wriggling his way back out. It’s quiet in there. You can’t hear anythin.

Can I try?

Nah, you’re too small.

Aw, Max! Please?

I dunno. Orright. Just a quick go. We gotta go deeper.

Frank wasted no time in case Max changed his mind. He wormed his way into the dark hole and was interested at how warm it was inside. There was an odd mineral smell but no sound, only his breathing. He lay there with his hand outstretched to touch the curved wall. Then he heard a hiss behind him. A bit of dry sand spilled against his feet from outside. There was a squeak and then more squeaks. It was Max walking around out there. He was climbing up the dune. No, he was stomping on it. Frank felt a thud overhead.

Max?

Frank got up on his elbows. There was another thud. A warm clod hit him in the back of the neck. Something fell in the dark ahead and a gust of air rose against his face. He scrambled backwards and was halfway out when it all came down on his head with a whoof and pinned him flat like the weight of a whole team piling in, going stacks-on-the-mill. All his breath rushed out and sand pressed warm into his eyes and ears and rammed against his tight-shut lips. Then his legs began to twitch; they flailed as though they didn’t even belong to him. They writhed and churned in loose sand. His feet were free. His knees dug in so that his whole body could twist. Then he got an arm free and pushed up hard. The great heavy crust parted around his neck and he was out, on his feet, running blind and gulping in sobs of air and choking grit until he fell coughing, crying, alone on the sand.

Frank bawled until his eyes washed clear enough to see the blurry moon. He saw the dunes all around him holding up the edges of the sky. Everything was white and woolly. Even his feet and arms were ghostly. He got up and ran. His feet chuffed in powdery sand. He was the only sound in the world.

He reached a crest and saw the dark plane of the sea flecked with moonlight. His chest hurt. It felt like he’d swallowed the earth but he didn’t stop running.

When he saw the lantern he spilled down onto the beach, holding everything in. The men stood in the light with their rods and in their midst Max stood with a mulloway across his back, silver as a prince’s cape, glistening from arm to arm, still wet and trembling. Their father turned with the gaff in his hand. The smile left his face. Frank wide-legged it towards them, apologizing all the way.