Epilogue
The klaxon of a diving submarine interrupted a dream about burnt biscuits. This made no sense, for Max had never baked anything – let alone biscuits. He only knew the sound belonged to a steam-driven submersible because of a play he had once seen. It had been about the brave men who sailed and died beneath the waves during the Great War.
Neither the dream nor the sound were good omens. He recalled that the wooden-hulled war-craft had not been successful. The German Confederates were forced to surrender by the spring of 1912 and Britannia continued to rule the waves (and Australia, India and North America) to this day.
‘Cut it out!’ he growled when the alarm sounded again. For sheer annoyance, both the sound and the parrot from whom it issued were very effective.
‘Good morning, master,’ said his smart-parrot, climbing down from her perch. ‘You wouldn’t believe pe dream I just had.’ Trouble with “f” and “th” sounds were known defects of this heirloom species of parrot. ‘Pe world was all smoking sparks, and people could ply! Pe weirdest part, you were much paler and I had no peathers. In my dream I was your plorist.’
Max rubbed his eyes and yawned. ‘Florist? What’s a florist? No, don’t tell me. I’m not interested. What time is it?’
‘Eight pourty pive.’
‘You were supposed to wake me at eight.’
‘I tried.’
Max doubted this was true. Harriet was not only a depreciated breed of personal parrot (as evident by her gaudy colours), but she had also been a hand-me-down from Max’s brother. Robbie regularly threw things at her, and, being a smart-bird, she had developed some bad habits – like adding an hour to the requested time for any wake-up calls.
‘Have you at least received this morning’s news?’ Max asked and Harriet bobbed her head. ‘Just give me the top headlines then.’
‘Okay,’ she said and began to parrot what she had received by psychic link during the night. His brother had trained her to read the news in a posh English accent. “In breaking news, pe United World Council announced an emergency session pollowing pe discovery of a manned base on the moon. Pis is in direct violation of the Lunar Wilderness agreement. Contact with pese squatters has proved dippicult as pey are not responding to any known semapore or psychic link. No agency or nation has claimed responsibility.
“In local news, pe unexplained disappearance of pe Governor General’s residence in Canberra has been blamed on greedy developers. Sir Robert and Lady Geldop claim they only discovered peir riverside mansion had vanished when pey woke on the lawns at midnight. When asked about rumours pat pey had sold the King’s property, Sir Robert would only add pat he hated Mondays. Pis puts into some doubt the planned tour by King Charles and Queen Camilla next monp.
“Now for sport. Pe koala tossing nationals will be held...”
‘Enough.’ Max gave his bird a cracker, then levered himself out of bed and out of his room.
In the living room, he accidentally caught a glimpse of Rachel and Tom’s many limbs entangled on the sofa. The image that remained on his retinas was too much to digest and Max decided to skip breakfast. He got ready for Uni as quietly as possible. It was only while scooping his homework from the dining room table that he disturbed them.
Rachel opened an eye. ‘Morning, Max. Be a darl and throw some food in the vat?’
Grumbling, Max quickly poured some of the grain into the central bioreactor that both heated and powered their shared home. He tried, but failed, to feel resentful that he did whatever Rachel asked.
‘Don’t you have class today?’ he whispered.
She nodded while yawning. ‘But does the world really need two more arts graduates?’
Max considered this then waved his hand over them in benediction, ‘Be at peace ...’
‘… and tread softly.’ Rachel completed the house motto, then went back to sleep.
Harriet flew onto Max’s shoulder and they set off.
Outside, the sky was crystal clear and really too chilly for a bike ride. It should have been warmer this far into spring. Harriet moved onto his back to avoid the breeze. The bike bumped down the tree-lined drive and onto the unpaved street. Mr Brown, their nearest neighbour for a kilometre, was already working on his vegetable garden in just his baggy pyjamas. Max waved and Mr Brown held up a bunch of enormous, wriggling, red carrots.
‘I’ll leave them by your door,’ Mr Brown shouted while rescuing his pants from gravity.
Max shouted his thanks but doubted Mr Brown would hear him. He should spend more time helping Mr Brown. He and the other students would get almost no protein without Mr Brown’s crops.
‘Proceed pree hundred metres, pen take pe next lept and lept again.’ Harriet said this with a monotonous American accent that was only improved by her speech impediment.
‘Why are you in navigation mode, Harriet?’
‘Your request, master. You couldn’t pind your way home last night.’
Max tried to remember the previous evening and could not do that either. He was fairly sure he had been studying in the library, but the numbers which floated in his head no longer added up. What else had he forgotten, an exam perhaps? Something important had happened last night but heavens knew what it might be.
The university college had inserted so many bizarre subjects into his nerdematician course that he could easily have missed one. Max relied heavily on Harriet to remind him where he needed to be on any given day. Maybe this had been a mistake. He had heard that society was becoming too dependant on its parrots.
‘Well I don’t need your help now,’ he told his feathered assistant in a fit of independence. He only just managed to dodge around a pile of guano that littered the road.
Max heard insane laughter from the bush turkeys roosting in the street trees above. It would be asking for an eyeful to look up, but he did so anyway. A particularly large turkey seemed to be waiting for just this chance but mistimed the drop. The other turkeys sniggered at its failure and it flew away with great lumbering flaps to try its luck on another target.
The turkeys could easily have been mistaken for vultures. Fortunately, they were only stopping in Canberra as part of their annual migration. Soon they would be annoying the residents of Melbourne instead. Both of the common sub-species were present at the moment – the grey nomad (usually the first to arrive and the last to leave) and the more annoying bogan variety (that could never leave soon enough). He also spotted a few hybrids which were becoming increasingly common.
It was illegal to harm the bush turkeys. His grandmother had said it was because of a stupid superstition handed down through the generations. Indigenous people all over the world believed the turkeys were the reincarnations of people who had wasted their former lives – or believed they had. Apparently turkey numbers in the Northern hemisphere were in the millions, far greater than the world’s human population. If the myth was true, then there were a lot of wasted lives. Max was determined not to waste his.
Max reached the junction with Northborne Avenue only to find the traffic unusually heavy. Bicycles packed all the lanes, wheel to wheel, and the steam trams were slowed from their usual brisk pace. The giant thunder birds pulling heavy delivery trucks should have been off the road hours ago – they had a tendency to snap at passing cyclists. Max concluded everyone had slept in.
The trees over this main avenue were engineered to prevent either rain or excessive sunlight from falling on the cyclists, making it possible to cycle all year round, but for this fine day their leaves were rotated to trap the morning sun. It was slightly warmer here in the crush but he was still glad to leave the main road for the University track where the riders were younger and faster.
Another parrot flew up beside them, bearing the pale blue plumage of the BangHappy avian-engineering company. Who could be calling? Harriet and this blue chattered briefly before it peeled away.
‘Master,’ Max’s parrot whispered in his ear, ‘A message prom your priend Con. “Please slow down. Pup Pup. I’ve been trying to catch up por the last ten minutes.”’
Max pulled into a passing bay and waited for his friend. Confucius was an over-weight boy four years younger than Max. They had met in first year bio-engineering, but Con was now two years ahead of Max in most subjects. Max could only keep up with the child-genius in the softer subjects like calculus and organic chemistry. Con arrived puffing and red-faced despite the downhill gradient. ‘What’s your hurry Max? Didn’t you get the message? Doctor Taylor’s class has been cancelled.’
Harriet put her head under a wing. ‘Sorry. I pought it was a hoax.’
Max could not blame his parrot for this error. ‘He never cancels. I’ve heard he once gave a lecture with a broken jaw. Is he dying this time?’
Con shook his head vigorously. ‘No such luck. We’ve been told to meet at the pond. It has been a very odd day. My parents didn’t even chide me for being late. They also said they were proud of me and gave me this new parrot. The world has gone crazy.’
They followed the track to a bend in the creek where the willows hung their fresh leaves into a large pond. Normally bilbies would be scampering over the lawns, but today crowds of spectators lined the banks, cheering as a man in cycling shorts attempted to swim back-stroke alongside one of the University’s resident swans. His further attempt to emulate the swan’s outline (by holding up one knee and an arm) gained a roar of approval from the onlookers – mostly students from his nine o'clock natural-philosophy lecture.
Another of Max’s tutors, and a favourite of many, Professor Lehach watched from his wheel chair. The young woman standing beside the professor was holding his hand. Max had heard that the professor was keen on the ladies, but the age difference seemed to be extreme.
Con tugged on Max’s shirt and they headed over. The professor looked up as they approached. ‘Oh, hello Mr Ux, and is that Mr Clerk? We are too familiar with Confucius, aren’t we Phenalla, but Maxwell, have you met my grand-daughter?’
Max gave Con a questioning look. Phenalla was drop dead gorgeous and Con had never mentioned a word about her. She had the most radiant fun-loving smile Max had ever beheld.
He thought his appreciative gaze had been discrete, but Phenalla may have noticed, for she dropped her grand-father’s hand and floated over.
With a cheeky smile at Max, she grabbed Con’s shoulders and smothered Con with a passionate kiss that kept on giving. The professor looked away with a benign smile, but Max was fascinated. His friend’s neck turned first pink, then red. This secret romance explained why Con’s grades had been dropping lately. Con was being suffocated, both literally and figuratively.
Con’s new blue parrot and Phenalla’s green took the opportunity for a bit of mutual face preening while their owners remained close. If the crowd hadn’t been occupied with the swimmer, Max was sure this lasting embrace would have attracted some derision. Max counted to forty five. Surely Con would pass out soon.
‘Hello Max,’ said Phenalla the moment she released his friend and while still breathless herself. ‘Call me Alla. Con has told me lots about you. I feel I already know you. You’re the workaholic, right?’
‘Ah. Sure,’ said Max. There was an awkward silence during which Con merely smiled like an idiot. ‘Um, if you’re the prof’s grand-daughter, then would that be your father paddling in the creek?’
Doctor Taylor continued his aquatic exhibition by demonstrating the butterfly stroke. Max hoped there wouldn’t be a test on this next week. He was hopeless at sports.
‘My son-in-law is a prime idiot,’ the professor answered on Alla’s behalf. ‘He was showing off to my daughter, Cathy – she’s here somewhere. Doing wheel stands on his bike. Ended up in the creek. This is why Graeme should only ever be a theoretical philosopher. I’d fear for our safety if he started practising what he preaches.’
‘Professor.’ Max moved closer. ‘I’ve been meaning to catch up with you. I’m developing some theories that I’d like you to look over.’ Max reached for his satchel.
‘Stop!’ The scream had come from down by the water. A woman in her early forties, who could only be Alla’s mother, hastily pushed her bicycle up the bank through the crowd. She placed herself directly between Max and her father. She frowned for a moment at Alla and Con, who were only holding hands, then cast a sales-room smile on Max. She casually dropped her bike against his and held out her hand. ‘Hi, Max. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.’
‘Sorry. Do you know me?’ He took his hand out of the satchel to shake hers.
‘Sure I do,’ she said. ‘You’re Graeme’s PhD student. I’m his wife, Cathy. That is, I’m Doctor Taylor’s wife, not yours. Ha ha. ’
Max shook his head, bemused. ‘Sorry, Mrs Taylor. I’ve not graduated yet. You must be confusing me with another Max.’
Cathy tilted her head. ‘Yes, now that you mention it, you’re definitely younger than the Max I knew. I see you’ve met my daughter. Are you starting cosmology this year too?’
‘Mum!’ Alla exclaimed and pushed in front of her mother. ‘Max and Con are two years ahead of me.’ She turned to Max. ‘Anyway, since you know Con, and now <italic>all<end italic> my family, how about coming to my eighteenth birthday? We’re a bit short on the guys.’
‘I .. um ..’ Max was so distracted by this threat of advanced social activity that he didn’t notice Cathy reaching into his satchel – not until Harriet bit her. The sound of their mutual screams, and that of his metaphysics project hitting the damp pavement, caused him to jump back, scraping his shin on a bike pedal. ‘What? What were you doing?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Is this your work? I was just curious.’ Cathy sucked her finger while treading some of his papers into the mud. She picked up a notebook that had remained dry. ‘Very nice hand writing. Shows you’ve good character. What’s it all about?’
Max turned to the others for support in the face of this mad woman, but their expressions remained neutral. He had the terrible feeling that some sort of conspiracy was in play. Alla’s mother was being deliberately mean and no one cared.
‘Ah… it’s a bit complicated,’ Max tried to reach for his book and nearly fell over their entangled bicycles. ‘I’ve been working on James Maxwell’s special theory regarding the use of heat transfer vortex for differential separation at resonant frequencies. Someone once referred to the process as Maxwell’s demon, and the name stuck. Certainly much easier to say. Maxwell’s work was only ever theoretical. I’m trying to apply it.’ He paused before adding. ‘It’ll probably never work.’
‘Oh, in that case, better to play it safe and do something else. Here, I’ll help you.’ Cathy turned away and shouted, ‘Graeme! Have a look at what your student’s written.’ She ran down the bank with Max’s note book flapping in her hand. She didn’t stop when she reached the edge and leapt fully clothed into the pond, not far from her husband. The splash scared the swans and sent the students into a screaming delight. Many considered joining their elders until Cathy cried, ‘It’s ffffffreezing in here.’
Max was having trouble closing his jaw. The two supposed adults were fighting over his soggy theories and yet he had the insane idea that it was he who had wronged them. He wasn’t even sure if he remembered what he had written in that notebook. Maybe he should have made a copy.
‘Your mum is crazy,’ Con told Alla, but Max could tell his best friend was amused. Some friend! Con had always said Max was wasting his time on the demon theories, but the annoying part was that Con was probably right. Max knew he would only be young once, and there would be plenty of time later in life to advance nerdimatics.
‘Yep,’ said Alla casually. ‘Well, Max, you’ll come? It’s my birthday today, but the party is on Saturday.’
‘What? Er, happy birthday, but I think I’ve a Parrot Users Group meeting this Saturday.’
‘Incorrect,’ squawked Harriet. ‘Parrot club last priday. Your calendar is clear.’
‘He’ll come,’ Con declared with a laugh. ‘I’ll porce him. Max spends too much time pinking anyway.’
Harriet growled.
Down in the pond, Cathy and her husband were swimming after the swans in the direction of the lake. Then Max corrected his thoughts – there was no lake, only a naturally flowing river. Why did he think there was a lake?
‘Yeah. I can see he’s pinking again. Hey, Con!’ Alla exclaimed. ‘How about we team him up with your sister?’
‘Lin?’ Confucius looked doubtful. ‘Sure, they’re both geeks, but sis is a lot older than Max.’
‘Not that much. Anyway, I have a feeling Max likes older women.’
Where had she got that idea? Max had not met Con’s sister. Would Lin Ux be anything like her brother? He shuddered at the thought. As usual, life was not working out quite how he had planned, but who gets to choose how the biscuits will break?
Let us end with an excerpt from a poem titled “To K.M.D.” by James Clerk Maxwell 1831 – 1879 (K.M.D was his wife I believe.)
Who
can fold those flowers again,
In the way he found them?
Or
those spreading leaves restrain,
In the buds that bound
them?
...
What the opened buds reveal
Tells us—Life
is flowing;
What the buds, still shut, conceal,
We shall
end in knowing.