Beyond the Labyrinth Read online

  Beyond the Labyrinth

  A novel

  By Gillian Rubinstein

  About Untapped

  Most Australian books ever written have fallen out of print and become unavailable for purchase or loan from libraries. This includes important local and national histories, biographies and memoirs, beloved children’s titles, and even winners of glittering literary prizes such as the Miles Franklin Literary Award.

  Supported by funding from state and territory libraries, philanthropists and the Australian Research Council, Untapped is identifying Australia’s culturally important lost books, digitising them, and promoting them to new generations of readers. As well as providing access to lost books and a new source of revenue for their writers, the Untapped collaboration is supporting new research into the economic value of authors’ reversion rights and book promotion by libraries, and the relationship between library lending and digital book sales. The results will feed into public policy discussions about how we can better support Australian authors, readers and culture.

  See untapped.org.au for more information, including a full list of project partners and rediscovered books.

  Readers are reminded that these books are products of their time. Some may contain language or reflect views that might now be found offensive or inappropriate.

  For my sister, Jocelyn,

  who knows the more excellent way

  But even children,

  though they are far ahead of adults in cleverness,

  are perplexed and alone when they confront fate.

  Hermann Hesse

  A Child’s Heart

  Contents

  I. The Way In

  II. At the Centre

  III. The Way Out

  IV. Choices

  If you threw over 6

  If you threw 6 or under

  THE WAY IN

  1.

  Normally his name is Brenton Trethewan and he is fourteen years old, but right now he is a nameless and ageless hero, involved in a dangerous and deadly quest. His thin, rather small body is lying on the rug of his bedroom floor, but his mind is away in the Labyrinth of Dead Ends, where he’s trying to decide if he should stand and fight the Trollwife of the Cave or if he should leap up and grasp the iron chain that swings over his head. At the moment he’s high on skill, low on stamina and low on luck, and he lost his shield two moves before.

  He throws the dice thinking, ‘If the score’s higher than six I’ll fight, and if it’s lower I’ll go for the chain.’ He’s faced the Trollwife before and he’s never got past her.

  Three and two fall uppermost.

  Turn to page 115, the book tells him. He turns the pages hurriedly and reads:

  The iron chain is a booby trap. As you grasp it the roof of the tunnel you are in collapses and you are buried alive under tons of rock. Your part in this adventure is over.

  ‘Aw!’ Brenton exclaims. He pushes the book away, scoops up the dice and rolls over onto his back. He is lying there, wondering whether to resurrect himself from beneath the tons of rock and set out again through the Labyrinth of Dead Ends, when the door of his bedroom flies open and a pile of bedclothes walks in. Somewhere underneath it is his brother, Michael.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Mick?’ Brenton demands. There’s no answer from the animated pile of bedclothes; it staggers across the room, kicks aside the Labyrinth of Dead Ends and collapses in a heap against the wall under the window. From beneath it Michael Trethewan emerges. A look of amusement mixed with trepidation crosses his face as he foresees the devastating effect his words are going to have on his older brother.

  ‘Mum says I’ve got to move in with you!’

  ‘What!’ Brenton shrieks in horror.

  Chris Trethewan appears at the door. ‘Vicky’s going to have Mick’s room and Mick’s going to share with you.’ When Brenton groans in disbelief she goes on angrily, ‘Brenton I told you that.’

  ‘You can’t have told me loud enough. I must have been blocking it out. I probably didn’t believe anything so terrible could actually happen.’ He is up off the floor now and retreating toward his bed. ‘Why can’t Vicky share with Shelley? That makes much more sense!’

  ‘No it doesn’t,’ his mother retorts. ‘Shelley needs a room of her own—she’s nearly seventeen and Vicky’s only twelve. Now take this end of Michael’s bed and help me lift it in.’

  ‘It’s much worse for me,’ Michael observes gloomily, looking around the room. ‘Imagine trying to go to sleep with World War III all over the walls.’

  ‘Brenton can take all that down,’ his mother says rather breathlessly, struggling with the bed.

  ‘No, Brenton cannot!’ he of that name returns promptly, letting his end of the bed down with a thud on the floor. He looks possessively at his nuclear weapons collection. The entire wall above his bed is covered with pictures of mushroom clouds, nuclear explosions and weapons, newspaper articles and statistics, from Hiroshima to Star Wars. Framed in black a picture of a clock shows the hands at three minutes to midnight.

  ‘They give me nightmares,’ Michael complains.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Chris Trethewan agrees, looking at the collection distastefully and frowning. ‘They’d give me nightmares too.’

  ‘It’s not the stuff on the walls that gives me nightmares,’ Brenton says. ‘They’re just pictures. What gives me nightmares are the things themselves. Taking the pictures down isn’t going to get rid of them.’ His voice is faintly accusing and he looks defiantly at his mother as though he holds her personally responsible for the non-peaceful use of atomic fission.

  ‘At least we wouldn’t have to think about them all the time,’ she says.

  ‘You should be thinking about them all the time,’ he returns seriously. His mother gives him a helpless look and changes the subject.

  ‘Help Mick with his bed and then come and do the washing up. And, Mick, you’d better have some breakfast. We must get the house straight before I leave for the airport.’

  When she is no longer in the room Brenton confides in Michael, ‘I can’t stop thinking about them.’

  ‘I know,’ Michael says awkwardly.

  It is typical of Brenton that he should switch from open hostility to vulnerability in a few seconds. Michael looks at him with reluctant compassion and then shrugs his shoulders. Lately he has been starting to see Brenton no longer as the older brother who has always been an inseparable part of his life, but as a quite distinct and different person, a person who often puzzles and irritates him, but who in some curious way needs his understanding and even his protection. Michael is already, at twelve, taller than his brother. He is heavily built with blue eyes and sandy hair, while Brenton has inherited the dark colouring and slight build of some remote Cornish ancestor, along with other traits that make him both stubborn and dreamy. Michael is not only physically the stronger of the two, emotionally and mentally he is more robust.

  He feels sorry for Brenton, but as usual he is unable to give the help he dimly realises Brenton needs. It makes him want to get away. Being with Brenton is too disturbing, too painful, and he’s afraid one day he will react to the inner conflict with destruction rather than help.

  The moment extends itself unbearably. Finally Michael mumbles, without looking at his brother, ‘Think about something else. That’s what I do.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Brenton attacks scornfully, aware that he has let down his defences and needs to build them up again rapidly. ‘Fishing, sailing and cricket! You won’t be able to do them in the nuclear winter!’

  ‘I might as well enjoy them now then,’ Michael replies equably. He picks up the pile of bedclothes and slings it haphazardly on his bed. Any
one who has been out fishing on the gulf since four in the morning, as he has, finds it hard to believe in the nuclear winter. The idea of breakfast is a lot more real.

  2.

  ‘You’re not expecting me to look after her?’ Mick stops eating toast and jam long enough to stare at his mother in outrage.

  ‘You used to think she was okay,’ Brenton says. He is washing the breakfast dishes in a desultory fashion, staring out of the window and wondering if the faint lavender coloured haze between sky and sea could be the result of French nuclear tests in the Pacific.

  ‘I did not! Anyway that was eons ago.’ Even as Michael speaks a faint memory does return to him and he wrinkles up his nose as if he can smell smoke. He gets up from the table to put two more slices of bread in the toaster. It doesn’t want to go down. He thumps it hard.

  ‘Mick,’ his mother remonstrates. ‘You’ve got to treat it gently. And if you finish the bread now you’ll have to eat home-made for lunch. I’m not buying a loaf of shop bread every day just for you.’

  ‘Aw, Mum,’ he replies as the toaster finally surrenders and receives the white slices into itself. ‘You can’t toast home-made bread. It bungs up the toaster. Besides, shop bread tastes better.’

  ‘There speaks your genuine little Aussie,’ Brenton comments sarcastically. ‘White bread, tomato sauce and lollies! Building a nation of heroes!’

  ‘It’s building this hero without any problems,’ Michael says complacently, spreading the white toast with butter and jam. ‘You’re just jealous because you’ve stopped growing.’ He regards his brother critically as he sinks his teeth into the toast. ‘It’s not my fault you’re a dwarf.’

  Brenton makes no response to this gibe, but the rate at which Michael has overtaken him is something that bothers him. ‘I must be stunted,’ he thinks as he gazes out of the window toward the horizon. ‘I’ve been adversely affected by invisible radiation. I’m a mutant. I’ll be small forever.’ He has an unpleasant vision of his younger brother towering over him. He peers up at him like Jack the Giant Killer. ‘I’ll jump on his toes,’ he thinks madly. ‘Bite him on the kneecap, fart in his general direction...’

  ‘Hurry up, Brenton!’ Shelley Trethewan is waiting impatiently, tea towel in hand, drying the cutlery and dishes as soon as Brenton puts them in the rack. ‘Mum, he’s so slow,’ she complains. ‘I want to go down to the beach.’

  Brenton moves even more slowly. He takes a knife from the draining board and washes it with meticulous care as if it were a rare treasure. Just as he is placing it with painstaking precision in exactly the right spot on the rack, a car pulls up in the yard outside. A horn toots entreatingly.

  ‘That’s Jason,’ Shelley exclaims, a happy smile spreading over her broad, freckled face. With sandy hair the same colour as Michael’s, she is an attractive girl with large laughing eyes, and a tall slim figure. She drapes the tea towel around Brenton’s neck. ‘Gotta dash,’ she says. ‘Can’t keep the lad waiting. You’ll have to finish it off!’

  ‘Shelley!’ Brenton yells in rage, tearing the damp tea towel off and throwing it ineffectually after her, but she is already in the front seat of the old brown Valiant; she cannot hear him. The Valiant pulls away with a shriek of rubber and a cloud of dust. Brenton appeals to his mother. ‘It’s not fair! She never does her share!’

  ‘You could wash a bit faster, Brenton. You were infuriating her, you know.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to do it properly?’ he retorts.

  Chris sighs. It’s the first day of the summer holidays, and she foresees arguments over the washing up stretching ahead till February. Trying to be fair she says, ‘Mick, you help Brenton, please, when you’ve finished eating.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Brenton chips in. ‘How come you’re still guzzling? I finished breakfast hours ago.’

  ‘Ah, but you weren’t out fishing at four o’clock, were you?’ Mick pours himself a cup of tea from the pot on the table. He adds sugar and milk and takes a tentative sip.

  ‘This tea’s cold!’ he says in surprise.

  ‘What do you bloody expect?’ Brenton enquires. ‘It’s been sitting on the table for an hour.’

  ‘Brenton!’ his mother warns. It’s not the swearing she objects to so much as the aggressive tone of voice. Brenton doesn’t reply. He looks out of the window at the haze. He washes another knife. Michael drinks his cold tea.

  ‘What did you get?’ his mother asks.

  ‘Not much. A few Tommies and four squid. I put the Tommies in the freezer. I’ll take the squid up to the hotel later and see if they’ll buy them.’

  Brenton has put two plates in the rack. Now he balances a saucepan upside down between them. He puts a cup on top of the saucepan. The saucepan wobbles. The cup slides off it on to the floor and smashes.

  ‘Brenton!’ Chris exclaims angrily.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he explains. ‘No one’s drying the things up, so there’s no room for them in the rack.’

  ‘Michael, please stop eating and do the drying up now.’

  ‘It’s not my turn to dry,’ Michael replies. ‘I don’t mind washing. Brenton can dry.’ He gets up from the table and brings his plate and cup over to the sink.

  ‘Brenton, let Michael finish the washing, and you do the drying, please.’ Chris’s voice is muffled as she reaches into the cupboard below the sink for a dustpan and brush.

  ‘I’ve nearly finished the washing,’ Brenton points out.

  Michael puts his plate and cup down and leans slowly and deliberately against his brother. Brenton pushes back with all his strength. For about thirty seconds they strive silently by the sink, then Brenton’s foot slips in a damp patch left by the falling cup. He falls sideways, knocking the dustpan out of his mother’s hand and hitting his shoulder on the wall. Michael begins to wash with silent efficiency.

  Chris gives Brenton’s leg, which is lying in front of her, a swift, sharp slap.

  ‘Stop fooling around and get the drying done!’ she shouts.

  Brenton stares at her without moving. His face is closed, but calm as though he has just won a moral victory. ‘Now hit Mick,’ he tells her. ‘He started it.’

  Chris sweeps up the pieces of cup again, wraps them in newspaper and puts them in the bin. Then she speaks slowly and carefully.

  ‘Brenton, Victoria is arriving here today to spend the next few weeks with us. I’ll have to leave for the airport in an hour. I would like the washing up to be finished before that. Do you think that is possible?’

  He gets up from the floor, shrugging. ‘I expect so,’ he says. He picks up the towel and starts drying the dishes.

  ‘Weird name, isn’t it?’ Michael remarks cheerfully. ‘Imagine being called Tasmania!’

  ‘Or New South Wales!’ Brenton says. Both boys begin to laugh.

  ‘Howya doing, Northern Territory?’

  ‘Good to see ya, Queensland!’

  Chris does not think they are very funny. ‘She’s usually called Vicky,’ she says rather coldly.

  ‘Vicky and Micky,’ Brenton says, laughing even more. ‘Two dear little bunnies together, Vicky and Micky!’

  Michael takes a swipe at him. Brenton parries it, karate style, and returns a snap kick. They have a brief and noisy spar.

  ‘Watch out, Mick!’ their mother says as he gets his foot caught behind the broom with which she is trying to sweep the kitchen floor. She puts her arm around him to restrain him and gives him a mock-ferocious shake. ‘Are you coming to the airport with me?’

  ‘No way!’ Michael says, disentangling himself and directing a punch and a final hai at Brenton. ‘I’ve got to sell my squid and then I’m going over to Danny’s.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to come, Brenton.’

  3.

  Brenton groans, but he can’t immediately think of any brilliant reason why he shouldn’t go. It is always like this. Shelley and Michael do things; they have interests and hobbies and friends to share them with. The things they do are generally smiled on by thei
r parents. Shelley plays tennis and squash. She takes the games seriously and plays them well. Michael plays cricket and is passionate about sailing and fishing. But Brenton is bored by sports, and sailing makes him seasick. He likes swimming, but he doesn’t like being organised about it. He doesn’t like being organised about anything. Most of all he likes just mucking around and fiddling with things. Possibly he has a brilliant and original mind, but no one has ever recognised it, partly because no one has ever been looking for it. Brenton himself does not recognise it. He pretends not to be clever, because he learned at an early age that to be clever was to stand out in some way that was not appreciated by either children or parents. But even when he tries to do the same things as other people, he does them in a different way. He makes people uneasy.

  His mother is watching him uneasily now. The drying up is finished. The breakfast dishes are cleared away. Brenton has carefully spread the tea towel on the rail to dry. Now he takes a pair of dice out of his pocket and throws them lightly from hand to hand. He frowns and whistles almost silently. He throws the dice casually onto the kitchen table, looks at the numbers and scoops them up again. He looks around at his mother and gives her a bafflingly cheerful smile.

  ‘What time are we leaving?’ he asks.

  4.

  As the Falcon pulls out of the driveway and onto the road that will take them up the coast to the city, Chris Trethewan says anxiously to her son, ‘You will be nice to her, won’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Brenton replies honestly. He thinks, ‘Whatever the dice tell me: over six, I’ll like her, six and under, I won’t.’

  It’s a game he has taken to playing lately. It amuses him to base decisions on chance. It seems to him a good approximation of what the universe is like—quite unpredictable and arbitrary. And it astonishes him that no one in his family has cottoned on to what he is doing.

  Yesterday, playing Pandemonium with Michael, Brenton had secretly thrown the dice and the dice had told him to lose. He smiles now as he recalls the perverse feeling of power it gave him.