Lightning Tracks Read online

  Lightning Tracks

  Song Gate, Volume 1

  A. A. Kinsela

  Published by Plainspeak Publishing, 2018.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Lightning Tracks (Song Gate, #1)

  Chapter 1: Suspension

  Chapter 2: Striker’s Run

  Chapter 3: Wild lands

  Chapter 4: Solstice massacre

  Chapter 5: The border town

  Chapter 6: Questions and punishment

  Chapter 7: Escape plan

  Chapter 8: Desertion

  Chapter 9: The Auremos merchant

  Chapter 10: Joining the enemy

  Chapter 11: The lie of the land

  Chapter 12: Commander Julian

  Chapter 13: Priority target

  Chapter 14: Nallindéra

  Chapter 15: The Auremos vaults

  Chapter 16: Room with a view

  Chapter 17: Trial and tribulation

  Chapter 18: Valerius’ book

  Chapter 19: The Arai oath

  Chapter 20: The training field

  Chapter 21: Roan’s tracker

  Chapter 22: Maléya

  Chapter 23: Running the mountain

  Chapter 24: The test

  Chapter 25: Smoke

  Chapter 26: Blackmail

  Chapter 27: The governor’s house

  Chapter 28: Cover blown

  Chapter 29: Cal’s confession

  Chapter 30: Meeting at Blackrock Falls

  Chapter 31: Traitor

  Chapter 32: The amphitheatre

  Chapter 33: Julian’s revenge

  Chapter 34: Home at last

  Chapter 35: Saving Miles

  Chapter 36: Initiation

  Chapter 37: The ultimatum

  Chapter 38: Forked lightning

  Chapter 39: The mark of royalty

  Chapter 40: The song gate map

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  First published by Plainspeak Publishing in 2018

  Copyright © A. A. Kinsela 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whoever is greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Creator: A. A. Kinsela

  Title: Lightning Tracks

  ISBN: 978-0-9805947-5-1 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-0-9805947-6-8 (ebook)

  Cover design by A. A. Kinsela

  Cover photo © Curaphotography / Zoran Zeremski / John Fowler

  To my beloved tribe of boys:

  without you, I would not be the person I am today.

  Chapter 1: Suspension

  Nick’s uppercut sent Brandon reeling. A left hook followed. He readied his arm to jab again but two of Brandon’s mates sprang at him. They dragged Nick away, split his lip, tore his shirt, threw him to the ground, kicked his ribs. They would have done more if a swarm of teachers hadn’t erupted from the staffroom.

  Thirty minutes later, Nick lingered outside the principal’s office. He’d long suspected that the polished bronze plaque on the door was deliberately glued just above eye level so that everyone had to look up in order to read the engraving: Mrs Laura Cavendish, Principal. Nick had seen this sign for the first time in Year Seven. He’d been shorter then, and more than a little daunted by the prospect of facing the school’s figurehead, but now he was used to the visits.

  Nick slapped the dirt off his shorts. When he licked his lips, he tasted blood. That was good. If he looked wounded, Mrs Cavendish might be more sympathetic.

  He knocked, waited for the call of ‘Enter!’, and opened the door. Air conditioning breathed over him like a sigh from the Antarctic.

  ‘Nicholas Williams. Why am I not surprised?’

  He sat in one of the shabby chairs facing her desk and propped his elbows on the armrests. Mrs Cavendish studied him as if trying to determine where the streaks of dirt ended and his brown skin began. He realised then that his knuckles were grazed, and he tucked his hands under his armpits.

  ‘Jewellery is not allowed at this school. Take it off.’

  He glanced down. The top two buttons of his shirt had been ripped off and his necklace was showing. He picked at the leather knot till it loosened, then slipped the necklace into his pocket. When Mrs Cavendish frowned at the black tattoo on his chest, he folded the tattered remains of his collar together to cover the mark. No amount of blood, it would seem, was going to soothe her temper today.

  ‘You promised me last December, Nick, that this reckless behaviour was not going to continue into Year Ten. Do you remember our conversation?’

  Nick sighed. Mía was going to be so angry.

  ‘Well? Do you?’ Mrs Cavendish asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Remind me what you said.’

  ‘I said I’d think before I act.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’d follow teachers’ instructions.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’d stay away from Brandon.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  Nick remembered how Brandon had shot him a vicious smile and said, ‘I heard it’s your birthday today, Nick. Why don’t you get yourself a decent school uniform? I’m sure the op shop’d have a dress your size.’

  Nick slammed his locker shut.

  ‘Whoa,’ Brandon said, backing up. ‘Hit a nerve there, did I? Just trying to help. I mean, let’s face it. You and your crazy aunt need all the charity you can get, since she can’t even afford to buy you proper clothes. What’d she give you this year? Another homemade tattoo?’

  Mrs Cavendish cleared her throat, cutting into Nick’s thoughts. She tapped a long polished fingernail on the piece of paper that lay in front of her, her rings clinking. A gold mine hung off those arthritic fingers.

  ‘It says here on the incident report that you and Brandon spoke to one another, and that you hit him first. Did he provoke you?’

  Nick knew from experience that the longer he was silent, the worse the punishment, so he replied, ‘He asked me what I got for my birthday.’

  ‘It’s your birthday today?’

  ‘Yes. Sixteen.’

  ‘Well, then. Happy birthday.’ She didn’t sound at all glad for him. ‘What else did Brandon say?’

  ‘Just the usual.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Does it even matter?’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Fine. He called my aunt crazy.’

  ‘And that’s why you retaliated?’

  Nick wondered if it was a rhetorical question.

  ‘Answer me, please,’ she pressed.

  ‘Of course that’s why I retaliated! Geez!’

  ‘Don’t use that tone with me, young man.’ Mrs Cavendish propped her glasses on the tip of her nose and scribbled something onto the incident report. ‘You lost control, Nick, and Brandon needs stitches as a result. For that, I’m suspending you for five days.’

  Nick ran his hands over his dreadlocks. Five days. The longest he’d ever got before this was three. Mía was going to bury
him alive.

  Mrs Cavendish opened a folder and dragged her index finger down a list of names and phone numbers.

  ‘Miss, you’re not going to call Mía right now, are you?’

  ‘Of course I am. I have to inform her of your suspension.’

  ‘But she doesn’t speak much English. Can’t I just tell her?’

  Mrs Cavendish peered at him over the pink rim of her glasses. ‘Her English is perfectly fine. In fact, you can tell her now, if you like. In this office.’

  ‘No, I meant that I could—’

  ‘I know what you meant, Nick. That you could tell her when you got home. The last time I trusted you to tell her something important, you conveniently forgot. Remember the meeting we scheduled last September to discuss your behaviour?’

  Nick grunted. Mía had been so furious she’d barely spoken to him for a week. She’d actually walked the five kilometres to school and asked Mrs Cavendish in person to give him extra detentions. Then she’d added some of her own for him at home. He’d learnt a great deal about house cleaning that month. He’d also learnt never to lie to Mía again.

  ‘Your aunt deserves better than to be treated in that appalling manner.’ Mrs Cavendish offered him the receiver. ‘Do you want to tell her, or shall I?’

  ‘You can.’ Nick held his head in his hands and listened to Mrs Cavendish dial his phone number.

  ‘Hello, Mía. This is Laura Cavendish, principal of Buckadgery Creek High School. How are you?’ She spoke loudly and clearly, as if she was talking to a deaf person. ‘I’m well, thanks. Listen, I’ve got Nick in my office. He got into a fight at lunchtime and hurt another student.’

  Nick imagined Mía’s smouldering eyes gouging a hole in the floorboards as she received this news. He clenched his dreadlocks between his fingers.

  ‘Nick’s a little bruised. The school nurse has had a look at him and she says he’s fine. The other student, however, needs several stitches.’ Mrs Cavendish took her glasses off and rested them on the table. ‘Yes, this is a serious incident. Nick will be suspended for five days.’

  ‘The suspension will begin tomorrow. So including the weekend that means Nick won’t be able to return to school until next Wednesday.’ Her gaze flashed to Nick. ‘Of course. I’ll hand you over.’ She held out the receiver.

  Drawing a deep breath, Nick put the phone to his ear and said in his own language, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nicholas Kári.’

  He gulped. Mía only ever used his second name when he was in serious trouble. He turned away from Mrs Cavendish. He knew she couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he didn’t want her to see his face.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Mía asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not hurt?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘What happened? What did you say to that boy?’

  ‘Nothing. I...I just punched him.’

  ‘You punched him? Why?’

  Nick jiggled his foot, not wanting to answer.

  ‘Why, Nick? Tell me.’

  He didn’t want to translate ‘crazy’ into Korelian.

  ‘Brandon insulted you, Mía. I know you said it doesn’t matter and I should ignore him but I can’t just let him say stuff like that. It’s not right.’

  ‘Nick, you promised me you’d learned how to walk away from those situations.’

  ‘I know I did. It’s just...I forgot. I’m sorry, Mía. I really am.’

  He felt sick with dread, and he yearned to hear her say that it was alright, that she understood. Instead, he heard her release her breath like a deflating tyre.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Nick. We’ll discuss this more when you get home. I want to speak to your principal again.’

  He handed the phone back to Mrs Cavendish then slumped in the chair and stared out the window. As much as he was dying to get out of this office, he was not looking forward to riding home in the heat, especially when he had to face Mía at the end of his journey.

  Mrs Cavendish hung up the phone. ‘Okay, Nick. Make sure you take all your homework with you. I don’t want you falling behind so early in the year.’

  He picked at a bit of dead skin on his knuckles.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Off you go, then.’

  As he opened the door, Mrs Cavendish said, ‘Nick?’

  He turned.

  ‘If you’re not careful, this behaviour is going to earn you a lot more than a suspension one day. I’d like to think you’re better than that.’

  He left without replying. As he trudged past the front office, he saw the school secretary bent over the photocopier, swearing at it. Her backside wobbled under her mustard yellow dress like a water bomb. Nick chuckled.

  ‘Did I just hear you volunteer for bin duty?’ she spat, eyeballing him from beneath a sweaty armpit.

  ‘Shit, no!’ he gasped, scooting away.

  He transferred his textbooks and sports uniform from his locker to his school bag and grabbed his bike from the rack outside.

  A freckled boy beckoned from an open window. ‘Psst! Williams!’

  ‘Hey, Paulsen,’ Nick said, leaning against the wall so he was hidden from the teacher.

  ‘You skipping school again, bludger?’

  ‘Nah. Got suspended.’

  ‘Crap. How long for?’

  ‘Five days.’

  ‘That’s rough. What’d Brandon get?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘You mean apart from stitches?’

  Paulsen sniggered then whipped around when the teacher barked his name. ‘Sorry, miss. Just getting some fresh air. I’ve got a headache.’ He turned back and winked. ‘Have a nice holiday, Williams, you lucky bastard.’

  Nick grinned, but as he turned out the school gate, dread gripped his chest.

  Chapter 2: Striker’s Run

  Nick stopped under the shade cloth of the fruit store and leaned his bike against a crate of oranges. Mangoes were on special, so he bought one that wasn’t too bruised, dropped it into his bag, and pedalled towards Canyon Drive.

  As the road sloped downwards, he coasted hands-free. He unbuttoned his school shirt, letting it flap open. He loved the feel of the wind on his bare skin. In this stifling small town, it was the closest he could get to freedom. He imagined riding past his front gate, onto the highway, then all the way to the sea. It would take about a week to get there. He’d surf and fish every day, build fires on the beach, and sleep under the stars. He’d have no classes, no homework, no detentions. Just glorious, unburdened days filled with sun, sand, fresh food and sparkling water. But then he thought about how lonely Mía would be without him, and how much he’d miss her, and the dream didn’t seem so great anymore.

  His peddling slowed. Mía would blast him as soon as he set foot in the house. He wondered if she was angry enough to hit him. She never had, but he saw her hit David once.

  David was Mía’s cousin, and he’d lived with them until Nick was eight. One day, David had taken Nick out for a horse riding lesson. It was so hot that they’d both taken their shirts off. Nick had often seen the tattoo above David’s heart, a black circle balanced on a small, straight line, like a sun just risen. Or maybe about to set.

  Nick wanted to have a tattoo as well, and badgered David until he agreed, but it was on the condition that Nick didn’t tell Mía until after it was done, because she might not approve.

  ‘And you only get the sun,’ David had told Nick. ‘Not the horizon underneath.’

  When Nick had asked why, David had set his mouth in a grim line and said nothing.

  Mía didn’t only disapprove, she was enraged. She yelled at David in a language Nick had never heard her speak before, and David snapped back at her in the same foreign tongue. Nick crouched on his bed, hugging a pillow to his chest, and watched through his bedroom window as they battled it out on the lawn. Their argument went on for ages. Then Mía hit David. Nick recalled the emotion on their faces as they stared at one anot
her. Mía livid and breathing hard. David startled and hurt, holding his cheek and backing away with a forced calmness like he was retreating from a snake. Then he swung onto his horse and bolted.

  That was the last time Nick saw him.

  Now, every time Mía saw Nick’s tattoo, she averted her eyes as if the mark was cursed.

  Nick stopped in the shade of a scribbly gum, sat next to his bike, doused his dreads with water, and skinned his mango. Further along Canyon Drive was a track that veered off into the national park. A spray of bullet holes punctured a sign that read: Striker’s Run. The track was thirty kilometres of corrugated dirt that nudged the western edge of the Spit, a massive ridge that spanned the heart of the national park. It led to the place where his parents had disappeared thirteen years ago. They’d vanished when Nick was three years old. Gone on a bushwalk and never returned. Swallowed by the wild country was Mía’s version. Nick had been afraid of Striker’s Run ever since. Sometimes, if the wind blew from the north, he heard a faint humming, like the hollow note made when he blew on an empty bottle. When he was younger he’d believed the sound was some sort of ghostly summons. Mía would hear it too, but it didn’t seem to frighten her. Instead, she got a look in her eyes like she wanted to follow the music into the hills.

  ‘Once you’re in the wild country,’ she said, ‘it’s hard to tear yourself away. It gets into your blood and doesn’t let you go.’

  He relished her telling him stories of the wild country, with its rhythmic rocks, secretive spirits, and an ancient heartbeat that made the blood pound. Whenever he asked where her stories came from, her expression would close off and she’d respond simply that she’d always known them, as if she’d been born with the knowledge. As if it was in her bones.

  As he’d gotten older, Nick had decided that the singing he heard from the north was not the primal call of the wilderness, but simply the wind whistling through the rugged crevices of the Spit.

  An urgent thrum of hooves on dirt made Nick look up in time to see a horse burst from Striker’s Run and gallop away down Canyon Drive. The rider was no stockman or member of the local pony club. He wore a black uniform, with a lightweight helmet, face mask, and gloves, and rode like a tank was chasing him. Nick tossed the mango pip away and raced after the horse, wanting to see where the rider was headed, but he couldn’t keep up and didn’t want to tire himself out—he still had Mía’s fury to face when he got home—so he slowed down.