‘And when Harry got there, he could see it all.
‘The land just as it had been forever – untouched.’ (page 223)
Do you believe this is a utopian afterlife image from Harry after death? Or do you think this is a fragment of unconscious dreaming from Miles? How did you reach this conclusion? Are there any other references within the text that have influenced this idea?
• Harry and Miles’s story is bookended between the evocative phrase: ‘Out past the shallows, past the sandy-bottomed bays, comes the dark water – black and cold and roaring. Rolling out the invisible paths…’ What effect did the imagery and repetition have on you going into the beginning of the story? And on leaving the story?
• Although very evocative of the Tasmanian coast, do you think that the story transcends borders, and would be just as thought-provoking to a reader in another country?
Further Reading
• Breath by Tim Winton
• When God was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman
• Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey
• Brothers and Sisters edited by Charlotte Wood
An Inter view with Favel Parrett
with Tanya Caunce for tlcbooks.wordpress.com
Can you introduce yourself to the readers; what would you like them to know about you?
My name is Favel. A strange name I know, one that I hated when I was young but have come to like very much. I was always told there was an old English legend about a horse called Favel that you could brush and ask for favours. I do not know if it is exactly true, but in the way stories wrap around us, it has become part of my story.
I grew up in Tasmania, but have lived in Victoria for a long time now. Victoria is home.
Have you always wanted to be a writer or do you have an equal or greater passion for something else?
I always wanted to be a writer but I never thought it would be possible. When I first seriously sat down and started this novel, I knew in my heart that I really did want to be a writer. I still thought it would be impossible, but I kept going anyway.
I have done many things – been a postman, a DJ, worked in a bakery, failed at finishing my degree at university, travelled to lots of wonderful places like Bhutan and Zambia and Cuba and Kenya. I am passionate about many things. I am probably the most passionate about dogs! When I have time I volunteer at an animal rescue shelter called Pets Haven. They save so many lives every year. It is a place that means the world to me.
Past the Shallows is your debut published novel, but is it your first novel?
It is my first novel. I never thought I could actually write a novel but somehow I did (over many years). I wrote before, short stories mainly – some published, most not. In my late teens and early twenties, I published a ZINE called Numb (homemade, photocopied, cut-and-paste magazine full of rants and opinions and all sorts of stuff). I was a huge ZINE fan and I met so many great people. It was before email, so there was lots of letter writing. I used to get so excited checking my mailbox after work. That doesn’t happen much these days. I miss it!
Who are the authors you most admire?
This list gets longer every day, but here are just a few …
Maya Angelou – She taught me about the power of words, the power of writing with truth. I love her.
Per Petterson – Out Stealing Horses is one of the best books I have ever read. I read it often. He is a master. I have learnt so much from his writing.
Cormac McCarthy – The Road is an incredible book. We are so with the characters that we cannot pull away, even when we want to. Even when we don’t want to be on that road anymore. The last paragraph is up on my wall in my studio and I read it most days. It still moves me as much as it did the first time I read it.
I love novels. All the care and time and heart that goes into them. Some novels have changed my life. I know they are important.
Where is your favourite place to write?
(Not necessarily the best …)
I spend half my week in Torquay and half in Melbourne. I write in both places but I do my best work in my studio in the Nicholas building on Swanston Street. It is filled with other artists and galleries and has two old cage lifts with lift operators that are always up for a chat. It is a great place to work. It is my office!
What was the inspiration for Past the Shallows?
The south coast of Tasmania had a huge influence on me when I was young. It is isolated and wild – a place I will never forget. The story grew out of my memories and feeling for that place. It is a sad and beautiful place. An ancient place.
How did you come up with the title?
The title came from the first line of the book: ‘Out past the shallows, past the sandy-bottomed bays, comes the dark water – black and cold and roaring.’ It was actually my publishers’ brilliant idea. For a long time, I knew the book as Crack Wattle. I knew this title wasn’t quite right, but it did mean something to me. There is still a section in the book about crack wattle. Then, when they suggested changing it to Past the Shallows I knew it was perfect straight away. I think it is a great title.
Which character spoke the loudest, to you? Did any of them clamour to be heard over the others?
I love Harry very much. Sometimes it still makes me cry when I think about him. He is a very special character to me – some kind of gift really.
Although Harry is not totally based on my brother, the way I feel about my brother is there in the writing. One of the worst things that could have happened to me when I was a child would have been losing my brother. We are very close.
The ocean and its guises feature heavily in the book, like a character of its own. What is your connection with the ocean?
You are right. The ocean is a character of its own. I am in love with the Southern Ocean. I know that surfing changed my life. I’m thirty-six and I still love it. It connected me to the natural world, made me aware of tides and winds and the subtle changes that happen every minute of every day. I couldn’t have written this book if I did not surf. And I know I am grumpy and hopeless if I go for more than a week without getting in the water. My favourite time to surf is at dawn, watching the sun come up over Torquay and illuminate the cliffs and sand with the new day.
I know you are working on your next book. Can you share a bit about it?
I will give you a bit of a blurb, although I don’t know the whole story yet. The working title is ‘Time of the Vikings’.
A young girl and her brother try to find their way in a new place. A stone city full of ghosts and empty streets. A place where the wind blows in cold and from the south.
Everything gets brighter when the Vikings come to town – the men who work on an Antarctic supply vessel from Denmark. They are giants and they breathe life into Hobart. Chasing the light from the Arctic to the Antarctic, they sail the world end to end, never stopping for long enough for the darkness to catch them.
But there is a terrible accident off Macquarie Island.
And nothing is ever the same.
Favel Parrett has written a number of short stories that have been published in various literary magazines and journals. Turn the page to gain glimpses into other worlds and the creative mind of one of Australia’s newest literary talents.
No Man is an Island
First published in Griffith REVIEW,
No. 34, Summer 2011
It was the best part of the day when Mr Peters read to us. He was reading a book that he had written and it was about some kids who had found a portal through time. I don’t remember what it was called or the names of the characters now, but I remember that I was captivated by it then.
I listened to the story – to the words spoken in his soft, low, rolling voice. I looked out of the window and I watched the sky, watched the clouds moving. I saw my brother’s class walk out across the lawn, all of them. The whole class.
Most of them were holding hands.
Their teacher was Mrs Davison and she was tall and had long blonde hair an
d she was very beautiful, I thought. I knew that my brother really loved her. I think all of her students loved her. And she was like a shepherd standing among her flock. She looked like a shepherd – the children gathered to her, gathered close under the old chestnut tree where kids played conkers at recess.
Mrs Davison had papers in her hands.
My brother just sat on the floor in his school uniform, one grey sock pulled up to his knee, the other scrunched down around his ankle, when Mum came in and burst into tears and told us about James Tomanek.
About how he had been hit by a car on the way home from school.
About how he was dead.
And he didn’t cry, my brother. I didn’t see him cry. I only saw his body shake – just a shudder, like something very small had collapsed inside his bones.
The accident was on the news. Flashing lights reflecting off a fallen school bag, the emblem of a waratah with the Latin words that meant No man is an island shining out in the dark. And the man on the TV got it wrong because he said it was a high school boy who had been hit by a car and died from his injuries on the way to the hospital. But it wasn’t a high school boy. It was a small boy.
A boy just as small as my brother.
James Tomanek had come to my brother’s birthday party three days before and he was like an angel then with his white hair and blue eyes – his skin so pale. Not see-through like mine, just creamy and pale. He gave my brother a really huge pencil case. It was all the bright colours in stripes and my brother carried it around with him for a long time after the party, after everyone had gone. He carefully put all of his pencils and pens inside and put it in his school bag ready for school the next day.
Monday. Then there was Tuesday and then there was Wednesday.
I was on the bus and I had seen James and my brother walking out of the school gate together. My brother got on the bus and he waved to James and James waved back – his hair bright against the grey sky and the grey of his uniform.
It started to rain as the bus pulled away.
Mr Peters stopped reading. He put the book away but I kept looking out of the window. Even when other kids were busy working on projects, I just sat looking out of the window. And my brother’s class stayed out there under that old chestnut tree all day. They had lunch together, and in the late afternoon they walked back to their classroom with Mrs Davison leading the way.
They were all still holding hands.
Waterproof, Lightweight and Good in Snow
First published in Wet Ink,
No. 16, September 2009
That white boggled eye is on me, the other turned up wrong – a slither poking out from under the lid. I feel sick.
‘She likes you,’ he says. Her father – drunk and sweaty and drinking more.
The girl punches my shoe, screeches loud like a monkey. I get out a notepad and pen, set them down on the floor and I’m cold now. All the sweat from the long trek to the village is making me cold. I take a sip of butter tea. Hot and salty – the fat stays on my lips, coats my mouth and tongue.
‘She doesn’t speak,’ he says. Her father – sitting cross-legged on the wide wooden boards.
She picks up the pen, scribbles hard-packed circles of black lines. She punches my shoe. I turn the page, another fast scribble, another scream. I turn the page.
‘I took her to Thimphu. Two days’ walk, then the bus. They said take her to Calcutta but I cannot afford it.’
She stops scribbling and there’s that eye again.
‘She has a hole in her heart. She will die and I will cremate her.’
Her face is about as close as it can get to my face now. That eye right in my face.
Look at me. I am here. I’m not dead.
Then she’s gone. Crawls over to her father and plops down in the crook of his cross-legged knee. Like a seat, like a throne, she sits up straight with her arms to the sky.
‘I will cremate her.’
I look down at my shoes. My brand new Colorado hiking shoes – waterproof, lightweight, good in snow. I didn’t even need to break them in. They were perfect straight out of the box.
The Little Kingfisher
First published in Island,
No. 119, Summer 2009/2010
I look for him on the red sandy earth, in the tall dry grass, among the heat-blistered acacia trees. I look for him all day but when the sun becomes a huge blur of orange burning up on the horizon, I know I will not see Peter again.
Last night when he stepped away from the light shining through my tent he became invisible in an instant. I searched for the whites of his eyes, his white teeth, but he had let the night swallow him whole and he was gone. I stood still. I stood silent. I zipped up the door of my tent and I knew I was safe – yet I did not sleep. The two pride of lion that Peter said would come that night did come. The first just twenty minutes after I turned out my gas lamp. The second, hours later in the coldest part of the night when my hot water bottle had lost all of its heat and the guttural bass call of a female lion right by my tent chilled me to my core. I curled up in my sleeping bag and I cried then.
But it wasn’t because of the lions.
I help Emanuel unpack the jeep and he tells me how much he misses his kids. He hasn’t seen them for over two months.
‘Three boys, you know. My God!’ He shakes his big shiny head and smiles.
In the distance elephants are walking back to their sleeping grounds and Emanuel tells me he used to be like an elephant – big and strong. Now he says he is just big and fat. He could not outrun an elephant now.
‘Elephants never injure people, they just kill you,’ he says and he laughs like he does when he tells me something serious.
I have seen young bull elephants red-eyed and angry, ears fanned out, feet stomping ready to smash a jeep to pieces, so I know it’s true. Elephants will kill you. But when you see them lumber along, mothers protecting babies in a line that stretches out forever towards the darkening sky, it is hard not to love them. It is hard not to feel peace.
Mama Rose proclaims that dinner is ready and she sings us the menu.
‘Tonight we will be having,’ her hands reach up to the sky, ‘slow-cooked beef stew with potatoes!’ Her feet move on the earth – stomp, tap, stomp, tap – ‘Followed by treacle pudding,’ and her eyes widen, ‘… There is also fruit salad!’ Her hands come down to rest by her hips and the performance is over. We all clap.
And the food is good. Emanuel eats two full serves of stew and when he finishes his pudding I ask about Peter. He says that Peter is a bushman. He comes and he goes when he feels like it. That is his way.
I say yes. I ask if we might see him tonight.
Emanuel laughs and says that Peter is a great tracker and guide but maybe he is a little crazy. ‘You know what they say in Botswana about people who talk to themselves? They say they are talking to the ghosts of the people they have murdered.’
We sit for a while and drink our tea. We listen to the night, listen to the fire crack, and the air is cold.
‘He told me about the boy,’ I say.
Emanuel puts his cup down on the table and there is no trace of laughter now, no smile.
‘It was terrible,’ he says.
And we say goodnight.
But I can’t settle in my tent, can’t sleep. And I am not ready to leave. I take out my camera and look through some shots. One-month-old lion cubs play fighting in the high grass – the youngest cubs I have ever seen. A whole family of warthog running in a line with their tails up in the air. A male leopard sleeping high in a tree, his hind legs hanging down long and loose – fresh blood on his mouth and the clean picked bones of an impala on the ground below. Yes, there are some great shots, but there is only one photograph that matters to me. Only one that I love.
A Malachite Kingfisher sitting high on a reed. A brightly packed explosion of colour. Aqua blue, royal blue, emerald green – the feathers finally bursting gold like the sun. The littlest kingfisher – so perfe
ct, so small. Its long beak, its happy face. Sitting still and waiting patiently. My Malachite Kingfisher on the lakes of the Okavango.
And Peter found him for me.
He stood lean and tall as he moved the low canoe though the water with a wooden pole, and I sat, reed insects falling on my face and on my lap and I could see nothing but endless reeds. Little spiders, red and green – a tiny yellow one on my leg. I brushed them all away again and again.
Peter asked me why I was here and I said for work, photographs for the new travel brochure, but he shook his head, no. He asked me again, what did I want to see? I told him I wanted to see a Malachite Kingfisher. He was silent for a while. Then he asked me to listen. What could I hear? Just the sound of the water and the sound of the reeds. He told me that thirty metres behind us was a large herd of waterbuck grazing, then he said that I would not see a kingfisher. It was impossible. They were too quick, flew too low. They were too hard to find.
Then he stopped talking.
He looked and he listened, his head twitching this way and that. Watching for hippo. Watching for crocodile and water buffalo. And slowly he began to whisper and mumble, his tongue clicking softly. Speaking with the lake and with the sky – talking to the air and to the reeds, and I stopped trying to listen for words, for sounds that I understood, because there were none. Just a soft slow chant.
Peter’s song.
And time walked on.
The sun reflecting bright off the water, the thin clouds moving in the sky and I suddenly felt so tired. I suddenly felt as if Peter was moving my body on the lake, not the canoe. I could feel my skin touching the cool soft water. My body becoming part of the water, and I wanted so badly to close my eyes. To just listen to the song and to the water and just listen to the sky.
But something moved.
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