The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4

by Roy MacGregor

  They had a wonderful tour of the aquarium. They all stood with their noses to the glass as harbour seals swam in dazzling circles only inches away. They saw the fearsome saltwater crocodiles in the “Rivers of the Far North” display. They spent more than an hour at the “Touch Pool,” picking up hermit crabs and elephant snails and nervously handing around a shark-egg case as if it might suddenly split open to reveal a miniature “Jaws.”

  At the Great Barrier Reef display, Sarah found her beloved seahorses. There was a special exhibit of orange Big-belly Seahorses, hundreds of the oddly elegant creatures hovering about in a glass tank. Travis stared in wonder, baffled as to how a small bony fish could look so like a real horse, the arch of the neck and the head almost identical, the big yellow eyes filled with an intelligence and concentration that seemed impossible for such a tiny little thing. Travis felt as if he were on display and the seahorses examining him.

  He could see how they’d managed to captivate Sarah, even if certain others could not.

  “What’s so special about these things?” Nish asked, unimpressed.

  “They’re an inspiration for women,” said Sarah, turning her head slightly away as that mysterious smile danced again across her lips.

  Nish’s face twisted into a question: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you know about seahorses, anyway?” Sarah asked.

  “That you can’t ride them?” Nish answered sarcastically. “That it’s tough to find little saddles for them? How the heck should I know anything about them?”

  “The males have the babies,” said Sarah, winking over the tank at Sam, who was giggling.

  “I’m not stupid!” Nish shouted.

  “Can we vote on that?” Sam called over.

  “MEN CAN’T HAVE BABIES,” Nish insisted, all but stamping his feet.

  “These men do,” said Sarah. “The female gives him the eggs to carry, he fertilizes them and carries them in a pouch on his belly and later gives birth to them.”

  Nish’s face was beet-red. “I’m gonna hurl!”

  “Some of us like the idea,” said Sarah.

  “Maybe you could do it, Nish!” called out Sam. “You’ve already got the gut for it!”

  Nish was trying to answer back. He stammered. He spat. He turned even redder. Then he stomped off, the laughter of the rest of the Owls ringing in his scarlet ears.

  Travis felt sorry for his old friend. The girls had been a bit unfair. It wasn’t Nish’s fault he didn’t know about seahorses. It wasn’t his fault he was heavy. Travis would even have come to his rescue if Nish didn’t always make fun of everyone else’s shortcomings.

  Saving the best for last, they wandered finally into the huge Oceanarium, a fascinating, twisting series of glassed-in tunnels through the water, where eels, stingrays, sea turtles, a dozen different varieties of fish, and even several sharks swam around them so close that the Owls felt the huge creatures might brush against them – or bite!

  “We have a special treat for you, mates,” said Mr. Spears after a quick discussion with one of the aquarium staff.

  “What’s that?” asked Fahd. All the Screech Owls were pressing in towards Mr. Spears and the attendant.

  The attendant cleared her throat and spoke. “You’re about to go through a tank holding a Great White Shark!”

  “NOOOO!” screamed Sarah.

  “YESSSS!” screamed Sam, meaning exactly the same thing.

  “Yesterday, fishermen off the south coast had a Great White get tangled up in their nets. He was cut loose and placed in a transportation pool, and we’ve just released him into a special compartment here. No one else has seen him yet. You’ll be first.”

  “ALL RIGHT!” the Screech Owls yelled together.

  “You’ll have to be quiet, though. He’s not used to the tanks and he’s never seen a group come through before. No tapping on the glass. No sudden movements. Promise?”

  “WE PROMISE!” the Owls shouted.

  Keeping very quiet, they moved into a tunnel that Travis had earlier noticed was blocked off from the public. The barriers were down now, and the lights were on, sending an eerie glow into the glass tunnels ahead of them. It was almost as if they were walking in outer space.

  They came into a huge tank where, for the first time, there were no eels or turtles or fish of any kind sliding along the glass. This pool seemed empty, except for a large shadow at the far end.

  The shadow moved!

  Travis felt the entire group suck in its breath and hold it. It was as if they were suddenly in the water, not passing through in air tunnels. No one moved. No one spoke. No one even drew breath.

  The Great White turned, its dark back as huge as a boat. It rolled slightly, white belly flashing.

  Still no one dared breathe.

  It drifted silently across the roof of the tunnel. Then it rolled again, one beady eye scanning the group as if it might be looking for an appetizer before settling down to a main course of peewee hockey team.

  It made several passes over them, each time twisting slightly to stare.

  Whenever it went by, it was as if a dark cloud were moving overhead. Travis could not believe its size. It was massive.

  Its mouth opened slightly, revealing dozens of long, sword-sharp teeth.

  “Toss him a Clorets!” snorted Nish.

  The attendant immediately hushed him. No one laughed. Even Muck seemed awestruck, his own mouth wide as he stared up.

  The shark’s huge mouth opened again, bubbles rolling out.

  “He’s burping!” hissed Fahd.

  This time someone did laugh: Nish, of course.

  The Great White opened wider, and a flush of red-and-white shreds came out.

  Travis could hear a quick intake of air as everyone gasped a second time.

  What is it? wondered Travis. Fish guts? Or maybe seal?

  The shark turned and passed again, dropping so low its fins touched the top of the tunnel. Travis could hear them rubbing, almost squeaking, against the glass.

  The mouth opened again, and a great burst of bubbles rolled out and raced for the surface.

  “Indigestion, pal?” whispered Nish.

  The mouth opened even wider, and something else came out.

  It was round and very white, trailing something dark, like string.

  Travis tried to see as it thumped hard on the glass above their heads, then rolled off the tunnel roof through the churning, bubbling water.

  He took a step closer, staring hard.

  Not string – more like hair!

  Black hair.

  Down, down the object tumbled. It landed against a rock, bounced gently, then settled back, caught between the rock and an outcrop of coral.

  The Screech Owls rushed over, then stopped abruptly.

  It was a human head, partially digested – one milky eye staring up at them, the other socket empty.

  Travis heard a loud thud behind him.

  The attendant had fainted.

  3

  Nish was still throwing up in the bathroom. Fahd was staring blankly at the TV while he flicked through the channels without stopping. Lars was asleep, tossing and twisting under the covers and groaning every now and then as if caught in a nightmare.

  Travis was lying on his bed, pressing the tips of his fingers to his throbbing temples and wishing he could just stay there until the last five or six hours somehow magically erased themselves.

  There was a light rap on the door. Fahd put down the remote and stood on his tiptoes to see out the peephole.

  “It’s Sarah,” he said. “And Jenny and Sam and Liz.”

  “Let ’em in,” Travis said. The girls were sharing the room next door. Perhaps they’d even heard Nish retching.

  Before they could say anything, there came one huge retch from the bathroom, followed by Nish coughing and choking and spitting, then the flush of the toilet and the tap turning on, hard.

  They waited, no one saying a word. Fahd began flicki
ng mindlessly once more through the channels, but no one complained and no one asked him to stop. They all stared at the flickering screen, grateful for any distraction.

  The door to the bathroom opened, and Nish, a bath towel wrapped around his head, stumbled out and promptly bumped into Sam, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  The towel unwound to reveal a shining, pink face, eyes swollen and bloodshot, black hair soaking wet. Nish must have had his head right under the tap.

  “Feel better, Barf Boy?” Sam asked.

  Nish flicked the towel in her direction, snapping it harmlessly in the air.

  “Something I ate,” he mumbled. “Food poisoning, I guess.”

  Sarah couldn’t help laughing. “Whoever got food poisoning from chocolate bars and Coke?”

  “I eat other stuff!” Nish protested.

  “No one’s ever seen you!” Sarah said, giggling.

  “How’re you guys doing?” Travis asked.

  “Not good,” admitted Liz. “I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “Neither can I,” said Lars, now wide awake and disentangling himself from his sweat-soaked sheets.

  The telephone rang, and Lars, who was closest, picked it up.

  “Hello?” Lars said uncertainly. He nodded several times. Then said, “Okay,” and hung up the receiver.

  The others stared, waiting.

  “It was Mr. Dillinger,” Lars explained. “Muck’s lined up a game for us. We’re on the ice in an hour.”

  “In an hour!” Sam shouted, as if it were impossible.

  But in a flash everyone was in action – Lars stabbing his feet into his shoes, even Nish diving into the heap in the corner that passed for his luggage to pull out a clean T-shirt and extra socks. They weren’t tired. They’d slept most of the flight and, besides, the events of the past few hours had made relaxation impossible.

  Muck was doing exactly the right thing, Travis realized. He was forcing them back into the world they knew best.

  The Owls needed ice time.

  4

  Travis knew his comfort zone. It smelled of concrete and industrial cleaner and hot dogs rolling endlessly on a stainless steel grill. It sounded like a sharpening stone running dryly across a skate blade. Like the laughter of a dressing room, and the strange silence of a rink when the Zamboni has just finished. It was the sight of shining new ice just waiting for Travis Lindsay’s skate blades to draw his favourite designs over it.

  And Muck Munro knew it, too. He knew what the Screech Owls liked better than anything else in the world: a game where they could play – a game where the stands were empty and everyone could relax and enjoy the game they loved. It was just what they needed.

  “We’re playing the local rep team,” Muck said. “Some of them are new to hockey, and they’ve never played a North American team before, so go easy on them and just have some fun. Don’t even think of this as a practice. It’s shinny – understand?”

  Travis nodded. As captain, he had to understand a little better than the rest; it would be his job to make sure the shinny game went the way Muck wanted it to. That meant not embarrassing anyone, not running up the score if they had a chance, no rough stuff, certainly no fights, and no mouthing off.

  In other words, it was Travis Lindsay’s job to make sure Wayne Nishikawa was kept in line.

  Travis leaned over and checked out Nish. As usual, his best friend was dressing in a far corner of the room, everyone keeping a distance from the bag of equipment the girls called “The Skunk’s Armpit.” Nish was burrowing away in it like a raccoon in a garbage bag, pulling out garter straps and old underwear and yellow-stained T-shirts. Travis figured if Nish could stick his head into his own hockey bag without hurling then he must be feeling better. He was back to being Nish, all-star defenceman for the Tamarack Screech Owls.

  They were playing in the Macquarie Ice Rink, which was attached to a shopping centre out Waterloo Road. According to Mr. Dillinger, it was the only hockey rink in Sydney. In Canada, a city the size of Sydney would have had dozens. The building was simple but functional, with roomy dressing rooms, the lines and circles in the ice surface freshly painted for the tournament, and air-conditioning powerful enough to keep the ice hard and fast.

  They were playing, appropriately, the Sydney Sharks. They had a logo almost identical to the one worn by the NHL’S San Jose Sharks, their socks matched their sweaters, and, from what Travis could make out in the brief warm-up, they had first-rate equipment. Stepping out onto the ice surface, they looked like an elite peewee team from a city like Toronto or Vancouver or Detroit.

  It was after they took that first step that the difference was noticeable.

  Only three or four of the players could skate as well as the Owls. A couple of them were well over on their ankles. One carried his stick as if it were an alien weapon that had popped through a time warp into his puzzled hands.

  Sarah drew even with Travis then spun around to face him as she skated backwards up-ice.

  “Check out number 17,” she said, before speeding effortlessly away.

  Travis followed the direction of Sarah’s pointed stick. The Sharks were circling about their own net, firing pucks at random while they waited for their goaltender to take up his position.

  Travis would have known who Sarah meant even if he hadn’t seen the number flash as the Shark’s tallest player curled back towards the net, slapping his stick on the ice for a puck.

  Number 17 was tall, with blond curly hair sticking out under the back of his helmet and his jersey tucked into his hockey pants on the right side, Wayne Gretzky style. He moved with a grace that set him apart at once from every one of his teammates. He skated with that strange, bowlegged stride that has been the trademark of so many of hockey’s loveliest skaters – Bobby Orr and Gilbert Perreault from the old days, or more recently Alexander Mogilny and Pavel Bure – and he had the same quirky little shoulder shuffle that Sarah sometimes did when she was about to change pace. He was one of those players who seemed naturally at ease with everything he touched: equipment, sweater, stick, skates, ice. A little shuffle, and he shot ahead like he’d come out of a cannon – yet Travis had barely noticed the change in stride.

  Number 17 shot, high and hard, ringing the puck off the crossbar and over the glass into the protective netting behind the boards. He raised his glove in a fist.

  Travis liked him instantly. He didn’t even know number 17’s name, but if he had a thing about trying to put pucks off crossbars, Travis knew they already had much in common.

  He looked across ice to where Sarah was working on her crossovers along the blueline. There was something different about her. She always did a dance of crossovers across the blueline, but always, always, she faced her own net while doing them. This time she was turned around, closely watching number 17.

  Muck blew his whistle hard at centre ice. The Owls stopped immediately, shovelling the loose pucks back towards the net and heading for their coach, who was standing with the coach of the Sydney Sharks.

  The players all arrived at once, most of the Owls using cute little referee stops – one skate turned sideways and tucked behind the other, body tilting back to dig in for a soft stop – while some of the Sharks were using the “snowplough” stop that Travis had last used in initiation hockey.

  This wasn’t going to be much of a game.

  “A little mix-and-match,” Muck said, using his whistle to point. “Lindsay, Cuthbertson, Noorizadeh, Staples, Nishikawa – move over and line up on this blueline.”

  Travis looked at Sarah, who shrugged and pushed over on one leg. Fahd and Jenny and Nish followed.

  The other coach called out five names, including the Sharks goaltender, and told them to join the five Owls on the blueline.

  Muck looked over, a half grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Okay,” he said. “Change sweaters, all of you.”

  The five Sharks were already struggling out of their sweaters. Sarah looked once at
Travis, made a quick face, and dropped her gloves to remove her helmet. Travis followed suit, kissing the inside of his sweater as he dragged it back off. None of the Sharks players wore a “C,” or even an “A” for assistant captain. He hated giving up his treasured “C” for any reason.

  One of the Sharks tossed his sweater at Travis. “Here ya gow, myte,” he said, smiling. At first Travis thought the kid was joking, putting on a fake Australian accent, but then he realized it was his actual way of talking – it was just that it sounded much more strange in a hockey rink than it did out in the streets of Sydney.

  When the sweaters had been exchanged, the two coaches spoke to their new players.

  “Evens things up,” the Sydney coach said to the Screech Owls now wearing Sharks jerseys. “Muck tells me you two” – he pointed to Travis and Sarah – “should play with Wiz.”

  Wiz? Travis wondered. Who the heck was Wiz?

  “Wiz?” Sarah asked, blinking in confusion.

  “Him,” the coach explained, pointing with his stick towards number 17, who was leaning on his stick, helmet up, smiling back at them.

  “That’s a funny name,” said Sarah.

  “His real name’s Bruce,” laughed the coach. “But the kids all call him Wiz. Short for Wizard, eh?”

  “Wizard?” Sarah asked, still puzzled.

  “Wizard of Oz,” the coach said. “Get it?”

  5

  It didn’t take them long to “get it.” With Muck refereeing while Mr. Dillinger worked the Screech Owls bench, the shinny game got under way with number 17 at centre between Sarah and Travis, and with Fahd and Nish going over to give the Sharks’ defence a little depth and Jenny in net to give them a fighting chance.

  It felt strange for Travis not to have Sarah at centre and Dmitri flying down right wing, but strange only for the first couple of shifts. By midway through the first period, it felt like he and Sarah had spent their entire lives as wingers for the Wizard of Oz.