“What do you mean?” the creature answered, his words so muted from inside the cliff wall that Wolf and Aaron had to press their ears against the dirt and rock to hear the rest of what the animal had to say. “I’m a wombat, for goodness sake. What has become of children these days,” he muttered.
“Do you have a name?” Wolf asked.
“A name? A name? I’m a wombat.”
“Well, you should have a name, so I’m going to call you Wellington.”
Aaron looked at Wolf and said, “Great choice, mate. W because he’s a wombat. Nice!”
“Actually, that’s not why. Look, he’s wearing wellingtons. So, since he’s wearing wellingtons, and wellington starts with W like a wombat, Wellington is the perfect name.”
“Spot on,” Aaron replied, impressed, nodding his head.
Wolf grabbed the wombat’s two back legs and pulled on them until eventually his body popped like a cork and he landed on the ground before turning to face the strangers.
“That’s better, Wellington,” Wolf said, his arms at his sides. “How do you like your name?”
“Call me what you want. I don’t care. All I know is I’m tired, it’s hot, and I should be napping,” the wombat said as he walked away.
Wolf and Aaron followed him a short distance and observed him stop and rip a mouthful of grass from the ground, his lips and nose twitching as he chewed.
“Do you have a family, Wellington?” Wolf asked.
“Yes,” he replied, chomping. “I have a lovely wife. She’s in Ginninderra visiting her family. I miss her, but she’ll be back next week,” he said, grunting.
“We would like to meet her, and then we can all be friends,” Aaron said.
“No thanks. We don’t need friends.”
“Ah, come on,” Wolf replied, grinning. “Everyone needs friends, mate.”
Suddenly, Wolf’s neck felt prickly. Nearby, he heard human voices.
“We need to hide, Aaron. Now!” he whispered, panicked.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you later. Be quiet, and hang onto my wrist.”
They didn’t say goodbye to the wombat and ran back to Wolf’s bike. He grabbed his two-wheeler and rolled it to a row of short, semi-dry bushes lining the bottom of the dry cliffside. Wolf concealed his bike underneath a dense bush as the people who were talking got closer. Wolf stood with his back pressed against the sandy cliff as the strange voices grew louder until eventually, people were walking above him, along the ridge, speaking a language he didn’t understand. As the people moved onwards, their voices diminished until Wolf could no longer hear them talking, and then he took a deep breath and relaxed.
“What was that all about?” asked Aaron, hanging upside down from Wolf’s wrist.
“I think they were Aborigines, but I’ve only ever seen them on telly. One time, when my dad came home drunk and me and mum were watching a show with aborigines in it, you know what he told us? He said they eat people,” Wolf said, one of his dark, thick eyebrows lifted towards his hairline while the other eyebrow barely budged. “And after my dad said that, my mum just sat there and didn’t say anything, so I guess it’s true.”
“Ugh! Glad they didn’t see you,” Aaron shuddered. “They would have probably eaten you. Do you think they’re gone?”
“I think so. Come on, let’s get outta here,” Wolf said, yanking his bike out from under the bush and positioning it upright.
He set Aaron in his carrier and saddled his bike seat. With one foot on a pedal, Wolf was surprised to see a dark skin, broad-nosed boy who suddenly appeared on the dirt pathway just a few metres ahead of him. The boy looked to be only a couple of years older than Wolf, and his hair spiraled off his head in curly waves, his tresses only slightly darker than his deeply tanned skin. The boy wore khaki pants, a light-blue t-shirt, and thongs on his feet, staring silently at Wolf with clay-brown eyes. For at least a minute, neither boy said a word, staring at each other as Wolf plotted his escape, his body buzzing with adrenaline.
Then, the stranger’s mouth stretched into a brilliant white, toothy grin and he said, “Yuuma.”
“Huh?” Wolf replied, wrinkling his nose.
“Hello…in our old language. Anyway, g’day, I’m Jirra,” he said, noticing Wolf’s body stiffen. “What’s wrong, mate? You scared or something?”
“Um, no. Ah, g’day. I-I-I-I’m-Wo-Wo-Wolf,” he stuttered, his body tense. As he stared at the boy’s round eyes, he suddenly blurted out, “Don’t eat me!”
Jirra stared at him for a few seconds, then erupted with laughter, falling to his knees with his hands on his stomach. When he finally regained his composure, a wide grin still on his face, he stood up and wiped the dust from his pants.
“Well, is it true? Are you going to eat me?” Wolf asked, his cheeks bright pink.
“Of course not. Truth is…uhm…my people…well, we only eat girls.” Jirra had barely finished his sentence before breaking into another belly laugh. For a moment, Wolf felt stupid and embarrassed, but Jirra’s guttural, cheerful laugh was infectious, and soon Wolf and Aaron laughed with him.
When their amusement subsided, Wolf said, “Jirra is a strange name. What does it mean?”
“Kangaroo,” he replied. “My dad calls me that ‘cause I never sit still. He says I’m always hopping around or eating.”
“My friend Polly named me Wolf because in Japan…that’s where she’s from…people think the wolf is both good and bad, I guess like me. She also told me a phrase that goes something like, ‘The wolf can hide even where there is only a single reed’, which I don’t get, but she says someday I will. Anyway, I liked the name so much I asked everyone to call me that, and they did.”
“It’s a good name. Anyway, I need to get going and catch up with my family. Maybe I’ll see you again” he said before dashing off and disappearing into the bush.
“Bye, Jirra,” Wolf yelled. After a few seconds, Wolf looked at Aaron and said, “Did you see that?”
“Sure did, mate. Very cool.”
“Wait till I tell Polly. Hope she never gets caught by them since they eat girls,” he joked. “But she’ll be right because I bet they don’t eat ghosts.”
As he peddled back to his house, he wished he could’ve spent more time with Jirra and gotten to know him better. He hoped to meet him again so that he could decide for himself how he felt about native Australians rather than relying on the information he’d heard from his father, especially when his dad was drunk.
Chapter Twenty-Two
For two years, Wolf had been training with Master Kelly and was excelling in karate. He went to the dojo every day of the week, either in the morning or afternoon, and when his dad asked his mum where Wolf was, she’d lie and say he was playing at a friend’s house.
Over his years of training, Wolf had grown taller yet remained slender, and his entire body was rock hard. Through his physical training, Wolf developed what Master Kelly called an iron shirt, which meant all of the muscles in his upper body were toned, reducing his risk of injury. Besides physical training, Wolf and Master Kelly also meditated regularly, teaching Wolf to calm his mind and focus on the martial way.
“Kohai, remember that our training is not just physical, but also spiritual and moral. Your goal should be to improve yourself and learn to avoid violence whenever possible, using force only as a weapon for peace,” his teacher told him.
Every day at the dojo, Wolf practised katas or learned new ones, and he worked on his tai sabaki, technical movements that engaged his entire body, teaching him to avoid strikes while at the same time preparing him to counterstrike. He also used the training tools, the hojo undo, that he had seen under the cherry blossom tree two years earlier when he first came to Master Kelly’s dojo, and he always bowed to show respect to the inanimate objects before using them, saying, “Onegaishimau,” which translated to, ‘Please let me use you,’ as Wolf knew these tools would help him become a black belt in the future.
As part of
Wolf’s hojo undo training, he used the gripping jars called nigiri gami, and over the years as his grip strengthened, Master Kelly gave him larger and larger jars to accommodate his growing hands. Wolf gripped the rims with his fingers as he performed his katas or when he was told by his teacher to walk, squat, or stand on one leg, and as he grew stronger, Master Kelly added water to the nigiri gami, increasing the weight and forcing Wolf’s entire body to work harder while his mind focused on overcoming the pain.
He also trained with the chisi, a cylindrical stick that looked like a toilet plunger with a concrete weight on one end. The chisi reached up to the top of his thighs and Wolf performed a variety of exercises with it, including raising it from close to the ground then straightening it in front of his chest, holding the concrete end close to his chin, or lifting the concrete end over his shoulder and letting it tap on his blade, the weight of the rock forcing all the muscles in his body to tense.
“Kohai, today we will work with the makiwara,” Master Kelly said.
Wolf first trained with the makiwara when he was seven-years-old. When his training first began, Master Kelly instructed him to hit the vertical wood post lightly to avoid injury, and now, after months of gradual increases to the force of his strikes, Wolf’s flesh was tougher and his joints and muscles stronger.
Today as Wolf stood in front of the vertical piece of wood, the height of the makiwara only slightly higher than his head and no thicker than two pieces of sandwich bread, he looked at the upper third of the post wrapped in white karate belts as he awaited his instruction.
“We will start with backhand strike, uraken, and direct punch, seiken-tsuki,” said Master Kelly.
Wolf assumed a proper stance.
Master Kelly told him to begin. “Hajime.”
Using his left hand for the backhand strike and his right hand to punch, Wolf began hitting the white belts on the makiwara with precision.
“Kotai. Switch,” his teacher commanded, and Wolf quickly adjusted his stance, switched his hands and began again, this time using a right backhand and a left punch.
“Don’t lock your elbow, Kohai.”
Wolf punched again, paying attention to the twisting of his wrist as he recalled at least two times in the past when he’d visited Japan from the box and watched Junsaku, the samurai, practicing with the makiwara, trying to mimic his technique.
“Better,” Master Kelly said as Wolf hit the post.
As Wolf punched, Master Kelly’s piercing, silver-blue eyes studied his movements, and then his teacher left him alone to practise beneath the cherry blossom tree.
Several minutes later, Master Kelly returned carrying a narrow, cylindrical stick about three feet long and resumed his position next to Wolf, observing his student again. With his hands gripping both ends of the stick, Master Kelly lifted the pole high above Wolf’s head, and when Wolf caught his movement from the corner of his eye, he lost his focus and punched the edge of the striking post, bending his wrist.
Master Kelly lowered the stick in front of him and held it vertically, resting the tip on the ground. “Begin again,” his teacher commanded, holding the upper end of the stick in his fist like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Wolf resumed his stance and began punching the makiwara. Again his teacher held the stick in the air, and as soon as Wolf noticed it, he dropped to his knees and covered his head as though bombs were about to fall from the sky.
Wolf crouched in the dirt below the cherry blossom tree, frozen in place.
“Kohai, stand up,” Master Kelly said, laying the stick on the ground.
Wolf uncurled his body and stood up.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes, Sensei,” Wolf whispered, his cheeks flushed.
“Why did you cower to this stick?” he said, pointing at the wooden pole laying lifelessly on the ground.
“Sensei, I-I don’t know,” he said.
“Answer me this; do you fear this stick, or do you fear me?”
“I d-don’t fear you, Sensei. And, I don’t fear the stick, either. No-no-not really.”
“Based on what I just saw, you fear either the stick or me. Which is it?”
“It’s not you. I’m not scared of you.”
“Then, you must be scared of a stick?”
“Okay, alright, I guess I’m scared of the stick,” Wolf surrendered.
“Why would you fear a stick? Can a stick hurt you on its own?”
“No.”
“Right. The stick can only hurt you when it’s in the hands of someone who wants to hurt you. I won’t hurt you, so when I hold the stick, you shouldn’t be fearful because you don’t fear me. Do you understand?” Master Kelly asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me; why are you scared of this stick?”
Wolf’s eyes were glossy as he rubbed his nostrils with the back of his hand.
“Let’s take a break,” his teacher said, motioning towards the dojo.
They bowed before stepping inside, and inside, Master Kelly went over to a short-legged, wooden table placed on the tatami mat floor and folded his legs below the tabletop. “Come and sit,” he said.
Wolf sat down at the low table, crossing his legs underneath. His teacher poured two cups of tea from a cast iron teapot, handing one to Wolf.
“I am not scared of you,” Wolf began. “I guess I just got scared when you lifted the stick because he hits me.”
“Who? Your father?” Master Kelly asked calmly, holding his cup of tea near his lips.
“Yes. He hits me and makes me get inside a box, but he only does it when he’s drunk. He’s like a whole different person when he drinks. He’s not nice.”
“This is sad to hear, Kohai. What is your solution?”
“Um, my solution? I guess I could try to get him to drink tea, or milk with Milo,” he said, lifting one eyebrow.
“So, you believe you can control what your father does?”
“No.”
“Think about my question again. What is your solution?”
Wolf was quiet for a few seconds before saying, “I can focus on protecting myself.”
“Precisely,” Master Kelly answered. “Kohai, remember the Japanese proverb Fear is only as deep as the mind allows. With your training, you are strengthening your mind, body, and spirit, and you’re becoming fearless. We still have many years of training to get you to the level you were at when you were the samurai, Junsaku. But for now, even if you aren’t physically ready, don’t let him, or anyone, win. Stay strong in your body, mind and spirit, and everything will come together with time.”
Wolf wrapped his fingers around his teacup, tipping the liquid into his mouth, the green tea warming his throat. “Sensei, I won’t let you down,” he said, placing the ceramic cup on the table.
“It’s not about letting me down. It’s about not letting yourself down.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wolf walked the short distance from school, arriving at his house in the early afternoon. “Hey girl,” he said as Carla sprinted up to him with a ball lodged between her jaws. She dropped the dirty, wet tennis ball at his feet and Wolf picked it up and tossed it across the yard.
While the dog ran after the ball, Wolf entered the kitchen door.
“Hi. You hungry?” his mum asked, sitting at the breakfast bar reading a newspaper.
“Yep. Could I have a cheese and Vegemite sandwich, please?”
Polly appeared just as Wolf’s mother stood up and went into the kitchen to make him a sandwich. The ghost had a shadowy, bright smile on her face, and her ghostly, green eyes sparkled. Polly floated alongside Wolf’s mum with her hands clasped behind her back, observing as his mother spread vegemite on the bread before adding two slices of cheese. When his mum finished, she put the sandwich on a plate and handed it to Wolf, telling him that he could sit on the loungeroom floor and watch the telly while he ate.
Wolf turned the dial to a channel that was showing The Lone Ranger and sat on the olive-
green shag carpet with his back against the sofa. As he stared at the screen, chewing his sandwich, Polly began jumping on the furniture, her body almost-lifelike, her white dress glowing as though it was made of mirrors reflecting the sun.
“Look, Wolf, the floor is hot lava,” she laughed, gliding between the couch, the side table, and his dad’s recliner.
“I’m better at hot lava than you,” Wolf mumbled, trying to ignore her as he focused back on the television show.
Polly was poised to leapfrog from the arm of the couch to Dad’s recliner and said, “Watch this.” She sprang from the sofa arm, flying through the air, and her energy was so powerful that it caused the table lamp next to his father’s recliner to tip over, falling to the floor, the white ceramic base cracking open like an egg.
“Wolf!” his mother yelled, rushing in from the kitchen and seeing the pieces on the floor. “What have you done?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Don’t lie to me. I told you to sit quietly and watch your show, and now look. Your father will be furious!”
“But Mum, it really wasn’t me,” he replied, chewing as he stared into her concerned brown eyes.
“Then who did it? Or, are you just going to act like it fell all by itself?”
“It wa-wasn’t me,” he said again, his jaw tightening.
His mother huffed. “Not only did you not listen when I told you to just sit and eat, but now you’re lying, too.” She grabbed his plate with the half-eaten sandwich. “It’s bad enough that you broke the lamp, which I’m sure you didn’t mean to do, but lying is unacceptable!” she said, stomping her foot on the rug. “Now go to your room.”
“But Mum,” he whined, “I di-didn’t do it.”
“Put a sock in it and get in your room…now!” she roared.
Wolf got up and walked slowly down the hall. Once inside his bedroom, he shut the door behind him and sat on the floor with his head drooped.
Polly glided through the wall and came to his side, her eyes misty as she sucked in her lower lip. “I’m so sorry, Wolf. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. It was an accident.”
She Named Me Wolf Page 12