Shooting Stars Read online

  I cocked my head to one side, listening intently. There it was again, and this time there was a light metallic click. There was a hunter in the forest.

  I forced my body to stay still. I told my heart, which was racing, to calm down. I took long, deep, slow breaths, and waited...

  Reviews

  “… totally compelling. The wit, the humour, the characterisation and the flow of the novel are strong traits of all Falkner’s novels, this is no exception. I was mesmerised from start to finish and you will be too … My book of the year so far.” — Bob’s Books Blog

  “I was totally swept away with Egan and his life. Falkner’s quality writing made these people very real. This is certainly a story with a difference and one that will be enjoyed by many teen readers for its action and great characters … [W]ould make a good movie.” — booktrailers4kidsandYA

  For Molly

  So wonderful, so bright, for such a short time.

  Introduction

  I’d like to think of myself as Egan’s best friend.

  A lot of people know him as ‘Bush’ Tucker, but he never liked that, so I’ll avoid it.

  I volunteered to put together this edition of his diary, complete with some of his paintings and drawings, as well as other associated material, because Egan’s kind of busy right now. I think he’s currently visiting the Leaning Tower of Pisa (where’s that postcard, Egan?) and after that, NASA have something cool planned for him.

  He’s pretty hard to keep track of nowadays, while I’ve got … well … a little bit of time on my hands.

  There are always critics and haters. Some people have said some not nice things about Egan and his code of honour.

  I hope this book sets the record straight.

  J.T. Hunter, 26 September, 2016

  Court Transcript

  IN THE HIGH COURT OF NEW ZEALAND

  HC 7/2016 [2016] NZHC Trans 10

  Hearing: 18 July 2016

  Court: Slaydon J

  Appearances: E J Lacy for the Appellant, F E Milton and W C Johnson for the Defendant

  CRIMINAL PROSECUTION

  MR LACY

  Please state your name and occupation for the court.

  WITNESS

  Jeffery Thomas Hunter. Motivational Trainer.

  MR LACY

  And a former member of the New Zealand defence forces.

  WITNESS

  Yes, sir.

  MR LACY

  Please elaborate.

  WITNESS

  Royal New Zealand Special Air Services, One Squadron.

  MR LACY

  Your rank at the time of discharge?

  WITNESS

  Staff sergeant, sir.

  MR LACY

  And you first met the boy, Egan Ray Tucker, and his mother, Moana Ruth Tucker – when?

  WITNESS

  I met Egan on December third last year. I never met his mother.

  MR LACY

  And at that time Egan was living in a small stone hut in the Coromandel forest. And to the best of your knowledge he had lived there, with his mother, his entire life?

  WITNESS

  I believe they sometimes lived in a nearby cave during the colder months.

  MR LACY

  But he had lived in the bush all his life?

  WITNESS

  I believe that to be true, sir.

  MR LACY

  And under what circumstances did you first meet the boy?

  WITNESS

  We were shooting stars, sir. And he got one.

  THE BUSH PAGES, December 1st - January 3rd

  December 1st

  Captain Cooker in vegetable garden overnight. Lots of damage.

  Moma said not to hunt the pig. Too dangerous.

  Fixed the pig fence.

  Dinner:

  Potato stew (again!)

  Book I am reading:

  ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ by Ernest Hemingway.

  Things I am afraid of:

  The pig.

  December 2nd

  Pig came back last night. Lots more damage.

  Must be a big one.

  Fixed the fence again, and made it stronger.

  Moma said not to hunt pig.

  Dinner:

  Turnip soup.

  Book I am reading:

  ‘The Old Man and the Sea’.

  Things I am afraid of:

  The pig.

  December 3rd

  Captain Cooker came back again! Smashed the new fence.

  Moma said not to hunt pig. Did it anyway.

  Met a soldier. I hope he doesn’t tell anyone.

  Dinner:

  Pork roast.

  Book I am reading:

  ‘The Old Man and the Sea’.

  Things I am not afraid of:

  The pig.

  December 1st (again)

  Moma read my first two diary entries and said I wasn’t trying hard enough. Not enough detail. So I’m starting over.

  Moma is the one who told me to do this. She said if I wanted to be a writer then I should keep a diary. She said writers keep diaries to record their memories and bare their souls and also it was a good chance to practise my writing skills.

  Moma also said not to worry that anyone else will read it. Just write it for myself. But I think that’s stupid. Even if you don’t intend anyone to read it, what about when you are dead? Someone will read it then, for sure. So I think a diary should be written for others to read, even if you don’t want them to.

  I guess that means you. Hi! Whoever you are. Please stop reading my private diary.

  Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. And does that mean, if you are reading this, that I am dead? If so, I hope I lived to be 120 and was a millionaire and travelled all around the world and ate pizza.

  I should write a list of things that I am going to do when I turn 18 and can leave the forest.

  Top of that list will be that I want to be a writer. A famous one, like Ernest Hemingway. He writes really good stories. I have a whole collection of books. Moma gets them from the general store down in the town. She says it’s important to read because that’s how I’ll learn about the outside world.

  Today I am going to write about the big pig. And about the soldier. He was the first person I have ever spoken to (apart from Moma). It was scary, but he was nice. But that doesn’t happen until Tuesday.

  So I’ll start with the pig. A big Captain Cooker. In America they’d call him a razorback. I know he’s a boar, and a big one, from the hoof prints in the vegie garden. They are deep. He is also strong enough to knock down the pig fence.

  We lost potatoes, turnips and carrots, and he trampled all over the silverbeet and the lettuce. He didn’t touch the tomato plants. I guess he doesn’t like tomatoes. I don’t either. So the pig and I have something in common.

  Captain Cookers have big tusks and a bad attitude. The big boars are hard to kill and a sow protecting her piglets is just nasty. Believe me, I know!

  I want to go and hunt it anyway, but Moma says it is too dangerous. I know she’s right. My last dog Chunder got killed by a Captain Cooker when I was twelve, and it nearly got me too.

  We fixed up the garden as best as we could and repaired the fence and propped it up with a few extra branches to keep the pig out.

  I could say I wasn’t scared of this pig, but that would be a lie. I’m pretty afraid of it.

  Moma says that if I am worried or frightened about something, then I should write it in my diary. That way, I c
an look back later and see that there was really no need to be worried or frightened. So:

  Things I am afraid of:

  The pig.

  Book I am reading:

  ‘The Old Man and the Sea,’ by Ernest Hemingway.

  I really like the way Mr Hemingway just tells it like it is, with no messing around. I’d like to write stories like him.

  Thought for today:

  I am glad Hemingway didn’t call the book ‘The Old Man And The Ocean.’ Because if you took all the first letters it would spell ‘tomato’. Ha! I really don’t like tomatoes.

  Wish List

  Things I am going to do when I turn 18 and can go out into the world.

  1. Be a famous author, like Ernest Hemingway

  2. Fly in an aeroplane

  3. Drive in a car

  4. Fly in a space shuttle (any kind of space-craft will do)

  5. Drink Coca-cola

  6. Drink Coca-cola on a space shuttle!

  7. Eat pizza

  8. Visit the leaning tower of Pisa

  9. Eat pizza at Pisa, ha!

  10. Eat deep-fried ice-cream balls

  11. Visit the Grand Canyon

  12. Visit the Auckland Harbour Bridge

  13. Go in a submarine

  14. Swim in the ocean

  15. Watch a television

  December 2nd (again)

  The Captain Cooker came back overnight and it did even more damage than yesterday. Moma was very upset.

  I am still really afraid of the pig, but I am also angry with it. The pig upset my Moma. I don’t like to see her upset. But she told me not to hunt the pig, and I promised I wouldn’t.

  We spent the day rebuilding the fence.

  The problem with our fence is that it has to be strong enough to keep out a 100-kg pig, but if any hunter or hiker walks into it, it has to seem like a natural part of the forest.

  So we have grown gorse bushes intermingled with some strong shrubs to make a hedge, but not in a straight line – just a random, weaving course. Then inside that, we built a fence of tree branches, jammed into the ground so they look random, but they are actually cleverly interwoven to stop any animals from pushing through the gorse.

  Not cleverly enough, I guess.

  Anyway, we got some big, heavy branches that I had been saving for firewood and we jammed them into the existing web of shrubs and branches, trying to make them look natural and random … although by the time we had finished, it didn’t look random or natural at all. It looked like a fence built by an escapee from a lunatic asylum.

  Still, that doesn’t matter as long as it keeps the pig out.

  I went for a swim in the waterhole after that to clean off the sweat and mud and scratches. It’s really warm this time of year.

  Moma went later. She likes to bathe alone. I under- stand that. She’s a woman.

  When she came back she smoked a cigarette. She does that sometimes when she is unhappy. I asked her if I could smoke one but she said no, smoking is bad for your health. So I asked her why she smoked and she said it was a bad habit she had picked up when she was younger, and she didn’t want me picking up the same bad habit.

  I don’t really want Moma to do something that is bad for her health, but I do want her to be happy. Things like the pig digging up our garden make her feel sad. And sometimes she just feels really sad, for no real reason. The cigarettes make her happy. And a bit giggly.

  I want her to be happy.

  Book I am reading:

  ‘The Old Man and the Sea’.

  Thought for today:

  I think I will put Moma’s code in my diary. Not in the order that she gave it to me, but when it seems to suit what happened that day. Or maybe I’ll just put them in random order. Or alphabetical order. I haven’t decided yet. I’ll see what happens each day.

  Moma’s Code #17

  Always keep your promises.

  Or you will turn friends into enemies.

  December 3rd (again)

  There is so much to write about today.

  Today I went pigging with Jack. We found the old boar. But I didn’t kill it. The soldier did that.

  But if I want to be a writer like Hemingway someday, then I should tell it the way it happened, from the beginning.

  The Captain Cooker came back overnight. Pushed right through our fancy new (escapee-from-a-lunatic-asylum) fence and did even more damage than yesterday. This is a BIG PIG.

  Moma cried when she saw what happened. She told me not to hunt the pig and I didn’t say anything. I was too angry.

  Besides, if I said I wouldn’t then I did, that would be a lie.

  Moma was too busy trying to fix up the mess in the garden to notice that I didn’t answer. Or maybe she just figured that I had already promised not to hunt it.

  But that was yesterday. And I didn’t hunt it yesterday.

  After we had cleaned up – again – and fixed up the fence – again – I took off towards the waterhole. But really, I doubled back to the hut and got the knife and the crossbow. And Crackerjack, my dog. Jack for short. (He’s three. He’s brave and strong. Moma bought him to replace Chunder.)

  With a smaller pig I’d just use the sticking knife, but this Captain Cooker was clearly way too big for that. Usually I only used the crossbow for deer, and very occasionally. Never during hunting season. I didn’t like to be out on the trails when there were hunters around.

  For one, they might see you. For two, they might mistake you for a deer and shoot you. Hunters are stupid like that.

  I knew that when I didn’t come back from the waterhole, Moma would know where I had gone. But by then it would be too late. So I’d take my punishment when I got home.

  I guess I could’ve just stayed up in the garden that night and waited for the pig to come back. But the last thing I wanted to do was to take on a 100-kg Captain Cooker in the dark.

  When I got out the pig collar, Jack went a little crazy. He loves going pigging and he’s got the scars to prove it. I gave him the ‘shut up’ sign so Moma wouldn’t hear and figure out what we were up to.

  Moma would be angry, but she wouldn’t be worried. Maybe a little. But I often went off into the bush with Jack. He was trained to run home if ever I got hurt, and to bring Moma back to where I was. I don’t know how Moma trained him to do that. She has a way with dogs. But as long as Jack didn’t turn up, she’d know I was okay.

  There was rain coming. I could tell by the look of the sky and the smell of the air. Good rain too. Not just a summer shower but a proper watering for the garden.

  I stripped naked and put all my clothes in one of the plastic bags from the general store to keep them dry, then put the bag in a secret hole I knew in a tree. I don’t mind being naked in the bush. I actually prefer it when it rains, especially in the summer when the rain is warm. I like the feel of the water on my skin. I don’t like the feel of wet clothes. And it’s not like anyone is going to see me. (Even if they did see me naked, so what? They might see my pee-pee gun. I’m sure it is just the same as everybody else’s.)

  In the forest I am like a ghost. I know where to put my feet. I know how to move without rustling the leaves on the cabbage tree or moving the fronds of the ponga. The bush is my home. Nobody sees me, nobody hears me, even if they pass right by me.

  (Except for the soldier. He saw me.)

  I want to write about rain for a moment.

  There’re two kinds of rain when you’re in the bush. When you’re in a clearing, the rain just falls in straight thin lines, but when you’re under the forest canopy, the rain accumulates in the foliage before splashing down like dragons’ tears.

  Like the tears of a sad dragon. A melancholy dragon. A grieving dragon.

  Is that like something Hemingway would have written? I think it is too poetic for hi
m. I wish I could write like Hemingway.

  But I quite like the last one. Like the tears of a grieving dragon.

  We started at Go and followed the hoof prints all the way up to Marylebone Station.

  I guess perhaps I should explain here that Moma and I named different parts of the forest around our hut after squares on our Monopoly board. It was too hard saying “up by the old tree that hangs over the stream” and stuff like that all the time. So we gave places names.

  ‘Go’ is the main entrance to our little kingdom. It’s a gap in the scrub hedge that’s easy to push through if you know where it is, and almost impossible otherwise.

  Marylebone Station is a flat patch of rock next to a bend in the stream. I might draw a map of all this to make it easier to understand.

  Anyway, we had good hoof prints and other pig sign all the way up to Marylebone Station, but the prints petered out on the rock. I looked for tree scrapings and droppings, but there weren’t any, so I let Jack take over. He’s a good dog, Jack. Never runs off ahead. Just follows the scent with his nose to the ground, looking around to check that I’m keeping up with him.

  He followed the trail up through The Angel Islington (a small clearing) and along Vine Street (a hiking track). At Pall Mall, which is a small swamp, I put my nose next to the water and smelled it. He’d been here all right. I could smell his pee. There were clouds of mozzies around the swamp, but they don’t bother me. They don’t seem to like me.

  There was a rustling in the undergrowth behind me just then, but I didn’t even turn. It was something small, a ground-bird probably. The Captain Cooker would make much more noise.

  I finally got a real indication of his size at an old kauri tree just a few metres from Pall Mall. He’d rubbed himself on this one – and by the height of the rubbing, he was huge. At least 150 kilos. Suddenly the crossbow and the sticking knife seemed very small. I tightened Jack’s collar around his chest.

  The crossbow bolts were sharp. I had sharpened them myself. But even with the crossbow, I knew I’d have to get close. If I missed his heart then he’d either turn on me or take off, and I’d lose the bolt.