Something In The Water
by Mark Peters
Act One - Something in the Water
The meeting room at the Macquarie Harbour Writers' Centre had not been set up for this many people.
Extra chairs had been dragged in from the hallway. A few latecomers stood along the back wall. Someone had even perched on the windowsill, notebook balanced on their knees as though they might catch inspiration mid-sentence.
At the front of the room, Tony Scott sat on the corner of a table, one leg swinging lazily, the other braced against the floor. He held his latest novel open in one hand and read with an easy rhythm that suggested both rehearsal and instinct.
He had learned long ago that readings were performance. You needed to pause in the right place. Look up before the punchline. Let silence do some of the work.
From time to time he glanced at the faces before him – earnest, hopeful, analytical, admiring. He recognised some from other recent events, or from earlier years, back when he had been the anxious young man sitting where they now sat, wondering if he would ever be brave enough to call himself a writer.
Now they called him a local literary prodigy. He tried not to wince whenever he heard that.
He read for twenty minutes. Just enough to draw them in. Just enough to leave them wanting more. When he reached a carefully chosen cliff edge – three chapters from the end – he closed the book softly.
A collective groan rose from the room.
Tony smiled.
'That,' he said, 'is where I stop. I can't give it all away in one sitting.'
Laughter followed. Then applause.
The director of the centre – crisp, composed, perpetually serious – stepped forward to heap praise upon him and his "generosity in returning to nurture the community that first nurtured him."
He accepted it with grace. He always did.
Soon enough the formalities dissolved into a ritual he knew by heart. Tables laden with sandwiches and cakes, all lovingly prepared by the local Country Woman's Association. Cheap instant coffee, or tea bags dipped in hot water, all served in the same delicate white teacups. Dog-eared books thrust forward for signing. Earnest questions about publishing, and rejection, or discipline and inspiration.
He answered them all. Nothing was ever too difficult . . . just so long as they stuck to the topic at hand. If there was one thing he held back on, or was reserved about, it was his private life. He felt entitled to that; hell, there was enough private stuff out there already, so why offer more?
Somewhere between a conversation about narrative voice and another about marketing strategies, the talk drifted – as small-town talk often does – towards the state of the community. A new café opening. Council delays. Property prices.
And then, with a grin from someone near the back: 'It does seem like there's an awful lot of gay folk in this town these days.'
A ripple of amusement moved through the group.
Tony arched an eyebrow. 'Is that a complaint?'
'What? Oh, no!' the woman laughed quickly. 'Just an observation. It's almost as if there's something in the water.'
More laughter followed.
Tony smiled politely, but something about the phrase lingered. He had heard variations of it before. Said jokingly. Said affectionately. Said with a shrug. He'd heard it all.
Something in the water.
He became aware, then, of someone who wasn't laughing.
A young Aboriginal man stood just beyond the loose circle of conversation. Dark skin. Tight curls. Lean build. His expression wasn't dismissive; more like, it was knowing.
He was smiling. Not at the joke, but at something else.
Tony excused himself from the group and stepped towards him.
'Thanks for coming,' Tony said, extending his hand.
The young man took it easily. His grip was warm and steady.
'I'm Jack,' he said. 'Nice to meet you. Good reading today.'
'Glad you think so.'
'I've read all of them.'
'All?' Tony asked, amused.
'Every last one.'
There was no boast in it. Just fact.
'Well,' Tony said, 'either you've got excellent taste or far too much spare time on your hands.'
Jack's grin widened. 'Bit of both, maybe.'
They stood for a moment, the noise of the room humming around them.
Tony tilted his head slightly. 'So, you didn't laugh.'
'At what?'
'The water comment.'
Jack's eyes flicked briefly towards the others, then back.
'Maybe there is something in it,' he said.
Tony studied him. 'That sounded less like a joke.'
'It wasn't.'
There was no challenge in Jack's tone. Just calm certainty.
'Our people have stories about the place,' Jack continued. 'From long before there was a town. Long before there were writers' centres and folk museums and council chambers.'
Tony felt a small, involuntary tightening in his chest – the familiar sensation of a door opening to a place unexpected.
'About the lake?' he asked.
'And the river. And the mountains. And why some things are the way they are.'
Tony glanced briefly towards the windows, as though he might see the water from here. He couldn't, but he could see the mountains.
'And if I wanted to hear one of those stories?'
Jack didn't hesitate.
'Then you'd need to talk to Aunty Pearl.'
'And who's she?'
'She's the one who keeps them. One of the elders.'
'Keeper?' Tony echoed.
Jack nodded once. 'Of the stories.'
There was something about the way he said it – not mystical, not dramatic – that made the word feel solid.
'And where would I find her?' Tony replied. He was always up for a story.
Jack's smile returned, smaller now.
'Mission Island.'
Tony felt the old, inherited discomfort flicker through him at the name. Everyone knew of Mission Island. Few went there. It was spoken about in lowered voices when it was spoken about at all.
'Yeah, I know where it is,' Tony said carefully.
'Good.' Jack held his gaze. 'We can go tomorrow, if you're serious.'
Tony considered the offer. A dozen safe responses flickered through his mind – another time, perhaps; let me check my schedule; sounds fascinating.
Instead he heard himself say, 'What time?'
Jack's grin sharpened. 'Eight. Meet me at the wharf.'
'Done,' Tony replied.
For a moment neither moved.
Then Jack stepped back slightly, nodding once as though something had been confirmed.
'See you in the morning, writer-man.'
Tony watched him leave – slipping quietly out of the room, unnoticed by most.
The chatter around him resumed its comfortable rhythm.
Something in the water.
For the first time, the phrase did not feel like a joke.
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