Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8 — BOOK I

 

Glengarry Second Intake

 

(June–December 1999)

 

The cold arrived before the buses stopped.

 

Kangaroo Valley greeted the boys with breath that turned white the moment it left their mouths, jackets zipped too late and jokes delivered too loudly to disguise unease. It was winter in the Southern Highlands, and the second intake had not been given time to adjust.

 

Glengarry rose out of the mist with quiet authority—a place that did not explain itself and did not need to.

 

Dorm C sat slightly apart from the others, its windows already glowing against the grey afternoon. Inside, the air smelled faintly of wood, detergent, and damp wool. Bags were dropped. Names were called. Beds were claimed without ceremony.

 

Embong took the top bunk.

Geoffrey took the bottom.

 

It felt natural enough that neither commented on it.

 

That first evening, as the dorm settled into the uneven hush of boys pretending not to be tired, Geoffrey noticed a photograph tucked carefully into the corner of Embong’s shelf.

 

“That your family?” he asked.

 

Embong nodded. “My parents. My sister. That was taken in Kuching.”

 

“You miss them,” Geoffrey said.

 

“Yes,” Embong replied without hesitation. “But they told me this would be good for me. That I should stay strong and learn as much as I can.”

 

Geoffrey studied the photograph longer than politeness required.

 

“If you want,” he said lightly, “you could always add me in later.”

 

Embong glanced down from the top bunk. “To the photo?”

 

“Why not?” Geoffrey said. “I’m already here.”

 

Embong smiled, small and careful. “We’ll see.”

 

That night, the dorm lights dimmed earlier than expected.

 

The building settled into a different quiet—less certain, edged with movement that had not yet decided whether to stop.

 

The raid came quickly.

 

A face appeared at the window near Embong’s bunk, pressed close to the glass, features distorted by shadow. Someone pulled an exaggerated expression. Another face joined it, then vanished.

 

Geoffrey shifted below.

 

“We could—” he whispered.

 

“Don’t,” Embong said softly. “Come back to bed.”

 

There was a pause.

 

Footsteps crossed the gravel outside.

 

A torchlight swept once across the windows, sharp and unmistakable.

 

“Back to your dorms. Now.”

 

The voice was calm. It did not need repetition.

 

The figures outside scattered. The light moved on.

 

Inside Dorm C, no one spoke.

 

The next morning, the dorm master addressed them briefly and without drama.

 

“If anyone is caught raiding again,” he said, “the consequences will be serious.”

 

That was all.

 

Geoffrey understood how narrowly he had avoided learning that lesson the hard way.

 

Glengarry had computers.

 

Not many, and not all the time—but enough.

 

Computer Class

 

Glengarry wasn’t all mud and marches. Once a week the boys filed into the small computer room, rows of beige desktops humming under fluorescent lights. For many, it was their first time touching email.

 

Embong stared at the glowing screen, baffled. “What’s this even for?”

 

“Email,” Geoffrey explained, fingers flying on the keyboard. “Like letters, but instant.”

 

“I already have letters. Stamps, envelopes. This looks like punishment.”

 

“Trust me. You’ll thank me.”

 

He guided Embong through creating an account, picking a username, choosing a password. Embong typed slowly, tongue caught between his teeth.

 

“Password?” Geoffrey asked.

 

Embong smirked. “nasilemak99.”

 

Geoffrey burst out laughing. “Seriously? That’s your secret code?”

 

“Easy to remember,” Embong shot back. “Better than baseballboy.”

 

When Embong finally clicked Send on his first message to his sister, he leaned back, amazed. “That’s it?”

 

“That’s it,” Geoffrey said. “Welcome to the future.”

 

Embong sniffed. “Future still smells like Milo and wet socks.”

 

They cracked up, their laughter bouncing between the beige monitors. For Embong, it was one more step into belonging—not just in Australia, but in a world racing into a new millennium.

 

After that, writing no longer required envelopes.

 

In the open fields beyond the dorms, wallabies appeared without warning, still as statues until someone moved too quickly. They stood at the edge of the grass in the early mornings and late afternoons, ears angled toward sound rather than sight, watching the boys pass with mild, unbothered curiosity. Crows were everywhere—on fence posts, in trees, pacing the ground with deliberate hops—clever, patient, unafraid.

 

Embong noticed them before most of the others did.

 

He had brought a small camera with him, recently bought by Awan during a stop in Nowra on the drive down. It was not expensive, but it was sturdy, the kind chosen for usefulness rather than display. Embong carried it carefully, waiting rather than chasing. He learned quickly which movements startled the wallabies and which did not, how the crows tilted their heads as if listening to something the boys could not hear.

 

Later, sitting on the dorm steps, he showed Geoffrey the photos—soft light, animals half-turned, present without posing.

 

“They don’t mind being looked at,” Geoffrey said.

 

Embong nodded. “Only if you’re patient.”

 

Before the longer treks began, the boys were taken to the climbing hall set slightly apart from the main buildings. The wall rose higher than it first appeared, holds bolted into pale timber panels, ropes already threaded and hanging loose. Helmets were issued. Harnesses checked, then checked again. An instructor demonstrated knots slowly, explaining each step without flourish.

 

“No one climbs without a belay,” he said. “No one moves until they’re told.”

 

They practiced first on the wall—learning to trust the rope, to lean back when abseiling instead of clinging forward, to let the harness carry weight their legs did not want to release. Some boys rushed and were stopped. Others froze halfway and were talked down carefully, one instruction at a time.

 

Later, they were taken to a low rock face beyond the cleared paths. The stone was cold and rough under the hands, streaked with lichen, the drop not dangerous but high enough to demand attention. Geoffrey followed directions closely, testing each foothold before committing. Embong paused longer, listening, watching the rope tension, moving only when everything felt accounted for.

 

When it was his turn to abseil, Embong hesitated at the edge—not from fear, but calculation. The instructor waited.

 

“Lean back,” he said calmly. “The rope will hold.”

 

It did.

 

Embong stepped down carefully, then more easily, until his boots touched ground. He unclipped, handed the rope back, and moved aside without comment.

 

No one clapped. No one needed to.

 

Later that afternoon, as the boys moved between rooms, Embong paused at the doorway of a classroom beside his own. Through the glass, a group of students were already seated, waiting for their teacher to arrive. Without thinking too much about it, Embong pressed his face lightly against the pane and stuck his tongue out—quick, childish, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

 

He stepped away at once and went straight into his own classroom, taking his seat among the others as the lesson began. The door was left open.

 

A few minutes later, footsteps stopped outside.

 

The teacher from the neighbouring classroom appeared in the doorway and leaned against the frame. He did not raise his voice. He did not interrupt the lesson. He simply looked across the room until his eyes found Embong.

 

Then he stuck his tongue out.

 

It was unmistakable. Brief. Directed.

 

“I’m sure you wouldn’t like me doing that to your classmates,” he said evenly, “would you?”

 

Embong looked up, confused for a second.

 

“No, sir,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t.”

 

That was enough.

 

The room broke into laughter—quick, reflexive, relieved.

 

The teacher nodded once and left without another word.

 

Only after he was gone did someone whisper, “That’s the headmaster.”

 

For the rest of the lesson, Embong kept his eyes on his desk. He listened carefully, as if attention itself had become something to be avoided.

 

Later, as they walked back toward the dorms, Geoffrey glanced sideways at Embong.

 

“So,” he said casually, “you and the headmaster.”

 

Embong frowned. “What about him?”

 

Geoffrey shrugged. “Didn’t realise Glengarry did personalised performances.”

 

Embong stopped walking. “He didn’t—”

 

“I know,” Geoffrey said quickly. “I’m joking.”

 

They took a few steps in silence.

 

“I thought you handled it well,” Geoffrey added. “Most people would’ve panicked.”

 

Embong exhaled, tension easing slightly. “I didn’t know what he wanted.”

 

“Pretty sure he wanted you to stop sticking your tongue out at strangers,” Geoffrey said.

 

Embong shot him a look.

 

Geoffrey smiled. “For what it’s worth, if he hated you, he wouldn’t have bothered.”

 

Embong considered this, then nodded once.

 

“I still don’t want him to notice me again,” he said.

 

“Fair,” Geoffrey replied. “Aim for boring. It’s underrated.”

 

The dorm master introduced himself properly the next day.

 

Mr Callahan was not tall, but height seemed unnecessary in him. His voice was firm without being loud, his expectations stated plainly. Shoes were to be stored properly. Clothes folded. Pigeon holes kept tidy.

 

He noticed things.

 

Embong’s pigeon hole was neat—shirts folded evenly, trousers stacked with care. It was the kind of order learned early and enforced consistently. Mr Callahan paused, nodded once, and moved on.

 

Geoffrey’s was less precise.

 

Later that afternoon, Embong helped him correct it.

 

“Like this,” Embong said, refolding a shirt. “It saves space.”

 

Geoffrey watched carefully. “Your mother?”

 

“Yes,” Embong said. “She would not accept excuses.”

 

Geoffrey smiled. “Mine too. Just… differently.”

 

The bicycle incident happened a few days later.

 

Embong lent Geoffrey his bicycle between activities. Geoffrey returned it distracted and left it resting on the grassy ground in front of Dorm C instead of securing it properly.

 

Mr Callahan found it there.

 

He did not raise his voice. He did not ask questions.

 

He wheeled the bicycle away.

 

By the time Dorm C gathered, the absence was already obvious.

 

“Whose bicycle was left outside?” Mr Callahan asked.

 

No one spoke.

 

Embong did not look at Geoffrey. He did not speak.

 

The bicycle remained confiscated.

 

Later that afternoon, Embong approached Mr Callahan on his own. He stood straight, hands relaxed at his sides.

 

“Sir,” he said politely, “may I speak with you about the bicycle?”

 

Mr Callahan studied him for a moment longer than necessary.

 

“It was left unsecured,” he said.

 

“Yes, sir,” Embong replied. “I understand. It won’t happen again.”

 

Mr Callahan paused, then nodded. “You may have it back. Make sure it’s stored properly.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Embong said, and meant it.

 

When Geoffrey heard, he exhaled slowly.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I caused that.”

 

Embong shook his head. “Just remember next time.”

 

Geoffrey did.

 

During a longer camping trek later that week, Embong realised too late that his water bottle was not full.

 

By mid-afternoon his throat burned. He asked around, careful at first, then less so. One boy shook his head. Another laughed.

 

“That’s your problem,” someone said. “You should’ve checked.”

 

Embong nodded, accepting it without argument.

 

Geoffrey noticed.

 

Without comment, he unscrewed his own bottle and passed it over.

 

“Don’t,” Embong said. “You’ll need it.”

 

“We’ll manage,” Geoffrey replied.

 

By evening, both bottles were nearly empty. When they reached a creek, they filled them together, carried the water back, and boiled it carefully before drinking.

 

It tasted of smoke and metal and relief.

 

Neither of them mentioned the boys who had refused. The lesson did not need rehearsal.

 

Later that term, parents arrived for the student–parent camping night. Fires were lit. Scarves were wrapped tighter. Stories grew longer as the cold deepened and laughter rose easily.

 

It was warmth without indulgence—a reminder that effort was noticed.

 

On the second-last day, the boys were sent out on solo camping.

 

Each student was assigned a small clearing, minimal supplies, and one instruction: manage.

 

The bush was quiet in a way Sydney never was.

 

Embong struggled with the fire. The wood was dry, but it would not catch. He worked methodically, unease growing as daylight faded. He had grown up hearing stories of penunggu—guardians of place, unseen presences that reminded people they were never truly alone in nature.

 

This was not fear.

 

It was respect.

 

A teacher passed by, noticed the unlit fire, and stopped.

 

“Like this,” he said calmly, rearranging the wood, showing Embong how to let the flame breathe.

 

The fire caught.

 

Geoffrey managed his own fire quickly, learning fast, feeding it confidently.

 

“You’re good at this,” Embong said.

 

Geoffrey shrugged. “I follow instructions.”

 

The final day brought the rotary race.

 

Twenty-four hours. Teams. Bushland checkpoints. Items to collect. Routes to choose.

 

It was chaos with rules.

 

Geoffrey moved quickly, decisive, scanning ahead. Embong tracked carefully, remembered instructions, kept them from doubling back. When one faltered, the other adjusted.

 

They worked without argument.

 

Their team crossed first.

 

There was no cheering at first—just relief. Then laughter. Then a quiet pride that did not ask to be seen.

 

Geoffrey did not leave Glengarry with his parents.

 

George and Elaine could not make the collection that day, and no one made a fuss about it. Instead, Uncle Rusaldi was waiting by the car park, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel as boys streamed out with bags and winter jackets slung over their shoulders.

 

Embong spotted him first.

 

Rusaldi nodded once when they approached, already opening the boot. He did not ask questions. He did not offer commentary. He simply took their bags, secured them properly, and gestured for them to get in.

 

On the drive north, the silence was comfortable—the kind that assumed no explanation was required. Somewhere past the southern suburbs, Rusaldi glanced in the rear-view mirror.

 

“You must be hungry,” he said.

 

They stopped for dinner on the way home. The food was generous and good. Conversation was easy. Geoffrey ate without restraint.

 

By early December, the year closed formally.

 

Speech Day was held at the Sydney Opera House. Families filled the seats. Names were read. Applause rose and settled.

 

When Embong’s name was called for academic excellence at Glengarry, he stood with the same composure he brought to everything else. When Geoffrey’s followed, he felt something unfamiliar and steady—recognition without exposure.

 

They did not look at each other until it was over.

 

Outside, with the harbour bright and the air warm again at last, Geoffrey said, “Guess we survived.”

 

Embong nodded. “More than that.”

 

Glengarry had demanded effort and returned something quieter in exchange: confidence earned rather than assumed, loyalty tested rather than declared.

 

As they walked toward their families, both carried the same understanding.

 

Some lessons announce themselves.

 

Others are folded neatly, kept close, and drawn on later—when they are needed most.

 

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