Free Max by Michael Hyde Page A

short breath caught in his mouth. He knew the words, more or less. But he didn’t recognise the symbol, painted like a signature at the bottom. A tag, only more complete, more like a drawing – a man standing with arms outstretched, inside a square, inside a circle.
    It was not quite true to say he didn’t recognise it. He felt it, somewhere in his body. A naked constellation whirling in space.
    â€˜That’s the drawing by Da Vinci,’ Mai spoke quietly, gazing at the drawing beneath words that were written like a poem.
    He stepped closer to her saying, almost whispering, ‘How come you know what it is?’
    â€˜A teacher showed us in art one day. It’s really great. Did you do it?’
    It was a simple question, requiring a yes or no answer. But for Max it wasn’t quite that easy. Once more he found himself staring at words and a drawing that he could only vaguely remember.
    â€˜Did I do it?’ Max said, repeating the question.
    Mai looked quizzically at him. ‘Well?’ she asked.
    â€˜I did the words.’
    â€˜If you did the words then somebody else must’ve done the Da Vinci. Who was it? Or aren’t you saying?’
    Max felt the warmth of Mai’s hand in his. ‘You’ve got hands as warm as hot pies – that’s what my mother used to say when I was little.’
    â€˜Max! Are you on this planet or what?! Will you talk to me – or at least say something sensible. You say you wrote the words but not the drawing...’
    â€˜I didn’t say I didn’t do them. I’m just saying I don’t remember anything very clearly.’
    Mai gave up and turned to look at the words again.
    Autumn leaves and ants
The tunnel waits for us all
Good luck
    Mai read ‘Good Luck’ aloud. ‘What’s it mean?’
    Max blushed. He had a hazy idea of the meaning but it was held somewhere in his mind and body, not easily interpreted by words. Mai squeezed his hand and peered into his face. ‘Well?’
    â€˜Oh, it was something I’ve been thinking about – and doing.’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s all bullshit at any rate. Anyway, I thought we were going to the Falls. Still want to go?’
    â€˜Sure,’ she said. ‘But you’re going to have to start talking to me, I mean real y talk to me, sometime. The way you’re going, you’ll end up like Lou.’
    They walked along the path of tan bark that ran down be-side the concrete pylons of the Wellington Street bridge. Guy and Kirsty were having their regular after-school bong. It must have made them more mellow because Kirsty called out, ‘Hey, you guys. Where you going?’
    Mai answered, ‘For a walk.’
    â€˜That’s alright,’ said Kirsty. ‘I won’t say nothin’.
    â€˜They should smoke that stuff all the time,’ said Max.
    At the end of the tan bark they came to a muddy track, winding through the scrub and reeds that grew down to the river. The water caught the glitter of the afternoon sun. River gums, old and resilient, grew on the opposite bank. Gutters of water trickled through the grass into the river. A small breeze blew off the water. Max and Mai smiled as though their hearts would break, as though they would not, could not, stop smiling.
    Turning the bend, they heard the faint roar of the Falls before they saw the silver curtain of water flowing into the pond of froth and foam and stopper that rose back on itself like a dragon devouring its own tail. They jumped across the rocks and ledges until they reached the side of the small waterfall. Standing on a flat-topped rock, they watched broken branches, plastic cups, twigs and leaves give one last swirl, before being dashed on the rocks below.
    Max leaned towards Mai. He had to yell to make himself heard. ‘See how the water falls then rises and kicks back? There’s a ledge of some kind under the water at the