Except For One Which Is Not

I hope you don't mind, Shu, says Gaius. I've volunteered your services.

Fine, says Shu.

Great, says Markus. Bring a container. We'll try the sand dunes.

Shu doesn't have a container.

Take this packet, says Gaius. It's not being used at the moment.

He offers the packet, which is still wet inside.

And my notes, if you think they'll be useful, adds Gaius. I'm writing some new ones.

Shu takes the notes.

He shoves them into his pocket where the blood and smoked salmon stained knife is, along with two sharpened sticks.

Now he is ready.

Ready? says Markus. Let's go.

They head off in the direction of the sand dunes, Markus leading.

Shu and Raoul walk behind.

How old are you? asks Raoul.

How old do I look? asks Shu.

Heaps old, says Raoul. Are you a professor?

Sadly no, says Shu. I am not a professor. I am a poet.

Yuck, says Raoul. We do that at school.

You don't DO poetry, says Shu. You feel it.

We do it, says Raoul. But it's not my best subject.

His best subject is science, says  Markus.

Yeah, says Raoul.

They trudge on through the landscape.

Along the edge of Lake Jasper, towards the sand dunes.

Shu imagines the conversation going differently.

He imagines Raoul saying: Are you the same age as my dad?

And he, replying: Probably. I have a few white hairs, though.

And Raoul: I can't see any.

And he cheering up.

It occurs to him that he could cheer up anyway.

Here he is on an expedition with two new people, a father and son.

The sun glints on Lake Jasper. Shafts of light strike the white water. A minnow flickers. Or is it a freshwater cobbler?

He feels the handle of the knife in his pocket.

What's that in your pocket? asks Raoul.

You don't want to introduce a knife to a boy in front of (or behind) his father. Shu knows that.

So he takes out the two sharpened sticks.

What are they for? asks Raoul.

Fighting, says Shu.

Can we fight? asks Raoul.

I don't think so, says Shu. You need training.

You could train me, says Raoul.

What's this? asks Markus.

Shu's going to train me to fight with sharp sticks, says Raoul.

Markus thinks: That's not going to happen.

Perhaps he could help you to make up a poem instead, says Markus.

Yeah right, dad, says Raoul.

I could, says Shu, but a poet must have a true love of words.

We have a true love of words, don't we, son, says Markus.

He is determined to deflect his son's attention from sticks.

I'll start us off, says Markus. This will be a poem about a hunt for a spider. Give me a minute.

Trudge, trudge.

What will Markus come up with? Shu wonders

Got it! says Markus.

No bigger than a rice grain
Hard to spot.
Seventy four species
So far we have got.
All in South Western Australia
Except for one, which is not.

To Shu this sounds like a long winded riddle, but Raoul is proud of his dad.