For more than forty years,
Yearling has been the leading name
in classic and award-winning literature
for young readers.
Yearling books feature children's
favorite authors and characters,
providing dynamic stories of adventure,
humor, history, mystery, and fantasy.
Trust Yearling paperbacks to entertain,
inspire, and promote the love of reading
in all children.
OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY
TOAD HEAVEN, Morris Gleitzman
DON'T PAT THE WOMBAT!, Elizabeth Honey
HOW TO EAT FRIED WORMS, Thomas Rockwell
CRASH, Jerry Spinelli
DONUTHEAD, Sue Stauffacher
SPACE RACE, Sylvia Waugh
HOW ANGEL PETERSON GOT HIS NAME, Gary Paulsen
For Mary-Anne
G'DAY FROM THE AUTHOR
You might notice a few strange and exotic words in this book. Fear not! They won't hurt you, they're just Australian. To find out what they mean, choose one of the following options.
1. Put the book down, fly to Australia, ask a local, fly back, pick up the book, resume reading.
2. Have a squiz at the glossary on page 162.
Happy reading,
Morris Gleitzman
“Uncle Bart,” said Limpy. “Why do humans hate us?”
Uncle Bart looked down at Limpy and smiled fondly.
“Stack me, Limpy,” he chuckled, “you are an idiot.”
Limpy felt his warts prickle with indignation as Uncle Bart hopped onto the road after a bull ant.
No wonder I've never heard any other cane toad ask that question, thought Limpy, if that's the reply you get.
Limpy was glad the grass at the edge of the highway was taller than he was. At least the millions of insects flying around the railway crossing light couldn't see who Uncle Bart was calling an idiot.
“Humans don't hate us,” Uncle Bart was saying, his mouth full of bull ant and grasshopper. “What are you on about? Stack me, some of the dopey ideas you youngsters come up with …”
Limpy waited patiently for Uncle Bart to finish. Uncle Bart was his fattest uncle, and his bossiest. When Uncle Bart had a point to make, he liked to keep on making it until you gave in and looked convinced.
Tonight, though, Limpy didn't give in.
He didn't have to. While Uncle Bart was getting his mucus in a knot about how humans definitely didn't hate cane toads, a truck came roaring round the corner in a blaze of lights, straightened up, rumbled through the railway crossing, swerved across the road straight at Uncle Bart, and drove over him.
Limpy trembled in the grass while the truck thundered past in a cloud of diesel fumes and flying grit. Then he hopped onto the road and looked down at what was left of Uncle Bart.
The light overhead was very bright because it had a whole railway crossing to illuminate, and Limpy was able to see very clearly that Uncle Bart wasn't his fattest uncle anymore.
Flattest, more like, he thought sadly.
“See,” he said quietly to Uncle Bart. “That's what I'm on about.”
“Har har har,” chortled a nearby grasshopper. “Your uncle's a place mat. Serves him right.”
Limpy ignored the grasshopper and turned to watch the truck speeding away into the darkness. From the movement of its taillights he could tell it was weaving from side to side. Each time it weaved, he heard the distant “pop” of another relative being run over.
“Yay,” shouted the grasshopper. “More place mats.”
Limpy sighed.
He decided not to eat the grasshopper. Mum was always warning him he'd get a bellyache if he ate when he was upset or angry.
To take his mind off Uncle Bart, Limpy crossed the road to have a look at Uncle Roly.
Uncle Roly was extremely flat too, but at least he was smiling.
Which is what you'd expect, thought Limpy sadly, from your kindest uncle, even when he has been dead for two nights.
Limpy reached forward and gently prodded Uncle Roly. He was dry and stiff. The hot Queensland sun had done its job.
Limpy remembered how Uncle Roly had never been dry and stiff when he was alive. He'd always had a warm smile for everyone, even the family of holidaymakers two evenings ago who'd purposely aimed their car straight for him down the wrong side of the road.
“Oh, Uncle Roly,” whispered Limpy. “Couldn't you see the way they were looking at you?”
Limpy shuddered as he remembered the scary expressions on the holidaymakers' faces. It was exactly the same look of hatred that had been on the face of the truck driver who'd tried to kill Limpy when he was little.
I was lucky, thought Limpy sadly. When it happened to me, I'd only just finished being a tadpole. I had a pair of brand-new legs and I could hop almost completely out of the way. I only got one leg a bit squashed. Poor old Uncle Roly was completely flat before he knew what hit him.
Limpy felt his crook leg start to ache, as it often did when he was sad and stressed. He gazed down at Uncle Roly's very wide smile and felt his throat sac start to wobble.
Why?
Why would a carload of humans purposely kill an uncle who had such a good heart that he was still smiling two nights after being run over by a station wagon and caravan?
I don't get it, thought Limpy. I can understand why grasshoppers and other insects don't like us. It's because we eat them. But we don't eat humans. We can't even fit them into our mouths. So why do they hate us?
Limpy felt his warts tingle with determination.
One day, he thought, I'll go to a human place and
find out why and try to do something about it, even if I end up dry and stiff and flat myself.
The thought made him feel weak and sick.
“Time to go home, Uncle Roly,” he said.
Limpy picked Uncle Roly up, heaved him onto his shoulders, and hopped slowly back across the road to Uncle Bart.
“Bye, Uncle Bart,” said Limpy to the damp layer of pressed skin and flat warts on the tarmac. “I'll be back for you when you've dried out.”
He wondered if he'd find the courage to visit the humans before he saw Uncle Bart again.
I need to get braver, he thought. But how?
“Rack off, place mat,” yelled the grasshopper.
Ignoring all thoughts of bellyache, Limpy ate him.
Practice, thought Limpy as he chewed, that's how.
“Oh no, Limpy,” said Mum in exasperation. “You haven't brought home another dead relative.”
Limpy was too puffed to answer. Although the swamp where he lived wasn't very far from the highway, it was still a long haul for a skinny toad with a crook leg and a dried uncle on his back.
“Well, just don't leave him lying around in your room,” said Mum. “That room's a pigsty. I'm sick of tidying up dead relatives in there.”
“Mum,” said Limpy. “Uncle Roly's your brother. Don't you care that he's been run over?”
Mum gave a big sigh and leaned against the leaf she'd been preparing dinner on. She put down the ants she'd been stuffing slugs with and closed her eyes.
When she opened them, Limpy could see her throat sac was trembling.
“Oh, Limpy,” she said quietly. “Of course I care. But I've got hundreds of brothers and sisters. If I let myself get upset every time one of them's run over, I'll be a nervous wreck.”
Limpy felt a hand grip his shoulder.
He jumped.
For a second he thought Uncle Roly had come back to life and was desperate for a drink of water.
Then he realized it was Dad.
“Mum's right, Son,” said Dad. “You've got to accept the facts of life. Highway lights attract flying in
sects, so that's where we've got to go for a feed.”
“But there's heaps of other food here in the swamp,” said Limpy. “There's worms in the mud and slugs in the water and spiders in the mangroves and termites in the paperbarks and dung beetles in the—”
“Limpy,” interrupted Mum, “you know perfectly well you need flying insects for a balanced diet. How many times have we told you that you won't grow up big and strong unless you eat your flying insects?”
Limpy sighed. She was right.
“And in these parts,” said Dad, “the highway is where the flying insects are. It's just bad luck that humans use highways too. All we can do is accept it. It's the way it's been since the dawn of time.”
“But why do they hate us, Dad?” said Limpy. “Why do they go out of their way to run us over?”
Dad thought hard for a long time. Then he gave an
exasperated shrug.
“It's just the way things are,” he said to Limpy.
“Now go and tidy your room and don't worry your
dopey old head about it.”
I can't help worrying about it, thought Limpy miserably as he pushed his way through the big tropical leaves into his room. It's just the way I am.
He carefully lifted Uncle Roly onto the uncle stack.
“I don't know what Mum's moaning about,” Limpy said to himself. “I don't reckon my room's that untidy.”
He looked around at the neat piles of rellies. Uncles by the bed. Aunts in the corner. Cousins next to the mud patch.
The only way I could make these tidier, he thought, is if I had some of those racks.
He'd seen a picture of the racks in a newspaper that had been chucked out of a passing car. Humans used them for storing round, flat metal things, but Limpy could see they'd be perfect for dead rellies.
He straightened up Uncle Roly on the uncle stack. In a couple of days he'd be adding Uncle Bart to it.
Poor old Uncle Bart, thought Limpy. He spent most of his life saying “stack me,” and soon I will be.
A voice interrupted his sad thoughts.
“Limpy.”
Limpy turned round.
Mum and Dad had followed him into his room.
He started to tell them about the racks, but they didn't give him a chance.
“Limpy,” said Mum gently. “I know we get a bit cross with you sometimes, but we just want to say that we're really glad you're still around.”
They both gave him a hug.
Limpy glowed with pleasure. Most of his brothers and sisters had been swept away from home ages ago, when they were still blobs of spawn, and sometimes he worried he was a bit of a burden to Mum and Dad.
“If you ever got flattened, you know, more than you have been already,” said Dad, “we'd be really, really sad.”
Limpy glowed even more.
He started to tell them he felt the same about them, but just the thought of a Mum and Dad stack made his throat ache so much he had to stop.
Instead he said, “And Charm too?”
Mum smiled. “Of course,” she said. “We're glad she's still around too.”
Limpy glowed again. A lot of parents were ashamed of kids like Charm. Kids who'd stayed small because of pollution. But he could tell by looking at Mum and Dad's faces that they loved his younger sister as much as they did him.
“Where is Charm?” he said. “I haven't seen her since I got back.”
“She went down to the highway,” said Mum, “to get me some mozzies for dessert.”
Limpy stared at her in panic.
“She shouldn't be going to the highway,” he said. “She's too young.”
“She's got to learn to collect food like everyone else,” said Dad. “Anyway, she'll be fine. She's with Goliath.”
Limpy felt anxiety stab through his glands.
Not cousin Goliath.
Anyone but cousin Goliath.
Limpy tried to make a frantic dash through the leaves and off in the direction of the highway, forgetting that if he hopped too fast, his crook leg made him go in circles.
He grimaced with frustration. This is the one drawback, he thought as he staggered around the room, of having one leg shorter than the other.
He crashed into a stack of rellies. Uncles rolled in all directions.
“Calm down,” said Dad. “Charm'll be okay. Goliath'll look after her. He's big and strong and sensible.”
“Big, yes,” Limpy wanted to shout. “Strong, yes. But can someone who sits in the middle of the road and tries to wee on passing traffic really be described as sensible?”
Limpy didn't have time to stand around shouting.
In the distance, from the direction of the highway, he heard the faint sound of a sixteen-wheeler slamming on its air brakes.
He had to get to Charm before it was too late.
Limpy's head was spinning by the time he got to the highway, partly because he was out of breath and partly because he'd been round in so many circles.
It didn't matter.
He could see Charm and she was okay.
So far.
She was sitting in the moonlight in the middle of the road, a small figure next to a much larger one.
Limpy peered anxiously at the hulking figure of Goliath at her side and saw he was holding a stick.
“Oh no,” groaned Limpy.
His warts prickled with fear.
He could feel the vibrations of an approaching vehicle.
If he didn't act quickly, Charm and Goliath wouldn't be okay for much longer.
“Charm,” he yelled, but it just came out as a desperate croak. He hurled himself at her, but found himself going round in circles again.
Then Charm looked up, saw him, and hopped over, eyes bright with pleasure.
“G'night, Limpy,” she said, smiling up at him. “How's it going?”
Limpy stared at her weakly.
“You could have been killed,” he said. “What were you doing?”
“Goliath's got a plan,” she replied. “He said he wants to show the humans that we're not going to take them running us over lying down.”
Limpy sighed. When they were handing out brains, Goliath must have swapped his for extra warts.
Limpy could feel the vehicle getting closer.
Goliath was facing the direction it was coming from, gripping his stick like a spear.
“Goliath,” yelled Limpy. “Don't be a dope.”
Goliath ignored him.
Headlights swung round the bend in the highway and came toward them, bathing Goliath in dazzling white. Goliath rose unsteadily on his back legs.
“Mongrels,” he yelled, waving his stick at the oncoming lights. “Big bums.”
Limpy started hopping toward Goliath.
Not too fast, he told himself. Stay in a straight line.
He got to Goliath with only a couple of wobbles, reached up, grabbed Goliath's big warty shoulders, and tried to drag him off the road.
It was no good. Goliath was too much of a lump.
Then Limpy realized Charm was next to him and she was yanking at Goliath's leg.
“I was trying to tell him this was dopey when you arrived,” she panted.
Together they managed to drag the protesting Goliath across the bitumen.
“Hey,” yelled Goliath indignantly. “You're spoiling my ambush.”
“Ambush?” puffed Limpy. “You can't ambush a vehicle.”
“Yes I can,” retorted Goliath. “I've planned it all out. At the last minute I'm gunna hop to one side and smash the windscreen and rip the doors off and demolish the engine.”
“Goliath,” wheezed Limpy as they all collapsed in the grass, “you're a cane toad. That's a stick. A vehicle's about a thousand times bigger than you.”
Goliath, his warts glowing with determination, glared at Limpy.
“I can still give the duco a really nasty scratch.”
“Not,” said Limpy, “if you're being flattened by a large number of radial tires.?
??
“Limpy's right, Goliath,” said Charm. “You should have thought about that.”
Goliath, frowning, thought about it now.
“I'll stab the tires with the stick till they explode,” he said, “and then those mongrels'll drive off the road and get smothered by their own air bags.”
The vehicle, a car, roared past. It swerved slightly and thumped over an aunt in the exact spot where Goliath had been sitting.
They all stared at the flat aunt.
Limpy gave a sad sigh.
There was a long silence.
“Yeah, well, she didn't have a stick, did she?” Goliath muttered finally.
His bulging shoulders sagged.
“Poor Aunty Violet,” said Charm.
Limpy looked at his little sister's sad face and felt his warts tingle with love and then prickle with worry.
It could have been Charm.
Limpy had an awful vision of her out on the tarmac night after night, proudly collecting her own food while huge trucks and convoys of holidaymakers swerved across the road and aimed straight at her.
Unless, thought Limpy, I can find a way to stop humans from hating us.
Suddenly he knew he couldn't put it off any longer.
Not till next month, not till next week, not till he'd had time to get braver and make a will.
He had to start tonight.
Limpy found Ancient Eric at the far end of the swamp, eating a snake.
“Go away,” said Ancient Eric, “I'm having my tea.”
Limpy had expected something like that. Ancient Eric, as well as being the oldest and wisest cane toad in the district, was also the grumpiest.
It must be hard to stay cheerful when you look like that, thought Limpy sympathetically.
Even though the moon was behind a cloud, Limpy could see just how unkind age had been to Ancient Eric. His poor old body was a disaster. The years had shrunk his skin and turned it tragically smooth. You could see his muscles rippling when he moved. He didn't have a wrinkle or a crease or a decent-sized wart on him.
Poor thing, thought Limpy.
Ancient Eric paused in the middle of getting the snake down his throat.
“You still here?” he said.