No one really knows what Max is. Not human. Not animal. Something older, made of leaf and bark and a light that seems to come from somewhere underneath his skin.
There’s something different about Max, and it’s not just how he looks. He’s curious like Bodhi, but nothing ever seems to catch him off guard. He notices everything, the way Scout does, without needing to point it out. He’s brave the way Kip is, patient the way Wattle is, steady the way Kiri is – all at once, all without trying. It’s as if he already knows, deep down, everything the others are still learning.
And yet Max never shows off what he knows. He’d rather ask a better question than give a straight answer. What he’s really good at is reminding everyone that you don’t have to see the whole path to take the next step on it – that there’s always a little more possibility in the world than it feels like some days.
Max doesn’t turn up in every story, and he never announces himself when he does. Sometimes he’s just a flicker of gold at the edge of a page, barely there at all. And every so often, if you’re reading closely, his voice seems to slip into the telling of the story itself – just for a line or two – before it slips back out again, and you’re left wondering if you imagined it.