Stray (3 page)

The soles of my feet are black, even after I wash them, and have collected plenty of bruises and tiny cuts, but there's no way I'm putting my shoes on until the sores made by my blisters are better.  The rash on my arms and legs went away quickly though.  I think it was the tree which caused it.  I've lost weight: my skirt keeps slipping down on my hips.  I've never been the thinnest girl, though not really fat either, and I wouldn't mind a mirror to see what I look like.  Not that I'd pass up a milkshake.

Foliage overload

Another reason I'm glad to stick to the river is it offers a break from the trees.  The undergrowth isn't too bad here, but between the trees and bushes it still feels very closed in.  Even when I'm up on a hill, I rarely see any distance at all, and big clearings only happen once in a while.  When the river's running straight I at least get a reasonable glimpse of what's ahead, but I want a better idea of where I am and whether there's anything out there I should head for.

Which comes down to climbing trees.  The problem is, if I fall, if I break a leg or an arm, I'm going to have to fix it.  Any accident, no matter how minor, could be fatal.  Even the little scratches could get infected, and I don't have the least idea how to make antiseptic, any more than I can figure out where soap comes from.

Anyway, I've found a good tree.  It's a kind of pine, I guess.  One of the really straight ones anyway, basically a pole with lots of branches sticking out, and if I can use the nearest rock to haul myself to the lowest branch, I should be able to climb up far further than I can on the trees which have lots of low, dividing branches.  Time to give it a shot. 

View

Okay, just a few scrapes and itches for that effort.  And nothing much else.  I could see a fair way, but it was all what I already knew – I'm in a lot of low hills covered by trees, and a river is winding through it.  Still no sign of farmland or buildings, let alone power lines.  I think maybe there's an edge of water ahead.  It could just be the river widening again and turning back, but it looked flatter in that direction. 

Monday, November 26

Bleaurgh

Very sick.  I tried a new fruit, a kind of orange grape (granges).  Only ate one, and have been sicking up all afternoon, with the added joy of the runs.  I think I'll be okay, but life without toilet paper truly sucks. 

Tuesday, November 27

Bad Night

I've made two really large (and very fraying) mats of 'bamboo' leaves now.  They're not too hard to carry, rolled up and tied to the back of my backpack.  At night I lie on one and completely under the other.  It keeps a lot of the dew off, and might even help if it rained: it hasn't rained at all yet, though it's overcast a lot.  Even though the mat's paper-thin, it makes me feel safer to be under something.

Last night something walked right up to me, crunching a corner of my mat.  I was feeling so awful anyway, and inside I just shrivelled, all while I held my breath and tried to be anything but a big Cass sandwich.  For all I know it was a cow, more interested in my mats than me.  It was big, heavy.  I could hear it breathing, and the tiny sounds it made as it turned its head, right over mine.

And then it left.

I've spent most of today on a rock in the middle of the river, making myself feel warm and safe, and drinking gallons of water.  I needed the recovery time from yesterday's food experiment, but it's not bad fruit that makes me stand hunched, cringing from something I didn't even see.

I'll sleep here tonight.  I need to.  But I know there's no choice but to go on.

Mats

I've been fiddling with my mats, tightening them up again, and wondering how I could make a needle and thread to sew edges.  I'd realised I could bend the ends back and thread them through the checkerboard of weave, which keeps them firmer, but mat maintenance is a big part of my day.

My scissors are already showing signs of wear.  The kind of paper scissors which fit into pencil cases, even the Pencil Case of Doom, aren't large or strong enough to pretend to be a knife or half the things I've been trying to use them for.  The pencil sharpener also has a tiny blade in it, but I'm leaving that alone for the moment, and trying to reserve my scissors for things I can't figure out any other way to cut.  Perhaps I'll make another attempt at whacking a stone knife out of the rocks. 

Wednesday, November 28

Big Wet

There definitely is an ocean or a lake ahead.  I keep seeing the light reflecting from the water, though it's still too far ahead for more.  Going to push hard this afternoon, to see how far I can get. 

Nature abhors a square

At least, I can't think of any naturally forming squares, except for the occasional odd-shaped rock.

There's a big patch of water ahead.  Ocean or a lake, not sure yet.  The river's still fresh, without any hint of salt.  And to the right, far along the shore, are white, square things.  Buildings.

No sign of smoke or power lines or roads or anything but a few whitish squares among the greenery.  But this changes so much.  Someone made those squares, and although they could be hostile or gecko-men or whatever, it means I'm not the only intelligent person on the planet.

I can barely sit here writing this.  I want to run all the way there, I want to scream for help, I want to see a plane fly over, I want it all at once.

I think I MIGHT get there by tomorrow afternoon.  I'm definitely going to push as hard as I can, the rest of today and tomorrow. 

Thursday, November 29

Water Walk

I'm nearly at the buildings, and should reach them in plenty of time before sunset, though I've yet to decide whether that's a good idea or not.

The lake is enormous.  I seem to be walking along an outflung arm of it, and can see a huge expanse beyond the hills directly across from me, so large that I can't see the far shore.  It's very cool and still, clear like green tea, and the banks all pebbly.  There's these birds which keep flying low across the water in pairs, making the most amazing noises, drawn-out wails.  I'm glad I didn't hear that for the first time in the middle of the night.

There are dozens of buildings.  And they're old.  And obviously empty, with plants growing in all the wrong places.  I'm following the shoreline along a road made of white stones which have been set neatly in the ground.  It's broken apart in places, where tree roots have lifted the stones, but otherwise it's survived well.  There's even what I think must be mile-posts every so often, though whatever is chipped into them is so old and worn I can't tell if it's any kind of script I would recognise.

The buildings are white and blocky, with arched doorways.  Most are only one or two stories, with flat roofs, and make me think of Greece, of those pictures of seaside towns.  They stretch over the hill, and I think they must continue along the 'main' shore of the lake.

My feet aren't happy with me for walking so hard all day, but I'm going to press on while it's still light.  Just to check what's in the buildings, and to see if there's more over the hill.  There might be some with people in them.  There might be another, occupied settlement. 

Dire lack of friendly aliens

No-one's been here for a long time.  There's plenty of animal life, though.  Ten thousand birds, all singing in the evening.  Little pigs which shoot out of the bushes and go racing off, shrieking as if I'd hit them.  Chittering squirrelly types jumping from wall to wall.  I even saw a cat, a slinky grey one, no different from home.  All these different animals, seething through a town overgrown and deserted and empty.

It wasn't a modern town, back when people lived in it.  There's no remains of cars or powerlines or anything like that.  But it's not caveman primitive either.  I can't figure out how the buildings were made, since the walls and roofs all seem to be one single piece of white stone.  Like someone took a big block of plaster of Paris and carved out the parts they didn't need to make rooms and doors and windows, and then added pretty decorations around the edges.  It's held up really well: worn but solid.

Of the doors and shutters and furniture, most has left barely a trace, making it clear the people have been gone more than a few years.  There's little remaining in the couple of houses I've dared to look into, though there's plenty of guck and muck.  No visible bones of people, fortunately – this doesn't seem to be like Pompeii.

It's getting dark around 9.30pm (Sydney daylight savings time) and it's too gloomy right now to explore more.  I'm going to sleep on the roof of the house nearest the edge, then take a proper look tomorrow.  Over the next couple of days I'll hunt for useful stuff and decide whether or not to stay.  The fact that this one town is empty doesn't mean anything.  Look at Macchu Piccu – it being deserted didn't mean the rest of the world was.  And this means there were people here once. 

Friday, November 30

Town ramble

The buildings are all made of this white stone, and have pointed arches for doors and windows.  Every one where I've bothered to climb up to look has a raised circle pattern in the middle of the roof which I think might represent some kind of flower: each has a central dot and then petals or beams or something radiating out from it to a thick rim.  The roofs themselves are slightly indented, and there's drainage holes at each corner, though no downpipes.

The most common type of building is two levels at the front, and one at the back, with a fenced-off bit of garden.  They look like terrace houses, but not pressed up against each other.  The upstairs windows are pointed arches as well, but much flatter, like someone sat on them.  Then there's the buildings which are L-shaped downstairs, with no levels on top, and a wall rounding off a square for their garden.  There are other configurations, but almost everything is square.  Even the two or three towers are just a stack of slightly smaller squares on top of each other.

That makes it sounds really bare and ugly, but it's not.  Partly because there's so many plants growing over everything, but mainly because everything's decorated.  Around the bottom of every building, and around each window and door is a border.  Geometric shapes, or occasionally little stylised animals.  All faded yellow and blue and green, with red-earth tones showing up every so often.

I've been walking around the town for the entire day.  The roads make it fairly easy going, but I put my shoes back on because there's occasional sharp rubble.  Shattered pottery.  After I'd made it over the hill I could see both that the lake is huge, and that the town stretches well along the right side of it.  I headed toward what looked to be the town centre, where there were some larger clear paved areas, and two of the four-storey towers.

The tower on the 'north' edge of town is closest to the lake, so I picked it for my basecamp.  Fort Cass.  I'm sleeping on the roof tonight, since the sky is clear and there's less dirt up here.

I haven't found any bodies, or not obvious ones, though the chance of unearthing some bones is one of the reasons I'm not that keen on kicking through the grot.  Did the people choose to leave, and abandon this place?  Was it a plague?  A war? 

December

Saturday, December 1

Housekeeping

All this morning I've focused on Fort Cass.  First I searched it properly, and took anything that looked useful up to the roof.  The bottom of every room is thick with muck, dust and the remains of ancient bug-nests.  I'm being extra careful in case of spiders.  Or, y'know, mind-controlling tentacle monsters.

Metal objects come in two types: the things that fall into flaky red crumble when I pick them up, and the things which are green-black but whole.  Most of the green-black things seem to be decorative, unfortunately.  A pretty statue of a pippin, which I've adopted for company.  What might be a belt buckle.  Some cups.  No knives so far, let alone needles.  I don't think the tower was a place people lived, but perhaps a place they worked, or a look-out.

After my search I kicked all the big rubble out of the top level and swept it out using the most bodged-up attempt at a broom ever.  The handle fell straight off a jug I found, but it would hold water so I sloshed and swept and scraped the floor, and knocked down all the cobwebs.  Not too bad.

Next on the agenda are hairy sheep.  I spotted them on one of my trips to the lake: a little flock had come down to the bank to drink.  They were north, out beyond the buildings, and wandered off when I went near them.  I'm pretty sure they
are
sheep, since they looked woolly, but they had horns, and long hair growing in the wool.  The horns make me a bit nervous, but I'm hoping I can go and cut some wool off them.  Unless they have pointy teeth, in which case I'll pass. 

Sheepses

The hairy sheep are guarded by great big hairy rams.  All of them except the little ones have horns, but the rams have big twirling ones, and scarred foreheads from bashing up against each other or anything silly enough to come near their ewes.  I bet the ewes would give me a good knock too, and in the end I decided not to risk any of them.  They might have been domesticated once, but they're not keen on people now.

I still came back with a haul of wool, though.  The sheep live on the hills north of town, the biggest unforested patch of ground I've seen so far.  Other than a few trees, the grass is broken up by rocks and berry bushes.  These are a different sort to the tearberries, also green but going on pink.  More sour than cranberries, so I'm guessing they're not ripe yet either.  Anyway, the important thing about them is they're thorny, and snag anything which comes near them.

For the price of a few scratches I filled my backpack with tufts of wool, crammed in hard, and there's plenty more back there.  The wool is yellow and grotty, but a huge step up from string made out of grass stalks.  I have a thousand plans for it, but first on the list is cleaning it.  Which means tomorrow I'm going to have to bite the bullet and try to make fire.

If I can manage fire, I should get lanolin as well as clean wool.  I don't exactly know what I'll do with the lanolin – keep my skin nice? – but it can't hurt to have it.

Sunday, December 2

Moonfall

Last night was only the second time I've seen the moon.  This time it was full.

I was still sitting on the roof of Fort Cass when it rose.  All the buildings were slowly picked out in blueish white and it was like looking down at a ghost of a town, everything a shimmering mirage, not real at all.  The circles in the centre of each roof became the brightest part of each building, until it looked like the light was
flowing
out from them.  And it was.  I was sitting right next to one, and didn't know whether to stay or run when a thick mist began to creep out from the centre circle.  But who could not find out what it was like to touch?

About a year ago I was friends with Perry Ryan.  Her parents were hardly ever home, and she liked to drink and smoke.  The smoking I wasn't so keen on, but I thought the drinking was great.  It made me feel like I had a personality.  I really loved it until Alyssa dragged me out of a party at Perry's house and woke me up enough to tell me I'd been snogging Matt Wilson.  The kind of jerk who takes photos.  Alyssa went all Mum on me thanks to that, and no more Perry parties.

So the way that cold blue light made me feel warm and happy wasn't exactly new, and I curled around the circle like it was a hot water bottle and let myself enjoy it.  After that, I was quickly into the everything's a blur stage.  I don't know what made me go looking for more.  But I went downstairs (barefoot!) and then to a place I'd only glanced at before, an amphitheatre of step-like whitestone seats in the middle of town.  When I'd looked at it during the day, the place had been infested with cats, but that night there was just the light.  Gallons of it, drifting off all the buildings and washing into the amphitheatre where a huge version of the circles was glowing so strong the light rose in a column.  I went and stood in it, of course, and tried to drink the air, which was more like a heavy fog than a liquid.  I've never felt better or happier or more alive than last night, standing there with my arms outstretched and my mouth open, inhaling and swallowing light.

So.  I woke up, still feeling really damn good, curled in the centre of the amphitheatre.  No hangover.  It was mid-morning, sunny.  My mouth was dry and the arm I was lying on had pins and needles, but otherwise just Cass, feeling amazed at what had happened.

The amphitheatre is cat central.  Their home base, just as the tower's mine.  There's dozens of them, all slinky, big-eared, mostly grey tabby but a sprinkle of other colours.  No fluffy Persian types here.  Some really cute kittens, but the whole lot so feral and wild I wouldn't dare try and pick one up.  I got myself out of their territory as quickly as I could, and then because I was feeling energetic I walked back along the lake to a stream I'd passed, and watched otters.  It's hard to focus on practical plans when you've spent the night drinking the moon. 

Nothing about the moon

Before my attempt at fire, I collected another pack of wool and hunted around for something big and metal which didn't look like it would instantly fall to pieces.  I ended up with this flat blue and green bowl which was hell to move since I could only just lift it, and had to put it down every ten steps.  I didn't want to risk breaking it by trying to roll it and don't know how it will hold up to having a fire built around it.  I'm setting the fire up down on the lake's edge, for ease of access to water.

I wish I knew how to make soap, so I could clean up properly.  Even though I wash every day, there's a layer of greasy grime all over me, and the less said about my hair the better.  If I can get the fire started, I'll at least have hot water to wash in, before I add the wool.  The IF is the big problem here.  I tried magnifying sunlight with bits of glass, but either the glass isn't clear enough or the sunlight's not strong enough.  I'm having a rest right now after taking up the stick rubbing challenge.  I can make the sticks heat up, but all I end up with is hot sticks and very tired arms.  I shredded a page of history notes before I started, but I'm going to tear it all up smaller and try again. 

Department of Acquisitions

So I have a fire.  I'm not altogether sure what to do to stop it from going out overnight, or if it rains.  It made me realise that these houses don't have chimneys or fireplaces.  My wool-boiling went along merrily, and I now have a lot of very wet wool, and a little scummy yellow stuff I ladled off the top.  I've spread the wool out to dry.

While it was cooking I made a start on more mats.  I want to cover both the floor and the windows.  I'm not sure what to do with the top of the stair to the roof.  There would have been something which sealed it nicely before, but I don't think I can make a waterproof mat.

I've never been particularly great at arts and crafts.  Not useless, but I'm nothing close to as good as Mum.  I'm too impatient.  I start out with neatish little stitches, then they get bigger and untidier.  But I'm going to make myself a clean wool nest and a blanket and I don't care if it's the ugliest thing around.  And I'll fix up my room, and explore this town and get everything useful I can find.

And then–?

My long term options really suck the life out of any feel-good attempt. 

Monday, December 3

The Sad Ignorance of Modern Youth

I've seen people shear sheep on TV.  And I've seen a picture of a spinning wheel.  I know a spindle must be pointy because princesses can prick their fingers on them.  The mechanics of how wool goes from fleece to thread, though, is something else.  And what is carding?  When does it happen?

Anyway, turning all the wool into thread and then trying to weave with it is just beyond me.  It would take a century even if I knew what to do.  Making a big pile of clean wool so I have something soft to sleep on is part of the plan, but I'm also going to have a shot at making a felt blanket.  Of course, felt-making was another thing no-one bothered to teach me, but my best guess is that it might work like making paper, and that at least I've seen someone do.

I thought about it this morning, while collecting more wool and chasing sheep.  The sheep, the ewes at least, aren't as aggressive as I thought, though they're skittish as anything.  I targeted the middle-sized ones, that don't seem quite fully grown, but aren't being babysat by their mums (and don't have much horn!).  My paper scissors aren't nearly as effective as shears, but I can get nice big hunks by sitting on the sheep's back and chopping away.  All morning collecting wool, and now I have a massive pile of the stuff and am working my way through boiling it while trying to make a mould for the felt.

I'm using the road for the base, a section of large squares where none of the stones have been displaced.  Smaller stones and a log gave me an outline of a big rectangle, and I'll lay out a nice even layer of wet wool and then squish and mush it as flat as I can and let it dry.

I don't know if they use any glues when making felt.  Probably, knowing my luck.  Just pressing the wool together won't be enough – I need to make it stick together.  I may have to do a whole bunch of different attempts, adding different things to the mix, but the first time around I'm going to try without additives.  Just lots of water, and heat.  I figure boiling all the clean wool again, for a really long time, and stirring it up, might make it break down and go gluey and more like paper pulp.  Or not.  I'm just guessing, but I have plenty of wool to experiment with, and am going to go find some more big bowls to boil it in.  My own lakeshore factory. 

I'm so looking forward to sleeping on soft wool tonight.

Tuesday, December 4

The Pre-Industrial Mountain

Today I made another, better broom to sweep out the rest of Fort Cass.  It's so stupidly hard to make tools without other tools.  Try putting together a broom without large amounts of industrial glue, a nicely finished handle, the straw or whatever it is that they make bristles out of, a drill, a saw, nails, a hammer.  Everything I do involves a monumental pile of preliminary tasks, and the simplest thing takes so much time.

The scale of it all got a little much for me this morning, mostly because one of the bowls I was using decided life was too hard and fell to pieces, nearly putting out all the fires and sending me ducking away before I was scalded beyond recognition.  I about died of fright, then had an epic tanty and stomped off.

Till now I'd steered clear of doing more than hauling water out of the lake and washing at the edge.  This place could be this planet's equivalent of Loch Ness, after all, and I'm not keen on monsters.  Even in Australia, it's best not to jump into water unless a local has told you whether there's crocs or stingers or sharks.  Since I don't have any locals, I've been watching the wildlife, waiting for a fin to surface or a massive toothy maw to snatch up animals which stray too close.  So far I've seen lots of waterbirds bobbing about happily enough, and occasionally fish flipping in the air.

So I went swimming.  The water's cold, but since the day was hot and I've been hunched over pots of boiling water, this was a good thing.  In a proper story, when the heroine goes swimming naked the very handsome prince turns up to try not to watch.  Complete failure on the handsome prince part, but lying back in the water staring at a sunny blue sky, I could pretend I was anywhere.  Just Cass, on an extended lakeside holiday.

My school uniform has seen better days.  Grubby, worn, with little holes burned in the skirt from all my fire experiments.  The jacket's a bit better, since I only wear that at night.  Probably I should make more of it just nightwear. 

Nutbars

This diary is my volleyball.  I didn't get shipwrecked, and I don't have a face painted on it, but it's what I talk to.  Did Tom Hanks talk to the volleyball because he'd gone mad, or to stop himself going mad?

Reading back, I see I haven't really talked about myself very much.  Me before here.  I'm seventeen.  Eighteen in February.  I have hazel eyes and light brown hair with just a bit of a wave.  It goes blondish if I stay out in the sun a lot – I guess it's probably blondish now.  Using a lake as a mirror isn't very accurate.  I'm 172cm tall, and usually feel a complete hulk around other girls.  Mum says I have good skin, but my acne keeps making her a liar.  I'm okay-looking; not model material but I clean up all right.

I like The Killers, Gwen Stefani and Little Birdy.  Escher prints.  Orlando Bloom.  Surfing (badly!).  But mostly reading.  Sf&f, but almost anything really.  I was going to study English, history and archaeology at university, and hopefully figure out some way to turn an Arts degree into a job.  I'm an above average student, but I'm not brilliant at anything.  Partly because I'd rather read than study.