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.