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.
My best friend is Alyssa Caldwell. I like Nick Dale, except when I don’t like him. I have one brother, Julian. My Dad left when I was ten, but we see him most months. The thing I wanted most was to be witty and confident instead of just hanging about the edges whenever I’m with a bunch of people, thinking up brilliant things I could say if the right opportunity arose. Guess I don’t have to worry about that any more.
Being here is amazing. I’m on a whole new world, and the moonlight is wine. Today it was rough, but I’m coping really well, honestly.
And my period’s starting and I hate this. Hate it.
Wednesday, December 5
Felt
I’m now officially sick to death of wool. But I have a blanket, maybe. I’m letting it dry, hoping that it doesn’t just fall to pieces when I try and pick it up.
Thursday, December 6
Tissue
Mum talks occasionally about the myth of the paperless society. She means people printing things in offices, but I’m being hit hard by a lack of paper products at the moment. With a choice of washing my butt in the lake or using leaves when I go to the toilet (not even mentioning that the toilet is a hole I scraped in the ground), I miss paper every day. My history notes didn’t last long and I don’t want to use this diary. Add today’s blocked and dripping nose and the failure of my history classes to tell me what pre-industrial women used for their periods, and I really really miss the papered society.
So anyway, since I wasn’t feeling well, I spent the morning wandering aimlessly about, scaring the pigsies and annoying the cats. There’s a tunnel leading below the amphitheatre, deep enough that it’s too dark for me to be keen on more than standing at the entrance peering in. The cats, at least, behave just like stray cats – they watch you, and leave if you get near. Even though there’s a lot of them, they don’t seem at all interested in hurling themselves at my throat or doing other uncatty things. I wouldn’t dare try and pick one up though.
Festering Bag of Snot
The day’s gone very black and hot. I rescued my craft project, which fortunately was nearly dry and didn’t immediately fall to pieces when I picked it up. It doesn’t much look like felt – more like a bunch of wool pressed flat and only just clinging together – but it’s still much better than a badly woven mat of leaves. A soft, clean (faintly greenish) piece of luxury.
My blocked nose has turned into a chesty cough. By the time the storm started rolling in I felt absolutely rotten, but made myself go hunting in the nearest gardens, bringing up as much trusted food as possible. I won’t have to worry about water, since I still haven’t managed to block the stair to the roof. I’ve set some bowls on the stair to catch water, and positioned my bed against the wall without a window. It hasn’t quite started raining yet, but it looks like it will be bad. Like my cold.
Friday, December 7
Rain and Phlegm
All day. So hard to breathe.
Monday, December 10
Not Drowning
When I was in Year 10 I sat next to a guy named David in Science. We weren’t friends, didn’t socialise outside that class, but we got on well. He was funny and nice, acted the clown to hide he was shy. He moved schools the next year, and early this year I heard that he had died. He’d always had a weak heart, was occasionally sick because of it. I didn’t know what to say, what to feel.
Mum says there’s three bad things about dying: pain and other unpleasantries, the way your friends and relatives feel after, and the fact that you don’t get to find out what happens next. Mum’s an atheist – she says she’s never met a religion that didn’t sound made up. I’m agnostic, because I like the idea of there being something more, but the possibility of it working like Mum thinks it does – that you just stop – doesn’t particularly bother me.