Tomorrow 6 - The Night is for Hunting

by John Marsden

  The one thing they found extremely embarrassing was the attack on us. Every time I mentioned it, even in a joking way, they went red and mumbled and sud­denly found something important they had to do. One thing for sure, we didn’t get any of our stuff back. I knew I’d never see my watch or ring again.

  So we swapped a lot of stories and played a few games, but time passed slowly, and not long after Christmas it became obvious to all us big kids that boredom was getting to be a problem for the little kids.

  I think it was Fi who suggested we start a school. We were sitting around the fireplace, where we always seemed to meet, even though most of the time there was no fire. There was no fire that night. The kids had gone to bed ages before. We let them stay up pretty late usually, but they’d been driving us crazy all day with their squabbles and whinges and questions.

  We got the giggles as we talked about having a school. I don’t think any of us ever imagined our­selves as teachers. Not in recent years anyway. In primary school we’d often played schools, and through my Grade 3 and 4 years it had been my favourite game. My ambition was to be like Mr Coles, my Grade 4 teacher. I’d grown out of that ambition.

  But now we thought it’d be pretty funny if we ran a school. We started making up stupid rules, like uni­form policy and library behaviour and how to queue for the buses. Homer wanted to have detentions and letters home for being naughty. Fi wanted parent-teacher interviews. Kevin insisted the kids should line up to go in, stand when we entered the school area, and say ‘Good Morning Mr Holmes’ in a singsong voice at the start of the day.

  Once we’d got over the giggles we did give it some serious thought. It seemed like a pretty good idea. Not only because it would help them remember their lessons and learn new stuff, but also because it would help them realise that there might be a future, after the war. They didn’t have to give up.

  When we suggested it to the kids in the morning, over breakfast, to our astonishment they were really keen. We nearly fell over. Later in the day though, away on my own in the bush, collecting firewood and thinking about life, I could understand why they might be so willing. They’d spent a year living like animals, learning nothing. I think they were longing for normal life again, but they were also longing to learn. After all, it’s natural for humans, isn’t it? To want to learn. Being curious, wanting answers: that’s the way we are. Just because school’s boring so much of the time, that doesn’t mean kids don’t want to learn.

  So we started the very next day. The kids wanted to treat it as a big joke at first but when they saw that we were serious, they picked up the pace. We knew we had to treat it seriously from the beginning, because if we didn’t, the kids would stuff around. Fi and I taught them English, Kevin taught them Science (which he was actually quite good at), Lee did the Art and Music, and Homer ran the Maths (which he was actually quite hopeless at).

  It was surprisingly hard. I thought Lee had the toughest job, because there was a severe shortage of materials for his subjects. But Lee, no doubt about him, he was creative. For musical instruments he had the kids make pipes out of wood, and hollow tent poles, as well as using stuff like water bottles and of course the good old gum leaf whistle. He said you could make music with anything, and I guess he proved it. Gavin picked up on rhythms pretty well, and I’d often come across him pressed up close to one of the other kids, using his hands and body to feel the vibrations.

  As Jack told us, Gavin did have some hearing: one night in a thunderstorm, when there was a bigger than normal boom of thunder he said, in his quaint voice, ‘That was loud,’ then rolled around laughing at the look on my face. He’d said it to get just that reaction.

  Lee taught them theory too, and basic rhythm stuff, like clapping back a rhythm to him. It was quite fun and I often joined in. I have to admit, the kids were better than I was. Once the sequence got com­plicated I’d lose it. I’d go ‘Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap,’ instead of ‘Clap-clap-clap, clap-clap,’ and they’d look at me pityingly and Lee would roll his eyes.

  Lee’s biggest problem was volume. We couldn’t let the kids make much noise, so all the music had to be played in whispers. I gave my didgeridoo, my Christmas present from Kevin, a few trials, and although it sounded like farts and burps at first, I did get some quite good sounds out of it.

  After a session with Lee, clapping and humming and singing, and playing home-made didgeridoos pianissimo, it was time for Science with Kevin. He got them planting seeds and collecting insects and doing experiments with levers and pulleys and inclined planes. Kevin was a revelation. The rest of us bumbled around and made a lot of mistakes, especially by underestimating or overestimating what the kids could do, or trying activities that were too corny or too complicated. Kevin seemed to know instinctively what would and wouldn’t work. Before long we were asking his opinion about our lessons, getting his advice.

  Most of the time I liked teaching English, although some days I wasn’t in the mood, and on those days we got pretty slack. I guess Fi kind of took her lead from me so if I was in a slack mood she didn’t take over and fire the troops up with enthusi­asm and energy. On those days we were more likely to sit by the creek chucking pebbles at sticks, trying to sink them. But generally I’d say we worked quite hard. Casey had trouble writing because her arm was still in its splint, but I think sometimes she said it was hurting just so she could get out of work. Natalie’s reading was rusty but she slowly picked it up again. Fi and I wrote stories for her, then we got the smart idea of having Gavin and Jack write stories for her too, because they really liked Natalie and spoiled her outrageously. They hadn’t been too keen on writing before that, but they thought they were pretty cute doing those stories.

  Some of the stuff they wrote was sad though. I got a much better understanding of their life in Stratton when I read their stories. Jack wrote one that said, ‘Once upon a time there were some kids living in a house and they ate yucky horrible awful food like soft apples and marmalade and heaps of sardines and then one day the soldiers came and shot two of the kids and then another day some nice big kids came and took the other kids away to a hidy place in the bush.’

  That was the whole story. I already knew they’d found a carton of sardines in a shop, but I didn’t know about the two children being shot.

  Gavin wrote, as though it were the wildest fantasy, ‘There was this magic land. A boy and a girl lived there with their mum. They lived in a nice house with a swimming pool and a TV. One night they had roast chicken for tea, then they had ice-cream with banana flavouring. Then their mum gave them a big kiss and a hug goodnight and they went to sleep in a nice bed.’

  It seemed like when they wrote stories for Natalie they let down their defences.

  I was glad we had a good pile of paper, which was only because I’d brought heaps with me for myself, but it was scary how fast we used it.

  We went on like this for four weeks after our Christmas. Time started to drift again. I measured it by a couple of things: one was our weekly trips out of Hell to get food. We’d had a conference after the near disaster of the trip to the Whittakers’, and decided meat, fruit and vegetables would be the safest way to go from now on. In practice that meant grabbing a lamb out of a paddock – a different paddock each trip – and raiding orchards and gardens in the middle of the night for fruit and vegies. It wasn’t much fun, digging up spuds at three in the morning, in such a way that no-one would notice we’d been there, but we kept ourselves quite healthy and well fed on that diet. The kids certainly looked a lot better after a few weeks of it. They started putting on weight, and play­ing with more energy, and even working better at their school lessons.

  The other way I measured time was by our calls to Colonel Finley. Once a week, by arrangement, we trudged to the top of Wombegonoo and contacted New Zealand. They were brief calls, because we didn’t want to waste our batteries, and because we were worried about being tracked down by our radio frequencies, and because there wasn’t much to say. We didn’t
have the honour of talking to Colonel Finley himself any more, but the operator passed on his messages, which were worded in different ways but always amounted to the same thing: ‘Stay put, we’ll advise.’

  It seemed that somehow we’d become soldiers under the Colonel’s orders, which suited us just fine, because it meant that as long as he was telling us not to do anything we could relax in Hell without feeling too guilty.

  When time stopped drifting it wasn’t because of any orders from Colonel Finley. There were some things he couldn’t control all the way from New Zealand.

  Homer and I climbed out of Hell at eight o’clock one night for the radio check. There had been a time when all of us, kids included, would go up there, full of excitement, trying not to chatter too loudly. Now however, with the novelty worn off, there wasn’t a rush of volunteers. I always enjoyed the view from the high peak of Wombegonoo though, and it was a nice night for a walk. I was actually relieved the kids had lost interest, because when they did come it was too hard to keep them quiet. They were a lot more relaxed these days, and they seemed unable to believe there could be any danger from soldiers out here in the bush. I had once felt that way myself, but I’d been on maximum alert since Lee showed me the warm fireplace at the enemy campsite.

  Whenever we went up to Tailor’s Stitch now we took weapons, from our little stockpile of rifles and shotguns. Unfortunately our ammunition supplies were still almost non-existent. We hadn’t picked up anything from the Whittakers’. On this trip I actually forgot to take a rifle, until Homer caught up with me and handed me one.

  I’d left early, calling to Homer as I went, ‘I’ll meet you on the top.’

  I wanted some time and space. Hell seemed pretty crowded these days, with the four kids. They were at me day and night, wanting to play, wanting to show me their stories or homework, wanting to jump all over me.

  So I got to the top on my own and sat on a rock above the tree that marked the end of our track. By God I saw a sight then. The top of the full moon was just appearing and I sat and watched it like it was the greatest show on Earth. It was, too. I can never get over how huge the moon is when you see it at close quarters. I don’t know much Geography, but I guess the moon must be heaps closer to Earth when it’s ris­ing, and that’s why it’s so big.

  There were hundreds of clouds around, all white and see-through, so even though they formed a kind of patchwork over the moon, it lit up the landscape enough for the trees and rocks to cast shadows.

  On the other side of the sky was a bright star that I guess was Venus. I know they call Venus the evening star, because it’s the first one out, and the brightest. This star certainly was bright. It hung quite low, shin­ing through the clouds like it was powered by neon.

  I didn’t hear Homer until there was a slither of loose stones behind me. I turned around and he grinned and gave me a rifle.

  ‘It’s not bad, is it?’ he said, nodding at the moon.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, embarrassed that I’d forgotten the rifle.

  ‘Oh well.’ He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have bothered if I knew I had to bring it all the way up here. I didn’t realise how far ahead you were. I kept thinking I’d catch up with you at any moment.’

  By now the moon was well clear of the horizon and it was getting close to our call-time. I stood, lifted the rifle with one hand and picked up the radio with the other. We walked up to Wombegonoo, not taking any special precautions, but not being stupid either. These days we moved silently and cautiously as a matter of course. And on such a clear night any sound seemed magnified twenty times.

  The last bit was a scramble up rocks, where it was almost impossible not to make a noise. To tell the truth, we weren’t trying that hard. Our Christmas celebration, and the nice weeks we’d had since then, had us too relaxed. Sometimes I almost forgot there was a war on.

  I shudder to think what would have happened if we’d gone up Wombegonoo a few minutes later.

  I put up the aerial and once again got through with a minimum of fuss. We’d had a good run with radio calls lately. Certainly we’d had none of the weird static that messed us around when we were hanging out in Stratton. A woman, the same woman who nearly always answered these days, came through so loudly I hastily turned down the volume. This woman felt like an old friend, even though I didn’t know her name.

  I began our report, which was really just a matter of saying we had nothing to report, when suddenly Homer lifted slightly beside me and leaned forward, quivering like he was made of brand-new fencing wire. I stopped talking and gazed anxiously at him.

  ‘Shut down,’ he hissed, without looking around.

  I should have turned the set off straightaway, but if there was danger I wanted New Zealand to know, only because I couldn’t bear facing it on our own. Sure they were a long way away, safe and sound, but it might be some consolation to know they were thinking of us.

  So I whispered into the radio, ‘We’re in trouble,’ then slammed off the switch. I shoved the set into its little pack, and slung it over my neck. Then I had a second and better thought. Taking it off again I rammed it in a hollow under a rock to my right, just hoping I wasn’t pushing my hand into a snake hole.

  Homer was leaning forward even further, then he crouched and slid down the hill a couple of metres, reaching for his rifle. That scared me. I picked up mine. I wished I knew how many rounds of ammuni­tion were in it. I suddenly remembered the time Gavin shadowed us, so I slid after Homer and tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t look around.

  ‘It might be Gavin again,’ I muttered. He just nod­ded, and moved a couple more metres. I still didn’t have a clue what had caught his attention. But I brought my rifle up to my shoulder, slipped off the safety, and followed.

  We’d gone maybe ten metres, taking a good five minutes, Homer with his rifle raised too, when at last I saw something. It was a shadow moving from one tree to another. It only took a second. By then though, my nerves were stretched by the five minutes of suspense, and I nearly dropped my .22. I knew one thing straightaway. That shadow hadn’t been Gavin. He wasn’t that tall. It could have been Lee or Kevin but it wasn’t. My message to New Zealand had been deadly accurate. We were in big trouble.

  I got in next to Homer. ‘How many do you think there are?’

  ‘I’ve seen three.’

  ‘I’ve only seen one.’

  We waited another couple of minutes, unsure of which way to go, what to do. Then I saw another shadow, away to my left, getting around behind us. My insides turned to water. I felt like I had an ele­phant in my stomach. I felt like I had two elephants in my stomach, and they were mating.

  ‘I think they’re surrounding us,’ I whispered to Homer.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  We gazed desperately to right and left.

  ‘We’ve got to do something,’ I muttered.

  I meant that we had to take the initiative, like when Gavin followed us. It was something we had to keep remembering in this war. If we stayed where we were we’d be finished off as easily as rabbits in a ferret net.

  We started wriggling forward, side by side. The whole thing had an air of unreality, and in the back of my mind I still half-wondered if Lee or Kevin might be playing a joke. Of course they wouldn’t be so stupid, when they knew we had rifles. But there wasn’t time to think things through like that. I had to concentrate on scanning the hilltop around us. Nothing else mattered.

  In the light of the full moon it was like alien terri­tory. There were no trees up here and hardly any vegetation. There was moss, sure, and the odd plant, but you couldn’t see much of them at this time of night. Virtually all the landscape was rocks, large, medium, small. Grey, black, white. I’d always thought it was very beautiful but suddenly it seemed like a bare and lonely place to end my life. I guess that’s why I stuck so close to Homer.

  We got to the edge of the summit, where the ground started to dip a little. Right up to that point nothing had happened; we were still in the
unreal world where time and space didn’t seem to function.

  That all changed in an instant. A shot smashed through the silence and the darkness. It came from the left, slightly behind us. I was so close to Homer that I felt his body stiffen and rise off the ground. For a terrible moment I thought he’d been hit. But if he had, the bullet would have gone through me first. It was sheer shock that made him lift like that. I prob­ably went up as far as he did. It was horrifying. The noise was so horrifying, crashing through the silence like thunder. You could feel the air split in half.

  I’d seen the flash of the rifle and as I flattened myself on the ground I slithered around and lined up where I thought it was. I waited a few seconds, and as soon as I saw a slight movement, almost exactly where I was watching, I fired. My ears rang with the noise. I heard not the slightest sound from the boul­ders, but after a moment a dark shape fell slowly forward, like a tree that you’ve felled but which is slowed in its fall by the branches of other trees.

  The man hit the ground, still without a sound. For a moment, as I realised what I’d done, there was silence. It was like the Earth stopped revolving. Even the breeze died. ‘Good shot,’ Homer whispered. It seemed a funny choice of words. I’d just killed someone.

  And then suddenly it was fight time. Everything lit up. Bullets flew. I flattened myself still further. A rockpicker could have gone right over me. It wouldn’t have touched a hair of my body. The bullets whizzed everywhere. They sounded like jackhammers. These guys must have had their weapons on automatic, the way they let fly. It went on for thirty or forty seconds. I felt my teeth rattle with the vibrations of the air around me. A lot of the bullets were phosphorescent or something because they burned through the air like fireworks, whooshing overhead and leaving a blue-white trail. I’d never seen those before.