by John Marsden
Epilogue
I’ve been flat out writing, literally flat out, because I’ve been in my tent most of the day, lying on my right-hand side first, then my left-hand side, then my back, then starting again on my right-hand side.
Next to me is a little bunch of flowers that I found on my bed. I think it was a present from Jack. Half the flowers in the bunch are weeds, but it’s about the most precious gift I’ve ever had, so I’m not complaining. Every so often I pick it up and have a sniff.
It’s not all that comfortable, lying here like this, but somehow I need to do it. I don’t want to go out into the bright sunshine that’s been burning away since ten o’clock. I don’t even want to sit in the open air. Not for the first time I’ve been thinking of Andrea, the counsellor I saw in New Zealand. I’d love to see her again right now, but I don’t imagine she’ll be the mystery visitor dropping out of the sky.
To be honest I don’t know what I’d say to her at the moment. I need a few months to work that out. Some of it would be to do with the war, some of it to do with what Fi said to me that time we were climbing the spur.
Sure I’ve made up with Lee, and Fi and I seem to be getting on OK again, and I’m trying to be nice to everyone, but I’ve got a funny feeling Fi was talking about a bit more than that. What scares me is that she was talking about changes so big and deep and powerful that I can’t undo them. Because I’ve got half a feeling that I’ve changed that much in the last twelve months.
Lee’s calling me right now; he’s looking for the spud peeler I think. He’ll have to find it himself though. I want to finish this.
Of course the reason I’ve been writing so fast and furiously is that I want to get it up-to-date before we go out to meet the helicopter. After tonight, anything could happen. If there’s something really urgent about to break we mightn’t even get back here. We’re taking light packs, and a rifle each, in case we have to move on somewhere else. We’re leaving Fi and Kevin here with the kids, which isn’t ideal, but it’s all we can do.
So now that I’ve brought this up-to-date I can go back over Tailor’s Stitch, knowing at least one part of my life is organised. I sure have written heaps since this war started. If the war ever ends maybe I could do something with it. In the meantime I’ve got piles of paper all over the place, most of it hidden in the tin box in the windowsill at the Hermit’s hut, some of it back in New Zealand. Andrea’s looking after that.
A feeling in my bones tells me that the climax is coming. It’s not just the way Colonel Finley spoke on the radio; it’s been growing on me for a while. I think we might be heading for the big showdown. If we are, I want to be part of it. I don’t want to go back to New Zealand if there’s a chance of helping at the critical time.
There’s lots of things I’m hoping for though. I want to do whatever has to be done without letting anyone down. I wouldn’t mind finding out what happened to the Kiwi guerillas. I want to see our country back in our control. And I want to find my parents.
When it’s all said and done, the only things that matter in life are so damn simple. Family, friends, being safe and well. I think before the war a lot of people got sucked in by the crap on TV. They thought having the right shoes or the right jeans or the right car really mattered. Boy were we ever dumb.
Maybe people thought they could hide behind that stuff. Maybe they thought that if they wore Levis, ate Maccas and drank Pepsi no-one would look any further. No-one would see the real person.
War’s stripped all that from us. I’m trying to think of any situation before the war when that happened. I can’t think of many. Our Outward Bound course, yeah, after a couple of days with those guys we were more interested in what people were really like than what shop they bought their clothes from. When Jodie Lewis got hit by a car and was in a coma, that brought us together big-time, and we weren’t too bothered by what shoes people wore. Suddenly people who normally never spoke to each other were hugging and crying together.
It seems like suffering’s the only time we can see what’s essential. If peace ever comes back I’m making a vow: I’ll design myself special glasses. They’ll block out whether people are fat or thin or beautiful or weird-looking, whether they have pimples or birthmarks or different coloured skin. They’ll do everything suffering’s done for us, but without the pain. I’m going to wear those glasses for the rest of my life.
In the meantime there’s a war still raging, kids outside my tent whingeing, and less than an hour before I go up to Tailor’s Stitch to take over sentry from Fi. If I hurry I can just get this down to the Hermit’s hut, and put it in the tin box. I only hope it won’t be the last time I get to write about me and my friends, and the things that have happened to us since the war began.
