Tomorrow 1 - When The War Began

by John Marsden

  Then Chris threw a fly into the ointment. ‘Wouldn’t they all be dead?’ he asked. ‘The ferrets? If their owners are prisoners, or dead, there’d be no one to look after the ferrets and keep them alive.’

  Kevin looked smug. ‘Ordinarily, yes,’ he said. ‘But my uncle, the one out past the Stratton turn-off, lets them run free. He’s got heaps of them and he’s trained them to come in when he whistles. They’re like dogs. They know they’ll get food when they hear that signal. He loses a few of them that go feral, but he’s got so many he doesn’t care.’

  We added ferrets to our list of things to get, do, or investigate.

  ‘Let’s grab some sleep,’ Homer said then, standing and stretching and yawning. ‘Maybe Ellie could run another guided tour to the Hermit’s hut after lunch, for those wishing to partake of this unique and interesting historical experience. Then I vote we have a Council of War later this afternoon, to work out our next move.’

  ‘Well, you’re the Minister for Defence,’ I said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Minister for Defence was sitting on a rock with his feet in the creek. Kevin actually lay in the cold water, letting it run over his big hairy body. Fi was perched above Homer’s head on another rock, looking like a little goddess. She was so light I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her suddenly grow rainbow-coloured wings and flutter away. Robyn was lying on her back on the bank, reading My Brilliant Career. Chris was a few metres from me, under a tree, his smokes beside him.

  I don’t know whether I should really call them his smokes though.

  He was gazing at the big rocky cliffs that we could see through the trees, in the distance.

  Corrie was sitting next to Robyn. She had her radio out again. They’d brought fresh batteries that they’d found in Wirrawee and she was trying them. One of the women they’d talked to had said that some pirate radio stations were on the air at times, giving news and advice. Corrie was checking the short wave bands too, but it would be hard to get them in daytime, and we weren’t in an easy place for radio reception.

  I was curled up into Lee, my head in his chest, burrowing into him like I was a baby. We’d spent most of the afternoon passionately holding and kissing and touching till I felt I would fall apart; as though the fibres that held my body together were disappearing. It had been Homer whom I’d felt more physically attracted to. Originally what drew me to Lee was his mind, his intelligent, sensitive face, and the security that I felt with him. Homer didn’t exactly radiate security. But beneath Lee’s calm exterior I’d found someone deeply passionate. I was a virgin and I know Lee was; matter of fact I think we all were, except maybe Kevin. I’m pretty sure he and Sally Noack had done the dirty deed regularly when they’d had a long relationship last year. But if we’d had the privacy that hot afternoon in the clearing in Hell I think Lee and I might have lost our virginity simultaneously. I was clinging to him and pressing against him as though I wanted to get my whole body inside him, and I liked the way I could make him groan and gasp and sweat. I liked giving him pleasure, although it was hard to tell what was pleasure and what was pain. I was teasing him, touching him and saying ‘Does that hurt? Does that? Does that?’ and he was panting, saying ‘Oh God ... no, yes, no’. It made me feel powerful. But he got his revenge. I’m not sure who had the last laugh – or the last cry. Normally when I’m out of control, when I get swept off by the white water, whether it’s the giggles or the blues or one of my famous tantrums, I can still stand outside myself and smile and think ‘What a maniac’. Part of my mind stays detached, can watch what I’m doing, can think about it and be aware of it all. But that afternoon with Lee, no. I was lost somewhere in the rapids of my feelings. If life is a struggle against emotion, then I was losing. It was almost scary. I was actually relieved when Homer yelled that it was time to start our conference.

  I said to Robyn, ‘Good book?’

  She said, ‘Yeah, it’s OK. We’ve got to read it for English.’

  We still hadn’t adjusted to the fact that the world had changed, that school wasn’t going to start on the normal day. I suppose we should have been delighted at the thought of not going to school, but we weren’t. I was starting to want to use my brain again; to wrestle with new ideas and difficult theories. I decided then that I’d follow Robyn’s example and read some of the harder books we’d brought with us. There was one called The Scarlet Letter that looked like a good tough one.

  ‘Well,’ Homer began, ‘we’ve got to make more decisions guys. I’ve been looking up at the sky every five minutes, waiting for the American troops to drop down in their big green choppers, but there’s no sign of them yet. And Corrie hasn’t heard any news flashes yet, to tell us that help is on its way. So we might just have to do it on our own for a bit longer.

  ‘The way I see it, these are our choices, now that we know a bit more about the deal. One, we can sit tight and do nothing. And there’s nothing chicken about that. It’s got a lot to recommend it. We’re not trained for this stuff, and it’s important for ourselves, and for our families, and for that matter even our country, that we stay alive. Two, we can have a go at getting our families and maybe other people out of the Showground. That’s a tough one, probably way beyond our reach. I mean, we’ve got rifles and shotguns but they’d be popguns compared to what these turkeys are using. Three, we can do something else to help the good guys. That’s us, I might add, in case anyone’s confused.’ He grinned at Robyn. ‘We could involve ourselves in some way that would help us win this war and get our country back. There’s other things we could do too of course, other options, like moving somewhere else, or surrendering, but they’re so remote I don’t think they’re worth discussing, although we will if anyone wants to of course.

  ‘So, that’s the deal, that’s for real, that’s what I feel. Three choices, and I think it’s time we made one and stuck to it.’ He leaned back and crossed his arms and put his feet in the water again.

  There was quite a silence, then Robyn took up the invitation.

  ‘I’m still not sure what’s right or wrong in this whole setup,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think I could sit around here for months, not doing anything. It’s just an emotional thing – I couldn’t do it. I agree with Homer that the Showground’s beyond our reach, but I feel we’ve got to get out and have a go at something. On the other hand I don’t want us to go around killing a lot of people. I’ve read those Vietnam books like Fallen Angels, where the woman hid a mine in her own kid’s clothes and gave it to a soldier to hold, then blew them both up. I still have nightmares about that. I’m already having nightmares about those people we ran down in the truck. But I guess my nightmares are small suffering compared to what some people have had. My nightmares are just the price I have to pay, I know that. Despite what these people say about a “clean” invasion, I think all wars are filthy and foul and rotten. There was nothing clean about them blowing up Corrie’s house, or killing the Francis family. I know this might sound a bit different from what I said before, but I don’t think it is. I can understand why these people have invaded but I don’t like what they’re doing and I don’t think there’s anything very moral about them. This war’s been forced on us, and I haven’t got the guts to be a conscientious objector. I just hope we can avoid doing too much that’s filthy and foul and rotten.’

  No one else had much to add for a while. Then Fi, who was looking white and miserable, said, ‘I know logically we should do this and we should do that. But all I know is that the thought of doing anything makes my nose bleed. All I really want to do is to go down to the Hermit’s hut and hide under his mouldy old bed till this is over. I’m really fighting myself to stop from doing that. I suppose when the time comes I’ll probably do whatever I have to do, but the main reason I’ll do it is because I feel the pressure of keeping up with you guys. I don’t want to let you down. I’d feel so ashamed if I couldn’t match you in whatever it is we decide to do. I don’t think there’s any way we can help our f
amilies right now, so not losing face with you all has become my biggest thing. And what worries me is that I can’t guarantee I won’t pack up under pressure. The trouble is, I’m so full of fear now, that anything could happen. I’m scared that I might just stand there and scream.’

  ‘Peer group pressure,’ said Lee, but with a sympathetic smile at Fi. He was using one of Mrs Gilchrist, our Principal’s, favourite phrases.

  ‘Well, of course you’re the only one who feels that way,’ Homer said. ‘The rest of us don’t know the word “fear”. Kevin can’t even spell it. We know no feelings. We’re androids, terminators, robocops. We’re on a mission from God. We’re Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman.’ He went on more seriously. ‘No, it’s a big problem. None of us knows how we’ll react when the fan gets hit. I know what it’s been like for me so far, just doing little things, like waiting in that car in Three Pigs Lane. My teeth were chattering so bad I had to hold my mouth shut to keep them in. I don’t know how I didn’t vomit. I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.’

  We kept talking on, over, under and around the topic. Apart from Fi, the ones who were least keen were Chris and, strangely enough, Kevin. I could understand it a bit with Chris. He just lived in his own world most of the time, his parents were overseas, he didn’t have many friends. In fact I don’t think he liked people all that much. He probably could have lived in the Hermit’s hut quite happily, unlike Fi, who would have gone crazy in half a day. But I got the impression that, like Fi, Chris’d go along with whatever we decided; in his case because he didn’t have the energy or initiative to stand out against the group. Kevin was more of a puzzle, changing his attitude from one day to the next. There were times when he seemed bloodthirsty and times when he seemed chicken. I wondered if it depended on how long it had been since he’d been close to danger. Maybe when he’d had some action recently he went a bit quiet, dived for cover. But when things had been safe for a while he started getting his aggression back.

  As for me, I was a mess of different feelings. I wanted to be able to make calm, logical decisions, to put points for and against on opposite sides of a piece of paper, but I couldn’t get my feelings out of the road enough to do it. When I thought about those bullets, and the ride-on mower, and the truck ride, I shook and felt sick and wanted to scream. Just like Fi and Homer and everyone else. I didn’t know how I’d handle it if and when it all happened again. Maybe it’d be easier. Maybe it’d be harder.

  Nevertheless, I think we all felt that we should do something, if only because the idea of doing nothing seemed so appalling that we couldn’t even contemplate it. So we started tossing a few ideas around. Gradually we found ourselves talking more and more about the road from Cobbler’s Bay. It seemed like that was where the most important action was. We decided that when Homer and Fi and Lee and I went out, the following night, we’d concentrate our attentions there.

  I walked away from our meeting, leaving everyone, even Lee, and went back up the track quite a way. I ended up sitting on one of Satan’s Steps, in the last of the hot afternoon. I could hear the creek churning away over a pile of rocks below me. I’d been there about ten minutes when a dragonfly landed near my feet. By then I must have become part of the landscape, because he seemed to ignore me. When I looked at him I realised he had something in his mouth. Whatever it was, it was still wriggling and flitting its little wings. I bent forward slowly and looked more closely. The dragonfly kept ignoring me. I could see now that it was a mosquito that he had, and he was eating it alive. Bit by bit the mosquito, still struggling wildly, was munched up. I watched, fascinated, until it was completely gone. The dragonfly perched there for another minute or so, then suddenly flew away.

  I sat back again, against the hot rock. So, that was Nature’s way. The mosquito felt pain and panic but the dragonfly knew nothing of cruelty. He didn’t have the imagination to put himself in the mosquito’s place. He just enjoyed his meal. Humans would call it evil, the big dragonfly destroying the mosquito and ignoring the little insect’s suffering. Yet humans hated mosquitos too, calling them vicious and bloodthirsty. All these words, words like ‘evil’ and ‘vicious’, they meant nothing to Nature. Yes, evil was a human invention.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was dark, probably around midnight. We were lying in a culvert, looking out over the edge at the dry black highway. We’d just come within seconds of making a very big, very fatal mistake. The way Robyn and the others had described it, they’d bowled up to the road, sat there watching for an hour or so, then shoved off again. So we’d taken much the same approach. We were about fifty metres from the gravel edge. I was leading, then came Lee limping along, then Fi, and Homer bringing up the rear. It was just the slightest unnatural sound that caught my ear. I was going to ignore it and go on, but my instincts took over, and I stopped and looked to the right. And there they were, a dark solid mass coming slowly down the road.

  Now my instincts betrayed me: they told me to freeze; they stopped me from going anywhere. I had to get rational again, and fast. I had to activate that determined voice in my brain: ‘If you do nothing, you’ll die. Move, but move slowly. Be controlled. Don’t panic’ I started fading back, like a movie played backwards, and nearly stepped straight into Lee. Luckily he didn’t say anything; I felt his surprised hesitation, then he too started stepping backwards. By then the patrol was so close that it became dangerous to move any further. We stood still and pretended we were trees.

  There were about ten soldiers and they were in double file, dark shapes against the skyline, higher than us because we were in the scrub off the shoulder of the highway. I didn’t know where Fi and Homer were but I hoped they wouldn’t suddenly come blundering out of the bushes. Then my heart seemed to stop at a sound away to the left, a startled rattle of movement. The soldiers reacted as though someone had pressed a button in their backs. They leapt around, spread out in a wide line and threw themselves to the ground. They came shuffling forward on their elbows, facing Lee and me, but with the nearest one just metres to our left. The whole thing was frighteningly efficient. It seemed like these were the professional soldiers Mr Clement had told us about.

  A moment later a giant torch, its light burning a path through the night, began to search the bush. We followed its traverse as though we were already caught in its beam. Then the light hesitated, stopped, focused, and I saw what actually was caught in its beam. A rabbit, very young, crouched low to the ground, its little head searching to the left and right, sniffing at the white shining around him. There was laughter from the road. I could feel the relaxation. Men started standing. I heard a rifle being cocked, a few comments, then a violently loud explosion. The rabbit suddenly became little fragments of rabbit, spread over the ground and rocks, a bit of fur splattered on the trunk of a tree. No one came down the embankment. They were just bored soldiers, enjoying themselves. The light switched off, the patrol got back into its formation, and continued down the road like a dark crocodile.

  Only when they were out of sight and hearing, and Fi and Homer had come forward, did I allow myself to get the shakes.

  When we did go on into the culvert we travelled like snails rather than crocodiles or soldiers, crawling silently along. I don’t know about the others but I could easily have left a glistening trail behind me, a trail of sweat.

  We stayed there about an hour, and in that time we saw only one small convoy. There were two armoured cars in the lead, followed by half a dozen jeeps, half a dozen trucks, then two more armoured cars. We also saw a second patrol; a truck with a spotlight mounted on the roof of the cabin and a machine gun in the back. It wasn’t a very smart arrangement, because we could see it from a long way off, the light combing the bush, backwards and forwards. We had time to slide back into the scrub and watch from behind trees. I wouldn’t like to have been a soldier in that truck, because guerillas could have picked them off easily. Perhaps it showed that guerillas weren’t so active around here. But as I waited behind the tree
for the truck to pass I was surprised and a little alarmed to realise how much I was starting to think like a soldier. ‘If we were up a tree with rifles,’ I thought, ‘and one person shot out the spotlight and the others went for the machine gunner ... Better still have one person out the front shooting through the windscreen to get the people in the cabin ...’

  Satisfied with our ‘time spent in reconnaissance’ we withdrew further into the bush to talk. We agreed that it was dangerous and probably pointless to stay there any longer. We looked at Homer, for ideas on what to do next.

  ‘Can we just go up to the Heron?’ he asked. ‘I want to have a look at something.’

  The Heron was the local river, not named after the birds but after Arthur Chesterfield Heron, who’d been the first person to settle in the district. Half of Wirrawee, including the High School, was named after him. The river flooded occasionally, so that the bed was wide and sandy, and the water itself meandered across its bed in a pretty casual way. A long old wooden bridge – almost a kilometre long – crossed the Heron just outside Wirrawee. The bridge was too narrow and rickety for the highway, and about every twelve months there’d be a big ruckus about the need for a new one, but nothing ever seemed to get done. To close it for any time would have been a big inconvenience, as the detour into town was a long and awkward one. In the meantime the bridge was quite a tourist attraction – there wasn’t a big demand for postcards in Wirrawee but the few that you could buy showed either the bridge or the War Memorial or the new Sports Centre.

  Under the bridge, along the banks of the river, were the picnic grounds and the scenic drive. ‘Scenic’ was a joke; it was just a road that went past the rotunda and the barbecues and the swimming pool, and on into the flower gardens. But that’s where Homer wanted to take us, and that’s where we went. Three of us, anyway. Lee had done enough. His leg was hurting and he was sweating. I realised how exhausted he was when we parked him under a tree and told him to wait, and he hardly complained at all. He just closed his eyes and sat there. I kissed him on the forehead and left him, hoping we’d be able to find the tree again on the way back.