Touchstone 1 - Stray

in. My own lakeshore factory.
    I’m so looking forward to sleeping on soft wool tonight.
    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