Andrea Höst: The Touchstone Trilogy

I wish I knew how to make soap, so I could clean up properly. Even though I wash every day, there’s a layer of greasy grime all over me, and the less said about my hair the better. If I can get the fire started, I’ll at least have hot water to wash in, before I add the wool. The IF is the big problem here. I tried magnifying sunlight with bits of glass, but either the glass isn’t clear enough or the sunlight’s not strong enough. I’m having a rest right now after taking up the stick rubbing challenge. I can make the sticks heat up, but all I end up with is hot sticks and very tired arms. I shredded a page of history notes before I started, but I’m going to tear it all up smaller and try again.

Department of Acquisitions

So I have a fire. I’m not altogether sure what to do to stop it from going out overnight, or if it rains. It made me realise that these houses don’t have chimneys or fireplaces. My wool-boiling went along merrily, and I now have a lot of very wet wool, and a little scummy yellow stuff I ladled off the top. I’ve spread the wool out to dry.

While it was cooking I made a start on more mats. I want to cover both the floor and the windows. I’m not sure what to do with the top of the stair to the roof. There would have been something which sealed it nicely before, but I don’t think I can make a waterproof mat.

I’ve never been particularly great at arts and crafts. Not useless, but I’m nothing close to as good as Mum. I’m too impatient. I start out with neatish little stitches, then they get bigger and untidier. But I’m going to make myself a clean wool nest and a blanket and I don’t care if it’s the ugliest thing around. And I’ll fix up my room, and explore this town and get everything useful I can find.

And then–?

My long term options really suck the life out of any feel-good attempt.

Monday, December 3

The Sad Ignorance of Modern Youth

I’ve seen people shear sheep on TV. And I’ve seen a picture of a spinning wheel. I know a spindle must be pointy because princesses can prick their fingers on them. The mechanics of how wool goes from fleece to thread, though, is something else. And what is carding? When does it happen?

Anyway, turning all the wool into thread and then trying to weave with it is just beyond me. It would take a century even if I knew what to do. Making a big pile of clean wool so I have something soft to sleep on is part of the plan, but I’m also going to have a shot at making a felt blanket. Of course, felt-making was another thing no-one bothered to teach me, but my best guess is that it might work like making paper, and that at least I’ve seen someone do.

I thought about it this morning, while collecting more wool and chasing sheep. The sheep, the ewes at least, aren’t as aggressive as I thought, though they’re skittish as anything. I targeted the middle-sized ones, that don’t seem quite fully grown, but aren’t being babysat by their mums (and don’t have much horn!). My paper scissors aren’t nearly as effective as shears, but I can get nice big hunks by sitting on the sheep’s back and chopping away. All morning collecting wool, and now I have a massive pile of the stuff and am working my way through boiling it while trying to make a mould for the felt.

I’m using the road for the base, a section of large squares where none of the stones have been displaced. Smaller stones and a log gave me an outline of a big rectangle, and I’ll lay out a nice even layer of wet wool and then squish and mush it as flat as I can and let it dry.

I don’t know if they use any glues when making felt. Probably, knowing my luck. Just pressing the wool together won’t be enough – I need to make it stick together. I may have to do a whole bunch of different attempts, adding different things to the mix, but the first time around I’m going to try without additives. Just lots of water, and heat. I figure boiling all the clean wool again, for a really long time, and stirring it up, might make it break down and go gluey and more like paper pulp. Or not. I’m just guessing, but I have plenty of wool to experiment with, and am going to go find some more big bowls to boil it 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.