Darkness, Be My Friend

by John Marsden

  We came to a fence and struggled over it. It was much the same kind of country, but with a small mob of horses grazing in among the trees. They looked up, startled and curious. They didn't run away like you'd expect. A couple even took a step towards us. I felt a wave of affection for them, a wave of longing to stop and rub their noses and let them nibble at my hand. Yet here we were, running like criminals through our own land, running from bullets, just so we could stay alive.

  In a movie there would have been a secret cave that we could have dropped into. Or Sam and Colonel Finley would have arrived in a helicopter. Here it wasn't going to be so easy. But I was desperate. Whatever else happened I didn't want to be caught again. And that fierce fear made my mind work fast and frantically. A memory flashed into my mind, like a slide on a screen. It was something my Uncle Bob said years ago when Grandma decided to leave the farm and buy her house in Stratton. Uncle Bob, who's a builder, came down to look at the house she wanted. I followed him around as he checked it out. He kept looking up all the time. "What are you looking at, Uncle Bob?" I asked. He glanced at me. "People never look above their own line of sight," he said. "If the builder's done a snow job on this place you can tell by looking up high. He'll be smart enough to have it looking OK at eye level."

  I was very impressed by this. And I think he said the same thing to Dad, because Dad said it to me a few months later when he was blocking up a possum hole.

  I'd learnt from them, and when I played hide-and-seek I occasionally hid up a tree. Not once did anyone find me. In the end I gave up doing it, because it was so boring.

  As I looked at the hard ground and the light scrub, the lack of undergrowth, the unvarying unyielding bush, and the grass mown short by the horses, I thought that Uncle Bob's words might give us our only hope. We were stumbling along now, getting slower and more tired.

  I called back over my shoulder: "We'll have to get up trees and hide in the tops."

  No one said anything and I thought maybe they hadn't heard. So I called again: "We'll have to climb trees."

  This time Homer answered. "But if they see us up a tree ... then we're trapped."

  His voice was rasping. I knew he was close to exhaustion. We all were.

  In the distance I heard a burring whirring buzzing noise. It was all too familiar.

  "The choppers are coming," I yelled.

  I veered to my left, towards another clump of trees. I didn't even look back to check that they were following. I just assumed they were. As we came in under the first trees I had a glimpse of the blades of a helicopter in the distance. I ran to a tree that looked easy and had a good crown as well. Thinking of the choppers I called to the others, "Pick one that's got lots of leaves on top."

  I knew they'd heard because Fi took a look up and changed her mind about the tree she'd been running towards. She went to the next one instead.

  I started to climb, but there weren't enough handholds; I gave up and, like Fi, ran to another. In front of me I could see Homer struggling with a difficult climb, Fi halfway up her new tree, and Kevin leaving one and trying a different one.

  My second choice was better, but by that stage it didn't matter. I had to make it work. I had to get to the top, because I'd run out of alternatives. Never had my pack felt heavier, never had I felt wearier or more scared, but for fear of my life I climbed. The mottled white bark was cool to the touch, the light green leaves brushed my face, the branches supported my weight. I went up and up. There were three long reaches where I had to really stretch, but I stretched. If it had dislocated my shoulder I would have stretched.

  The noise of the chopper was louder but I thought I could hear human cries away behind us. No longer was I looking to see how the others were going, no longer was I even thinking of them. All I wanted to do was get myself safe, get to the very top, hide in that comforting cubby of leaves. Fear makes you selfish. And then I was in there, feeling myself engulfed by the fresh light greenery, realising for the first time that my chest was crashing and heaving for breath. The noise of the chopper was a roar now, probably only a hundred metres or so away. I clung to the tree for dear life. I was grateful for the green and brown camouflage clothing that nowadays we wore as a matter of course. Although the leaves were comfortingly thick, the branches were light, and with my pack on I was pretty heavy. I was scared the branches would break under me. I was scared the people in the helicopter would see me. I was scared the people on the ground would see me. I was sobbing, sort of half-trying to get my breath and half-crying all at the same time but not sure which was which. And I was choking down the sobs as much as I could, feeling that I would choke myself by doing it, that my lungs would burst, but knowing I had no choice.

  Then the leaves around me were buffeted by a great wind, a tornado. The leaves went into a frenzy,'my hair was blown crazily around my head, my clothes billowed, and from the ground came a storm of dust and twigs. The roar of the chopper hammered at my ears. My eyes were shut tight; partly to keep out the dust, partly in terror. I was scared that the helicopter was going to take off my head, that it was so low it would decapitate me.

  The tree calmed again. The blast of air faded, but I still could hardly hear. The roar of the helicopter had deafened me. I opened my eyes cautiously, relieved that my head was still on my shoulders. I glanced down, even more cautiously, to see something more terrifying than the helicopter. Directly below my tree someone was standing.

  Ten

  He was wearing a black cap and a khaki shirt. I couldn't see any more of him than that. It may have been a soldier's uniform; I couldn't be sure. Not that it mattered a lot. He was the enemy, that's what it came down to. If he was a soldier he may have been a more dangerous enemy than a farmer. But there wasn't much in it. If he had a gun he was deadly. If he didn't, he was still bigger than me and he could probably call up help in seconds.

  My life depended on his intelligence. If he looked up and saw me I was finished. If he didn't I might survive a little longer. In my desperation I began to measure the drop from the tree. If I moved about a metre I would get a clear drop to the ground. And if I made myself fall a little to the left instead of dropping like a stone I would land on top of him. What would that do to me? I didn't know. Probably not kill me, but I might break a lot of bones. What would it do to him? I didn't know that either, but I felt it would do him a lot of damage. In cold blood I made the decision: if he sees me I'll drop onto him. Anything would be better than being caught again. Anything would be better than being killed without putting up some sort of fight.

  But would I be able to do it if the moment came? Would I really be able to do it? To throw myself out of a fifteen-metre-high tree? Could I overcome all my instincts and do such a frightening thing?

  I was shuddering with the fear of all this but at the same time crazily telling myself to think about something else. Why? For the stupid reason that I was convinced he would feel telepathic thoughts from me if I kept thinking about him. That my thoughts were so powerful there was no way he could stand there and not get energy waves through his brain that would cause his head to turn, cause him slowly to tilt his head back and look up through the branches, up through the leaves, right into my eyes.

  And perhaps that might have happened too, except he was suddenly distracted. A woman, wearing a yellow T-shirt and black jeans, came across the clearing to the man. I got a better view of her face. She was sweating heavily and looked scared. She was talking loudly, pointing behind her, her broad flushed face like a mirror of mine, as far as the fear went, anyway. The man came forward a few steps. He was wearing grey jeans, but I don't think it was a uniform. He said something in a low voice. I realised he too was puffing and sweating, his shirt wet across the back. But she went on talking, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one to the dozen. They started to move away a little further.

  I had the feeling that maybe they were giving up already. I clung to that hope. But if that was their plan, it didn't last long. Almost at the same time I heard anoth
er man yelling something. The two of them stopped and looked across to their left. Then they turned to face the newcomer.

  I had a good view of him, too. And I felt really scared. Because I knew at my first glance that now we were dealing with the professionals.

  This guy was about thirty, smooth-faced, sharp-eyed, and in an officer's uniform. He was carrying two rifles and he gave one to the other man. It was an ugly black thing with a short barrel and a big magazine. He lifted his arm to point through the trees ahead, in the direction we'd been going. The big sweat patch under his arm was the only sign that he was stressed. The man and the woman slunk away in the direction he'd pointed. It was pretty obvious they'd been given their orders.

  The officer staved where he was, though. He wiped his forehead with his sweaty arm, then pulled out a cigarette from a crumpled pack in his breast pocket. He lit it with a match from one of those little books of matches that tear off and are always so hard to light. He sure had trouble. It took him three or four goes.

  While he was doing it I took a quick glance at the other trees. There was no movement, no sign of Fi or the boys. I hadn't expected any, of course, but it was still a relief. I felt a huge responsibility for them. This climbing trees had been my idea: if it went wrong my life, which was in enough trouble already, would be wrecked forever. And I don't mean because I would die. I mean because my friends would die and I would have caused it.

  The smoke from the cigarette curled up around my tree.

  Smoke curls up around the old gum tree trunk,

  Silver moon makes the wet leaves glisten.

  How many times had I sung that at Wirrawee Primary? The little wisps of smoke stole past me now, and the smell of tobacco replaced all the familiar bush smells. It was quite a pleasant smell. Under other circumstances I might have enjoyed it.

  I blinked as a sniff of smoke got in my eye. I had to be careful not to let it get up mv nose in case it made me sneeze. What a disaster that would be. I looked down again at the man. He was squatting now, his back against the tree. How many times had I seen my father in the same position? How alike all these people were under their different clothes and different skins. But this man did something I'd never seen my father do. If I lived to be a hundred and fifty I'd never see my father do this. The man idly put the burning end of his cigarette to a piece of bark and watched casually as a stream of white smoke came from the bark.

  "You bloody idiot!" I wanted to yell. "Put that cigarette out."

  I nearly climbed down from the tree and grabbed it from his hand. Already there were all the signs that we were in the middle of a long dry spell; already the fire danger was serious. And here was this idiot playing with matches. Didn't he know any better, at his age? Any rural five-year-old knows it's safer playing with gelignite than matches in bushfire weather. I'd been sweating enough before this; now there was one more thing to worry about.

  Another man, a very small guy in army uniform, came trotting into the clearing. The officer looked at him and then nodded at the cigarette and the bark. He said something, with a little laugh, and although I didn't know his language I knew with total certainty what he said. It was: "If we don't find them, we can always burn them out."

  Now I nearly fell out of the tree in shock and fear. If these turkeys deliberately started a fire, we were in bigger trouble, more desperate trouble than ever. We'd either stay in our trees and be burned alive, or we'd jump down and be shot. I just couldn't tell if the officer was serious. If he was serious, all I could think was, "These guys have no idea what they're dealing with." I was panicking, finding it impossible to think properly any more.

  The small guy trotted away again. I'm not sure what he'd wanted, but I suppose he just reported that he couldn't find us or something. I stayed where I was, of course, though I was getting stiff and achey as I cooled down from our mad run.

  I wanted badly to move but it looked like being a long time before I could.

  I hadn't been right about many things that day but I was right about that. I'd say it was three hours before I got a chance to move. The officer walked away out of my sight a few times, but I didn't dare move then because, for all I knew, he may have been standing on the other side of the tree where I couldn't see the ground at all. The helicopter swept past four more times, once very close again, the other times close enough. Each time I flattened myself and shrank, like a rabbit when a hawk goes overhead.

  The only nice thing that happened was that the horses went past. I had time to look at them properly now. There were seven of them, and they still seemed pretty relaxed about what was happening in their home paddock. They looked well cared for, too: carrying plenty of weight—too much—and with their coats well brushed. They glowed, the way horses do when they're in good nick. They stopped for a nibble occasionally but they were soon gone.

  By then every limb and every bone of my body was groaning with a terrible dull ache. I was cramping up in both legs. I was desperate for some exercise. And at last I did get a brief go. A whole group of people started coming in, a couple at a time. There might have been a dozen altogether. I couldn't see any of them but I heard their voices all right: they made enough noise.

  They were reporting in, I think, or maybe planning their tactics. I didn't care what they were doing but as the first ones arrived the officer walked quickly over in their direction. And there didn't seem to be a helicopter around. I grabbed the chance to stretch each leg, then my arms, and waggle my head. I pushed my shoulders up and down, then rotated my bum a few times.

  I went to stretch my legs again, but as I did I brushed a big loose piece of bark with my right shin.

  I grabbed at it but too late.

  "Too late," I thought in despair. And as if that wasn't enough, when I grabbed at the bark I knocked off a long piece of dead wood, and it and the bark and some twigs and leaves and more dead stuff all went floating down together, with me helplessly watching.

  I was ready to scream. I was ready to jump. I sobbed out loud with the bitterness and unfairness of it all. I didn't know what to do, which way to go. I felt the most terrible sickness in the guts. The bits of rubbish fell and fell, knocking into branches on the way down and it was like I was watching my death in slow motion with me utterly unable to do a thing. And because I was so obsessed by the shower of wood I hadn't even noticed the clattering frenzied roar of the helicopter banging on my ears again. But I did notice the fresh tornado of dust and debris that went billowing through the trees as the chopper slowly scoured the treetops for the sixth time.

  I guess my little waterfall of bark and wood didn't get noticed in all the storm of rubbish. That helicopter, so determined to find and kill me, saved my life.

  When I realised that they weren't coming after me, that no one was standing at the bottom of the tree firing up through the leaves, I clung to the branch I was lying against and said a full-on totally religious prayer. I even wondered if somewhere in Heaven Robyn was keeping an eye on me. I wouldn't be surprised. I don't know if we're all born with a guardian angel, but I figured I probably had one now.

  It was a while before I became aware again of what was happening in the clearing. For half an hour or so I didn't care what was going on. It was only gradually that I started to realise that our troubles weren't exactly over. We were in the most deadly peril still. It was late afternoon and the sun was shining through the treetops with its last burst of energy and warmth before it retired for the night. I could see no movement in the clearing but, of course, I couldn't rely on that. My limbs were sorer than ever and now I badly needed to go to the toilet. I didn't dare move, though, after what happened last time. I looked again at the other trees, trying to see Fi and Homer and Kevin, wondering how they were going in their little nests, wondering if they were as scared as I was. I wished I'd shared a tree with one of them.

  From across to my left I heard a whistle, a sharp shrill sound from someone with two fingers in his mouth. I scanned the hillside opposite but couldn't see w
ho'd made it. Then it was repeated to my right and I heard it echoed away across the plateau. It was obviously some sort of signal and it got a response because, after a while, I saw a number of people moving slowly towards a place near the clearing. I think they had a meeting, because when the breeze blew my way I heard voices. One time they seemed to be arguing, another time a voice sounded like she was giving orders. I didn't know what was going on. I couldn't hear the helicopter any more, so that was good news.

  The sun took ages to go down. Typical of the time of year. The whole situation reminded me of an old flickering film, where you see glimpses of the action, then long periods of nothing but grey static. But you had to work out from watching the little bits of action what was going on. It wasn't guesswork—you had to use your brains, every bit of intelligence you had—and knowledge was power, so the more knowledge you had, the more powerful you became.

  Of course, power wasn't really the big issue. This was all about earning the right to stay alive.

  I watched for another hour, before it got too dark. In that time I saw only one human being. It was a woman walking slowly along in the open, looking around her. She carried a modern-looking rifle and she held it at the ready position. I would have thought she was on her own, except that just as she was almost out of sight she said something to someone ... I think. I was almost sure that she turned a little to one side and spoke. It was difficult to tell in the dusk. Maybe she was talking to the horses, because a few minutes later they came wandering into view for the second time, moving towards better clumps of grass maybe, and stopping to graze every few metres.