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Griggs stares at me.
“If you try to invade us again and fail, then we may have to talk. Rule three-two-one of the Little Purple Book.”
“This is war,” he says quietly.
“Well, thank God you’re dressed for it, Griggs.”
And so the war games continue and sometimes it’s so much fun that Ha
The plan is that we force the Cadets to invade, rather than wait for them to spring it on us. So on Saturday morning, when we know that Jonah Griggs’s troops are on their morning drills, Ben, Raffy, and I stroll onto Cadet territory. Accidentally.
The Cadet in front sees us almost instantly and I watch his eyes narrow. He looks behind, to Griggs, I guess. I stand on the path not ten metres away and I allow a tiny bit of fear to enter my eyes before I turn and bolt.
We run for our lives. The heavy footsteps of the Cadets crash behind us. Raffy knows exactly where to lead us. My heart is pounding with the fear that they will grab us before we reach our lines. Our only advantage is that we know this bushland inside out. It’s our playground for most of the year when they’re not around. For them it becomes an obstacle course but we know what to roll under and jump over. We know what trees to grab for assistance and which ones will let us down, caving under the pressure of our grips. We know where the limbo-stick trees are and we shimmy under them like contestants on Dancing with the Stars, and what plants to avoid for fear of the sticky hidden thorns. But they have speed and discipline and sometimes I can feel the breath of the first Cadet on my neck.
Then, in the distance, I see the area we refer to as “no-man’s land.” It’s the strangest area of the property. Exactly one hectare of land, devoid of trees but knee-high in wild grass on both sides of a path that looks like a dug-out trench. Our territory officially begins smack in the middle. My lungs are begging me for air but I know I can’t stop, not until I get to our line. More importantly, not until the Cadets get to our line. The trenches are tricky, but we can do “tricky” any day of the week. We make it over the invisible line and a few seconds later, I know all eight Cadets have, too. I hear the roar coming from the wild grass on both sides and Richard’s voice booms, “No prisoners! No prisoners!”—which is ridiculous, because it’s not as if we’re going to kill them, but he has this Lawrence of Arabia obsession—and all of a sudden our seniors come flying out from all directions.
Later, I’m reminded that Jonah Griggs is a rugby league player and if there’s one thing he can do, it’s tackle or dodge a bunch of those of us whose closest thing to a contact sport is a biffo that might take place after a chess game. So it’s not surprising that when I look back for a moment, he’s battling his way between our guys. It’s like one of those scenes in slow-mo because our eyes make contact and I yell to Ben and Raffy to keep ru
The Prayer Tree is a kind of Jerusalem. It used to belong to us, the trail leading up to it belongs to the Cadets, and now it belongs to the Townies. When I see it in the distance, a sense of euphoria comes over me but when we reach the trunk, we notice that the rope ladder is nowhere to be seen.
We stare up at it, our sides pained with excruciating stitches. I look behind, waiting for Jonah Griggs to make an appearance.
Santangelo’s head appears at the top. “If they get you, what’s the worst thing they can do?” he yells down to us.
We are standing on Cadet territory. Santangelo knows exactly what they can do. He’s our only hope.
“Let’s make a deal,” I say finally.
“Club House?”
I look at Raffy and she nods.
“Club House,” I say between gasps.
The ladder comes down and we begin our climb. I’m halfway up when I see Griggs come out of the clearing and I try to go faster but my legs fall between the steps. Santangelo, Ben, and Raffy pull me up from almost the fourth step down and they grab the rope ladder and yank it up at the exact moment that Griggs reaches it. He’s on his own but who knows how many Cadets have broken through and are about to join him.
“They can’t get up here. No chance,” Santangelo says behind me.
I can hardly breathe and I feel Raffy take the inhaler out of my pocket and put it in my hands.
When we all have our breaths back, I look over the side.
“It’s not as if he’s going to chop us down,” Raffy says.
“We’re stuck here until he goes,” Ben says.
“They’re sticklers for time. As soon as their bugle sounds, they’re out of here,” Santangelo says. “One goes off at ten.”
Two and a half hours.
Griggs stands at the bottom and stares at the trunk and I can tell he’s reading it. I wonder if he sees the names of the five or if he understands about nothing stopping them in the field in their day. I wonder which statement is his favourite. I wonder if he sees the blood of someone who cut themselves while carving out their soul. Or if he’s imagining what he’d write if he had a knife in his hand.
But then he’s gone and I panic more at the idea that I can’t see him than when he was standing at the bottom. Knowing Griggs, he’s lying in wait for us.
Surprisingly, the time passes pleasantly, apart from Santangelo going into specific detail about his plans for the Club House. Half an hour later, though, Griggs is back. Holding a bucket.
“Great tree,” he calls up to us.
“What’s he got?” Raffy asks, trying to peer over my shoulder.
“Whatever it is won’t get him up here,” Santangelo says.
Suddenly my heart goes cold. In his hand he holds a paint roller. Jonah Griggs is either going to tar or paint over the trunk.
“You can’t do that!” I yell out.
“Then come down and stop me!”
A rage comes over me but I don’t move. Because deep down I don’t believe he’ll wipe out those voices.
“Which one do you want me to go for first?” he calls out cockily.
“I don’t give a shit!” I yell back, hoping he doesn’t call my bluff.
“Really? Because according to my surveillance team, you’re here every night.”
I feel Raffy and Ben looking at me. Santangelo goes to say something but, by the sound of his “ouch,” is slammed in the ribs by Raffy.
From all the way up here I see Griggs place the roller in the bucket and it hits the trunk. The next minute I grab the rope ladder and throw it down. When it’s securely in place, I begin my descent, sick at the thought of what I’m about to see.
I reach the bottom and smash into him with my fists as hard as I can. He falls and I can’t believe he goes down so easy, caught off-balance.
“You care about nothing, you piece of shit!”
I’m on the verge of tears, like I always seem to be these days, and I hear the catch in my voice and I hate myself for it. He throws me off him and I can tell there is a fury in him.
“Never,” he tells me in a tone full of ice, “under-estimate who or what I care for.”
I look over to where the bucket has tipped over and I notice that there’s no tar, no paint, there’s nothing. Just water. I look up at the trunk and everything is still intact, except for the glistening of the drops of water lodged inside the carvings.
He’s lying next to me and I don’t look at him but I hold out my hand to him.
“Truce?” I ask.