Dark Night of the Soul

Chapter 4

Thursday.

Without preparedness superiority is not real superiority and there can be no initiative either. Having grasped this point, a force which is inferior but prepared can often defeat a superior enemy by surprise attack.

The sun beats down on the Camper van and all is still, save a shimmering heat haze. The door is propped open in a vain attempt to allow a breath of fresh air to circulate. Inside, Kristen's mother, Harmony, sits on an unmade bed, tightly clutching a letter in her fist. She breathes a shuddering sigh, unable to read beyond the words telling her that Kristen has left. Where did it all go wrong?

Harmony gets unsteadily to her feet and gazes out of the window, down to the town below. Taking a deep breath, she tries desperately to think rationally. She bends to open a small locker, feeling blindly until her fingers close around a tobacco tin. Even before she opens it, she knows - the money has all gone. Harmony fervently believes that material items damage the soul, that all one needs to survive is air, water, sunlight and sleep. She had even read about monks that survived for decades in the mountains on air alone but hadn't been brave enough to experiment on her own family. What could Kristen need the money for? Drugs? Was she in trouble?

Next, Harmony rummages in a box next to Kristen's bed. Her beloved penknife has gone, as well as her diary and a small pile of battered paperbacks. Exhausted, she collapses onto the patchwork pillows and sobs.

Frank whistles as he walks up the hill, occasionally stopping to catch his breath, swinging his patched leather jacket over his shoulder. The sun is shining and he feels good. He calls out to Harmony as he nears the Camper van. The whistling stops. What has happened? The children? Harmony, talk to me.

Silently, she hands him the crumpled letter and he reads slowly, mouthing the words. She stares blankly, expecting an exclamation of some sort. Instead, Frank sinks onto the bed next to her and clears his throat.

'We always taught the kids to think for themselves. Kristen is no fool, she knows what she's doing. She says she just needs some time to herself and I think we should give her the space. She'll be back.'

Kristen hums with excitement as she prepares her bed in the corner of a heavily graffitied goats' hut. Originally a World War II bunker, the concrete structure would offer perfect protection against the elements - and from prying eyes.

The hippies had laid claim to the site long after the war ended, rearing goats and selling goats' cheese to eke a meagre existence. But they only visit once a day to feed and milk the animals.

Kristen sweeps the debris away from a dark corner of the bunker, laying out a small rectangular groundsheet. She fashions a little shelf from some sticks and twine, a trick she had learned as a Girl Guide, before her mother had extracted her from 'normal' society.

As she ties the final knot and trims the loose ends with her penknife, Kristen can't help but feel pleased with herself. She can do this. If only she could get used to the smell. She wrinkles her nose and sniffs, wiping her sleeve across her face.

She snaps open the fastenings on her trusty backpack to pull out a neat kerosene lamp, wrapped in newspaper. As it casts a flickering light across the ceiling, Kristen pulls out her diary and pencil. 'What a day.'

She stops, pensive for a moment. I wonder what Bob and Andrew are doing right now? I bet their mum is carving slices of Viennetta ice cream. She had heard them showing off about it to the other kids in the park. Those boys don't know how lucky they are, she thinks, vainly attempting to banish all thoughts of envy. Her mother had taught her something, at least.