An Unremembered Tune By Christina Wilson

Winner of the New Zealand Post Book Awards Short Story Competition for the Waikato and King Country: 9-12 year old category.



An Unremembered Tune by Christina, 12



Harold Spiller was inside All Hallows Chapel that night… although no one knew it.



He sat in the shadows where no one would see him, and whilst the congregation buzzed with noise, he waited. The Reverend Edward Strange approached the podium, a red poppy pined to his cassock. It was April 25th. ANZAC day. The day to remember those who died in the Great War.



As the congregation stood for the hymn, Spiller stood with them. Now, he thought. Now’s the time. And may God forgive me.



All of a sudden, during the last verse of the hymn, the lights blinked out. The chapel was swallowed by darkness. Spiller acted quickly, weaving in and out of the petrified people. When the lights came back on, they saw before them a terrible sight. The Reverend Strange lay dead before the altar, seemingly untouched. But a look of sheer terror was fixed on his face, as though he had died of fright.



“Ghost! People yelled. “The ghost of All Hallows Chapel! He’s here!”



The congregation swarmed to the doors and ran into the dark.



This was a strange world to Spiller. A world he’d once imagined. A world where trenches, mud, barbed wire and bloodshed were no more. Where the German guns had ceased. The Great War had ended, and the world was a peace. Spiller felt glad that all those friends of his, whose bones still lie in Flanders’s field, were not forgotten.



Soon, only Spiller and the dead Reverend were left in the chapel. He crept up to him, and whispered in his ear:



We fought at Armageddon for the freedom of mankind:

I fought, and you fought, and here our bones lie strewn.

The flesh is stript from off us, and the chains remain behind,

And the freedom that we fought for is an unremembered tune.



“So this is the world of my dreams. Where war is no more. The world I imagined, but I did not live to see. Every little boy should live to see his dream come true. But not me. The imaginary world I’d hoped for when I was a child, before the Commanding Officers drained us of hope that such a world may someday exist, was gone for me”.



Spiller straightened up and, in his worn uniform, walked over to the Honour Roll. There, at the very bottom of the list, in bronze lettering, was his own name: Harold J. Spiller 1895-1915. A brave soldier who’d fought in the front lines and was taken back from No Man’s Land. November 1st 1915.



Spiller removed his slouch hat and silently, as a ghost, sunk into the wall, saying quietly, “Age shall now weary them, nor the years condemn…I will go on haunting this world. This strange world of the living, of my imagination…for ever.” The honour roll did not mention the truth – he’d been shot by General Richard H. Strange. But now, by visiting his imaginary world, he’d taken his revenge …


This May I entered the New Zealand Post Book awards short story competition. The story I wrote included a little bit of my family background, Harold Spiller being my great uncle who died in WW2. I found the results soon after the due date and was stunned that I came first in the 9-12 category. This is a big step towards my goal of becoming a published author.

Christina Wilson 8KW student