Alone Page 11

  Thankfully, gathering provisions has been much easier. The piranhas are as ravenous as ever, and amongst the debris washed up by the storm I’ve found some lightning-severed branches laden with Brazil nut pods, and a few metres along from the Joshua Tree one of the trees I hadn’t taken much notice of before has produced a crop of mango-like fruit, the size of big lemons, with green rind and sweet, amber-coloured pulp. I’ve even collected and sun-dried a few of the fig-like fruit I found washed up on the shore, as emergency rations, figuring my stomach’s tough enough to handle them now, although I can only hope I don’t ever have to eat them. I have no idea how many days I will have to spend on the raft so I’m determined to take as much food as I can cram into the pockets and tied-off legs of my jeans, and wrap in my pants and T-shirt. Anything I find or catch along the way will be a bonus.

  Only two stumbling blocks remain in the way of my departure, but they’re big ones: how can I tie the logs together? And how can I carry clean drinking water on the raft? Making a raft looks so straightforward when Bear Grylls does it, but I don’t have his expertise, or strength, or machete, and my attempts to strip tree bark and braid vines to make rope have been beyond pathetic. As for transporting fresh stream water to drink, the truth is I may have no option but to rely on rainfall and the dirty river instead.

  Placing another log from my stack of raft rejects on the fire, I yawn, and shiver, more from tiredness than the cold. It’s been another long and tiring day, but a productive one. My food store is growing rapidly and as soon as I’ve solved the log-tying problem I can go. I should be pleased with myself. I should be happy. But I’m not. The truth is I have no idea what the river may have in store for me. And even more worryingly, there’s still no sign of the otters.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sometime during a restless night I’m convinced I’ve come up with a brilliant solution to my log-tying problem. I’ll use my shoelaces!

  But one quick check at first light is all it takes to let me know what a stupid idea it is. Firstly the knot where I’ve tied them onto the rod is so tight it’s impossible to unpick, secondly the laces are badly frayed and look like they could snap at any moment, and thirdly they’re nowhere near long enough to go around five logs, let alone the bamboo poles as well.

  Not the greatest of starts to the day. I will think about it some more while I’m fishing. And hoping the laces don’t snap.

  By midday I’ve caught four good-sized fish and lost at least six more by falling asleep, so I decide to stop fishing and head back to camp for a nap.

  With a breeze blowing through the camp site, a potent fishy and fruity aroma hits me while I’m still at least ten paces away and I realise that for the first time since the crash I have enough food. More than enough really. My pile of mangoes (or whatever they are) is so high that the ones on the bottom are starting to go off and ferment, my hoard of fish is deteriorating rapidly in the heat, and everything is teeming with ants. Up close the fishy odour is pretty foul and overpowering, there are flies everywhere, and my musty bed appears to be alive with millions of red mites, so I quickly place my fish on the pile and return to the shade of the crooked tree to rest. I’ll deal with the mess later.

  Before I lie down I slowly scan up and down the far bank as far as I can see, then check Otter Rock. There’s still no sign of Galaxy or his mother. I try to tell myself not to worry, to convince myself that their absence is a good thing, and simply means they’ve moved on. But the truth is I’ve changed my mind, and I do want to see them, especially Galaxy. I need to know he’s OK, and I’m a little hurt to think he’d leave without saying goodbye.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Rain wakes me. Tapping on my eyelids and rudely interrupting a dream where I’m tobogganing with Galaxy and we’re shrieking with delight. Dad’s just given our sledge a shove down a hill smothered in freshly fallen snow, and Mum’s waiting at the bottom. I squeeze my eyelids tight and try to stay in the dream for a little longer, at least until we reach the bottom, but the annoying rain jolts me back to the present. Judging by the dull light and cool air it’s nearly dusk. I must have slept all afternoon. Damn! Even if the rain stops now there isn’t enough sunlight left to relight the fire, and without it I can’t cook my fish.

  I wipe the rain from my face and peer across the river at Otter Rock. Still no sign of the otters, so I leave the shade of the crooked tree and head back to camp. And can hardly believe my eyes.

  Even in the dim light of dusk I can see I’ve had an uninvited and greedy visitor.

  My food store has been decimated. All the mangoes have gone or been partially eaten and the rinds scattered around. The fish have all been devoured too, or had bites taken out of them and their bony remains trampled into the dirt. My bedding and pile of kindling for the fire are strewn everywhere. For a moment my mood brightens and my pulse quickens as I hope the otters are responsible, but as I pick my way through the soggy mess I can see sausage-sized turds littering the ground, tufts of wiry black hair snagged in the trunk of the Joshua Tree, and dozens of distinctive trotter prints in the damp earth. There’s no mistaking the identity of the intruder – a pig! The fermenting fruit must have drawn it in, like a fly to rotting flesh.

  I’m furious. And I don’t want to think about what might have happened if I’d been asleep on my bed when it arrived. But, gutted as I am by the mess and the loss of my provisions, I’m even more worried that my life jacket isn’t where I left it wedged in the crook of the Joshua Tree. I can’t see it anywhere.

  Frantically digging through strewn bedding and ruined food, I eventually find it covered in wet ash by the fire. I unseal the pocket and grunt in relief when I see Dad’s watch parts are still inside. Thankfully they appear to have escaped further damage, and the fire glass is still safely tucked away in the other pocket.

  After wiping off the sticky charcoal coating, I cram the life jacket back in the Joshua Tree, making sure it’s secure, then spend the last few minutes of fading daylight salvaging what little I can of my spoiled provisions. It doesn’t amount to much – a few half-eaten piranhas and a handful of Brazil nuts. No mangoes, and Porky Pig has even gobbled up all the dried figs. There will be no supper for me tonight. But I have no appetite anyway. In fact I feel sick at the thought of the pig invading my space, stealing my food and trashing my home. Now it knows there’s food here, it could return at any time.

  And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. I don’t have the time or the energy to set up camp somewhere else or build a fence to keep it out. What if I ambush it? Bait a trap with fruit and hide in the branches of the Joshua Tree, then drop and stab it with my spear or bludgeon it to death with my bone club. Yeah right, like that’s going to happen! However much I try to think about something else, anything else, I keep picturing the wicked tusks on the wild boar I saw at Galaxy’s mudslide, and then I think about the big paw prints in the mud by the stream. If a pig can find me then a jaguar can too. I’ve run out of time. I’ll just have to risk my shoelaces and reduce the raft from five logs to three or two.

  It’s time to go.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tired and aching, I crawl out of my soggy bed in the pre-light of dawn, impatient for the sun to rise to warm me so I can gather more fruit, catch some fish, finish the raft, and be on my way.

  Catching fish shouldn’t be a problem, and thankfully there are still some mangoes left on the tree. But even though I’m anxious to leave, there’s something I have to do first. I have to make one last trip to the otters’ mudslide. One last attempt to find Galaxy.

  The sun appears. I sit and slip one trainer on and as I lift the second one something small and black falls to the ground. At first I assume it’s a beetle. But then it rights itself and rears up and I realise it’s a scorpion, jet black, with its sting-tipped tail cocked and claws flung wide, threatening me. Threatening me! I’m ten thousand times its size and could crush it in an instant. I snort with disdain and raise my trainer to kill it, but it’s already scrabb
led away into the undergrowth.

  I grab my spear. Then decide to leave it. I’ll run faster without it.

  I reach the mudslide in good time, and kneel to extract a thorn from my trainer when I hear something, a muffled hollering noise, coming from the jungle. I peer in the direction the sound came from, but I can’t see anything alarming and I decide my tired and overanxious mind must be playing tricks on me. I stand and walk towards the top of Galaxy’s slide when I hear the noise again, closer this time – sharp cries and barks, and it’s suddenly clear what sort of animal is heading my way, and fast – monkeys!

  Memories of my previous encounter with monkeys fill my head and I spin round and get ready to run. And stop. I can’t leave yet. Not before I’ve done what I came here to do. Not before I’ve checked for any sign of the otters. So I decide to hide instead, and hope the monkeys change direction before they reach me.

  Quickly burrowing into the foliage, I crouch down and pull fern fronds over my head, feeling acutely exposed and vulnerable in my nakedness and cursing myself for leaving my spear behind.

  The bush has barely stopped shaking before I see a flash of gold dart through the branches of the trees nearby and disappear into a cavity of the dead tree above me – the golden lion tamarin!

  Seconds later the first monkey arrives, crashing through the canopy. He’s huge, with massive muscular shoulders and a silver-grey back and chest. Four smaller monkeys follow close behind, and halt in the higher branches of the tree alongside the one I’m hiding beneath, the same one I climbed to reach the tamarin’s nest.

  The big monkey howls, opening his mouth wide to display broken brown front teeth as he glowers at the gang of four following him, warning them to back off. Then he raises a fistful of leaves to his flaring nostrils and inhales, and swings across to the tamarin’s nest, directly above me.

  Pressing his cheek flat against the trunk, the big monkey reaches into the tamarin’s nest and yanks out the golden ball of fur. The tamarin squirms and trills like a bat and tries to bite the ape’s stumpy fingers, but the monkey grips it firmly in both hands, raises it to its mouth, and bites into the tamarin’s stomach. The tamarin screams in agony as blood spurts from the wound, and its tail whips to and fro and wraps around a branch, anchoring it. But the big monkey easily pulls the tail free and rips another chunk of fur and flesh from his helpless prey, and sits back and chews it, glaring at the four monkeys in the neighbouring tree who are going crazy now, screeching and bouncing up and down on the branches, but they dare not move any closer.

  The tamarin’s screams cut me to the bone and I want to burst out of my hiding place and pelt the monkey with sticks and stones and yell at it to stop, to let the tamarin go. But I can’t. It’s already too late for the tamarin and I’m petrified the pack will turn on me if I do. So I clamp my hands over my ears instead, to try to block out the tamarin’s cries as the monkey eats it alive, casually crunching bones and tearing flesh until it bites through the tamarin’s neck, severing its spine, and the screaming stops.

  Bloodlust sated, the big monkey drops the tamarin’s carcass and swings away, leaving the others to fight over the once beautiful creature’s remains, hanging broken and bloody on a bough.

  I stay where I am for an hour or more, unable to move while the monkeys squabble over scraps of fur and bone, telling myself over and over again that there was nothing I could do to save the tamarin. That it would have been suicidal to try. But however hard I try, I can’t silence the nasty, sneering voice telling me I should have done something. Anything. I should have at least tried. Telling me what I already know. That I’m a coward, a pretender, and I’ve been found out.

  Only when I’m certain the monkeys have gone and I can stand the cramps in my legs no longer, do I emerge from my hiding place, sick to my stomach. I’m ashamed and desperate to get back to my camp site. But there’s still something I have to do first.

  I’m three or four paces away from the slide when I come across the first signs of a fight – snapped branches, blood-splattered leaves and deep gouges in the mud. Heart pounding, I take two more steps towards the slide, and that’s when I see the big paw prints in the mud, the same type I’ve seen by the stream at the sandspit. There are clumps of fur, caked in blood, and a track of bloody flattened grass heading into the jungle. As if a heavy object has been dragged away. A wild pig perhaps. Or an otter.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I should be fishing, and sorting out the raft and getting out of this hell. But I’m not. I’m standing at the river’s edge instead, just below the rapids, trying to summon up the courage to wade in and swim to the other side.

  It seemed so simple this morning – gather fruit, catch fish, finish the raft and leave. But that was before my trip to the mudslide, and the realisation that if the clumps of bloody fur belonged to Galaxy’s mother, and she was killed and Galaxy survived, then he would do exactly the same thing that I would. He would head for home. This morning I had no clues as to where he might be. This morning there were no cackling vultures, circling above a point on the other side of the river, steadily spiralling lower and lower. But there are now.

  I wade in.

  The riverbed is firm underfoot but the strong current tugs at my legs, and I swim as hard and as fast as I can, focusing on one stroke at a time, then the next. Swimming across the current is far more tiring than I had expected it to be and I’m struggling badly, swallowing litres of water, and by the time my feet touch the bottom on the other side I’m a long way downstream from the vultures, well below Otter Rock. Scrambling ashore, I cough up mouthfuls of dirty water and take a moment to clear my nostrils and catch my breath before making my way upstream.

  Fish bones and crab shells litter the ground around Otter Rock, and the mud is studded with paw prints, but they’re all jumbled up and it’s impossible to tell how old they are. I decide to follow a path that appears to be more worn than others, and leads upriver, towards the vultures.

  The entrance to the otters’ holt is hidden beneath a mesh of flowering vines entwined in the roots of a fallen tree on the riverbank, and without the vultures spiralling overhead I would never have found it.

  Pushing through the tangle of flowers, I lean forward as far as I can, until my face is nestling amongst the purple blooms. I call Galaxy’s name, and make the burring squeak of greeting, and listen, and hear nothing. No sounds of movement or squeak in response. Just silence. I lean further out, to where rain has dissolved some of the earth, clear my throat and make the To me! whistle, the one I spent so many hours practising. Still nothing. Wetting my lips I whistle again, and it’s better this time, fuller and more distinct. And I hear it, above the sound of the river and the cackling vultures. There’s the faintest chirp in return.

  ‘Galaxy. Galaxy!’ I cry, and attack the earth forming the roof of the holt with my bare hands, crushing flowers, snapping roots, and ripping through vines and mud. My fingers are soon stained yellow with pollen and torn and bleeding from thorns. But I keep tearing and digging, barely feeling the cuts, only pausing when my throat gets too clogged with thick dust to continue, and I cough and spit and call Galaxy’s name. I am instantly re-energised when I hear his faint mew in reply.

  After a few minutes I break through the earth and thorny crust to a layer of grass and dead reeds which is much easier to dismantle. Quickly tearing a hole in the lining, I lean forward and press my face into it. Hot and pungent air wafts up, and I splutter and spit, and turn my head to take a deep breath of fresh air before lowering it into the opening again. At first I can see nothing through the swirling dust cloud, and my mouth is too dry for me to whistle, so I call Galaxy’s name instead, in a rasping voice. In a far corner of the gloom something moves. Curled up in a ball and half buried beneath dislodged mud and vines, Galaxy is virtually invisible except for a smudge of paleness from the white bib on his throat. I call to him again, more softly this time, and he raises his head at the sound of my voice. I reach down to him, and gently lift his limp b
ody through the hole in the earth.

  He’s filthy. And stinks. His eyes are glued shut with crud but he still squints in the harsh light and buries his face in his paws. I turn my back to shield him from the bright sun, and hug him tightly against my wheezing chest. He’s so skinny I can feel the curve of his ribs pressing against his skin, and I gently brush the dirt and vines from his body and stroke his head and neck, and he makes a burring noise in response and nuzzles his face deep into the crook of my arm.

  I carry Galaxy to the river and sit cross-legged with him in the shallows, gently rocking him in my lap while he dips his head and feverishly gulps the water. When he’s drunk his fill, he licks the insides of his wrists and shakily draws them across his eyes to clean them and the crusty guck falls away. After blinking hard a number of times Galaxy looks up at my dusty face and I can see the bewilderment and alarm in his eyes. He kicks against my legs and wriggles out of my lap, his sharp claws catching my thighs. I cry out but by the time I’m over the shock and I realise the scratches are not deep, Galaxy’s gone. I can’t see him anywhere but I can hear him. He’s returned to the holt and he’s mewing for his mother.

  I take two paces towards the holt and stop. However much I want to help him, I know Galaxy’s confused and frightened and I don’t dare risk alarming him again. I have to give him some time to come to terms with this sudden change in his situation, to remember I’m his friend and he can trust me. A short while later Galaxy’s head breaks the surface in the shallows halfway between me and the holt. He’s chirping anxiously, bobbing and swivelling his head every few seconds to look at me and then back at the holt, and I realise he doesn’t know what to do. Of course he doesn’t! He’s just a pup and he’s used to Mum making all his decisions for him. Now he needs me to help him decide.