Alone Page 3

  The breeze changes direction and the mother otter catches my scent. In an instant she seizes her pup by his neck and leaps from the rock. They both vanish beneath the surface.

  I stay still for a few moments longer, scanning the river, hoping the otters will reappear. But I can bear the flies and mosquitoes no longer, and I jump to my feet and slap my arse and the back of my legs repeatedly.

  After quickly washing myself in the river, I take a long look at the otters’ rock, now covered in butterflies, before collecting my pants and jeans and heading back to my tree, lost in thought, not even bothering to scan the cloudless sky for planes on the way.

  For the rest of the day, and until long after sunset, I sit in the sweltering heat and humidity and dab at a weeping boil that won’t dry, scratch soft scabs from insect bites that won’t heal, and hurry to the stream more frequently than before, to gulp water that the sun then steals from my sweaty, sunburnt skin. And all the while I gaze across the river at a bare and silent rock before ambling back to my tree to wait for a rescue that does not come.

  I replay every moment of the encounter with the otters over and over. Every detail – the first sight through the fog. The piranhas. The butterflies. The play and grooming. The chattering. The cuddles.

  I want to be held like that. I want one of Mum’s full-on hugs, when I bury my face in her jumper and she squeezes me just hard enough that I can feel her heart pulsing through my cheek as she strokes my back and tells me she’s got me now and everything is going to be all right. I want someone to talk to. I don’t want to be alone any more.

  For the first time since the crash I know exactly what I have to do. I have to go home. I have to find the plane.

  FIVE

  As soon as it’s light enough to see, I call for Dad, but without as much enthusiasm as before. It’s too depressing hearing nothing in reply. Too painful a reminder of how alone I am. And something’s been bothering me about my memories of Dad and the crash. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember anything that happened between when I put my headphones on, shortly after take-off, and finding myself treading water, surrounded by flames. I don’t know what happened to Dad. For all I know he could have injured himself and got trapped in the wreckage. Or perhaps he was knocked unconscious and he’s wandering around in a daze, and that’s why he hasn’t found me yet.

  The more I think about it, the more I realise I was wrong, I should have tried to find the plane right away, not just sit on my arse feeling sorry for myself like I have done for the past few days. I so want to believe a rescue team will find me today but what if it doesn’t? What if no one finds me until the day after tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that? What if no one ever comes. I have no way of knowing when or even if a search team will check this area but I do know that if I want to stay alive long enough to be found then I’m going to have to help myself. I’m going to have to face reality. I have no food. No matches. No knife. No medicine. Everything that could be of use to me is on the plane.

  The thought of having to fight my way through the jungle makes my stomach churn but the thought of spending another cold and hungry night alone is worse.

  If I can find Dad I’ll be fine. I know I will. And with any luck I may not have to enter the jungle at all. I know the plane ended up in the river. I have my life jacket and hopefully the crash site won’t be too far upstream. If I keep to the river then I’ll have plenty of water to drink and if a helicopter or plane does come today then they will still be able to see me.

  Before I set out I make a big HELP sign on the beach out of stones and driftwood. If anyone flies overhead then at least they’ll know someone’s still alive. I pull the life jacket over my head and tie the long strings. It’s hot and uncomfortable but I won’t enter the river without it.

  Walking along the riverbank is much harder than I expected. The bright sunlight reflecting off the sand blinds me, and grit fills my trainers, grating my feet, and I have to stop every few paces to empty them. Sweat stings my eyes and my legs feel unbearably heavy and hot. I can’t describe this as a walk, or even a hike. This is more like a punishment.

  No more than an hour’s trek from the sandspit, the riverbank disappears beneath a mesh of thick tree roots and I have no choice but to wade out into the river to get past them. The strong current pulls at my legs and I grip the roots hard to keep my balance. I clear one long clump but a little further on another tangle of roots blocks my way and this one extends even further into the river than the last. I clamber up onto a thick root and peer upriver but there’s still no sign of the plane.

  My wet jeans cling to my legs, chafing my crotch, and I’m tempted to turn back. But I think of Dad again. What if he’s lying injured and slowly bleeding to death? I look back at the way I’ve come then splash water on my face, leave the river, and head into the jungle.

  SIX

  The harsh sunlight softens the moment I enter the jungle, and I have to lean against a tree for balance while my eyes adjust. The air is heavy and still and it’s much quieter as well. The sounds of screeching birds and buzzing insects are muffled in here and my feet make no sound on a spongy carpet of moss and leaf litter. My feet are sore and my socks are full of grit and I consider going barefoot. But then I think about what could be concealed in the decomposing mush and decide against it.

  I struggle on for an hour or so, trying to keep the river in sight, but the vegetation is thickest along the riverbank and I’m forced to head deeper into the jungle.

  It’s brutally hard. Ants fall from branches as I brush past, and burrow into my hair, biting my scalp and ears, and every few paces a plant whips, claws or scratches me. Or some sort of insect stings me.

  After another backbreaking hour or two, a belt of thorn bushes blocks my way. They’re much taller than I am and I can see no way through. I pick up a stick and slash at the bushes. A bird the size of a pigeon bursts from the thicket and hovers above my head, squawking and flapping its wings. As I cower and raise my stick above my head for protection the bird lands in a tree a short distance away. I stand and notice my thrashing stick has created a hole in the thicket. I can see a nest woven in the bush. Reaching my arm through the thorny branches I probe the nest with my fingers. Yes! Eggs. Four of them. Warm and smooth. I carefully close my hand around one and withdraw it.

  The egg sits in my cupped hand, cream-coloured with blue and yellow spots. The mother starts screeching again and beating her wings; I hesitate, but saliva fills my mouth and I hurriedly crack the egg on a branch. In my haste I hit the branch too hard and the egg disintegrates, the gooey contents coating the branch and dribbling to the ground. I swear, take a deep breath and tell myself to calm down and be more careful before reaching back into the nest to take another one. I place this one in my mouth whole and slowly crack the shell with my teeth. The sticky contents and mashed-up shell trickle down my throat, and I think back to when I would refuse to touch a boiled egg if the yolk wasn’t perfectly cooked or the white bit was even a little bit runny. But I’ve never been this hungry before.

  The third egg I savour a little more, swirling the thick liquid around my cheeks before swallowing it. I reach into the nest to grab the last egg, and pause. The mother bird is still frantically clucking away and hungry as I am it doesn’t seem right to take all her eggs. I withdraw my hand and walk away. A few metres further along the thorn barrier I find a spot where the bushes are less dense and using my stick I slash my way through, ignoring the thorns tearing my skin. I break through to a clearing. And stop.

  A vast swamp stretches ahead of me, wide and dark and still, and extending as far as I can see.

  SEVEN

  In the hazy light beneath the canopy the swamp seems to have two surfaces. A still dark green one, and a grey one hovering just above, and with a shiver I realise what it is – mosquitoes! Millions of them. This must be where they come to escape the midday heat. The thought of wading through the centre of that stabbing swarm makes me want to throw. But I
have no choice. I’ve come too far to turn back now, and even if I did there’s no way I could make it back to the sandspit before nightfall. And for all I know the plane could be on the other side of the swamp, with Dad trapped inside. I have to keep going, and I have to cross the swamp as quickly as I can.

  I take the life jacket and my T-shirt off and drape it over my head for protection. Then I put the life jacket back on, and after tucking my T-shirt into the jacket collar and adjusting it so I have a slit to look through, I step into the swamp, and sink up to my chest in cold, cloying liquid. The mosquitoes descend immediately, and swarm around the gap in my T-shirt, determined to find a way in.

  Slime coats my arms and chest and my shuffling feet disturb pockets of trapped gas which rise and burst on the surface, releasing a stench so foul and putrid I gag. My eyes water. But to my horror it seems that either the scent of the gas or my salty tears excite the mosquitoes and the deeper I wade into the swamp the angrier they become. And these mosquitoes appear to be bigger and even more aggressive than the ones on the sandspit. I soon realise that this disgusting swamp is their patch, their home, and I have invaded it. Tens of thousands swarm around my head and shoulders, a whining, maddening storm of dentist’s drills, and I dare not pause to try to defend myself.

  So many crowd around the gap in my T-shirt that I can barely see where I’m going and I can only hope I’m heading the right way. My legs grow heavier with each demanding lunge and it takes every ounce of strength I have to keep going.

  The sludge deepens until it’s sucking at my armpits and only my life jacket prevents me from going under. I’m shivering, partly from the cold and partly from the fear that the swamp may get even deeper. The thought of drowning in this putrid swill terrifies me and I’m constantly fighting the urge to turn back. Wading through the swamp is far more exhausting than I could have imagined, and I know that if I don’t get out soon then I will never leave this place. I will simply run out of energy and sink beneath the surface, or give in to the mosquitoes and the gas.

  Bushes rustle to my right and in my mind I see a snake, huge and hungry, slithering towards me.

  I take another painful step and the swamp floor falls away beneath me.

  I doggy paddle furiously, tilting my feet and frantically feeling for solid ground, black water slapping my chin. Suddenly my feet touch something firm and I lunge forward, forcing my aching legs through the sludge.

  Finally I stumble into a bed of reeds and up onto a bank covered in moss. And collapse. Swamp slop clogs my nostrils and as I snort it out my ears pop and black mucus dangles from my nose.

  My cold and filthy clothes cling to my skin and my legs jerk uncontrollably. I rip the T-shirt from my head and splat the few mosquitoes still drilling into my face, then lie on my back for a minute or two, shivering but triumphant, high on relief. I made it! And I can hear the river.

  As soon as my legs stop shaking I feel an itch in the crook of my left knee and stretch my hand down to scratch it, and touch a squidgy bulge beneath my jeans. Fingers trembling, I stand and undo my jeans, slowly pushing them down, dreading what I might find.

  My heavy jeans drop to my ankles and I step out of them. I twist my leg and look down, and my worst fears are confirmed. The black bulge nestling in my knee looks like a slug but is something far worse. A leech. A slimy fat parasite, chewing my flesh and stealing my blood.

  I reach down and try to flick it from my leg but it simply contracts and clings on tighter, continuing to feed. So I pinch its bloated body between my fingers as tightly as I can, and pull, stretching it like a stick of liquorice until it snaps off and writhes in the palm of my hand, puking blood.

  More blood seeps from the puncture wound on my leg and I stare at the repulsive creature squirming in my hand, trying to latch onto my thumb; I pull my arm back and fling it as far as I can into the swamp and turn to a second one, dangling from my thigh. I tear this one off as well, and send it the same way as the first. Only then do I notice yet another one, clamped on my ankle.

  As I bend to reach it I feel a lump in my pants, and I realise another leech is nestled between my buttocks.

  I clench my cheeks together as hard as I can to try to crush it but the leech just squishes under the pressure and to my alarm it seems to slither even further up my bum. The thought of this blood-sucking parasite crawling up inside me is too horrific to bear. As I feel its sticky body pulsing, something snaps in my head. I’ve had enough!

  Enough of the bloodsuckers. Enough of the heat, the humidity, the hunger. The stings, bites and cuts. The fear and exhaustion.

  I step out of my pants, slide my slimy fingers between my buttocks and tear the leech away. The parasite had started to feed and I cry with pain as its teeth tear my skin and I can feel blood warm and wet on my cheeks. My blood!

  Hatred burns through me. I won’t be returning this one to the swamp alive. I want it to suffer like I’m suffering. I want revenge.

  There’s a flat rock nearby. I place the leech on it and before the creature can slither away I grab my trainer and splatter it. The leech splits open and sprays me with blood. I grin, and quickly tear the other one from my ankle. This one suffers the same fate and I laugh as it bursts with a loud pop. Naked, filthy and leaking blood, I search my lower body for more leeches and for a moment I’m more disappointed than relieved when I find none.

  Killing spree over, the adrenaline drains from my body and my legs start to shake. Time to go.

  My jeans are sodden and slimy but I need their protection so I pull them on, followed by my blackened socks and trainers, and with one last look of disgust at the swamp, I hitch my jeans up as far as I dare and head towards the sounds of the river.

  EIGHT

  Pears? No. Plums? No. Papayas! That’s it!

  Mouth drooling, I stare at the juicy fruit hanging from the tree before me. The strange fruit I’d never even considered trying before this trip. The fruit I was amazed to find I loved the taste of. It seems my luck has changed at last. The river is loud in my ears, but impatient as I am to reach it, I’m far too hungry to pass the fruit tree by.

  I jump and try to grab a plump papaya but it’s a pathetic attempt. I barely leave the ground and the fruit remains tantalisingly just out of reach. I grab a fallen branch and after half a dozen swipes I connect with my target and the papaya falls to the ground. I pounce on it, rip a strip of skin off with my teeth and bite into the soft orange flesh. The pulp is sweet and succulent and a stream of juice dribbles down my chin. I eagerly tear more skin off and keep biting and gulping down the chunks of flesh, spitting out the black seeds while I scrabble around, eagerly searching for any fallen fruit. But all I find are a few rotten ones, infested with worms and earwigs.

  Leaves rustle high in the tree and I look up to see a black furry face peering down at me. The face disappears and reappears lower down, where the branches are thinner, and I can tell it’s some sort of monkey. I like monkeys, always have, and I stay crouched and still, hoping he will move even closer. The leaves part and he swings down to squat on a low-hanging branch, hooting quietly and staring at me. His boldness surprises me but I’m not frightened, instead I’m glad of his company.

  Absentmindedly scratching his belly, the monkey continues to stare. Then his mouth opens wide and his lips curl into what I decide is a smile, so I pick a seed out from between my teeth and slowly stand and smile back at him, to let him know I mean him no harm.

  His musky scent wafts over me. He smells like a wet dog with BO and I instinctively sniff my own armpit and recoil at the stink. The monkey copies me, lifting his arm to sniff his own pit and grimace, and I laugh, but a darkening sky and the sound of the river nearby remind me I have no time for games, and I break eye contact and resume my search for fruit to take with me.

  I’ve been looking for no more than a minute or so with no luck when a soft thud close by interrupts my search. I stand and take two steps towards it and see a small papaya, green and unripe, lying on the ground,
its stalk and two leaves still attached. Curious, I look up to see where the fruit has come from and there is the monkey, staring down at me, but now he is grinning and juggling another green papaya in his hands. I smile, and give a little nod of my head to thank him. OK, so the fruit is unripe and inedible, but with a little encouragement from me perhaps my new friend will pick some more, and I’ll be able to eat the next one.

  I turn to continue my search but as I do I feel a thump in the small of my back and another green papaya bounces onto the ground and rolls away. I rub the base of my spine and swivel around to glare at the monkey… and pause.

  The monkey is no longer alone. He’s been joined by two others, both considerably bigger than he is, and they appear to be scolding my new friend, slapping him around the head and pointing angrily in my direction.

  I stand and as I do so one of the newcomers snatches a papaya from the first monkey and throws it at me. His aim is surprisingly good and I have to duck to prevent the fruit hitting me in the face. I stare at the monkey in surprise, only to see him fling his hands high above his head and dance along the bough, hooting and thumping his chest. His behaviour is quickly copied by his companion, and now even the first monkey joins in, all three screeching abuse at me.

  Only now, with more monkeys arriving every second do I realise how badly I have misread the situation. I thought the monkey wanted to be friends, to help me even. But I was wrong. He never wanted to be my friend. These apes aren’t trying to help me. They’re warning me off. This tree is theirs. Its fruit belongs to them, and they aren’t about to share it with any other creature, least of all a ground-living, tailless one.

  Papayas, twigs and branches rain down on me. I don’t do confrontation, so I take a step backwards and turn to leave, but as I do so a sharp branch whips across the back of my neck, stinging my sunburnt skin. Triumphant hoots fill the air and I can feel my cheeks burning with the realisation that I am being bullied. Again. I grab a green papaya, spin round, take aim and throw it as hard as I can, grunting with satisfaction as it hits my target smack in the middle of his chest. The monkey’s hooting stops. He parts his wiry hair and rubs the spot where the papaya made contact. Then he glares down at me and howls with rage, jumping up and down, pulling his hair and working himself into a frenzy.