Alone Page 5

  But by the time she’s caught her eighth fish I’m seriously envious again and once more I think about swimming across the river to steal one, even though I know it’s a ridiculous idea. She and her pup would be gone long before I got anywhere near them, and as hungry as I am I will not risk scaring them away. So I stay and watch, making the most of their presence while growing more jealous by the second, until the otters finally depart and I rise and head for the stream.

  By the time I return to camp I’m in a seriously bad mood. I have no food. No fire for warmth and light, or cooking. No smoke to act as a signal to search planes and provide protection from mosquitoes. My sleeping area is a tick-infested mess. I’m a mess. Septic bites and scabby scratches crisscross my sunburnt, peeling skin. My filthy clothes emit a pungent, damp aroma, like PE kit left in the bag to ferment. My head aches continuously. And every hour I don’t eat I grow weaker.

  Enough! If I’m to stand any chance of living long enough for a rescue party to find me then something has to change. I have to change. No more wallowing in self-pity. No more simply waiting for things to get better. No more laziness.

  I’ve got to get off my arse and do something. I’ve got to take responsibility for myself. Everything I do from this moment on has to be with only one aim in mind – to survive.

  But how do I begin?

  What would Dad do? He’d ‘take stock and prioritise’, that’s what he’d do. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make a list of everything I have and then I can decide what’s missing. What don’t I have that’s most vital for my survival?

  Well, I do have a steady supply of fresh water from the stream, and shade from the midday sun, and a location that’s visible from the air. I have a life jacket, jeans, T-shirt, pants, socks and trainers, and Dad’s watch.

  So what do I need the most that I don’t have?

  Food. Sleep. Fire.

  Now to prioritise. What do I need most urgently? Food.

  But there’s a problem. After what happened when I went searching for the plane I can’t face the prospect of entering the jungle to look for fruit, and I can’t just rely on the river to wash it up. I don’t have the guts to handle raw grubs and snails. I need to be able to cook it and to do that I need a fire. The smoke will also keep the mosquitoes at bay, and signal my location. Fire first then.

  Decision made, I feel a bit better, a little stronger. More positive. But it’s too late to do anything today. I’ll try to rest now and start first thing in the morning.

  Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I’ll do something to help myself, no matter how hard it might be.

  Tomorrow I will create fire.

  TWELVE

  To my surprise it’s light when I wake. My exhaustion must have caught up with me.

  I yell, ‘Hello,’ and ‘Help!’ five or six times, not really expecting a reply. Then I jog to the stream, keen to get started.

  I take a quick drink and peer hopefully across the river at Otter Rock. No otters.

  Time to get on with things. Time to light a fire. But how? I have no matches. No lighter. Nothing.

  It seemed such a simple idea last night. Such a straightforward and logical one. Well it doesn’t seem so simple now… I try to remember how Bear Grylls did it. He didn’t have any matches either, but I do remember one episode when he started a fire by banging two rocks together, really hard, and when he did sparks flew everywhere.

  So I collect a dozen rocks, all different shapes and sizes, and excitedly bash them together, and after an hour or so I have a pile of rubble, gritty eyes, grazed and blistered hands, and not even a hint of a spark.

  I glare at the shattered rocks but I’m not giving up. If anything, now I’ve actually started, I’m even more determined than ever to make this work. Another Bear Grylls episode comes to mind, when he used a stick about the size of a wooden spoon. From what I can remember I think he placed one end of it on a piece of bark and rubbed the stick backwards and forwards until the friction caused a spark. Or something like that. I can’t recall all the details, but I figure I’ve remembered enough to give it a go.

  Finding fuel for the fire is no problem. There are plenty of bits of bark, sticks and broken branches beneath my tree and washed up on the shore, and I soon have a wigwam of twigs to use as a starter fire and a pile of big sticks to add as soon as the fire is alight.

  Now I need something to use as tinder. I reckon the grass stems and dead leaves I have been sleeping on might work, so I spread a handful out in the sun to dry while I go in search of a spinning stick.

  This proves to be much harder but for once I don’t retreat to the shade to doze through the midday heat, instead I keep searching. But every stick I find is too short, or too thin. Or too bent. Or knobbly. Too soft or too brittle, and it bends or snaps as soon as I put any pressure on it.

  By mid-afternoon I’m seriously fed up. My hands are bruised and bleeding. My head is pounding. The back of my neck and my arms are on fire and I decide to take a dip in the river to cool down and try to clear my head. In too much of a hurry to bother looking where I’m going, I trip over my HELP sign on the way, scattering the ‘P’, and there it is! Standing upright in the sand; an ideal spinning stick, just the right length and as thick as a whiteboard marker pen, with no prominent knots or knobbly bits. Perfect!

  At last I have everything I need. I grab the stick and run back up the beach. The river can wait.

  Placing a strip of bark close to my twig wigwam, I sprinkle a handful of ripped leaves and grass stems on the bark to act as tinder. Then I take a deep breath and try to contain my excitement, place one end of the stick in the middle of the leaves and begin to rub it backwards and forwards between my palms as fast as I can.

  The stick immediately shoots out through my fingertips. I retrieve it and start again. This time it skates to the left, upending the bark and scattering the leaves. I grunt, gather the tinder and try again, pressing down harder this time, but as soon as I put any pressure on the stick and start to spin it, the tip just skids off the bark, and after a few more tries the end of the stick is not even warm. In fact the only heat generated appears to be coming from a burning sensation across my palms and the temper rising up my chest.

  ‘Damn!’

  I’ve obviously got something wrong. Think! What am I missing here? Got it! I need to find a way to keep the tip in one place. To anchor it. Turning the bark over, I see a flaky knot, halfway along, about twice the circumference of the stick, and I use a splinter of rock to dig it out, creating a circular trough for the stick’s tip.

  On my next attempt the stick stays in the trough and the tip definitely warms up, but there’s no smoke, and no indication that the tinder will ignite.

  Something still isn’t right. I try to recall what else Bear did, what have I forgotten? And I remember – sand! Bear put sand grains in the dent to increase the friction. I grin, at least this bit will be easy. I have more than enough sand!

  I drop a pinch of sand in the trough and start spinning the stick again, ignoring the painful blisters ballooning on my palms. The stick is much harder to turn. I can feel the increased resistance along my fingers, and I can hear the sand grains grating the bark.

  As I adjust the pressure and speed to spin the stick more efficiently, a tiny wisp of grey smoke curls up from the trough. Then another, and I’m sure I can smell burning. ‘Yes!’ I’ve done it!

  I drop the stick and lift the bark with its smouldering cargo to my lips and blow, to feed the ember. And I blow the tinder clean off the bark and onto the sand.

  I clench my fists, breathe deeply and try again, and the grass starts to smoke, but as soon as I lift the bark, the straw and leaves scatter in the breeze.

  I jam the bark into the sand and try to figure out what to do. The stick’s working well enough but the straw is too light, too flimsy, and the leaves won’t catch. I need a different material to bulk up the straw, something just as flammable, but heavier. And I have to be more patient, something I’
ve never been good at. I have to keep spinning and wait until the tinder is well and truly alight before trying to transfer it.

  I walk the shoreline, scanning for any suitable material, hands jammed in pockets to prevent me gnawing my bloody cuticles, rolling bits of tissue paper between my fingers. And then I realise! My pockets are full of scraps of chewing-gum wrappers, cotton thread and tissue paper, and although they’ve been saturated in the swamp and the river, they’re dry now and might just work. I empty my pockets, mix the assorted fluff with the grass stems, and place my new, improved tinder in the trough, along with another pinch of sand.

  Stick poised, I squint at Dad’s watch and track the second hand’s stuttered progress around the dial. As soon it touches twelve I start to spin, slowly and deliberately moving the stick to and fro, gradually increasing the speed until, after twenty-five seconds, the first wisp of smoke curls up from the trough. My arms and shoulders ache and my hands sting, but this time I fight the urge to stop and remove the stick too soon. I told myself I’d keep spinning for a full minute to give the new tinder a chance to catch fire properly this time, no matter how much it hurts.

  Another glance at Dad’s watch. Thirty-five seconds, more tendrils of smoke, thicker now, weaving together.

  At forty-five seconds I’m sure I can see a glowing ember. The temptation to stop and transfer the tinder into the stick wigwam is overwhelming but I resist. I check the watch, fifty-six seconds. Just a few seconds more…

  What was that – a flame? A flame! That’s never happened before!

  Sixty seconds. I remove the stick and bend forward to pick up the bark. And a fat dollop of sweat falls from the tip of my nose and splatters directly into the dent, extinguishing the tiny flame. I blink, and stare in disbelief at the globule of sooty sweat filling the crater.

  I leap to my feet and scream, and jump up and down on the bark, burying it deep in the sand. Then I boot the twig wigwam high in the air, and grab the spinning stick in both hands and before I can stop myself I raise my leg and bring the stick down hard on my knee, snapping it in two.

  Shaking with anger I am only vaguely aware of what I have done, but I do know I need to cool down before I lose it completely and injure myself. I stomp to the river, wade in waist deep and thrust my head under, holding it there as long as I can, until the need to breathe is stronger than my anger.

  I’ve achieved nothing. All I’ve done is waste valuable energy and confirm I’m no Bear Grylls. I am whatever the opposite of Bear Grylls is. I am pathetic.

  I sit in the water for five minutes or so, shoulders slumped, disgusted with myself for losing it and snapping the stick. Eventually I’ve cooled down enough to start worrying about piranhas and caimans, and I leave the river and walk back to my tree.

  My failure, and missing my midday sleep, have completely drained me and I’m too fed up to even consider trying to do anything else. There’s no point. I’d only fail. I decide to have a lie down and reach into the life-jacket pocket to check the time on Dad’s watch.

  It’s not there.

  I have left it out on the sand, beside the big sticks. Great! I hobble out onto the beach and quickly grab it. And immediately drop it again, crying out in pain. The watch is red hot, and I’m an idiot.

  The watch thuds into the sand, glass face up and tilted, reflecting the sun directly into my eyes, blinding me. Shielding my eyes, I take my top off, grope for the watch and wrap it inside the T-shirt. I stumble back to the shade, shoulders slumped, sucking my burnt fingers and blinking back tears.

  THIRTEEN

  Two hours have passed since sunrise and I’m still no closer to finding the guts to do what I have to.

  The idea came to me sometime during a restless night, when I remembered how the beam of light from Dad’s watch blinded me and I realised that the glass can focus not only light, but heat as well. I turn the watch over and over in my hand, tracing every scratch and dent with my fingertips, searching for more reasons to justify doing what I know I must. For the thousandth time I go over the list in my head – the watch is really old and worth nothing. It’s badly scratched and dented and most of the silver plate has been rubbed away. It’s ridiculously heavy and the ancient metal strap is clunky and far too big for my wrist, and I don’t even know if it tells the correct time.

  And I’ve decided I don’t need to know what the time is anyway. In fact, knowing how many long hours have passed since I last ate, or how few are left until nightfall, is not comforting or of any use whatsoever. It sucks. And it doesn’t matter. All that matters is I keep believing that sometime soon the rescue party will find me, and I have to do whatever it takes to stay alive until they do. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. But I know that this watch, this battered, beaten-up piece of metal is far more than just a means of telling the time. It’s Dad’s watch. One of his most prized possessions. It belonged to Grandpa, and Gran gave it to Dad the day Grandpa died. And however much I want to deny it, or how ridiculous it is, I know what I said. I said that as long as the watch is working then Dad must be alive.

  And now I want to destroy it.

  I shove the watch back in my pocket and squeeze my fist within the other one until my jagged fingernails scrape the scab off my knuckle and it starts to bleed.

  What am I thinking? It’s insane! A stupid idea that almost certainly won’t work, and when it doesn’t I will have to live with what I’ve done.

  But still the voice whispers in my ear, telling me I’ve run out of options. Telling me the only thing I can be certain of is that without a fire I’m going to die. Last night was the coldest yet. Without food and warmth I won’t survive much longer.

  I can’t! I just can’t. And I won’t.

  But I have to.

  I stay rooted in the shade of the giant tree through midday, trying to make my mind up one way or the other, not even allowing myself the relief of walking to the stream for a drink.

  Then at three o’clock on the dot, my thirst and fear of the coming cold and dark night finally persuades me, and I stand. I have to try. I have to do this. I have to make this work. I have no choice.

  Even though the sun is dropping rapidly I take my time collecting all the bits I need for the fire, discarding anything that isn’t ideal. Half-submerged in silt by the mouth of the stream, I even find a hollowed-out log which might work as a cooking pot. But I leave it where it is. As positive as I’m trying to be I won’t tempt fate by getting ahead of myself.

  By four-thirty I have everything I need – a heavy, sharp-edged stone to use as a hammer. A flattish rock to rest the watch on. My strip of bark. An egg-sized bale of fluff and straw, and a bundle of twigs for kindling.

  My new wigwam construction is much better than the previous one. Sturdier, with interlocking sticks and a gap wide enough to be able to insert the bark without having to tip it.

  I pick up the watch and daub a fingertip of mud on the spot where I must strike – the only possible weakness I could find, a slight bulge in the seal where the glass face meets the body.

  Everything is ready. I can delay no longer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Grandpa.’

  I raise my stone hammer level with my eyes and bring its sharp edge down on the mud spot as hard as I can.

  One blow is all it takes. The stone strikes the watch at the exact spot I’ve marked, the glass springs free and the metal casing bucks and slides from the rock. The glass lies face down in the sand, in one piece, and the metal body appears to still be intact as well, with the dial and hands still connected.

  I sink to my knees. I can’t believe it’s worked. Part One has actually worked and I haven’t destroyed the watch! I scoop up the metal body and run back to my tree. After carefully tucking the watch back into the pocket of the life jacket, I return to the beach and polish the glass face on my T-shirt, over and over, until it gleams in the sun. Then, kneeling next to the bark, I balance the glass between my trembling thumb and forefinger, just abo
ve the tinder, directly in line with the sun’s rays, and tilt it.

  This is it. The moment of truth.

  I lean forward and move the glass in and out, adjusting the tilt until a bright yellow dot shivers across the bark and comes to rest in the centre of my straw and fluff ball.

  The dot starts to smoulder and turns black almost immediately. Far quicker than I expected or dared hope. Tendrils of smoke curl up from the fluff and the black spot expands until it’s the size of a five-pence piece. Right in the centre of the circle something starts to glow. I drop to my stomach and gently blow across the bark, eyes fixed on the glowing ember in the centre of the tinder ball, pleading with it to ignite. Another cloud blots the sun and I glance up in alarm to see the sky is now more grey than blue. I blow a little harder, struggling to control my exhalations to feed the ember without blowing it out.

  Something flickers. I squint. Flames. I see flames! I blow again and suddenly my tinder ball bursts into glorious flame. I lift my bark with its precious cargo and insert it into the base of the wigwam. And blow. Each time I exhale, the tinder ball pulses red and gold, and flames claw up towards the twigs, groping for a hold. But the ball is unravelling fast and the tissues and straw are being consumed at an alarming rate.

  Heart racing, I blow again, aiming for where the flames seem strongest. One yellow finger reaches higher than the rest, and jabs a twig. The twig catches fire. So does the one next to it, and faster than my eyes can follow, the flames fan out and climb and spread until the entire wigwam is alight. With shaking hands I quickly add more twigs, then sticks, then branches, until I have a magnificent, blazing fire, spitting and cracking and radiating so much heat I have to shuffle back a few metres. I wipe my brow and stare at the fire in amazement, grinning like an idiot and blaming my blinking, watery eyes on the smoke.

  I can’t believe it. I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it. I’ve made fire.

  I’ve made fire!