Alone Page 6

  I leap to my feet and dance around my creation, my flaming miracle, whooping and hollering. I’m too weak to stay on my feet for long and I fall over, and lie on my back, laughing and kicking my legs in the air like a dying fly. I must look ridiculous but I don’t care, something is coursing through my veins and drenching my brain with a rush of relief and accomplishment, and the feeling is too powerful to keep bottled up inside. It’s the most intense blast of joy and achievement I’ve ever felt.

  A sizzling sound comes from the flames as some sort of insect is incinerated and as the cooking scent wafts up my nose it triggers an instant and overpowering response in my mind, reminding me how painfully hungry I am.

  The wooden bowl! The snails! I dig the log out of the silt and quickly wash it, then run to the end of the sandspit and peel a dozen yellow snails off the rocks to drop into it.

  On the way back I fill the bowl with fresh water from the stream, then hurry to the fire and wedge the anvil rock amongst glowing branches near the edge. I rest the bowl on top of it, hoping it doesn’t leak or catch fire. Thankfully the bowl appears to be waterproof or too wet to burn. The water boils, a grey scum appears on the surface and slime clings to the edges, and as the level drops my nostrils fill with a disgusting smell. Normally this would be more than enough to make me gag and run a mile, but I’m too hungry to be choosy; my body needs food too much.

  So I breathe through my mouth instead, and stir the murky water, listening to the snail shells clinking together, and the hiss of spilled water as it slops into the flames. After a couple of minutes I figure they must be cooked so I pull the bowl clear of the flames and upend it, and the now dark brown snails tumble onto the ground.

  I tap a steaming snail with my stone hammer. The shell cracks to reveal a lump of grey flesh and I can feel my mouth filling with saliva. After a hurried attempt to peel off the biggest bits of shell I put the snail in my mouth and chew. At first taste it seems to be more gritty shell than meat but the texture is not unlike chewing gum, and even with the fragments of shell pricking my tongue it’s not completely inedible. I swallow and wait, head tilted back.

  The snail stays down, and the rest quickly follow the first.

  Sometime later, shortly after sunset, I lie on my back with my hands supporting my head, basking in the warmth of my fire, burping loudly.

  Cracked snail shells litter the ground. I don’t know how many trips I made to Snail Rock to fill my bowl, or how many I ate in total, but my belly is as round as a beach ball, and I’m grinning.

  Snails. I’ve eaten snails!

  OK, so they’re repeating on me and bits of shell are lodged between my teeth, but I’ve had no cramp attacks since the snail binge and I haven’t vomited any back up. Result!

  I peer at Dad’s watch. The hands are stuck at four thirty-seven, when the rock struck and I’ve lost the crown so I can’t wind it. But I don’t feel guilty. I’m sure it can be fixed. It’s just on standby really. And I know Dad would have done the same. I place it back in the pocket of the life jacket along with the glass and fasten the seal, and although I’ll miss the comfort of using the jacket as a pillow, I won’t risk damaging the watch any further so I carry the jacket to the giant tree and wedge it firmly in the lower branches before returning to the fire.

  Pinpricks of reflected light speckle the blackness. Insects that would be biting and stinging me now without my fire to keep them at bay.

  Holding my hands as close to the fire as I can bear, I gaze into the flames. It’s been a long time since I felt this good. Yes, I’m still scared, and desperate to be rescued, but for the first time since the crash I don’t feel completely helpless and lost. I feel warm. I feel full. I feel proud of myself.

  I burp again, loudly and satisfyingly, and sip my hot water. God how I wish I had a teabag, or better still, a jar of hot chocolate!

  I catch myself. I must not think negative thoughts. I must focus on what I do have, not what I don’t. I have light and warmth from my fire, the means to boil water and cook, and smoke to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Tomorrow I will find a way to make the smoke even thicker to signal my position to the search teams. Then I will make a proper bed, and set myself chores like foraging for food, collecting firewood, washing myself and keeping my sleeping area clean. I will start a routine and stick to it. It won’t be easy but I can do it. I know I can. After all, I made fire and I ate snails. I made fire! I ate snails! And if I can make fire and eat snails then I can do anything.

  It’s been a long and tiring day, but a good one. With a fire to get me through the night and more than enough to keep me busy during the day, the prospect of having to stay here for another day or two doesn’t seem as bad as it did before.

  I yawn, and stretch, and turn on my side, facing the fire, and just before I close my eyes I decide to give my giant tree, my shelter, a name. I decide to call it the ‘Joshua Tree’, after Dad’s favourite album by U2. Mum says that if our house ever caught fire then The Joshua Tree is the one thing Dad would run back into the flames to save. That, and his watch.

  FOURTEEN

  Damn!

  Despite being warm and dry I had a crap night’s sleep. Whenever I did manage to fall asleep it was never for very long. I kept jolting awake, either from fear of the fire going out or a sudden panic attack that my fire was just a dream. My bloated stomach is as hard as a bowling ball and trying to sleep without the life jacket for a pillow has given me a cricked neck.

  My plan for today was simple. Begin with a big breakfast of snails to give me energy for the day ahead. Check to see if the otters are around. Then start my chores by finding a way to create a thick smoke signal without smothering the fire.

  But as I stumble around trying to find my wooden bowl, it’s depressingly obvious that breakfast and smoke signals will have to wait. The fire is 90% ash. I have next to no firewood left, and without more fuel I can’t see it staying alight for more than an hour or two at most. The branches I collected yesterday are being consumed far too quickly, and if I am to avoid spending my entire time gathering firewood then I’ll have to find some heavier, slower-burning logs.

  Fortunately I do not have to search very long for the right logs, and find three suitable ones on the edge of the jungle no more than thirty paces away. They’re more than a metre and with any luck should burn for a few hours at least. But they’re also extremely thick and heavy. Too heavy to carry. I’ll have to drag them back one at a time.

  With head bowed I haul the first one out onto the beach, trying to keep my knees bent and my spine straight, like Dad taught me. But the log keeps sinking into the soft sand and by the time I’m halfway across, my back and shoulders are aching. Eventually, after much straining and swearing, I reach the fire, drenched in sweat, and although I know I should roll the log onto the glowing embers without delay, I’m too knackered. I leave it by the fire and collapse in the shade instead. But after a few minutes catching my breath my growing thirst becomes unbearable and I peel my sweaty jeans off and head for the stream.

  A long and refreshing drink cheers me up a bit and I decide to take a detour via Snail Rock to collect breakfast. But things get worse. I don’t know whether snails can talk to each other, or count, but as I turn over yet another rock to reveal nothing more than a few scurrying sand fleas, it’s obvious that there are a lot less snails around than there were yesterday, and at the rate I’m consuming them, what’s left will last no more than another day or two at most. I need to ration how many I take and I need to find another food source.

  As I replace the heavy rock I trap my finger tip beneath it and cry out, and an echoing cry comes from the river – the otters are back!

  It takes no more than a second or two for me to decide that my chores can wait and the best thing for me to do is rest my finger for a while. I head for the bank opposite Otter Rock but as I round the bend I’m amazed to see the mother otter on my side of the river, rummaging amongst the sunken roots of the crooked tree, with her pup close behind h
er. Tingling with anticipation, I move as close as I dare to the tree and settle down in the shade to watch her.

  Breathtaking! So agile. So unbelievably fast. The mother otter doesn’t swim so much as flow, weaving in and out of the tangled roots and up and over rocks, probing for fish. And when a big fish breaks cover and makes a dash for deep water, she switches to turbo boost. Like a torpedo locked on its target she reacts to every change of direction with incredible speed and anticipation, twisting and turning, closing the distance between herself and her prey as if joined to the fish by some invisible, unbreakable cord until, no more than thirty seconds after it began, the chase is over. Once targeted, the fish didn’t stand a chance, not against the otter. She’s the ultimate predator. She is the Amazon.

  When I reach camp, the fire is out and it takes a lot of valuable time and effort to relight it. I should have finished the job and put the log on the fire before I took a break and avoided all this hassle. Lesson learned.

  As soon as the log is alight I boil the dozen snails I’ve collected. In the bright light of day their grey flesh looks even less appetising than last night, but I’m famished and eat them anyway, and gulp down the last of the water in my bowl. The snails barely make a dent in my appetite but mentally at least I feel a little better and ready to tackle another chore.

  Creating smoke for the rescue signal is easy. All I have to do is dunk armfuls of leafy branches in the river and gently lay them on the fire and thick smoke belches skywards without the fire going out.

  I’m more than a little impressed with my efforts and convinced that any plane within miles will be able to see the signal. This cheers me up a bit but my woozy head and aching back tell me I’ve overdone things again, so I head to the shade of the Joshua Tree to rest and think about my idea.

  Hunger pangs wake me sometime in the late afternoon and although I’d told myself I would wait until sunset before eating again, I collect all the remaining snails I can find. I quickly boil and devour half of them, then decide to finish the lot. But even before I’ve gulped the last one down I start to feel annoyed with myself for my greed and lack of self-control. I’ve now got nothing to eat tonight.

  Thankfully the log is burning even more efficiently than I hoped and with any luck it should last the night, so at least I can put off collecting the other logs until tomorrow.

  The sun’s position tells me there are a couple of hours of daylight left before dusk, so I place another damp frond on the fire and decide to use the rest of the leafy branches to make a bed.

  First I clear sticks and stones from my sleeping area before using one of my shoelaces to tie a bunch of twigs together in a bundle like a witch’s broomstick, to sweep the area clean. Then I build a rectangular rock wall about the size of my single bed at home and plug the gaps between the rocks with mud from the stream, hoping to deter the hordes of creepy crawlies.

  Next I fill the interior with leafy branches until I have a spongy mattress and after a moment’s indecision I fetch my life jacket from the tree and place it at the head of my bed, with the pocket containing Dad’s watch on the bottom, cushioned by leaves. By now it’s nearly dusk. Time to test my bed. I lie down. No sticks and stones prodding me in the ribs, no hard, uncomfortable lumpy ground, and exactly the right distance from the fire to benefit from the warmth without being bothered by smoke. Result!

  With no snails left, I sip my watery but hot snail-flavoured broth. The fire is crackling nicely, with the partially burnt log glowing in the centre, and in the soft light from the fire my bed looks even more impressive. My beautiful handmade bed with its natural stone frame, leafy mattress and air-filled pillow: I grin. I’m proud of myself. I said I’d do something and I did it, without being nagged. Or bribed. Or threatened. Hell, I’ve even done the equivalent of tidying my room! Mum would be amazed if she could see me now.

  But thinking about Mum just reminds me there’s no one here to praise me or share in my success and I’m left with a hollow ache instead.

  I shake my head and rake the twinkling embers with my stick, releasing a flock of sparks that dance away into the night. Dad doesn’t do moping or self-pity, so neither will I. I’ve survived another day and made progress. Real progress. I’ve fed myself, improved my situation and increased my chances of being rescued.

  And I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow. There might even be a tiny part of me that’s looking forward to the challenge, even though it’s something I’ve never attempted before. But before yesterday I’d never made fire either.

  Tomorrow I’m going to beat the Amazon.

  Tomorrow I’m going fishing.

  FIFTEEN

  It’s raining.

  My magnificent, life-saving fire has been reduced to nothing more than a mulch of soggy ash and a half-burnt log.

  I can’t believe I slept through the rain! But then again the Joshua Tree kept most of it off me, and I was so tired, and my new bed was so comfortable. Still is.

  My stomach gurgles. I need to eat something. Then I remember there are no snails left, and that’s why I have to go fishing. In the rain. And I have to relight the fire.

  Now I really want to stay in bed. But I can’t. The rain will stop, sooner or later, and I can’t bear the thought of another cramp attack. And what if a plane comes and there’s no smoke? This last thought is enough to make me get up.

  Fortunately the rain has firmed the sand enough for me to be able to roll the remaining two logs back rather than drag them, which requires only a fraction of yesterday’s effort, and as I approach the fire with the last log the rain stops and the sun comes out. My mood starts to brighten too.

  It will take a while for the wood to dry out enough for me to be able to light the fire so I decide to go fishing while it does.

  I don’t have a net, or webbed feet and a powerful tail like an otter. But neither does the heron I saw fishing yesterday. He has a beak. So I need a spear.

  There is nothing suitable on the ground so I check the low-hanging branches on the nearest trees and choose one from the Joshua Tree, a straight and sturdy branch, about a metre and a half long and a few centimetres thick. Using the sharp edge of my stone hammer I hack at the joint where the branch meets the trunk, trying my best not to cut into the Joshua Tree’s trunk. I don’t like hurting my tree, my protection and shelter, but the thought of a juicy fish roasting on a spit is enough to keep me hacking away until the branch droops and I can twist it free of the trunk.

  Then I try my best to whittle one end to a point. It’s a bit off-centre and not exactly sharp, but it will have to do.

  With my jeans and socks draped over branches to dry, I pull my pants and damp T-shirt back on and jog barefoot to the spot where I saw the heron fishing yesterday, opposite Otter Rock.

  No heron. Good. No competition.

  No otters. Also good. For once. I don’t have to worry about scaring them away.

  I step into the water and shuffle through the shallows, feeling the mud squelch between my toes and trying not to think about what might be hiding in it. When the water laps the bottom of my knees I halt and lean forward, back to the sun, and hold my spear a few centimetres above the surface. I wait for the mud to settle, eagerly scanning for fish. A shoal of inquisitive minnows move in to investigate my legs – an excellent sign! Where there are small fish there should be big fish too. I grip my spear a little tighter and wait for the big ones to arrive.

  Hours later all I have to show for my patience are stinging eyes, a raging thirst, and the sour taste of failure.

  It shouldn’t be this hard!

  I know the river is full of fish, the heron and the otters showed me that. So where the hell are they?

  The back of my neck is seriously sunburnt and my skull feels like it’s being baked in an oven. I’m about to give up and head for the stream when a dark cylindrical shape, about the length of my foot, cruises into view and hovers above the riverbed a few metres away, well within range.

  Aches and pains forgotten, m
y entire focus transfers to the fish, and as steadily as I can I raise my spear and adjust my balance, but my slight movements send a tremor through the water and as I draw my arm back the fish curls left, and with a lazy sweep of his tail he is gone. I stare in disbelief at the puff of mud marking his departure.

  My legs are shaking and anger boils in my head. I am about to scream in frustration when the fish returns to the same spot, with his head facing away from me. Perfect.

  This time my balance is good and my feet are already in position, with no further adjustments required, so there should be no risk of alerting the fish to my presence. I pull my arm back.

  And as I do so the shadow cast by my tilting forearm touches the fish’s tail. Then skims along his body and into his eyes. I see his tail fin tense and I know that in a millisecond he will flee. And even though I know it’s already too late, I launch my spear, and the point pierces the puff of silt left behind by the fish’s thrashing tail, an arm’s length away from where he appeared to be.

  I grab clumps of my frizzled hair and stamp my feet and scream, then fall backwards into the water, thrashing my arms and kicking my legs like a toddler.

  All that food gone. All that time wasted!

  My spear floats by and I grab it and stand, and with it grasped tightly in both hands, I lift it to snap it in two across my knee. A tiny spark of common sense registers how thick and strong the shaft is and tells my steaming mind that the stick is more likely to break my kneecap than the other way around. So I fling it at the shoreline instead, and miss the dark spot I was aiming for by some distance. Who am I trying to kid? The stick is no spear, and I’m no heron.

  I lie in the shallows for a while, peeling water-softened scabs off my arms until the water cools my neck and head, and I can ignore my thirst no longer.

  After a bellyful of stream water I trudge back to the river to retrieve my stick. As I bend to pick it up I can see the second dark shape I was aiming at is the bloated remains of a catfish. A minging, disgusting dead lump of green flesh, crawling with maggots. Hand over mouth I turn to leave, and my attention is caught by a shoal of minnows darting to and fro in the shallows, glinting like scraps of tinfoil in the sun. They seem to be fighting over something – my scabs. I grunt in disgust. Where are the big fish, the ones the heron and the otters catch? The ones worth eating. Then, without being consciously aware I’m doing it, I start to count the minnows. I stop at thirty.