Alone Read online

  PART TWO

  EIGHTEEN

  Just the one fish for breakfast. Perhaps two…

  For three days I’ve been pigging out on piranhas. Spit-roasted or fried on hot rocks for breakfast. Cold for lunch. Best of all; slow oven-baked for dinner, and with each meal I can feel my strength returning.

  I select two medium-sized fish, lay them flat on the rock and scrape the scales off with my piranha knife, version five, made from the rigid jaw bone and serrated teeth of the biggest piranha I’ve caught so far, and bound to a stick handle with life-jacket wire. It’s wickedly sharp. Well worth all the skin and blood it cost to make it!

  After descaling, gutting and rinsing the fish I wrap them in vine leaves, dip the package in the stream and jog back to camp, pausing on the way to lay the knife at the foot of the ant tree, to be picked clean before nightfall.

  The parcel is still nicely damp when I reach camp and place it in the oven I’ve constructed beneath the fire: a stone-walled pit with a rock trapdoor for access. Wrapped in the wet leaves and shielded from the full force of the fire, the fish will bake slowly during the day and this evening the flesh will still be moist and will literally fall off the bone – delicious! Even better than Dad’s jacket potatoes I reckon, and I like to think he’d be impressed.

  Breakfast over, I return to the stream to bathe and clean my teeth, using my moss sponge to wash my face and armpits, and handfuls of sand to shift the more engrained filth and fish guts from my hands and arms. Shredded twigs do a pretty good job as a toothbrush, dislodging the fish bones which get stuck between my teeth. I just wish I had some toothpaste to shift the fur coating them, and to sort out my minging breath…

  With the protein boost from the fish and my new daily hygiene ritual kicking in, bites and scratches heal more quickly and don’t itch for as long. My skin is a colour it’s never been before and the soles of my feet are like tough leather and don’t burn on the hot sand any more. I’m sleeping better at night as well and no longer wake at the slightest disturbance or take much notice of the screeching birds and monkeys. And my camp site is getting better by the day.

  My days are my own and I decide what to do with them, and when. I decide when to go to bed and when to get up. When to start my chores and how much time to spend on each one. And with no watch, clock or phone to refer to, it’s as if what I used to know as time has no meaning now. Not hours or minutes anyway. Daylight yes, and night-time. But I no longer think in terms of hours and minutes passed, or hours still to come, instead I simply measure the passage of each day in terms of tasks done, or yet to do.

  Back in camp I stretch and yawn, a long and satisfying one. I fight the urge to lie down on my new bed, with its layer of soft leafy branches resting on a base of thicker ones, to keep me off the damp, lumpy ground and clear of the creepy crawlies.

  No. I’ll stick to my routine. I’ll clean the camp site first, fetch wood, and stoke the fire. Then it will be time for my midday nap. This afternoon I’ll check the HELP sign and forage along the shoreline for food before settling down to watch the otters fish and play through sunset. ‘Otter Time’ is something I really look forward to, an incentive to get things done, and it’s my favourite part of the day.

  When the otters have gone I’ll sit with my back resting against the Joshua Tree, reflect on the day, and make plans for the next one.

  It’s an entirely new experience for me; just sitting and thinking, with no external stimulation or distractions. Before now the idea would have horrified me. Now I see it as a well-earned reward and a chance to rest and replay the day, and think of more ways to improve my situation. And it’s time well spent, even if not every idea works. The sad excuse for a sun hat I tried to plait out of palm leaves and the piranha-teeth comb that just snagged in my knotted hair prove that.

  But Dad says that we learn from every failure and I want to believe he’s right as I pick up the orange-sized seed pod and press a paste of stream mud and chewed up grass stems into the last crack I can find. If I’ve finally got the paste’s consistency right and I’ve found every crack in the husk, then I might just turn this pod – number nine – into a drinking cup after all.

  After a final inspection I wrap one of my socks around the base for comfort and reach for my cooking pot, filled with water, and try not to think about the eight failures I’ve flung into the river since yesterday. Dad would say they were ‘prototypes’, not failures. But if this doesn’t work that’s it. I’m done. I’m out of pods, paste and patience.

  I slowly pour water into the pod, a little at a time, then sit back and stare, expecting to see the familiar stain spread across the rock at any moment. Seconds pass. No stain. I check the water level. It hasn’t dropped. I pick the pod up. The sock isn’t wet. Not even damp. It works!

  ‘Dad, look, I’ve done it!’

  I’m off my feet and spinning around, sploshing water on myself, before I’m even aware the words have left my mouth.

  Silence.

  No ‘Let me see’. No ‘Hooray!’ No high fives. No hug. I take two deep breaths, splat a fly lapping the water from my skin and stare at the thing in my hand.

  My great invention. My triumph. It’s leaking.

  NINETEEN

  No piranhas. I’ve been fishing for an hour or more with no luck, not even a nibble. For once the fish aren’t interested. Perhaps the otters have spooked them, or they’ve sussed me, or found something tastier elsewhere.

  Slumped and sulking in the shrinking shade of the crooked tree I’m half-heartedly trying to summon up the energy to return to camp and get on with my chores before the heat cranks up.

  But I’m hungry, I’ve had nothing to eat for breakfast and I really don’t like this break in my routine. And the sight of Galaxy tucking into his fourth crab of the morning certainly isn’t improving my mood. Tongue slapping sounds and grunts of satisfaction tell me how much he’s enjoying it, and I’m envious as hell. I like crab, the white meat anyway. Admittedly I’ve only had it once but I can still remember the delicate taste and the firm but juicy texture of the curved chunk of claw meat, tinged with pink, drizzled with lemon juice and dipped in melted butter. OK so the small green crabs Galaxy is dismembering look nothing like the brick-red one I had, and would probably give me cramps and raging diarrhoea, but that’s not the point. My stomach is grumbling and I’ve given Galaxy loads of fish, so where’s my crab!

  It must be another ten minutes or so before the sun starts to grill the tops of my feet, forcing me to move. Only then, as I stand and turn to leave, do I stop feeling sorry for myself long enough to notice that Galaxy’s mum has been away for much longer than usual. She’s never let Galaxy out of her sight for more than a few minutes before, and never when he’s been on my side of the river. So instead of heading directly back to camp I walk to the river’s edge and scan the water for any sign of her. Meanwhile, Galaxy continues playing with his empty crab shell, flicking it high in the air with his tail and catching it before it hits the water, seemingly unaware of his mother’s absence.

  Another minute or two passes with no sign of Galaxy’s mum and I’m starting to get seriously concerned. Even Galaxy seems to sense something is wrong. He drops the crab shell, clambers up the riverbank and stands on his hind legs, chirping and whistling, with a shrill note of anxiety in his voice. I move further along the bank to get a better view upstream, squinting hard as I look directly into the sun, and as I do so the mother otter appears below me and to my right, her head breaking water between Galaxy and me.

  She pauses at the water’s edge before slowly emerging, head bowed and moving with some difficulty, and at first I think she must have injured herself. But then I see the reason for her unsteadiness. Slung between her legs is the biggest catfish I have ever seen, as thick as my arm and as long as the otter. Its eel-like black body writhes and coils, as if the fish is trying to wrap itself around its captor, but even from this distance I can clearly see the fish’s head swinging like a pendulum from the gaping V
-shaped wound where the otter has bitten through its neck, nearly decapitating it.

  Galaxy spins round at the sound of his mother’s return and gallops down the bank to greet her, squeaking with delight. He licks her face, then grabs the catfish as she releases it and climbs a couple of metres higher to the grassy verge before slumping down, panting. Galaxy lets her go, his full attention now on the catfish as he pounces on its coils and bites its neck.

  The mother otter remains flat out for a minute or two before painstakingly washing herself, licking the insides of her paws a dozen times then drawing them across her cheeks and whiskers to clean catfish slime from her face.

  Relieved she’s not injured, and only half-realising she’s never been this close to me before, I turn my attention to Galaxy just in time to see him bite clean through the catfish’s neck, and I clap and cheer, and as I do so I suddenly have the strangest feeling I’m being studied, scrutinized. I turn my head. The mother otter is looking directly at me, staring piercingly into my eyes, and as I hold her stare I could swear she gives the briefest nod of her head before stretching out and closing her eyes.

  That evening, after a meagre supper of a few fish scraps washed down with hot water, I replay what happened at the riverbank. Yes, I was tired and grumpy, and my eyes were still watering from the sun’s glare when the mother otter’s eyes met mine, and it’s more than likely that I imagined the nod. But the more times I rewind and play the moment, the more I can’t help thinking that, extraordinary as it seems, maybe, just maybe, the mother otter left Galaxy in my care deliberately, and I have been tried and tested, and I have passed. I like the thought.

  After this the mother otter’s attitude towards me changes. She no longer summons Galaxy back if he swims to my side of the river, and she leaves him with me more often when she heads off to hunt on her own, seemingly having given up trying to teach Galaxy how to hunt. Despite her best efforts, Galaxy continues to display no interest whatsoever in catching his own fish. Eating them, yes. Hunting them, no. He’d much rather play, and I’d much rather watch him than work.

  Galaxy finds everything fascinating, no matter how simple. A round pebble can keep him amused for hours as he juggles it, or rolls it up and down his belly. Not surprisingly he’s particularly thrilled by anything that floats – sticks, leaves, and an occasional unfortunate beetle. And empty crab shells become attacking enemy boats to be patted back across the surface, or sunk with a well-aimed blow.

  Flittering butterflies enchant and frustrate him in equal measure, and he regularly knackers himself out leaping high to try to catch one. When on land his slinky tail becomes a fleeing eel to be pursued at lightning speed as he spins round and round as fast as he can, until dizziness overcomes him and he falls over and pants. Then when he’s worn out and there’s no Mum around to snuggle up to, he loves to float on his back in the calm waters beneath the overhanging branches of the crooked tree, tail curled around a root and paws gently flexing on his chest, gazing wide-eyed at the leaves dancing in the dappled sunlight above and cooing like a baby entranced by a twirling mobile.

  These magical hours spent with Galaxy race by, especially once I convince myself I’m keeping an eye on him out of a sense of parental responsibility rather than laziness.

  While foraging for nuts one afternoon I’m delighted to find a hollow seed pod, as big as a tennis ball. It’s possibly light enough to float and, best of all, when I shake the pod it rattles! I cut short my search and jog back to camp. I can’t wait to give it to Galaxy.

  Galaxy’s dozing, sprawled in the shade of the crooked tree, head on paws and tail in the water, but his eyes open at the sound of my approach and although I’m dying to give him the seed pod straight away, I decide to try something first. I sit down about five metres away from him, legs crossed, arms resting on my knees to hide the pod, and I start to grunt and emit soft whistles of admiration over the unseen object nestled in my lap.

  At first Galaxy just snorts and closes his eyes again, but then when I toss the pod in the air and it rattles, his eyes spring open and he’s up and on his feet in a flash, bounding towards me. But halfway across he stops and sits back on his haunches, in the full heat of the sun, and starts to fidget and chitter with frustration. He seriously wants the seed pod and I really want to give it to him, but even though I shake it and toss it in the air again he won’t come any closer, and I won’t let him have it, not just yet.

  I shuffle round until my back is to Galaxy and gently rattle the pod again, hoping the loss of eye contact will make me appear less threatening, and his desire and curiosity will be enough to overcome his apprehension. After a few moments Galaxy’s chittering becomes a sort of mewing, and it’s clear he’s getting closer. Quaking with excitement, I rattle the seed pod every few seconds to encourage him and boost his interest. Inch by inch Galaxy shuffles closer, until I can tell by his loud snuffling that he’s directly behind me. I fight the urge to turn around and try to stroke him, terrified I’ll scare him away.

  Keeping my back to him I pretend to be so engrossed in the seed pod I haven’t noticed his presence, but he’s so close now I can smell him. He smells of fish, and wet fur and…something else, something familiar and refreshing and completely out of place. And while I’m trying to identify the odour I feel a sudden bump on my elbow and a tickling sensation. It’s his nose and whiskers. Galaxy’s touched me! The sudden shock is electric and it takes all my willpower not to cry out and spin round. Instead I slowly raise my trembling hand and extend it to him, like Dad taught me to do with dogs, so Galaxy can sniff me, and know I pose no threat.

  The feel of Galaxy’s warm breath and then the caress of his wet tongue on my fingers send a shiver through my body and it’s all I can do not to grab him and give him a hug. I somehow steady myself, swallow the lump in my throat, and give him the seed pod instead.

  And as Galaxy bounds away with his new toy rattling in his mouth, he leaves a lingering scent behind. I inhale it, and I know what else he smells of besides fish and wet fur. He smells of freshly mown grass. He smells of good times. He smells of home.

  TWENTY

  Over the next few days, by focusing on the task in hand and resisting all distractions, I complete my chores in record time to free up more of each day to spend with the otters. Without being aware of having made a conscious decision to do so, I’ve started talking to Galaxy. Just brief comments to begin with, taking the mickey mostly, or giving him a hard time for being so lazy. But now I tell him all about what I’ve been up to since I saw him last, how many fish I’ve caught, how many ticks and mosquitoes I’ve slain, and my latest innovation.

  What at first felt a bit stupid feels perfectly natural now, and I look forward to our conversations, even if they are a bit one-sided. And now I’ve got myself a healthy stockpile of firewood, discovered some nuts to supplement my fish diet, and run out of ideas of how to improve the camp site, I’ve decided to do something about the language barrier. I’ve decided to learn how to talk otter.

  To my surprise, I willingly put more effort into understanding how the otters communicate than I ever did in any foreign language lesson at school. The otters talk so fast it’s all a jumble to begin with and I come close to giving up a number of times. But by narrowing my focus to only one specific note or expression at a time, I start to identify and separate the diverse range of sounds and gestures they use to communicate and express emotions – the burring squeak and nose-kiss for greeting. The grunts and chirps for happiness. Snuffles and hugs for affection. The differently toned huffs and pants for laughter, or irritation. Chittering for curiosity. Barks for frustration. Shrill squeals and whines for anger. Teeth-baring howls for warning. Purrs, sighs and belly rubs for contentment.

  With each success, every subsequent study session becomes more complex, more challenging, and each breakthrough more rewarding. It’s an eye-opening experience for me.

  I had no idea I could be so disciplined. So patient. Setting my own targets and sticking to them f
or however long it takes, without being told to or supervised, and with no promise of reward or risk of punishment. No instructions. No feedback. No feeling I’m missing out on something else. I had no idea I could concentrate on one thing for so long, staying so calm and focused that my mind settles, my surroundings disappear, and time neither crawls nor flies, it just passes.

  My early efforts are atrocious and I’m convinced my mouth and tongue must be the wrong shape to form the sounds correctly. But then a few noises start to sound about right, and by day three I’m mimicking the otters’ calls. Only when they’re not around, and only the simpler one-note grunts and clicks to begin with. And now I’m happy I’ve mastered those I decide it’s time to tackle the hardest call of all – the mother otter’s crisp two-tone To me! whistle.

  The woodpile dwindles to a few logs and branches, my bedding remains unchanged, clothes unwashed, and I even deny myself the pleasure of Galaxy’s company while I sit beneath the Joshua Tree and try to replicate the To me! call. I scream and sulk in equal measure, grind my furry teeth and thump the Joshua Tree in frustration until eventually, late in the afternoon, after many hundreds of repetitions, a two-tone To me! whistling sound exits my cracked and bleeding lips, and with a huge sense of relief I think I may have got it.

  But I’m too drained to celebrate and the truth is I won’t know if I’ve nailed the call until I give it a try, and that will have to wait until this evening, after I’ve changed my bedding, and had a lie-down, and given my lips a break.

  The air is chilly. Squadrons of yapping fruit bats are heading across the river to feed while flocks of rowdy parrots stream home to roost. Galaxy and his mum are heading home too, and already halfway across the river by the time I summon up the courage to give the To me! call a try. I clear my throat, purse my lips and whistle, two crisp tones, one after the other, hoping Galaxy can hear me above the bats and birds.