Alone Page 9

  Galaxy stops midstream, spins round and starts to swim towards me, and only when his mother counters my call with one of her own does he pause, twirling around in confusion. Beside myself with excitement I whistle again, and Galaxy starts swimming towards me again before Mum calls him back, more firmly this time, and I clamp my hands over my mouth and keep my lips clenched shut until the otters have swum out of view. Only then do I leap to my feet and punch the air and whistle To me! To me! over and over again. I’ve done it. I’ve done it! The sense of accomplishment is as exhilarating as when I created fire, and caught my first piranha. I’ve done it again. I’ve achieved the impossible. I can talk otter.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Midday and it’s raining. Again.

  I’m stripped down to my pants but still sweating buckets as I haul a heavy branch through the thick foliage. Having used up all the driftwood along the sandspit, and unwilling to enter the jungle, I now have to fetch wood from much further along the riverbank and today I’m a long way from camp, out of sight around a steep-sided bend. And with less time to fish or harvest nuts and fruit, the constant gnawing hunger has returned. But I can handle it. I’m leaner and stronger than I’ve ever been and I reckon my stomach must have shrunk to less than half its previous size. And following my worrying discovery of big paw prints in the mud by the stream it didn’t take long for me to decide to prioritise the fire over food. But then a loud rumble in my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten all day, so I decide to take a break and check around for nuts and fruit.

  The first few trees I check are bare so I walk further along the bank. While scanning the next tree I notice a cavity in the trunk of the dead tree beside it, three or four metres off the ground, with twigs and straw sticking out, possibly a bird’s nest. With eggs!

  The dead tree is branchless apart from a few stumps above the cavity and the trunk is too smooth to get a grip, but by climbing the branches of the neighbouring tree I am able to lean across and reach it. Steadying myself against the trunk I whisper, ‘Please let there be eggs, please let there be eggs,’ and peer inside, preparing myself for the exit of a startled bird. But instead of a brooding bird or a clutch of eggs, curled within the moss-lined chamber is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. A ball of glinting golden fur, about the size of a squirrel, with a long bushy tail wrapped around its face and waves of shimmering gold rippling down its body as its tiny chest rises and falls. I freeze, hunger forgotten as I watch this gorgeous animal sleep. I instantly recognise it from the photos Gran kept in her bedside drawer, the ones she cut out of National Geographic magazine, but I can still hardly believe my eyes. Hardly believe that I’m looking at a golden lion tamarin, one of the rarest and most endangered creatures on earth and the one animal Gran wanted to see above all others!

  I hold my breath as the tamarin stretches its paws, cat-like, and turns its head just enough for me to get a peek at its magnificent mane of bushy golden fur, and a soft ‘Wow!’ escapes my lips. Thankfully the tamarin doesn’t wake. I so want to stroke it, but I won’t risk alarming it, so I take one last look then climb back down the tree as quietly as I can.

  Brushing twigs and minute red spiders from my sticky skin, I gaze up at the hole in the dead tree’s trunk to reassure myself I’m not dreaming. A golden lion tamarin! Man, how I wish Gran was here.

  Walking a little further along the riverbank, I’m about to start checking a clump of promising-looking trees, with foliage similar to the papaya tree by the ravine, when I hear something else besides the droning insects and tapping rain. It sounds like the mother otter’s bark, and I can hear Galaxy’s distinctive squeaks too! Eager to see them I push through tall bushes to the top of the riverbank. A landslide has swept most of the vegetation from this section of the bank, creating a wide tree-free gap all the way down to the river below. I lean out and peer down, and see Galaxy racing diagonally up the slope, and looking across to where he’s heading, I can see the reason for his haste. Chiselled into the bank is a mud slide, carved by a fallen tree – a steep chute of slick, glossy mud fed by a small stream and ending in a waterfall with a drop of a couple of metres to the river’s surface below.

  I’m still staring at the waterfall when Galaxy leaps into the top of the slide, toboggans down at great speed and shoots out into mid-air in a whirling tangle of limbs and tail before plummeting into the water with a cry of pure glee.

  ‘Wow!’ I yell, and start clapping. The mother otter jumps in alarm and dives into the water. But I barely notice. My attention is on Galaxy, and the fun he’s having, and although the nagging part of my brain tells me this is a really bad idea, and I could easily injure myself, I’m too hot and excited to be sensible. I’m having a go!

  Hurrying across to the top of the slide, I’m about to jump into the wet chute when some lingering scrap of common sense tells me not to risk losing my pants, so I quickly take them off and hang them on the nearest bush.

  Swimming far below, Galaxy looks up at me and barks, as if inviting me to join in the fun. I bark back, jump into the chute and careen down the fur-polished slide at breath-snatching speed before cartwheeling through the air with a scream of half elation and half terror. I crash into the water with a huge splash, creating a mini tidal wave that submerges Galaxy and slams against the bank. The water is shockingly cold on my hot skin, and I take a moment to catch my breath, but sliding down that bank is the fastest my body has moved in a long time and the sudden rush of adrenaline is intoxicating. Pumped up and hollering, ‘Woo hoo!’ at the top of my voice, I’m eager to do it again.

  As I start to swim towards the bank Galaxy appears alongside me and yelps, as if challenging me to a race. I yell, ‘You’re on!’ I splash him, and try to front crawl, forgetting I can’t. I’ve never been able to get the breathing right, so I lunge past him and frantically breaststroke instead, as fast as I can, with no style whatsoever and kicking like a disjointed frog. But even with my much longer limbs and a two stroke head start, Galaxy destroys me, and before I’ve covered even half the distance he’s perched high on the log jam at the base of the bank, chattering away to his mum, bombarding her with squeaks and chirps, as if to say, Did you see what I did, Mum? Did you see what I did? But Mum seems preoccupied and uneasy, staring up the bank and scanning the sky, and with an impatient snicker and teeth clash she shoos Galaxy away. She should lighten up and have a go!

  Panting as though laughing, Galaxy stares at me as I emerge from the river, wet hair plastered to my head and water cascading from my goose-bumped skin. He starts to chitter and whistle, no doubt telling me how bad a swimmer I am, and he’s right, but I don’t care. I blow a loud raspberry in response, figuring it means the same thing in any language, even otter talk, before scrambling up the bank and whooshing down the slide again, tanked up and yelling my head off.

  We take it in turns, sort of, with Galaxy completing three or four descents to every one of mine. With every madcap plunge the slide gets slicker and faster and the mud gets everywhere, in my mouth, eyes and ears, up my nose and bum, and I couldn’t care less. I even go head first and create the loudest splash and biggest wave yet with an epic bellyflop. ‘Yes!’ I yell. Galaxy may have the style but I’ve got the bulk.

  And for the next hour or two there is nothing but fun. Nothing but the moment. No rules. No restrictions. No embarrassment about being naked. For an hour or two I forget where I am. For an hour or two I shout, scream, laugh, get plastered in mud and swallow bucketfuls of water, and I’m as happy as I have ever been. For an hour or two I’m a kid again. No. Better than that. For an hour or two I am an otter.

  All too soon Galaxy’s mum barks Time’s up! and calls him to her. She’s still tense and fidgety, and seems keen to leave, but Galaxy’s knackered anyway, as am I, and I’m not too disappointed when they disappear around the bend.

  I’m alone, cold in my nakedness, and covered in bruises. But I’m also refreshed and buzzing, and ready to have a go at hauling the branch back to camp. I climb back up the b
ank and walk to the bush I hung my pants on. They’ve fallen to the bottom. I reach through the leaves, tug my pants free and quickly pull them on, and feel a soft, tickly lump pressing against my skin and a tingling across my bum cheeks which quickly escalates into a sharp stinging sensation, like TCP dabbed on an open cut, and moments later my bum starts to burn. Trying not to panic I yank my pants off and look inside. Clinging to the damp material is a red and yellow striped caterpillar, with tufts of black bristles standing up along its back. I kick my pants away and my panic starts to rise as the burning across my bum becomes more intense.

  I briefly consider returning to the river to bathe the sting but then I notice that all my hasty scrabbling to enter the top of the chute has created a pool of liquid mud. I gratefully lower myself into it, sighing with relief as the cool mud soothes my skin. I move to and fro, sloshing about and digging myself deeper until the mud coats my shoulders and laps under my chin. Mosquitoes jig all around me but they’re not biting, and I realise it’s because they can’t penetrate my mud shield, so I scoop up handfuls of mud and smear it all over my face, massaging it into my hair and scalp, pretending it’s top-of-the-range insect-repellent shampoo.

  With mud plugging my ears I can no longer hear the whining mosquitoes and I close my eyes.

  My intention was to stay in the mud bath for a few minutes at most, but I must have dozed off for much longer than that because when I wake and try to open my eyes my eyelids are stuck together and the mud has turned cold and gluey. With some difficulty I manage to half open one eye and peer around, and the first thing I see is a pig. A hairy, Yoda-eared pig about five metres away down the slide, rolling around in the mud.

  Not able to believe my eyes, I blink hard, cracking the mud coating both eyelids and look again. It’s still there, and it’s definitely a pig. A pig with a long snout and curved tusks, so a wild boar really. But still a pig, and still made of pork!

  I glance at my spear, tantalisingly out of reach. There’s no way I could reach it without alarming the pig, and anyway, as I take in the size of the beast I quickly realise how idiotic I’m being. It’s me who’s more in danger of being killed here, not the stocky, well-armed pig.

  While I try to decide whether to make a break for it or wait for the pig to finish its wallowing, a bird cries in alarm and spooks it. The pig grunts and clambers from the mud and trots away, shaking its head and swishing its tail, still without having seen me.

  Sighing with relief I wait until I’m sure the pig has gone before grabbing handfuls of grass and extracting myself from the mud, making a wet, sucking sound. The congealed mud on my face and shoulders cracks and falls off like chocolate cake icing, but it clings to the hairs on my legs, pinching my skin, and even though I know I should get on with hauling the heavy branch back to camp, then make the fire and change my bedding, I know I won’t be able to sleep unless I wash it off first so I lower myself into the slide and try to push off. But since it’s stopped raining the puny trickle of stream water isn’t powerful enough to wet the chute any more and my descent is slow and uncomfortable. And it’s nowhere near as much fun without Galaxy.

  I plop into the river and tread water while I quickly wash the mud off and try to stop my mind summoning up visions of roast pork and crackling. Something glints in the sun. Something shiny and silver, and low in the sky. Something totally out of place. I climb onto the log jam to get a better look, and I hear it. A throbbing, regular tone, like a metal heartbeat, and my own heart jumps as I realise what it is. A helicopter! A miraculous, magnificent helicopter. They’ve come at last. The search team has found me! But then I realise. No. They haven’t found me. Not yet. They’re still too far away. They have no idea I’m here and if I stay where I am they’ll never see me, not while I’m this far down and hidden by the overhanging trees. I have to get back to my camp site, with my HELP sign, and the tree-free sky, before the helicopter gets there. It’s my only chance of being seen. But how can I get back in time? Even if I run as fast as I can along the riverbank it will take too long. And there’s no way I can swim that far against the current.

  I only have one option. I have to cut straight across the bend. Through the jungle. Barefoot. It’s by far the shortest route and my only chance of reaching the sandspit in time. I scramble up the bank and pull on my T-shirt and pants, eating up precious seconds, but I can’t bear the thought of being naked when I’m rescued. Then I run. I run as fast as I can through the undergrowth, ignoring the thorns and stones stabbing my feet and the sharp grass and brambles whipping my bare legs. I’m in luck, the foliage is nowhere near as dense as I feared and I’m covering the ground like a dog chasing a stick, panting hard and delirious with excitement. Upon reaching a clearing, a kind of motley green glade, I pause to check my bearings. Monkeys are howling nearby and I jump up and down and yell at them to shut up so I can listen for the helicopter.

  There’s a break in the squabbling and I can hear the reassuring throb of the helicopter, coming from the direction I’m facing. Thankfully I’m still heading the right way and it’s much louder. I’m getting closer. I’m going to make it. I’m going to be saved! I quickly brush the wet hair out of my eyes and reach down to remove what feels like a vine wrapped around my ankle.

  And I watch in disbelieving horror as first my feet, then my ankles, disappear into dark green moss. I try to lift them but as soon as my feet drop below the moss I start sinking quickly, and in a matter of seconds I’m up to my knees in clinging, cloying mud. I frantically try to yank my legs clear but they’re held fast. Leaning forward, I push down hard on the ground in front of me to try to get some leverage, but my hands break straight through a thin crust of earth into thick mud beneath and my arms vanish past my wrists.

  Quickly pulling my arms free I try again to lift my legs, but every time I make a move I sink deeper and the mud presses harder against me, as if I’m caught in a vice and the screw is tightening with every centimetre I sink. Forcing my hands deep into the mud packed against my legs I lock my fingers behind my right knee and pull, trying to raise my leg towards the surface, but it won’t budge, and all I succeed in doing is panicking myself even further.

  Already short of breath from running, I’m now wheezing badly. I have to calm down. I have to stop struggling. Linking my fingers behind my head I try to control my breathing while I scan around, searching for a way out.

  But there are no trees or overhanging branches within reach and apart from the spongy moss the only vegetation I can see is a clump of reeds on my left.

  I reach for the reeds, but even at full stretch my fingertips are still a hand’s length away. I twist and bend at the waist and lean forward, pushing my chest so hard into the mud I can hardly breathe. But by holding my breath and straining as hard as I can, I just about touch the reeds. I grab a handful and pull. The blades are as sharp as knives and slice into my skin and I scream and let go. Blood seeps from deep cuts across my palms and they sting viciously; I know any further attempts will be incredibly painful. But I have no choice. By moving around so much to reach the reeds I have sunk even further and the mud is now past my waist and pressing punishingly hard against the bottom of my ribcage. I only have to sink another centimetre or two and the reeds will be out of reach. And by now the helicopter could be at the sandspit. I wipe the blood and grime from my palms on my T-shirt and grasp the reeds with both hands and pull. The pain is excruciating and the mud tries to suck me back in but I squeeze the reeds even tighter, twisting the blades between my fingers to get a better grip. I think I feel a slight movement in my waist and I pull even harder. This time I’m sure I’ve moved a bit more and I pull with all my might, ignoring the agony in my hands, and I hear a gurgling, sucking sound and suddenly the entire clump of reeds pulls free, with roots still attached, and I jerk backwards and sink even deeper into the mud.

  I stare in horror at the clump of muddy reeds in my trembling, bloody hands, and I scream, and fling them as far away from me as I can, and as my scream dies I
hear the helicopter. It’s close. Very close. So close the downdraft from its rotor blades is swaying the treetops and I can feel the solid thump-thump of its engines vibrating the ground around me. In a few moments it will pass overhead. I cup my hands around my mouth and I yell, ‘Here! I’m here!’ as loud as I can, then furiously wave my hands above my head, even though I know there’s no way anyone on board can hear me, or see me through the trees, and my movements will make me sink even further. But I can’t help myself. I have to do something. In a matter of seconds the helicopter will be gone and if they don’t see me now…

  The helicopter banks away, the swaying trees slow and fall still, and the promising pulse of the engine dies, slowly fading as the rescue team heads downstream, following the course of the river, passing over the log pile I was standing on a few minutes ago.

  The glade is eerily quiet. The monkeys have fled and all I can hear is my own heavy breathing, and the echo of rotor blades in my head. I cling to the sound, willing it to grow louder, and for the helicopter to turn around and come back and find me. But I know that isn’t going to happen.

  My aching arms drop and I slump forward and this time my chest doesn’t even touch the ground. It can’t. My futile attempts at being seen have resulted in me sinking even further and the mud is now halfway to my armpits, pressing hard against my ribcage and compressing my lungs.

  All too soon even the shadow whisper of the helicopter’s heartbeat is gone and all that’s left is the sound of my wheezing breath and the bitter taste of despair. Total, utter despair.

  I’m trapped. Helpless. I’ll simply keep sinking and suffocate, buried alive. Or a predator will get me first. I’m finished. And I’m going to die here. Alone.