Beck maintained a constant, steady pace to press on through the jungle. It meant they covered ground but they didn’t get the break or respite that both of them soon craved. Meanwhile Beck’s arm was throbbing. Clammy sweat soaked every inch of him and he could feel the salt stinging the gash. Struggling through the jungle made his back and legs ache – the constant bending down, straightening up and twisting round; you could never just walk.
He thought of all the jungle movies he had seen where the heroes boldly slashed their way through the undergrowth. In fact, as Beck well knew, the real way to negotiate the dense jungle is not to fight your way through it, but to become cat-like, stealthy, easing your way through the vegetation. But sometimes the whole jungle just grows together into one big tangled knot and you grind to a halt.
‘Can I hear water?’ Peter asked suddenly.
Beck stopped and cocked his head. Peter had been following on behind without complaint. He hadn’t noticed anything in particular about the jungle, apart from the fact that it was getting thicker and harder work. But he was certain he had heard the sound of running water.
Both boys stood motionless in the tangled jungle, listening.
All at once Beck felt a huge wave of relief wash over him. Peter was right. Through the bushes he could hear a distinct trickling, splashing noise like one pipe pouring into another.
‘Well done, Peter. Quick. Follow me. It’s this way.’
It only took another minute of thrashing and twisting through the undergrowth, and then the boys were standing at the edge of a small river.
The splashing sound came from the far bank, where another stream dropped down from some slightly higher ground in a metre-high waterfall. The water bubbled and chuckled where the two flows met.
‘Whoa!’ Peter exclaimed. He craned his head back. ‘I can see the sky!’
The sky was a blue strip through the jungle canopy. The vegetation came down almost to the water’s edge. There was a narrow strip of river bank, sand and gravel, and then the river was a five-metre-wide watery highway. It flowed from right to left, the waters slow and brown. With no trees to block it there was also a slight breeze – it was still hot and humid, but the air felt a little fresher simply because it was moving.
Beck looked on the river like a gift from above. Gratitude swelled in his heart. This was good in so many ways.
‘We can make our way along the bank,’ he said, ‘or even in the shallows. Easier than fighting our way through the jungle! And the great thing about rivers is that they often lead to people. If we follow it, we’ll either reach the sea or a town . . .’ His voice trailed off thoughtfully and he started to look up and down the river very, very carefully.
‘All the water we can drink,’ Peter pointed out, though his voice was distracted. He held his arms up in front of his face and studied them closely. Beck could see the mottled red skin. ‘I think I’m getting a heat rash.’
‘It’s sweat build-up. All that salt and gunge going nowhere.’ Beck took one more look at the river, first downstream, then up. He couldn’t see any signs of what he was searching for, so he relaxed and started to unbutton his shirt. ‘We should take every chance we can to wash – let’s do it!’
His first thought was to check on his wounded arm again. The bandage had to be soaked off and the cut looked just as open and raw as before. With all that salty sweat getting into it, Beck wasn’t surprised it wasn’t healing. He cupped water in his left hand and poured it up and down the cut to wash the grime out.
Then he scooped up handfuls of grit and rubbed them up and down his arms and legs. He could feel the rough mixture scraping off the grime that seemed to cake him; it left his skin feeling fresh and tingling. ‘Try it!’ he told Peter. ‘It’s nature’s exfoliator!’ Again, though, he checked up and down the river.
This time Peter was watching him. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Crocodiles.’
Peter stopped rubbing and took several steps back from the river.
Beck kept talking as he rubbed himself down. ‘They love rivers like this. Murky water, slow flow, and packed with fish no doubt. They’re responsible for so many attacks on unsuspecting humans, you can’t be too careful.’
Peter winced, before saying, ‘I saw one in a zoo in Sydney once – and I was so glad there were several centimetres of armoured glass between us. It was just lying there – until feeding time, when they dropped a lump of meat in and it lunged faster than you could see. The keepers told us they can swim at something like twenty miles an hour, and when they bite, those jaws pack about three thousand pounds per square inch.’
‘And once they’ve got you,’ Beck added, ‘you aren’t going to escape. They death roll you, drag you underwater and leave you under some log until you rot and they can eat you . . .’
Peter’s mouth was hanging open and he looked a little green. Beck realized that his information wasn’t helping Peter’s confidence any.
He smiled and went on, ‘So, anyway, look out for them. They lie underwater with just their eyes sticking out . . .’
After that, Peter kept his gaze fixed firmly on the water.
* * *
The rub-down left them both feeling cleaner and refreshed. They soaked their clothes and wrung them out as hard as they could. They were still damp when they put them back on, but at least fresh water had now replaced the sweat.
Then they set off along the river, heading downstream. The brief break had lifted their spirits considerably. Sometimes the river dropped down a couple of metres, coursing over smooth rocks that the boys had to clamber down. Sometimes the banks narrowed, forcing them to wade through the water instead, sending sheets of spray up into the air. Even when it came up to their knees, it was much easier than clambering through the jungle.
‘And another thing,’ Peter added, as if he had been giving the matter deep thought. ‘If the tigers are anything like our cat at home, they won’t be following us here! He hates water.’
Beck grimaced. ‘Yeah, but Sumatran tigers have one thing Tiddles doesn’t . . .’
‘What’s that?’ Peter asked suspiciously.
‘Webbed feet.’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘Nope. They evolved in swampy ground. They don’t mind the water at all.’
‘Oh, great . . .’ Peter scanned the jungle on either side, as if expecting half a ton of striped muscle to leap out at them at any moment.
‘Hey, don’t sweat it. The tigers’ll be asleep at this time of day. What we really want to look out for now is crocodiles, especially as it looks like the river is widening.’
‘Lurking just beneath the surface . . .’ Peter said.
‘With their eyes sticking out,’ Beck agreed.
Peter came to a complete halt, and nodded over at the far side of the river. ‘Like that?’ he asked quietly.
It looked like a log drifting towards them, a small lump of wood jutting above the surface. But it wasn’t a lump of wood: it had two cold, unblinking reptilian eyes. And behind it, only the slightest ripple gave away the five metres of crocodile that was cruising slowly down the river towards them.