It’s got to be another berry field.
It’s the same one: I’ve walked for nearly an hour in a big circle. Red stars explode in my brain. All that time and all that hurting and I’m not any closer to the lake!
‘It’s not fair! How could I be so stupid?’
I go on screaming until my throat feels like it’s bleeding, then I cry, and finally I tell myself not to be such a baby. There’s not much point being a baby if there’s no one to look after you.
The right trail has to be here somewhere.
We were on it when we came out of the woods into the berry field. The bears were below us, but it’s a big field and bigger forest, and I can’t figure out exactly where the trail goes in.
I draw a map in the dirt with a stick.
The top of the mountain is south from the lake, but we zigged east for the waterfall, then back west till we got back here to the berry field.
So if I skip the waterfall and head straight downhill, I should end up where we started from.
The problem is I’ll have to find my own trail to get there.
If I had my glasses, I could stand in the middle of the field and just look around for the trails. Now I have to walk right around the edge.
There’s another trail at the north end of the field.
I hope it’s not the way the bears went.
Though they might want to go to the lake too – they’d have to be thirsty after all those berries. I thought the berries would stop me from being thirsty, but they’ve made it worse. I don’t know how the bears can eat so many without a drink. When I get to the truck I’m drinking a whole bottle of water before I do anything else. Then a juice. I’m so thirsty I can feel my throat dry all the way down – and the morning’s getting hotter.
I wonder if it’s warming up inside Lily and Scott’s cave. I wonder if the icy feeling in my heart means that they’re not okay, like my heart knows something I don’t?
I wonder how long it takes to die of thirst?
All the way along the trail, bushes are bent and branches are broken.
As if Mama Bear has trampled them and Hansel and Gretel have been nibbling.
But even if the bears have been along here, they’re an hour ahead of me. I’m tracking them; I know what I’m doing.
If you’re not hunting you don’t want to be the hunted.
I try to whistle, which doesn’t quite work, and then hum, which doesn’t work much either. My throat’s too dry to even think of singing.
Doesn’t matter anyway: my tummy’s rumbling louder than I can sing. If Mama Bear and the cubs are around they’ll think the biggest Papa Bear ever is growling at them.
I like this trail: it’s definitely going somewhere. In some places it’s worn right down to bare dirt.
There are prints in the bare dirt. Bear paw prints.
Sometimes Mum used to bring a Bear Claw home from the Cottonwood Cafe. When I was little I was afraid to eat them in case they were real bears’ claws, but now they’re my favourite pastry. When we shared them, Mum ate the big toe and Lily and I got two toes each.
Bear poo, too.
Fresh poo is a little more real, and even scarier than the prints. I’m not very far behind the bears – but I don’t know where else to go.
My stomach cramps so hard and so suddenly it feels like something’s twisting my guts, folding me in half. All I can do is stagger along, crouched over and hugging my belly.
Another pile of poo. The bears must have eaten too many berries.
So have I.
I really wish that this tree was a bathroom.
I really, really, hope the bears don’t turn around right now.
I feel better again.
Not for long.
This is disgusting! And it’s not fair! I didn’t eat that many!
Maybe this time I’ll stay feeling better.
There’s a strange buzzing, humming noise. It sounds like . . .
‘OW!’
A bee stings me right on the tip of my nose. There are more coming . . . it’s a cloud of bees: hundreds and thousands of angry bees.
I run for my life.
It’s hard to run, I’m crouched over, trying to protect my face, waving the bees away; I can hardly breathe – what if I breathe in a bee?
One stings the back of my hand and makes me yelp again. A third hits beside it. They’re buzzing and swarming, darting and diving, coming from everywhere to attack me.
I zigzag through the swarm; it doesn’t matter where I go, as long as I’m running.
A tree root grabs my toe. I crash to the ground.
The bees buzz louder and dart in again. I’ll never get away now. I pull my hood over my head and huddle my knees under my chest, wrap my arms around my face, tuck my hands into my armpits. The bees bump angrily against my jeans and covered-up head.
‘Ow!’ One found a gap between my jacket and my jeans. You wouldn’t think every single sting could hurt so much.
Amelia’s afraid of bees. She says she’s allergic and that she’ll die if a bee stings her. I don’t know if that’s true. Sometimes Amelia exaggerates.
What if I’m allergic and don’t know it?
Jess said anyone could die if they got lots of bee stings even if they weren’t allergic. Jess doesn’t exaggerate except when she’s telling a story.
‘Ow!’ That was the back of my wrist. I suck it and spit the stinger out. And the two other stingers beside it. My hand still hurts, and it’s red and puffy. I jam it back into my armpit to keep it safe.
The noise is starting to calm down; I desperately want to peek out, but I even more desperately don’t want more stings on my face.
Hardly any buzzing.
I’m not dead yet . . . maybe I’m not allergic. I never was before. Maybe six isn’t lots.
But I need to pull the stingers out.
My nose feels like a fat red button. I can hardly even find the stinger.
You look like Rudolph, Amelia teases, but it doesn’t help. Nothing’s funny.
Squeezing it is like Lily squeezing a pimple. She hates if I watch her. At least she doesn’t cry; a pimple mustn’t hurt this much.
There’s one on my ankle too.
I’m sick of crying, I’m sick of being afraid, I’m sick of hurting, I’m sick of huddling here. I’m sick of finding more things that I didn’t even know I had to be afraid of.
But I still don’t want to die.
I peek out through my fingers.
Bushes are smashed; bark and branches are thrown everywhere . . . it looks like I’ve been following a tornado!
One big old pine tree has huge claw marks ripped down it.
A bear-tornado.
I can’t stop shaking. I don’t know what made the bears so angry: I just know I need to get out of here.
I scramble up, stamping my pins-and-needly feet, and nearly step on something. It’s sticky, dirty, with bits of dead bees and larvae . . . and dripping with honey.
Honeycomb!
Maybe the bears weren’t angry, but no wonder the bees were: Mama Bear has ripped their hive right out of that tree and stolen the honey.
But she left this bit behind, and I don’t care about the dirt and grubs: I grab the empty apricot baggie from my pocket and shove the honeycomb in there, extra goodies and all, sucking my sweet honey fingers as I run.
At the Cottonwood Farmer’s Market, Mum bought a little tray of honeycomb with three plastic spoons and a knife. The honeycomb was like tiny apartments in a building; it was clean and white in the yellow honey and didn’t look like something you should eat. But the lady at the stall said she ate some every day because it was good for you, so we tried it. It tasted like honey except chewy; I ended up with a big glob of wax like dead chewing gum. When Mum and the honey lady weren’t looking I spat it into my napkin.