He woke with a start, looking up at the blue sky. Where was he? His tongue was too fat for his mouth, his lips swollen and cracked from the salt water.
He stared around him. No green tree shadows, no birdsong, no rustle of leaves. No mutters from the other members of the clan, no babies crying.
He sat up, feeling the roughness of the canoe around him, and remembered.
The storm. The waves, the frantic tugging of the canoe up onto the beach …
He looked around. It wasn’t a beach, not really. Beaches gave way to trees. Beaches had streams of fresh water.
This was just a low hill of sand, bright white in the blue of sea. In another storm it might vanish, or perhaps get bigger.
No trees. No streams. Just … He stared.
Just the rubbish dog, sitting on top of the hill, her fur almost the colour of the sand, her eyes staring down at him.
He swallowed. There was a story passed down among the mothers of how a rubbish dog had taken a baby once. But that had been so long ago no one was sure if it was true.
The rubbish dogs knew that if they attacked a human, the other humans would attack back. But there was no one to help him now.
This rubbish dog could leap down and tear his throat open.
The rubbish dog was almost gold in the sun. She didn’t move.
Loa looked back at the canoe. The water bladders were still there, and his spear. He automatically tipped the canoe over to empty the sea water from the bottom, untied the spear and held it at the ready, one eye on the motionless dog. He used his other hand to untie one of the bladders, then felt the cool trickle of fresh water against his lips.
It was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted.
Above him the dog lifted her head. She gazed at him: she could smell the water.
Loa retied the neck of the water bladder. He glanced around again, searching the horizon.
Land! He felt his heart beat as he gazed at the green smudge. The storm had pushed the canoe for so long last night he had been afraid that he’d be so far from land he wouldn’t even be able to see it. But there it was, a day’s paddle away, over to the …
He caught his breath. To the south. He felt the heat of the morning sun on his left side. It was the morning sun too: he knew he hadn’t slept all day and, anyway, the evening sun was redder than the sun of morning.
Land to the north, east or even west could be home, but no one had ever seen land to the south. Yet there it was.
He shut his eyes. When he opened them the green smudge was still there. Land.
He tried to think. His head was dizzy from hunger and weariness, despite the sleep and the drink of water. Hadn’t someone told a story about land to the south?
Old Uncle, that was it — a story about how Uncle’s grandfather had seen smoke in the southern sky. The smoke had billowed up for days, as though there was a huge fire.
And, no, said Uncle sternly, it wasn’t a cloud. His grandfather was not a fool. If there was smoke from the south there must be land too …
Loa gazed at the green smudge. Green meant trees. Were there also cliffs, mountains, a lagoon? But already the sun was glinting on the water and it was impossible to make out any details through the glare.
He sat back in the canoe. There was still a hand’s depth of water in it, seeped out of the wet wood, but he wanted its familiarity again, even if it was drier on the sand.
Land to the south, a day’s paddle away. He had water. He even had food, if he speared the dog, or maybe he could spear a fish in the shallows here.
Or he could paddle north, and hope he found land there.
But what if he didn’t? Loa had never paddled more than a few beaches from home, but others had. The uncles told stories of how the land stopped after so many days paddling to the east, or so many days paddling to the west.
What if the storm had blown him so far west that if he paddled north he would miss his land? Or maybe the land was there, but the storm had flung him too far to paddle home? He looked at his water bladders. They’d last him two days, maybe. How many days could you go without water, with the heat and glare of the sun reflected from the sea?
How many days and nights could he paddle without sleep? If he slept the tides might wash him back the way he’d come. After all, they’d already brought him here.
He looked down at his canoe. It was water sodden. Canoes rode low in the water at the best of times. Now it would be only a few handspans above the smallest waves. A shark could leap up and grab him. Sharks were always hungry after storms. Or a crocodile might grab him when he came near to land.
He looked at the rubbish dog again, wishing she was still safely tied in the end of the canoe, shark bait, crocodile bait, to keep him safe.
How had she got free? Chewing the cords, he supposed. A clever dog. But not clever enough to get away from his spear. Not on a tiny island, with nowhere to run.
He needed to drink again. But fresh water meant life or death now.
He looked back at the thin green line southwards, then at the blank blue of sky and sea that made up the rest of the horizon. Every moment he waited here meant it was longer before he had a chance of reaching land, and water.
Which way? North, to the wide blue nothing? South, towards the green? Take a chance that land might grow from the seamless blue of sea and sky, or paddle towards where he knew land was?
It isn’t, he thought, really a choice at all.
He stood. His legs trembled as he jumped clumsily from the canoe. He looked at the dog and pushed up his spear. He could eat raw meat if he had to. Maybe the rubbish dog’s blood would ease his thirst as well. His hand trembled as he tried to aim the spear. If he missed she might attack him. He’d be defenceless, his spear too far away to grab. He took another drink of water, and felt steadier.
Now he could kill the dog.