He awoke to mud — and water nibbling at his toes. The tide had risen.
He looked down at his leg. Blood dribbled down his skin. His knee was a swollen thundercloud, blue and purple, the size of a piglet’s head. His foot poked out at a strange angle.
The world swam as though he was still underwater. Too much sun, he thought vaguely. Pain. No food. Not enough water.
He looked around for his canoe … and then remembered. The edge of this land had grabbed him, had pulled him from the canoe.
He gazed desperately around the small cove. The canoe had vanished. Perhaps it had washed up on one of the beaches or other coves. Perhaps it was already bobbing out at sea, or even sunk. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t search for it, not when every movement made him dizzy.
The canoe was gone. So were his water bladders and his spear.
What did he have?
He looked down at himself. A boy’s body, not a man’s, trembling with weakness. The cords around his waist, his knife. No family. No friends. A strange land, and empty hands.
Even the rubbish dog had left him.
It was too much to take in.
One thing was left. Survive. Get away from the mangroves, where crocodiles lurked unseen in the mud. Find fresh water.
If he could make it up to the cliffs behind the cove he should find both water and safety. Crocs didn’t like to climb. This mangrove must be fed by a stream or a swamp. Either would mean fresh water.
He pulled himself upright. The black tide of pain swept over him. He ignored it, holding onto the stunted mangrove tree. He took one step and then another, almost falling as he grabbed the next tree.
This wasn’t working. He couldn’t keep going if every time he moved he collapsed with pain. He gritted his teeth, broke off two thick branches, then untied the ropes at his waist. He used the cords to tie the branches to his leg, above and below the knee. At least that should keep his knee from twisting every time he tried to hop.
He hesitated, then tied the knife back on the cord above his knee too. It would be easy to lose the knife in the mud if he carried it in his hand.
The knife was his only link with home. Without it he was an animal, outcast, with no pack to help him.
He tried putting some weight on his bad leg. The pain was as bad, but the feeling that the world was going to fade away about him was less. He could hop like this. A little way, at least.
He began again. Hop, dragging his other leg, hop, grab. Hop, hop, grab.
Suddenly he saw it: a brown log, the colour of the mud, lying in the shadows of the trees.
But this log was crocodile.
Crocs were lazy. They waited for you and lunged. Grandfather said a good hunter didn’t hunt, but waited. Crocs were the best hunters of all.
He edged further away, slowly, keeping his eyes on the croc. If it wanted to the giant croc could catch him easily, destroy him in one powerful snap of its jaws. But maybe it had fed recently.
Had it eaten the rubbish dog?
His knee throbbed. His head throbbed too, his fear easing as step by step he managed to get further from the waiting croc.
The cliffs grew nearer: grey-brown with lighter stripes, crumbling at the base. He made for the most inland point before the cliffs began. There was still no sign of a stream or river, but he could dig out a hole in a freshwater swamp, and let it fill. That would be enough.
At least these mangroves were like the ones at home, even if the cliffs were strange. He could see gulls’ footprints in the mud, the tiny holes that meant mud crabs below, and mud worms. There was food here.
And the swish mark of a tail. Another crocodile! It had been this way. Not long ago either — water still hadn’t seeped into the swish mark. Was it watching him, waiting to grab him, to tear his flesh? High above, a buzzard soared black against the sky. Loa was food for others too. But he had no spear now to protect him, no friends, no grandfather to help him hunt. He felt even more alone than in the storm. He forced himself forwards.
Nearer and nearer …
Then he saw the water. A thin seep from the cliffs, just enough to wet the rock. Not enough water to gather in his hands. No other water, except the sea behind. When the Wet Season came there’d be a river here. But not at this time of year. He limped towards it. He could almost feel it on his salt-cracked lips. He bent to touch the wet rock. But his knee wouldn’t let him crouch. He sat awkwardly in the mud.
He licked the rock. His tongue could taste the water, taste the lichen on the rock. But it wasn’t even enough to wet his mouth.
If he didn’t drink soon he’d die. If he stayed here, weaker and weaker, a crocodile would get him, tonight, tomorrow, as soon as it was hungry.
Cliffs above him, too steep to climb with a leg that wouldn’t work. Mangroves around him. And beyond them, the sea.
He wanted to cry. But a hunter didn’t cry. Perhaps his body had no water for tears either. His head buzzed, like it was full of bees.
He looked around, vaguely hoping that somehow a canoe of fishermen might appear on the waves; that he’d see smoke rising behind the cliffs and people near enough to hear his yells.
But there was nothing. Nothing but rock and mud and sea and sky.
The buzzard flew lower, peering down at him.
He stood up again, holding onto the cliff to steady himself. He clambered a few spear lengths up onto a jagged ledge of rock, pulling with his arms, letting his useless leg dangle behind. The ledge was just wide enough for him to lie down.
The ledge wasn’t high enough to keep him safe from a crocodile, not if it really wanted him. But at least he wasn’t lying in the mud, as though to say, ‘Come and eat me!’ He shut his eyes.
Maybe after a rest he’d be able to think what to do. Maybe it would rain. He could open his mouth and let it fill with water. Cool fresh water …
Maybe someone would find him. Maybe a ghost would appear, with a ghostly water bladder …
Maybe …