Loa stood on the rock and peered into the water. He wished he could fish properly, striding into the waves, but his knee still gave way under him if he tried to walk with the splints off. But if he was patient most days he could spear a fish here on the rocks. He had made fish hooks too, ‘finding’ the hooks hidden in the shells on the beach.
The new spear didn’t fly straight, but he was used to that now. He’d cut a hole in the end and tied cord to it and his waist so he didn’t lose it in the waves. His obsidian knife point was the most precious thing in his world.
A fish glinted in the water, almost near enough, but not quite. He waited. One fish usually meant more.
Then there they were, twisting and cutting their way through the wave. He aimed and cast quickly, laughing with joy as the water turned bloody.
He’d got one!
I am the best hunter in the world, he thought. His smile vanished. He was the only hunter in this world.
He hauled in the spear and fish. The fish was as long as his arm and still flapping, so he bashed its head against the rock, then examined his spear. The point was still secure, he saw thankfully. It had taken days to get it right — he didn’t want to have to do it again soon.
He carried the fish along the beach then up the track to the cliff top by the pool. He’d seen crocodile tracks on the beach, though he hadn’t seen a croc since the one in the cove. But crocs were cunning, lying so still, so mud-covered, that you thought they were a log until it was too late.
The fruit were where he’d left them: small, sour mangrove berries. Later in the year they’d be fatter and sweeter, but when he sliced them and laid them on top of slices of fish on the hot rock in the sun like the women did at home the berry juice and the heat turned the fish flesh white and cooked.
Women’s work, he thought bitterly. Collecting fruit, slicing fish. No wonder Leki had chosen Bu. Loa was a cripple, a fool who had lost his way, who lived like a woman with a rubbish dog in a bare barren land.
He gazed out at his new world. Dry grass, limp trees, smoke …
He stilled. Smoke! It was almost at the horizon, but there was no mistaking it for cloud. A high plume of smoke, the sort of fire you’d build for a feast, a gathering of clans.
A campfire! He felt the grin spread across his face. Other people. Aunties who might know how to heal his leg, girls …
He stopped smiling.
Hunters who’d look at him with scorn — a lost boy with a bad leg. But maybe his leg would keep getting better. And even living as a cripple with a clan would be better than trying to survive alone on raw fish and mangrove worms.
He looked around for the dog. She usually came down to him about now. ‘Dog!’ he yelled.
No sign of her. For a moment he hesitated. He didn’t want to leave her behind. The dog was all he had.
But he was a hunter! What hunter would wait for a dog instead of striding out to find others of his kind? And if he waited the fire might go out and the smoke vanish.
He couldn’t stride, but he could limp. And anyway, the dog would find his tracks and follow, he told himself. She’d sniff out the way he’d gone just like he’d watched her sniff out tiny rock lizards, crunching them in her sharp teeth.
He forced himself to eat the still-raw fish, then drank as much as he could, wishing he had water bladders. The smoke was inland and he had no way to carry water.
But there must be streams here, even in the Dry. And the smoke was less than a day’s walk away. He could manage — just — to get there and back to here without water.
He hoped he didn’t have to.