Boy and dog sat by the fire under a wide rock ledge, chewing the last of the fruit bat. The meat was sweet and tender, the fur singed off before he’d roasted it in the coals, with arrowroot tubers too, and some of the white mangrove worms as well now that he could cook them. He and the dog ate till they were full, then kept on eating.
The stars lazed in a wide wheel above him, the tiny campfires of the sky. Thunder boomed far off past the grasslands. But it didn’t matter now if a storm flashed across the land, not with the ledge to shelter him. Not with the fire to keep him warm.
The fire was more than warmth, more than good meals to come. Fire was a way of saying to the darkness, ‘I am here, I command this tiny place where my light will keep you at bay.’
It was a way to say to wild dogs, even to crocodiles, ‘You may be able to eat me, but I command fire. Watch out.’
The ledge was halfway up the first hill, worn away by wind and rain, strong and big enough to shelter him from the rains that would come soon, deep enough to even protect him from the worst of the wind. The floor was uneven, but he could fix that tomorrow, scraping dirt down to make it more comfortable.
He’d found no rockpool, but there was a tiny spring at the base of the hill, enough to gather handfuls of water and for the dog to lap. If it had been the beginning of the Dry he’d have worried that it would vanish. But the Rain would be here soon enough to replenish it.
Even better, there was food all around. This swamp was even richer than the one by the sea. He could bake swamp oysters and crabs. There were pandanus trees too, still with nuts he could now cook. He could use the leaves to make fibre for nets and cord too.
But best was the fire. He’d made a rough basket of pandanus leaves to carry the hot coals from his first fire. It had taken four attempts to get them to his new camp. The first coals had eaten through the basket and his next two efforts had gone out. But now he had a fire where he needed it. He dragged up a damp log that would burn slowly so the coals would keep glowing overnight.
Tomorrow he’d find more logs, spear more fruit bats. He could sit quite still, like the dog, and catch the lizards that ran about the rocks. She crunched them raw, but he could cook his now.
Despite his loneliness he laughed. Food, shelter, warmth, the dog — life was …
… no, not good. But better.