Clouds gathered like clustered islands on the horizon every day now. Rain scattered across the grasslands — not the proper rain of the Wet, but enough to bring pale green shoots of grass through the cracked dry plains. Thunder growled behind winds that shifted back and forth, bringing long birds that strode through the new grasslands.
The land changed. Great tides turned the swamp into a small sea twice a day, retreating to leave driftwood, new banks of mud and sand, and giant shellfish or tiny cone shells to be roasted on the coals, the flesh within sea-sweet and tangy.
His knee was healing. Too slowly — he wanted to be able to run and leap and climb properly again. But he could put weight on it now, though he still needed to keep it bound, as any twisting made it swell.
He was hauling more driftwood up to the fire when he saw a creature move out of the corner of his eye.
He dropped the bundle of wood in shock. It was — impossible!
The creature was the size of a person and on two legs so at first he wondered if it was human: if this peculiar new land had people with tails. The animal’s feet were huge, its head small, its ears cocked up like the dog’s. The creature saw him, blinked, then bounded off …
It was leaping, not running. He stared at it as it vanished behind a cliff. Had he imagined it?
He tried to picture the creature again. Was it dangerous? No. Its eyes were close together, like a grass eater’s, not on either side of its head like a meat eater’s, like a man’s or a pig’s or an eagle’s. This animal was to be hunted, not a hunter.
But what kind of animal hopped?
Where was the dog? If the dog could see the creature, chased it, he’d know it was real. But where was she? He realised he hadn’t seen her since the night before.
He was used to waking up to find her gone, but she always came back sometime during the day, nosing curiously at whatever he’d caught to eat.
‘Dog! Here, girl!’
No dog appeared. Loa began to pick up the fallen wood.
She’d be back.
The dog wasn’t back by dusk.
He sat by the fire, piled high with wood to make a good blaze, for comfort rather than warmth. He’d raked some of the coals away to cook a giant water snake he’d found caught in the newly lush swamp, grabbing its neck before it could strike him and lashing it down hard to break its back.
He didn’t think the big snake was poisonous, not like the thin deadly sea snakes, but he was going to cook it well anyway. The aunties said that long cooking made a snake safe.
What would the aunties be doing now? It was almost as though they were no longer real. But somewhere the camp went on, with its high sleeping platforms, its laughter and friendships.
The loss of his clan hurt like a wound. He missed friends the most — other hunters to share his world with. He only had a dog.
But where was she?
He looked out into the darkness, hoping to hear her claws on the rock, or at least her howl in the distance. There was plenty of snake meat for both of them — lots of bones for a rubbish dog to chew for days.
But no dog appeared out of the darkness now. He was really alone.