For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters . . .
King James Bible, Revelations 22:15
I sit writing my diary after a long draught of nectar. This could be my last day on the island, so I feel I should be trying to sum up my experience, but I cannot find the words. I feel weak, as weak as I felt after eating the limpets, and I hope I’ll be able to summon enough energy to carry out my plan. The small amount of fruit and protein I managed to find yesterday doesn’t seem to have provided me with nearly as much energy as the carbohydrate-rich diet of the first part of my self-imposed exile.
I shiver when I think about my chances of survival if I hadn’t included the nuts and sultanas in my pack, now that I know how limited the island’s resources really are. After harvesting nectar from the coast banksia trees early this morning, I combed the wooded areas and found no fruit at all. I think I have finally exhausted the crop for this season.
I’m too weak to cross the island to look for crabs. I need all the strength I can muster to build a bonfire. As I sit on a sun-warmed rock writing my diary, I feel the usual thin wash of energy course through me from the nectar. I must make the most of this and start collecting leaves and branches for the fire.
I have chosen the location for my bonfire with the greatest possible care to reduce the risk of the fire spreading and causing environmental damage to this almost pristine island. I have located it on a flat shelf surrounded by higher rocks that should block any floating embers and send them to the ground or out to sea. Fortunately there is virtually no wind, so the risk is minimal. And the island itself is, as I am only too aware, surrounded by nothing but the wide, wide sea.
I still worry but am comforted by the memory of recent heavy rains, so the trees and understorey are not bone-dry, and also by the thought that I will be utilising every single piece of dry wood and foliage up here on the clifftop, so there will be minimal or no fuel nearby.
Conscience partially satisfied; time to get to work . . .
It’s taken hours of leg-wearying toil, but now, finally, it’s done. I purposely went as far afield as possible to build the understorey of the bonfire in case I didn’t find any more food and my energy began to flag later in the day. Last week’s flood had left several large drifts of branches and dried leaf debris and, after checking the area using my stick-banging technique, I gathered them and formed them into a wide circle on the rocky shelf that juts out over the ocean at the island’s northern point. Then, this time feeling like a true environmental vandal, although I knew it would all be replenished soon enough, I pulled off any dead branches I could see, and even uprooted some fairly dead-looking bushes. I added the cave-screening tree to the pile with a small pang, seeing my refuge’s entrance so exposed. Then I rested, gathering my resources ready to comb the ground for sticks, branches, leaves – anything that would burn.
I realised too late that if I’d thought of this earlier I could have been pulling off branches over the past few days and letting them dry to build up more fuel supply. Stom. Stupid. Didn’t think ahead. It would have been easy to do and nobody would have noticed; the bush is full of dead waste of all kinds. How do I know that what I have gathered will be enough?
At lunchtime, since I hadn’t been able to find any fruit, I drank some of the remaining nectar. I was beginning to feel light-headed and I was not hungry at all, but I knew I must build up my energy to keep on collecting. The thought of the Duffy brothers and their dogs helped to spur me into action.
Hands clenched, I counted to five minutes (and ONE and TWO and THREE and FOUR and FIVE), opening out one finger for each minute, then forced myself to stand up. I still felt weak, so took a few sips of water, then peered down the stone steps to the little beach below. The karkalla stems are too juicy to burn, but it could be worth checking for any hidden fruits, and I thought I spied a few pieces of wood on the little strip of rocky beach. It took me a long time, stopping after every few steps, but I made it to the bottom and found two last karkalla fruits, which I popped straight into my mouth, enjoying their chewiness, and about a dozen quite solid pieces of driftwood, beautifully white and dry, which I gathered together.
They were going to be a heavy load, too heavy for one trip, but my cunning mind managed to devise a plan. I laid out two long stems of karkalla, spread my anorak over them, and stacked the longer pieces of driftwood as neatly as possible on top.
Then I rolled up the anorak and tied the sleeves to form a kind of bag, tied the karkalla stems around this parcel, and looped the ends around my shoulders to form a backpack. It worked surprising well initially, but as I neared the top of the steps I felt the weight of the timber shifting the bundle ominously, so I slumped down, took it off and unwrapped it, allowing the contents to tumble gently onto the step.
Then I made three trips up the last few steps to transport the driftwood to the bonfire site, where I stacked it to one side. I now had no more food and very little energy, so I found a shady spot and sat and tried to meditate, taking sips of water whenever I began to feel parched, but making sure I used as little energy as possible. When I was collecting this morning I set new bags for tomorrow, just in case, but I fervently hope I won’t need to use them.
The sun was now high in the sky. I must have dozed off. I took another small drink, filled my pockets with specimen bags in the hope I might find some food, and brought the anorak to use as a carry bag. The bonfire was not yet large enough to burn for more than a few minutes. I needed to at least double its size and for that I would have to search the ground thoroughly and pick up every single dry leaf, twig and branch. I started with leaves and filled the anorak over and over, lugging it to the bonfire site and throwing its contents onto the middle of the pyre.
Then I searched for twigs and small branches and did the same. When I’d built up a good mound of small stuff, I began to arrange the larger pieces of driftwood on top so that the leaf litter would blaze up and ignite the larger sticks. Then I pushed into the boobialla thicket and collected every stick and branch I could carry. As I staggered back with the load I spied a fat skink on the path and cautiously emptied the anorak of its contents, rushed forward and dropped it on the unsuspecting reptile. After a bit of a struggle I managed to knock it on the head with the hammer and put it in a bag. Then I reassembled my cargo and lugged it onto the fire.
At least now I had dinner.
One more trip, to the coast banksia trees, and I realised I’d pretty much exhausted the resources of this side of the island. There was no question of going any further afield. I was so tired I could barely manage to stumble into the cave to retrieve a few necessities. When I woke this morning I packed all my remaining belongings, except the water bottle, plastic bags, matches, knife and torch, into kitchen tidy bags and placed them just inside the entrance of the cave. This time I refilled my water bottle from the last of the spare bags and placed my lizard-in-a-bag carefully in the shadiest spot I could find.
Then I went outside again, spread the anorak on my sitting rock, and quietly caught up with my diary, matches in one pocket, knife in the other.
But after a while I couldn’t sit any longer. At least restlessness gave me a bit of energy so I walked almost briskly to the one area I hadn’t fully stripped, my original toilet spot. Perhaps for hygiene reasons I’d been reluctant to collect material there, but after a little more than two weeks it could hardly matter. I entered the little copse and found several piles of brush, a good collection of sticks and branches and in a small thicket a most wonderful discovery, a largish dead tree.
Slowly, methodically, with many stops to regain my breath, I collected the brush, the sticks and the branches and dragged them onto the fire. Then I brought some lengths of karkalla stem, tied them round the tree and, like Europeans hauling home their Christmas pine, I looped the stems over my shoulders and dragged the tree, in short stages with many stops, to the edge of the fire.
There was no way I could lift it onto the top, but I realised that if I could find some way to climb up onto the higher rocks, dragging it behind me, I could drop it into the centre of my bonfire. If I succeeded in placing it correctly, it would stick up out of the pile like a candle, and continue burning when all the small fuel was used up. To give me the energy for this challenge I drank the last of the nectar, and then harnessed myself up again.
The tree was heavy and dragged my arms painfully, but the distance was not far, so I forced myself to go on. One metre, two, three and I was up on the rock ledge, but the tree was dragging me back. I stopped and rested, trying to gather enough strength for one last heave, and I finally managed it, although I felt an agonising wrench to my left shoulder and almost let the whole thing go.
But it was up and I manoeuvred it so that I could push it head first onto the pile, where it landed crookedly but well in the centre, the thickest part of the trunk with its tangle of roots pointing high into the sky. It was some time before I could move and the pain in my arm was so bad I almost fainted when I forgot and attempted to use it to balance my descent. Luckily I’m right-handed, but I wished I had strung the skink I caught onto a stick before putting my arm out of action. With one hand it was quite difficult but I managed it eventually and sat cradling the raw skink kebab on my lap, waiting for darkness. Then I realised the bonfire would be too hot for cooking, so I raked off a small pile of sticks and leaves and made a little fire for my dinner. It was not very effective, and the end result was a bit too rare, but it was food and I ate it with relish.
Now I sit on my rock, surveying my handiwork. The bonfire rises high in front of me, and I ponder the full implications of what I am planning. If I light this fire there is no going back, and no way to predict the consequences. But if I don’t, by Monday I will have to face the Duffy brothers and their dogs. Fear rises through me. My throat is dry and I feel breathless. I sip water and try to empty my mind. It can’t be long now until dark.
Another thought strikes me. What if rescue does come? I’ll be in the cave, just in case, so I can defend myself if necessary. I need to leave a trail.
Like Hansel and Gretel I have gathered pebbles from along the path and formed them into an arrow leading from the perimeter of the bonfire to the cave’s entrance.
I will close my diary now with this thought: Pray for me.
* * *
It is dark.
Shaking with nerves, because I know that once made this move will be irrevocable, I strike a match. And hover reluctantly for a moment before I plunge it into the bed of brushwood at the base of the pile. And light another match. And another until little tongues of flame are licking all around the bonfire. Then a huge WHOOSH and up it goes, flames leaping into the sky, and the rocks around flashing red and yellow like strobe lights in a nightclub.
Although it’s really too hot for me so close to the blaze, I am transfixed. As I stare into the flames, people appear, swirling black within the raging red. Jonathan. Kathryn. Vader. Moe. All of them face me and I call out to them. ‘Come and get me. Here I am.’ But they swirl away.
Then Lana comes. ‘Help me,’ she calls. ‘Help me.’ But Matt appears and throws her into the fire where she burns up and disappears. Only her voice remains. ‘Help me.’
Then Dave, untouched by the flames, staring out at me. ‘I’ll find you, Alix. I’ll get you. You can’t escape.’
I have to get away, into the cave, hide away in case someone comes. I duck inside, panting, then peek out to see the fire take the tree and dance up it, so that it bursts into a white-hot light, just like a candle, and I know it will be seen on the mainland, and they will know that this is not a natural fire, although it is not man-made. It is woman-made, and I wonder who will come.
The pain in my arm is excruciating. I feel faint . . .
I come back to consciousness, and hear, muffled by the soughing of the sea but still audible to my hyper-sensitive hearing, the sickeningly familiar sound of the Duffy brothers’ boat growing louder and louder, and then, the sound I have been dreading, the barking and growling of a pack of dogs in full cry after their prey.
I can hear seagulls crying, far out over the sea. Or is it the blood pounding in my ears? I stay in my cave, where I’m safe. If anyone comes in here, I have my torch in my unsteady left hand ready to shine in their eyes, my knife in my right hand ready to plunge into their heart, until I find out whether they are friend or foe.
Flames crackling all around me, knife and torch in hand, I wait . . .