The sky lightened enough to make out the horizon, and I scanned it for a sign of the Beagle. Nothing, but at least it was calm; good weather for them to search for me. Things always look better in the morning, my da always said.
My stomach groaned. On the Beagle,breakfast was served in the mess at eight o’clock sharp. I wondered if the captain would be planning the search for me with Mr Darwin and if the men would talk of me between their spoonfuls of hot oatmeal with dollops of the thick sweet molasses we’d bought in Lima. Robbins would be awful grim about losing me off the rowboat. I swallowed down the thought of them.
There was no sign of anything edible on this scrubland. I stood and rubbed my cheek where the damp wood of Scratch’s case had left a clammy cold patch. I still didn’t feel ready to open the case and see the ruined instrument, so I strapped Scratch to my back, which gave me some comfort, and tried to think.
The Galapagos shores were rich with fish and turtles, but I had nothing to catch them with. Mr Darwin had eaten iguana, but they were not usually considered edible. I could try to make a spear somehow, but without fresh water the salty sea fish would leave me mighty thirsty.
At least the summit of the volcano showed no sign of activity and the sky was clear of flying beasts. I could wait on the shore but then I’d be in clear view if the beast did come back. I needed a signal, a fire, but for that I’d need wood, and would worry about how to light it later. There wasn’t much choice: I set off inland.
The storm had left behind swiftly clearing clouds and now and again there was a spatter of rain, which I gobbled at greedily. But it wasn’t enough, and my mouth was already sticky and sour. What I wouldn’t have given for a cup of tea right then. Even better, a cup made by my da. He’d been gone since I was six, but I could still taste the strong tea with the metallic flavour of my own little pewter tankard and the shavings of sugar he saved just for me. My tea days were over when Da died and I went to live with my aunt. She’d have me making tea aplenty, but I’d be lucky if I tasted the cold bottom-pot dregs myself. Nowadays, I was in charge of the tinpot tea which I made over the fire for the master whenever we camped, and there was never a shortage. Through all our expeditions I must have made hundreds of steaming brews.
We’d always had so much kit with us, and now I had nothing. I shook my head at myself. And here I was, thinking about tea.
I reached a lava field and paused. The solid black flow stretched far inland and was smoother than most we’d seen, so at least it wouldn’t cut my bare feet completely to shreds. It must have been here for some time because there were pits, and the stout chimneys Mr Darwin called fumaroles. But these ones were long dead, no longer spouting smoke and steam from deep in the earth, and spiky cactuses had sprung up inside and around them. In the distance there might just be a band of greenery I hadn’t been able to see yesterday. The sky was still clear, and the volcano calm. As I walked away from the fumaroles, out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the cactus stems wobble. I stopped still, watching. It must have been the wind.
‘Well, it’s hardly surprising I’m a little nervy,’ I said. The sound of my own voice made me feel stronger.
Nervy? You’ve got the right collywobbles.
The voice in my head was Scratch replying, like the fiddle sometimes did when I berated him for a duff note.
‘What if I have, Scratch?’ I replied, tugging on the fiddle strap.
Just watch yourself, clumsy clout. I’ve been through enough.
I smiled and shrugged. Da used to call me a clumsy clout. Then he’d muss my hair and smile, to show he didn’t mean it.
As I walked on, I had the sense of something following me. It reminded me of games I played with my neighbours in the lane back home in Bedford; What’s the Time Mr Wolf?
No, wild animals didn’t follow people, not unless they were used to being fed by them, and there were no humans on these islands, as far as we knew. There was a small colony of settlers on Charles Island – Mr Darwin planned to visit the governor there – but I could not imagine a person living in such a godforsaken place as this.
I did have the collywobbles. I was being followed by my own fearful shadow.
CHAPTER TEN
The cactuses that grew on the rough black soil of the inland scrub were different, and my heart soared to see the familiar prickly pears we’d found all over the Galapagos. Remembering the wet sweetness of the fruit made my mouth water, but to harvest one I needed a knife. The cactus itself was coated in a pincushion of needle spikes, and the fruit was thick with spiky hairs that would bring up an itchy rash.
Food, right there, but impossible to get to. There had to be a way.
I scrambled around on the ground and found a stick, little more than a stalk of dry grass. I poked at a fruit and the stick snapped.
That was predictable.
‘God loves a trier,’ I said through gritted teeth.
I pulled my sleeve down and reached carefully into the gap between the big fleshy leaves, grinning in triumph as I made it without being poked. I pinched my fingers around the stem and twisted. Not a chance. I was not so lucky on the way out. I dragged my hand too fast, and three spines stuck my skin. In the pain, I staggered backwards and fell over.
You clumsy—
‘—clout. Yes. I know,’ I said, as I pulled the spines from my arm, ‘well, at least there’s no one here to see . . .’
But I wouldn’t mind if the captain’s boy, Davis, ribbed me all day for ever more, if only I could see them all again. The Beagle was a small cramped ship, with seventy-four men and boys aboard, but Captain Fitzroy was a fair man, and we rubbed along well together. The gruff ship’s cook, Phillips, gave me extra raisins with my suet pudding at supper. Laughing Davis, made fun of a duff note on my fiddle but sang a ballad better than anyone. And tough Robbins had four sons of his own back in England and had always looked out for me.
I felt like kicking the prickly pear plant, but didn’t want to pincushion my foot as well as my hand. It would be a while before I starved, I reasoned; finding a source of water and somewhere to shelter from the sky beast was more important. To view the island I’d need to find a high point, but climbing a volcano, the highest point around, was not the cleverest of ideas. And climbing without water, when my throat was already dry, would only make my situation worse.
I growled in the back of my throat. I wasn’t used to all these decisions. I was used to doing as I was told.
The clouds cleared and the sun began to beat hot. Exhaustion overtook me. I collapsed to the ground and stared at the horizon through the measly shade of another prickly pear cactus, trying to remember how Robinson Crusoe survived. Phillips had brought the book on board and I took turns reading with the handful of other sailors who read well enough to tell a tale aloud. Crusoe had been armed with a musket, knife and cooking pot when he was set ashore. Lucky fellow.
I surveyed my fiddle case. It had now dried, and was all I had. If the instrument was completely ruined, I could at least use the case to catch rainwater. I stared up doubtfully at the blue sky. By nightfall, though I could hardly bear to think of this, I might have to use it as firewood.
Before I could change my mind, I flipped the catches and split the wax seals of the fiddle case. I hardly dared look. After protecting Scratch so carefully during nearly four years at sea, I was prepared to have my spirits knocked by his wreckage, but instead I broke into a grin that almost cracked my salty sunburnt face. The fiddle was in one piece! I ran my fingers over the felt inside the case. Only slightly damp. I lifted Scratch, smelt his musty comforting old smell, and settled him between my chin and shoulder in his familiar nook. I drew out the bow, tightened the horsehair and took a deep breath.
‘Keep me company, Scratch,’ I said.
Do you deserve it after all you’ve put me through?
I grinned and pulled the bow over the strings. It sounded . . . the same. The vibration of the strings started through my jaw and hands, then travelled to settle eve
ry muscle in my exhausted body. After a few notes that would have brought tears to Mr Darwin’s eyes – and not in a good way – I managed to coax out a lively jig, one I often played to alert the sailors I was about to begin the evening’s entertainment.
‘Don’t fret, Scratch, I’m a bit out of tune myself.’
The fiddle screeched an especially horrid note in reply.
I cautiously wound the pegs.
Mind your manners, young—
I tried the strings again. Almost in tune and not a single broken string. It felt like a miracle. I sat cross-legged and fiddled a jolly sea shanty in celebration, humming along.
For a minute or two I was so lost in the melody I could have been anywhere – at home with Da, busking on the streets of Bedford, in the officers’ cabin on the Beagle. When I opened my eyes, the green lizard from the previous night stood, head cocked to one side, in front of me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I stopped playing my fiddle, mid-bar, and the lizard raised its snout and sniffed. A ruff of spiky scales raised at the back of its neck. I hadn’t seen those before, and when they stood on end they looked like a prickly headdress. One scale was missing, leaving a gap. Then the ruff lowered, and it turned away. I quickly played on, and when it flicked its head back round I almost smiled.
The green scales that covered the lizard’s body were large, more like those of an armadillo than any reptile I’d seen, and next to the cactuses it was quite camouflaged. Mr Darwin would have called the shade Pistachio Green, from the book he liked to use, Werner’s Nomenclature of Colours – try getting your tongue round that title. But its large eyes were a shade of copper like nothing I’d seen in Werner’s book or anywhere else.
As I played on, I thought I saw its fox-like snout dip and rise in time to the music. No, that was impossible.
You’re so glad to see something alive, you’d probably fiddle to a flea.
I wasn’t going to argue with Scratch on that.
I finished another shanty and laid the violin down in the shade of the cactus to dry out fully. The lizard took a step closer and sniffed. Then it flopped down and laid its snout on its foreclaws.
‘So, you liked that, did you?’ I asked, not feeling as silly as I should, talking to a lizard. ‘Sorry, but I need to let the fiddle properly dry out for now.’
I opened the case to air that too, keeping one eye on the lizard. I’d forgotten about the small compartment at the top, where I kept spare strings and a block of amber rosin for the bow. The strings would be useful – I could find a way to hook a prickly pear or to catch fish – but when I flipped open the lid, something else was in there too, and my heart leapt.
Mr Darwin’s eyeglass. I’d snatched it up from the ground as we left the field of giant tortoises just yesterday. What luck! I pressed it to my eye, but it was meant for close work and through it the world in front of me was blurred and wobbly. How I wished Mr Darwin were here. If a gentleman were lost at sea there would be a big to-do to search for him, but a simple cabin boy-turned-servant, with no one at home who’d miss him . . . perhaps they’d already given me up for lost.
The lizard was still looking at me.
‘Yes. You’re right, no more of that sort of talk,’ I said.
I’d just gained twice as many possessions as I had five minutes ago. This was something to celebrate.
‘See this? I’ve seen men start fire with a magnifying glass.’
You think the Beagle could spot your smoke against the volcano?
I turned. The smoke puffing from the top of the volcano was no longer being swept away by the wind and had formed a black pool of cloud above the summit.
‘I’ll make a fire and then I can cook fish and singe the spikes off the prickly pears,’ I retorted. ‘I’ll have a cheerful blaze going through the night, right on the shore where the lookout will spot me.’
Not going to start anything with these clouds.
It was hot and bright, but had become hazy. No matter! I laid back, hands behind my head, and made myself smile. It was an old trick. Sometimes, when my aunt was in a worse than usual fit and I’d been missing Da something dreadful, I’d smile at strangers in the street and sooner or later someone would smile back, and I’d feel a little better. Just a little.
I lifted my chin. The green lizard was still there. Maybe it was even smiling back, I couldn’t tell.
Something always turned up. I’d told myself that when my aunt had locked me in the coal cellar four years ago, and I’d been right. I’d run away and ended up on the Beagle.
The sun would soon burn off the haze.
Owww! I squealed in pain and jolted upright. The lizard was right there. I scooted back, clutching my foot. Why – the little brute had bitten me!
CHAPTER TWELVE
I leapt to my feet, hopping away from my attacker and grasping my foot which was stinging awful bad. The lizard must have poison in its bite, maybe venom like a snake. But it wasn’t interested in having another go at me, instead it was pawing the ground like a bull about to charge. Something whipped and twisted beneath its claw. A giant centipede. That was the culprit!
The nasty thing was as long as my forearm with a glossy black body and yellow striped legs. It gave a last twitch before it fell still, pinned by the lizard’s claw.
The lizard had been defending me.
My whole leg now throbbed, and pain filled my head like scalding pitch. I collapsed back to the ground and writhed in a fresh surge of agony, as if I were being attacked again. I needed to remember what I knew about this creature. I’d labelled a similar specimen for Mr Darwin a few days earlier; the Galapagos giant centipede. He’d said it could be poisonous. A good reason why, even in the tropical heat, we wore stout boots and gaiters.
The pain came in waves and, when I was able, I angled my foot and forced myself to take a closer look. There were two tiny puncture marks in my heel. A bite. The whole area was already pink and swollen and it felt as if my heart was thumping in my foot.
The lizard nudged the dead centipede, and the scaled ruff at its neck lay flat, its small front teeth showing in a snarl. I shuddered, half expecting the lizard to eat the thing, but it picked it up gingerly with its mouth and flicked the broken insect through the air, and away. Then it ran after it and continued to paw the ground, although the centipede was broken and long dead. The lizard shook its head like a dog shaking off water, and I would have laughed at its outrage if I weren’t in such pain. My head thumped and my eyes felt gritty. I tore a strip off the bottom of my ragged trousers and tied it round the bite with numb clumsy fingers. I remembered the ship’s surgeon, Mr Bynoe, saying something about sucking out the poison.
I doubled over, forcing my heel to my mouth with a groan, and sucked at the bite then spat on the ground, over and over. I could taste nothing strange, only my own iron blood that now made two fresh red beads on my foot.
Not going to work now. Too late for that.
I curled on the ground, clutching my foot, my body wracked with shakes.
The lizard edged a little closer and lowered itself down beside me, its eyes narrowed. Its irises were like beaten copper, burning bright. But I was feverish, and it was my own eyes that burnt. I closed them and my head spun, as if on a merry-go-round.
I spent the rest of that day and the night racked with shivers, sweats and chills, a pounding tide of pain in my head and foot. I was tormented by nightmares that dragged me back to places I thought I had forgotten – half real, half horrors – conjured up by my poisoned imagination.
My life seemed to play before my eyes. The older sailors said this meant a soul was about to meet its maker, and there was nothing to do about it . . . except make my peace.
‘Amazing grace! How sweet the sound . . .’ Da sang, and I played the fiddle. The instrument buzzed and tickled against my small fingers. Then Da’s clothes fell empty, collapsed in a dusty pile around me, and the last note all wrong . . .
‘Ungodly child! We took you in for the sa
ke of Christian charity. Jigs and popular music? Only songs of worship will be played under my roof. Little good music did for your father.’
I shrank down on my sleeping mat at Aunt’s hearth, holding my fiddle tight. What was Da dying of his winter cough to do with being a fiddler? We’d had cosy lodgings and he’d worked in warm taverns . . .
Aunt grew and grew until she filled the room, her voice a furious roar. She wrestled my fiddle from my hands and hurled it into the fire. My body was dense as lead, and all I could do was watch the fiddle and my music, Da’s music, eaten by flames . . .
‘You have a good ear, young fellow,’ said the Naval Recruitment Officer. He flipped a coin into my cap.
‘Thank you, sir.’
I played and played, my arms stiff and deep grooves worn into my fingertips. I didn’t fancy another night in a shop doorway. I just needed enough coin for a hot pie and a night’s board in a decent dosshouse. Passing sailors and their sweethearts tossed in more coins.
The officer was back. ‘How old are you, boy?’
‘Eleven, sir,’ I tried, rolling back my shoulders. I was not yet nine years old but always tall for my age.
‘Hmm,’ he stroked his ginger whiskers, ‘a ship is about to sail, in need of a fiddler. You seem a sturdy sort, if young. Can you work hard, obey orders?’
I nodded. ‘That I can, mister. Captain, sir.’
A ship! Fancy me . . . on a ship!
He was gone, and I cringed as hard raindrops bit at my skin. It was not rain, but a stream of coins falling from the sky, filling my cap and rolling across the quayside. I scrabbled to collect them and held one up to see the sun glinting off it. The shiniest new copper farthing . . .
‘Farthing,’ I croaked, and my own voice woke me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I sat up, wobbly and weak, and my eyes peeled open to see the green lizard in front of me. Staring at me with eyes of new copper. The sun pounding was awful bright.
Darwin's Dragons Page 3