“Fat,” I had said with longing, distracted from my fear. “Maybe we can get enough fat to make some soap.” He knew my obsession with cleaning my hair. I had once tried using sand to absorb the oils from my scalp, and it had taken him almost half an afternoon to help me get it out of my hair, with him laughing the whole time.
As I sat there by the shower considering Braedon’s frayed T-shirt, my fear of a boar hunt returned. I looked at him as he worked on his bow. He seemed so confident and capable that he always managed to convince me.
I stitched a hole in his shirt. Maybe he was right. Maybe we could pull it off. I started a litany of confident statements, but deep down, I was still doubtful.
IT TOOK a couple of days to prepare before we were ready to go hunting. Since we planned to cook the beast in the ground, luau style, we had to dig a big pit. We also built a bamboo corral of sorts in the event we caught one of them alive.
My stomach persisted in churning all day. I didn’t mention my worries to Braedon because I wanted to be a team player and was worried I would sound like a whiner. I held up the carrot of homemade soap as a personal incentive.
None of my efforts could control my dreams, however, which changed that night from a watery nightmare to dark fantasies of a fiendish boar with huge tusks ripping Braedon to shreds.
When I woke him for the third time, he asked, “It’s different tonight, isn’t it?”
I remained silent.
“Lyn. Don’t hold back from me.”
I told him about the dream.
He pulled me tight, his voice soothing. “You’re only scared because you’ve never hunted before. We’ll be fine. Didn’t we agree we need this animal?”
I didn’t argue, but I wasn’t convinced.
BRAEDON PUSHED through the jungle and headed toward me, where I sat next to the fire.
“We’re about ready. Come running when I whistle.” He paused and eyed me wickedly. “Hmmm ... I like the idea of you coming when I whistle.”
“Then you’d better get a dog.” I nodded to the jungle. “Where?”
He pointed to a spot on the edge of the foliage.
My stomach knotted. He squeezed my shoulder and left. I closed my eyes with a shiver. We were really going to do it.
A few minutes passed before he whistled. A few minutes where I sat with butterflies fluttering in my gut—that turned into hawks dive-bombing at the lining of my stomach at his signal. I swept up my spear, hands sweaty, and dashed in the direction of the whistle, my heart battering the inside of my chest. Blinded by fear, I didn’t see Braedon and was about to plow past him when he grabbed me from behind. He stopped my cry with a swift hand.
“Don’t spook them; they’re up ahead about thirty yards.” He slid his hand from my mouth, turning the gesture into a caress of my cheek. “They’re in the closed valley, so they have no place to go but toward us. Their instinct will be to run, but they’ll fight if cornered. I’ve set up several snares along the path, and we only have to drive them in that direction.”
I shook my head in denial. No way could it be as easy as he made it out. “What happens if they don’t want to go?”
“Use your spear, but remember we’re only the sheep dogs driving the cattle,” Mr. Calm said.
The knot in my stomach tightened as an image from my dream flashed through my mind.
Braedon gave my neck a peck and stepped around and in front of me, signaling that I should follow as he filed ahead. I stepped behind him along the path for a few yards, and then he stopped and turned.
“I want you to go up there—very quietly.” He pointed to a dead end. “Make lots of noise when I raise my third finger. The only place they can go will be toward me. Loudly follow up behind them—but not too close. If we’re lucky, one or two will hit my snares.”
Gripping my spear, I advanced softly to the spot he had indicated. I took slow, deep breaths. From a distance, I could see the animals rooting in the ground. I glanced back at him; he had raised his right fist.
One finger. I took a cleansing breath.
Two fingers. I relaxed my knees, preparing to run.
Three fingers. I burst from my hiding place, bounding through the jungle. Using one of my best karate kiais, I waved my arms, spear in hand.
The animals bolted just as Braedon had predicted, running straight ahead. When they began to veer off his intended path, he shouted, driving them back against the steep cliff. I took up a rear position, still yelling. It seemed ridiculously easy.
At first.
Then this big, old boar turned back. Toward me.
The beast was fast. I came to my senses and threw my spear. It hit the boar in the head ... and bounced off. Now he looked ticked!
Spinning, I took off. “Braedon!”
I darted toward a tree with low branches. Twigs and brush ripped at my exposed legs and arms. The thudding sounds of the beast’s feet drew closer. The huffing of its breath urged me on.
The tree. I had to get up the tree.
My back prickled as the creature got closer. Then the tree was in reach. I grabbed a lower branch and swung up. But not fast enough. The boar sliced my left calf before running on. An arrow whizzed past me and struck the beast in the rear haunch. It squealed and continued to run with an unbalanced stride. Another arrow struck, bringing it down.
Braedon charged past me with my spear in his hand and slammed it into the animal’s ribs. It went still. As he pulled the spear from the boar, he called back to me, “You okay?”
With shaking hands, I dropped from the branch. Pain shot up from my calf. I cried out and staggered, trying to keep all my weight on my right leg. Something warm and moist trickled down my calf.
At my cry, Braedon dashed to me. As soon as he saw the bleeding cut, he swore and picked me up, jogging to our camp on the beach.
“Sit still while I boil some water,” he commanded. “Is your tetanus shot current?”
I nodded and clenched my teeth. “Should I put pressure on it?”
“No. It’s not bleeding that bad, and the blood will help flush out the wound.”
Braedon poked at the embers of the fire. Fortunately, I had already boiled water, even if it had cooled somewhat by now. He pulled his ragged shirt off to use as a potholder and rinsed out a bottle before filling it with sterilized water. Setting it aside, he poured the rest of our bottles into the pot.
He handed me the bottle with the sterilized water and examined the cut more closely. When he poked around the wound, I moaned as a wave of dizziness and nausea hit me. “None of the muscle tissue appears to have been damaged.”
He grabbed his pack and pulled out the catamaran’s emergency kit. He lifted my leg and, without looking up, held out his hand. “Bottle.”
I passed it to him, wondering if he acted like this during surgery. The image of me as a nurse made me start to laugh, but it turned to a gasp as he poured the still-hot water on my leg. I reflexively tried to jerk away, but his powerful grip held me in place.
Braedon looked at me. “You okay?”
I nodded, clenching my jaw.
He opened up two of the antiseptic wipes, giving his hands a thorough scrub. “Pour the rest of the water over my hands. Slowly.” When the water was gone, he had me squeeze some of the antibiotic ointment onto his finger. He spread it into the oozing cut. “Unless it gets infected, you should have a clean scar. You can consider it a war wound.”
I stuck my tongue out at him.
“Is that an insult or an invitation?”
Before I could respond, he made it an invitation.
When Braedon had finished with my leg, it looked like it could have been done in an emergency room. Unfortunately, it hurt too much for me to help him haul the beast and two live babies back to camp.
CHAPTER 20
***TWENTY MONTHS LATER***
MY JAWS clenched tight, I rowed as fast as I could, blinking against the salty spray, frantic to avoid the rocks. Would the softwood hold up if we hit them
? Please, please hold up. I had thought going out for a test run would be bad enough. I never imagined coming back might kill us. Another wave smashed over us, driving the softwood outrigger closer to the narrow gap in the boulders.
With aching muscles, I drove my oar into the ocean, swallowing a sob. No sharks. I wouldn’t think of sharks.
“Lyn!” Braedon roared, tossing his oar aside and throwing himself at me.
We flew over the side and into a wave, which washed us between the crags. Even as my head went underwater, I could hear the crash of shattering wood. Coughing and gasping, we made it to shore, collapsing on the sand.
My shoulder ached where I had broken my collarbone during our first tropical cyclone. Our injuries had delayed us from working on an escape clear into our second monsoon season. Not again. After giving up on rafts, it had taken us weeks to hollow out a softwood tree. I covered my mouth as tears mixed with the seawater.
The stress had been mounting with every failure. I had often wished our paradisiacal existence lived up to the fantasy, where we only had to walk out the door and pick food off a tree. The reality had us working to near exhaustion.
Slumped over his knees beside me, Braedon suddenly arched his back and let out a roar, the veins in his neck bulging. He raised his clenched fists, slamming them into the sand, the pink scar on his forearm from his cyclone injury turning bright red as the sand flew into the air. It reminded me of him trying to pull me to safety with that mangled mess of an arm. I had vowed then to face my fear of the ocean. Yeah. Look how well that had turned out.
He suddenly twisted to face me, his eyes a little wild, filled with his frustration and fear. I shared his fear ... and the desperation. The monsoons would be here again soon. Braedon grabbed me and pressed his salty lips hard against mine, his hands clutching the back of my neck, pulling me down to the sand.
By the time an incoming wave touched our feet, our frantic emotions were spent. We lay in the sand. I didn’t think I could get up. Lightning flashed in the distance, and another wave tickled my feet. Instinctively, I untangled myself from Braedon and pulled my knees up.
He watched me, his dark brown eyes drained of hope. The image of the barbeque scene in my father’s backyard, the one that had given me the strength to get out on that stupid outrigger in the first place, flashed through my mind. It had to happen. It had to. I picked up Braedon’s ponytail and ran the wet end across his cheek above his beard. “We can’t give up.”
Brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, Braedon gave me a weak nod. He rose in one fluid movement and pulled me to my feet.
With our arms around each other, we headed toward the lagoon. Braedon pulled aside the curtain of vines, but I turned back toward the water. Against the darkness of the approaching storm, the last of the wreckage of our softwood outrigger—and our dreams—crashed against the rocks.
I rested my head against his shoulder. “Softwood isn’t going to work.”
He exhaled. “We’ll have to use hardwood.”
“But the softwood took weeks to hollow out.”
He turned to face the jungle. “Does it matter how long it takes? You said it. We can’t give up. No matter how long it takes.”
We had barely chosen the tree when they came.
I HAD JUST stepped out of the shower into the late afternoon shadow. I paused, thinking I heard voices, and shook my head at the ridiculous thought.
Then a boy’s laugh made me jump. A man called something in a language I couldn’t understand. It reminded me of the pirates, and my blood ran cold.
I wiggled into my clothes and stole toward the lower falls. I needed to warn Braedon, yet I couldn’t resist taking a peek through the cascading vines. When I couldn’t see movement through the filter of leaves, I began to creep out for a better view.
Abruptly a hand grabbed me from the side, and my scream choked off as another hand covered my mouth. I felt a surge of adrenaline until I recognized Braedon. I relaxed and turned to face him.
He had his bow slung over his shoulder along with a quiver of arrows. With a finger held against his lips, he handed me my spear. Nodding in the general direction of the voices, he stole into the jungle. I followed, not sure if I should feel happy or scared. My stomach churned in anticipation.
Peering through the plants, we saw several outrigger canoes on the shore some distance from the opening to the lagoon, perhaps a third of the way to the catamaran. No people. Braedon tapped my arm and indicated we should continue in the direction of the voices.
Still hidden in the jungle foliage, we found them looking at the wreckage of the catamaran. Braedon put a finger to his lips again, and I nodded. We watched.
There were ten Polynesians—six boys, ranging from about fourteen to eighteen years old, and four adult men. They were looking over the catamaran and examining the general area. The boys spoke English.
We stood in the jungle not far from Maria’s grave, where I had put fresh flowers just that morning. When a couple of the boys wandered over to it, I held my breath. Braedon tensed beside me, slowly lifting his bow with a nocked arrow. My heart pounded in alarm. Surely he wouldn’t have to use it.
One of the boys noticed the little wooden cross on Maria’s grave. “Dad! There’s a grave here!”
The men closest to them turned and hurried over. Most of the others followed.
“See, Dad?”
The boy’s father knelt down at the grave and touched the little marker.
“Who buried her?” his son asked.
The father touched the fresh flowers and stood abruptly, peering into the jungle and up and down the beach. He backed up with his arms outstretched, forcing the others to move away from the jungle.
As if on cue, Braedon stepped out and raised his bow.
The four men seized the boys, pulling them behind them. The father raised his hands and met Braedon’s eyes, saying in English, “We don’t have weapons.”
“What’s on your waist, then?” Braedon nodded toward the knife on the man’s belt.
An electric thrill crackled through me as I noticed something. I dashed out of the jungle and pushed down Braedon’s bow.
“They’re Boy Scouts.” I pointed at the BSA T-shirt one of the men wore and advanced toward the father with my hand held out. “Are you from American Samoa? I’m Lyn North—”
“Lyn Randolph,” Braedon corrected, following closely behind me.
Smiling, I repeated, “Lyn Randolph. This is my husband, Braedon. We’ve been stranded here for over two years. You’re a God send!”
There was no keeping the boys back then, and everyone began to talk at once. Finally, the father put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Everyone stopped talking. “My name is Moli Tatupu and, yes, we’re from American Samoa.” He glanced at the catamaran and then back at us. “I think I know who you are. You’re those cruise ship people who got taken by pirates a couple years ago.”
“What happened to the others?” I clutched Mr. Tatupu’s arm. “Did they get away? Was anyone else hurt?”
His face became sympathetic. “Yes, they got away, and no, no one else was hurt too bad. They took the pirates’ ship right out from under them in the middle of a storm. The only ones they couldn’t find were the four on the catamaran.” He looked at the boat again and back at us, his eyebrows raised.
Braedon answered the unasked question. “Jimmy was shot in the escape and died a few hours later. Maria died when the catamaran crashed here.”
Anger flashed in Mr. Tatupu’s eyes. “I remember the story well because the captain of this boat was my good friend.”
Braedon’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry for your loss.” An awkward moment passed before he pointed back toward the lagoon. “We’ve got a camp up the beach not far from where you landed. Why don’t we all go back there and get something to eat, and we can talk?”
I could have floated in the air as we strolled up the beach. Mr. Tatupu introduced everyone.
“How is it you cam
e to this island, Mr. Tatupu?” Braedon asked.
“Call me Moli. We’re here on a summer camping and boating trip. The boys need the experience for merit badges.” He chuckled. “Our trip isn’t exactly sanctioned by the organization, so it’s an unofficial extended father/son overnighter.” Moli examined the tall mountain. “My father told me about visiting an island in this area many years ago, so we came looking for it. It’s not near any of the regular shipping routes. That’s probably why it’s been left alone so long.”
Braedon met my eyes. “We could have been stuck here for the rest of our lives.”
Moli nodded. “I think I’m the only one my father told about it. He said he first heard of it from a European. He wanted to build a vacation resort here but got hurt and gave up.”
I grinned at Braedon. “Well, that explains that.”
Moli’s son, Lua, who had been listening as he walked behind us, asked, “Explains what?”
“You’ll see when we get to our camp.” Braedon’s eyes twinkled.
As we approached the lagoon, Braedon and I took the lead. With a host-like manner, Braedon pulled back the hanging foliage and swung his arm out. I went first, ducking under the greenery and walking ahead to our work area by the falls.
The men gave appropriate oohs and ahhs as they inspected our workmanship. The boys got excited when I pointed out Braedon’s fish trap, which already had two fish in it. Isaac Patu and his son Etano were especially impressed with the shower.
Etano looked around and noted, “You wouldn’t have very good protection in here from the weather.”
Smirking, Braedon and I said together, “We have a tree house.”
“Where?” asked Lua, lifting his head from where he checked the fish trap.
I pointed to the pathway leading to the plateau, and the younger boys darted for it.
Lua, who stayed to hike up the hill with us, said, “This must be the explanation you mentioned. Did you build the tree house?”
“Yes and no.” Braedon explained what we had found. “We had to do repairs, but it saved us a lot of work.”
“But we did build the tree house,” I said, “more than once.”
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