Sands of the Scorpion

by Bear Grylls

  ‘Oh, right, hang on . . . Oh, yes. It’s that way.’ This time he pointed in the right direction.

  ‘If you know the time, then the sun’s always a good guide. Early morning – east. Noon – due south. Evening – west. North, East, South, West – Naughty Elephants Squirt Water. That’s how I remember it,’ Beck said, pointing.

  ‘Or,’ Peter suggested, ‘Never Eat Scorpions’ – he paused – ‘Waw! Almost raw,’ he added as Beck laughed out loud.

  Their spirits were up: it was time to get moving again.

  They put on their remaining clothes and rubbed more charcoal onto their hands, which were now the only exposed part of their bodies. It was the next best thing to sunscreen for protecting their skin from the sun’s ultraviolet. Last of all they took their mouthfuls of water, which they would try to avoid swallowing for as long as possible.

  Their eyes met again, and for a moment Beck was in danger of losing the water in his mouth. He wanted to laugh. In addition to the parachute silk they now had dark panda eyes and pee-soaked boxers tied around their heads.

  Peter’s eyes – all Beck could see of his friend – suddenly crinkled. Beck guessed Peter was thinking the same about him. It was good to have someone with you – someone for moral support, someone in the same situation as you. Someone to rely on and be relied on by.

  They couldn’t speak with mouths full of water and Beck put the bottle into his rucksack and slung it up onto his back. They set off again into the desert beneath an ever-lightening sky.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Walking through the desert by day was very different to doing it by night. The heat and the light were only part of the problem.

  On the plus side, you could see where you were going. No slightly darker patch of sand would suddenly turn out to be a rock you could crack your shin against. You could see where your feet were going so you didn’t risk twisting an ankle.

  But now the boys couldn’t see the stars either. It would be so easy to get disorientated as they trudged through the sun-baked landscape. You could set your sights on a dune in the far distance, but the land rose and dipped as you walked.

  Landmarks sank out of sight and changed as you moved. And you couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure where the landmarks were. The air warmed up as the sun rose – slowly at first, then increasingly quickly – and its heat began to reflect back off the sand. As the air warmed, it began to shimmer. During the hottest part of the day it would be superheated up to three metres above the ground and the shimmering would distort the horizon.

  They set a pattern of walking for one hour, then resting for five minutes. ‘It’s a good way to keep a focus on your walking,’ Beck told Peter. ‘It gives you something to aim for. Five minutes’ rest every hour: long enough to have a break but not so long that you start to stiffen up.’

  At their next five-minute break Beck explained to Peter about the heat haze, which made it hard to navigate.

  ‘OK,’ Peter said with a shrug when Beck had described it. ‘So we use the direction of the dunes to navigate, like I said. Shallow sides facing north-east.’

  ‘Yes, but the trouble is, we need to be up on top of a dune to see the other dunes properly. This is why deserts are so disorientating.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Peter said. ‘I once saw this film with two guys walking through the desert; they ended up going round in circles because if you’re right-handed, see, then you’re going to take slightly longer strides with your right leg and you’ll go round in circles.’ He looked chuffed with himself.

  ‘Well, it’s logical,’ Beck admitted. ‘We’ll bear it in mind and keep a close eye on the dunes!’ he joked. ‘But actually, if you look here . . . ’ Beck pointed down along the ground. They were on a patch of loose sand that lay in furrows. ‘These little ripples are effectively small dunes. They behave in the same way as big dunes. They are shaped by the wind, in the same direction. As long as you’re crossing them at a constant angle, you’re going in the right direction.’

  He glanced down, noticing the brush growth in the sand. ‘Look – there are signs of water here.’ With his toe he prodded a small, stunted bush growing out of the sand. It came halfway up to his knees. ‘Even these don’t grow on nothing. There’s got to be water somewhere here. Not enough for us, but there’s water. If you see any kind of large vegetation, we’re in with a chance. Look out for palm trees. The locals say they have their “head in fire, feet in water”. It’s not guaranteed – the water might be too deep down – but it’s worth a try. Or if you find an animal trail, follow it; and birds and insects might fly towards water. They all have a better idea than we do.’

  ‘Will do,’ Peter promised. His jaw was set and determined, but Beck looked into his eyes and saw fatigue. Well, it was hardly surprising. It was now already hotter than a hot, hot day back home.

  He passed him the bottle. ‘Another mouthful and we’re off.’

  * * *

  The stench of hot pee around their faces was bothering them both less and less. They were simply becoming immune to the smell. But their thirst was growing.

  Beck wondered how much of it was psychological and how much real need. They had been walking for hours now, with only short breaks. Their bodies were using up water. And when your body was wrapped in searing heat and the sun was beating down on sand all around you, you felt you ought to have a drink. For some reason Beck found himself thinking of shampoo commercials. Beautiful people throwing their heads from side to side in slow motion while drops of crystal-clear water flew around them. It was the water that mesmerized Beck. Water, beautiful water.

  He kept a close watch on the level in the bottles. There was only one direction it was going and that was down. And so far, despite all the clues he had given Peter, they hadn’t spotted a single sign of water.

  There was one other way.

  He tugged at Peter’s arm, and nodded over at a tall dune a short distance away. It was higher than all the others.

  ‘We’re going up there,’ he said, his voice muffled by his face wrappings. ‘See if we can see signs of water from above.’

  Peter’s eyes, hidden in the folds of silk, were a little glazed. But he nodded and obediently turned towards the dune.

  It took half an hour to climb. Just like the dune back at the start of their walk, the sand slithered and crumbled beneath their feet. By the time they reached the top their thirst was intense.

  They looked out over an ocean of sand, the dunes its waves and rollers. The horizon crumbled into shimmering air so there was no way of seeing how far it reached. It could have been a few miles away. It could have gone on for ever.

  Suddenly Peter plucked at Beck’s arm and pointed. ‘Over there!’ His voice sounded dry and wheezy – there wasn’t enough saliva in his mouth to lubricate it.

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ Beck said gently. ‘It’s just a mirage.’

  Yes, he had seen the silvery flash on the horizon too. Superheated air reflected light straight back to you, like a mirror. Your eye saw a burst of silver and your brain interpreted it: water!

  ‘No, not that. Lower down.’

  Beck looked at a point halfway between them and the horizon. Yes. Somehow his short-sighted friend had seen it even though he no longer had his glasses. A slightly darker line wound and twisted its way between the golden mounds of the dunes.

  Even then Beck hesitated a little. It was due east of them. It would take them off course. Sometimes dark sand was just dark sand.

  But then a moving speck caught his eye. It rose up from the general direction of the dark line and circled round, then moved away into the distance. It was some kind of bird – he couldn’t tell what. Probably a desert hawk or some other predator. No bird was going to live in the desert for fun.

  No bird was going to live somewhere without water either.

  ‘You’re a genius, Peter,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The dark line soon dropped out of sight again as they walked
down the dune. Beck navigated by the simple process of heading due east, keeping the sun on their right at forty-five degrees. The ground beneath them changed, becoming harder and more rocky. And then they were standing on the lip of a dry groove in the ground that cut its way through the desert as far as the eye could see. A hundred metres further along, the dark knot of an acacia bush clung to the side.

  ‘It’s a wadi,’ Beck said. ‘A dry river. It will only fill with water once in a blue moon, and only ever during the rainy season but . . . ’

  Peter took a couple of attempts before he managed to speak through his dry mouth. ‘Let’s get down there,’ he mumbled.

  They stopped beneath a rugged slab of rock that faced north. The air was immediately cooler when they stepped into its shadow. Because it faced north it could never feel the touch of the sun and didn’t radiate heat like other rocks did. They could sit with their backs against it, in the shade, and immediately feel the difference. They could take off their turbans and silk wrappings and – finally – get rid of the pee-soaked boxer shorts wrapped around their heads.

  Beck couldn’t help smiling when he saw Peter. His face was grey with charcoal, his hair tangled and matted, and he smelled of pee. Beck knew he was in just the same position.

  ‘See how much good a nice walk does you?’ he muttered.

  Peter’s mouth twitched in an attempted smile, but he closed his eyes and leaned back against the rock, looking drained.

  Beck leaned forward and looked down the wadi. He could just see the acacia he had noticed earlier.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet.

  ‘Yeah, like I’m going anywhere,’ Peter mumbled.

  Close up, the acacia bush was a tight cluster of dark branches and small, dark green leaves interspersed with thorns. These were spaced quite widely along the branches, sharp and curving like vicious claws. Beck carefully snapped a pair of branches off the main bush, and knocked the thorns off sideways. Then he took the branches back to Peter.

  ‘Acacia,’ Peter said immediately, though again he had to work his mouth first to say anything at all. ‘In this part of the world they grow close to the Atlas Mountains.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Beck said hopefully. Instinctively he peered north, but down in the wadi he couldn’t see the horizon, and anyway he knew what the horizon looked like. Yellow, big and shimmery. But if they were near the Atlas Mountains, then they were nearing people.

  Of course, in a desert that took up a quarter of Africa, ‘near’ was a relative term.

  A shrill cry from above made him shelve thoughts about how near Morocco might be. Wings curved, feathers spread for maximum braking, a desert hawk swooped and touched down on a ledge above them. Peter and Beck weren’t the only ones to seek out the shade it provided.

  Beck took a step back with his hands on his hips. He could just see the collection of twigs that formed the hawk’s nest. He studied it thoughtfully. The ledge was about four metres up, close to the top of the wadi wall, but there was a rock overhang just above it. The nest was protected from any threat from that direction. The only way to get to it was to fly – or do what most desert animals probably couldn’t. Which was climb.

  ‘Do you like your eggs over easy or sunny side up?’ Beck asked.

  ‘Huh?’ Peter twisted round and followed his gaze up. ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Nope.’ Beck picked up his discarded turban, dusted it down and started to wrap it around his head again. ‘Help me tie this on.’

  ‘You realize the hawk will try and defend its nest?’ Peter pointed out.

  ‘Exactly.’ So, wrapped in parachute silk, Beck started to climb up the rock.

  It wasn’t easy, but the nest wasn’t high either. The hand- and footholds were good. Keep three points anchored, Beck’s father had always told him: you had two feet and two hands, and you always made sure three of those were holding onto something before you moved the fourth: two to keep you in place and one as backup, he remembered his father always joked. Beck had his head craned back and his eyes fixed on the nest, expecting an irate bird to fly down and defend itself at any moment. And so he was lucky that the movement at the edge of his vision made him focus on where he was about to put his hand.

  The scorpion was standing on a ledge level with his head. Beck and the arthropod were looking each other in the eye. The scorpion twitched its tail vaguely at him, but didn’t appear to feel threatened.

  It wasn’t a yellow fat-tailed scorpion. This one was much larger and darker. But big was good. In general, the smaller the scorpion, the more potent they tended to be. And this one was huge. Beck didn’t know the species, but that didn’t matter: his eyes lit up. Scorpions, he knew, do not live in nests. They lay eggs that hatch; the young then cling onto their mother for a few months, until they are big enough to look after themselves. This one had five teenage scorpions on her back.

  ‘O-kay . . . ’ he murmured. He made sure his feet were securely planted on a rocky ridge, and fished out his knife.

  ‘Sending you a present, Pete,’ he called as he extended the blade. ‘Stand back.’

  The scorpion raised its tail as Beck slid the blade under its belly, but then a flick of his wrist sent it flying out into the air. It landed a safe distance away from Peter and immediately began to crawl towards the shade. Peter instinctively scrambled back when he saw what it was.

  ‘What am I expected to do with it?’ he called up angrily.

  ‘Put the rucksack over it or something until I get down. Right . . . ’

  Beck turned his attention back to the rock face, just as the mother hawk dive-bombed him. The first he knew of it was when he felt a blow to the back of the head; then he was half blinded by a whirl of angry feathers and beating wings around him. The bird screeched into his ears and its claws and sharp beak tore at the wrappings around his head.

  Beck kept his head down to protect his eyes, which were the part of him that was most vulnerable to attacking talons. Sometimes a claw got far enough to prick him, but that was all.

  There were three eggs lying in the nest. They were smooth and white, mottled with dark streaks. Beck bared his teeth in a triumphant smile.

  ‘You’re young,’ he muttered as he slipped them into his pocket and the hawk flapped angrily above him. ‘You’ll have more babies . . . ’

  The bird seemed to give up as he climbed back down again. It obviously thought it had done its job in scaring him off, and the fact that he had its eggs was put down to experience. It sat on its rock ledge and glared down at the two boys, but it came no closer.

  ‘We need these more than you,’ Beck muttered to himself.

  ‘Feast day!’ he announced when his feet touched the ground again. He produced the three eggs and waved them triumphantly under Peter’s eyes. His friend was slumped against the rock, keeping a close eye on the rucksack he had dropped over the scorpions.

  ‘Yum. Raw scorpion washed down with raw egg.’

  ‘Fried egg,’ Beck corrected him. ‘Some of those rocks in the sun will get so hot we can cook them.’

  He was pleased to see an answering smile – though it quickly faded and Peter slumped back against the rock. Beck frowned. Was his friend trembling slightly? It could just be exhaustion and dehydration. It could – worst of all – be heatstroke. Could that have started to set in?

  Beck knew that Peter was mentally tough – very tough. But mental toughness would only take you so far. Ultimately you needed a body that was in good working order too. They both needed food and water. They needed energy.

  Beck carefully picked up the rucksack and shook it out in case any baby scorpions had crawled inside. The mother scorpion quickly scuttled off, but he trapped her with a stick, then despatched her and her young in the same way he had the yellow scorpion. ‘Scorpions and eggs it is then.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  They feasted on the scorpions there and then, crunching on the shells and sucking out the gooey mess of innards.

  B
eck immediately kicked across a long flat rock that was in direct sunlight and pulled it to the edge of the shade. It was almost too hot to touch. Carefully he cracked the first egg onto the rock. It settled, then slowly started to turn white. It was cooking!

  ‘See – nature’s stove!’ Beck said triumphantly. Within minutes it was cooked through and Beck scraped it off with his knife and gave it to Peter to eat. He persuaded his friend to eat the second egg as well, which he hoped would pick up his strength, then wolfed down the third egg himself.

  Peter still looked tired. Beck had been going to show him how to find more water in the wadi. Now he reckoned it would be better if his friend just stayed where he was.

  ‘Can I borrow your shirt, Pete?’ he asked.

  Without even enquiring why, Peter wearily leaned forward and took it off. Beck wrapped himself up again and ventured out into the bright sun with the shirt in his hand.

  About twenty metres further on, the wadi curved off to the left. Beck knew that water flowed slowest on the outside bend of a river or stream. It drained away less quickly, which meant it had more time to pool and soak in. Beck had already scanned the parched ground around them for places where water could have collected – a dip or any slightly lower ground had potential. But the bend looked the best bet.

  The soil there was dry and dusty. Beck knelt down and began to dig with a piece of wood; sand trickled back into the hole almost as quickly as he dug it out. He dug harder. Water would be found within half a metre of the surface, he knew, or not at all. If you had to dig down further than that then it wasn’t worth the energy. You just went and tried somewhere else.

  Beck grinned as he uncovered cool, moist sand further down. ‘Result . . . ’ he murmured.

  He spread out the shirt next to the hole and started to transfer the damp sand onto it. The stick wasn’t flat enough to shovel sand efficiently so he scooped up handfuls of it in his fists. There was no obvious water but the sand was the same dark brown as the sugar his mother had once used to make crumbles with. It smelled fresh. Pleased with himself, Beck folded the shirt over the pile and looked up.