Sands of the Scorpion

by Bear Grylls

  ‘There’s not much left,’ Peter warned.

  They rested in the shade of the truck and Beck saw that he was right. With their shelter and their various wrappings they had got through a lot of their supplies. He didn’t want to use their shelter covering for what he had in mind in case it ripped.

  But there was still just enough spare silk to wrap around the crate, and enough cord to tie it in place. He left the top of the crate open so that they could get into it. Last of all he fastened a couple of lengths of cord, each about two metres long, to the front. He took hold of them and walked away at a steady walking pace. The cord tightened and the silk-wrapped crate slid along the sand behind him. There was hardly any friction.

  ‘Are you going to tell me or do I guess?’ Peter asked. ‘And has this got anything to do with peeing?’

  Beck passed him one of the towing cords. ‘Only if you’re easily excitable,’ he said.

  * * *

  They kept walking with their new acquisition trailing behind them. It was light but it still dragged a little. Beck resolved they would try it once. If it didn’t work then they would abandon it. There was no point expending energy on something unnecessary.

  The next dune rose up ahead of them and they slogged their way up it. Having to keep one hand on the towing cord made it harder than before. At last they reached the top and looked down a smooth slope of sand into the next dip.

  ‘OK,’ Beck said. ‘Experiment time. Get in.’

  Peter didn’t move. ‘We’re riding?’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘Yup. We’re riding.’

  Beck positioned the crate so that it was perched on the lip of the slope. Peter got in gingerly and sat at the front. He drew up his legs and gripped the sides with his hands. Beck stood at the back like the pusher of a bobsleigh, ready to give it the necessary impetus.

  ‘. . . two . . . three . . . ’

  He pushed the crate forward and swung himself in just as it hit the slope. For a moment he thought it wouldn’t work; it was just going to be too heavy. It slid slowly for a little way, but the silk moved smoothly over the sand and it soon picked up speed. Beck leaned back a little, moving the crate’s centre of gravity so that the nose lifted and reduced the friction even further. Peter whooped as it picked up speed even more. Sand hissed beneath them and air brushed past their faces. They were cruising!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The crate hit the bottom of the dune. It stopped so suddenly that Beck was thrown into Peter in front of him.

  ‘Oof!’

  They unpicked themselves gingerly and climbed out of the crate.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘It’s better than the log flume at Disneyland!’ Peter looked a little unsteady on his feet but Beck was used to that. He didn’t seem damaged by the sudden impact.

  They looked back up the dune. The crate had cut a furrow of darker sand down the side. Beck guessed that at their usual pace it would have taken fifteen minutes to get down. It would have used up strength, wasted water, tired their legs and filled their shoes with sand. They had done it in under thirty seconds.

  ‘Can we go again, Mummy?’ Peter asked in a high-pitched child’s voice.

  ‘The very next time we find a dune,’ Beck promised.

  ‘Cool . . . ’

  They still had a good hour to go before the sun had risen high enough to stop them. Beck reckoned they could manage two or three more dunes in that time. They each took a mouthful of water to hold in their mouths and set off again.

  * * *

  Another dune, and another. They were all merging into one. Beck found he couldn’t remember details of individual dunes because there weren’t any. It was as if they had spent the whole of the last three days just climbing up one dune and walking or sliding down it again.

  But at the top of the third dune – or was it the fourth? The fifth? – they could see a difference. The ground up ahead was much smoother. Still sandy, but no more big hills. The ground rose and fell gently. There would be no more need for the crate down there.

  But, even more important, they noticed the horizon. It still shimmered in the super-heated air; it was still impossible to get a firm fix on anything. But something solid rose out of the shimmering and stayed there. Solid ground and craggy, rocky cliffs.

  Beck feasted his eyes greedily on the sight. ‘It’s the mountains! It’s the start of the Atlas Mountains!’

  Peter came to stand next to him. ‘Or the Anti-Atlas.’ His voice was harsher than ever. Still not enough water inside him. ‘Foothills,’ he explained at Beck’s enquiring glance. ‘But yes. Basically it’s the Atlas Mountains.’

  They positioned the crate for its final slide. Beck took one last, happy look at the high ground ahead before giving it a shove. They wouldn’t get there today, and possibly not even tomorrow. And even when they reached the mountains, they would have to get through them. But it felt like the end was in sight. Almost. It was like taking a long car journey and finally seeing a road sign pointing to your destination, even if that was still hours away.

  But just then, Peter collapsed without warning.

  They had surfed down the last big dune. Together they had packed up the silk, leaving the wooden bones where they were, and set off again. The mountains were hidden once more in the heat haze and the day was growing warmer but Beck had planned to give it a little longer before calling a halt.

  Then Peter doubled up as if someone had slugged him hard in the guts.

  ‘Pete?’ For a moment Beck thought his friend had just tripped on something. But then he groaned and tore away his face wrappings just in time to be sick on the sand. He heaved until he was empty, then crouched, trembling, on all fours. Beck caught him just before he collapsed completely, then watched helplessly as he convulsed and let out a yelp of pain.

  ‘Cramp . . . ’ Peter whispered through clenched teeth. His face was as red as a beetroot and he clutched at his thigh. ‘Hurts . . . ’ He dug his fingers into the cramping muscles of his leg.

  Beck helped him to sit down, then quickly grabbed the discarded wrappings and covered his head again, taking the opportunity to feel his brow. It was burning hot . . . and also completely dry. There wasn’t a drop of sweat there. Beck’s heart plummeted. No sweat, burning temperature, nausea, cramps, red face. . . Beneath his robes, so that Beck couldn’t see, Peter had quietly been walking himself into a severe case of heatstroke.

  The body cools itself by sweating. When it’s so dehydrated that it can’t sweat any more, it can’t cool itself either. Peter’s face was red because blood vessels near the skin had dilated, exposing more blood in an attempt to cool the body down. That was for the time being. Eventually he would start turning pale as his blood pressure dropped. Organs would fail. Unconsciousness would follow, then death.

  Peter shivered. ‘I feel cold,’ he muttered. ‘It’s ridiculous. I’m freezing . . . ’

  I know, Beck thought gloomily: that was another symptom on top of all the others. Shivering while you burned up, just like a fever. If he felt Peter’s pulse, it would be racing – up to maybe 160 a minute. He didn’t need to.

  Beck looked at where Peter had been sick. All he could think was what a waste of good liquid that had been.

  ‘Sorry.’ Peter pushed him away gently, and tried to climb to his feet. ‘Mustn’t hold you up. Keep going . . . ’

  He swayed and would have toppled again if Beck hadn’t grabbed hold of him.

  ‘Journey’s over for today, Pete.’ Beck forced himself to sound bright and cheerful. It was so much better than If we don’t get help, you’re going to die.

  ‘What? Here?’ Peter stared around with blood-shot eyes.

  Beck could see his point. Nothing but smooth sand all around. No rocks, no dips, nothing. ‘I’ll get the shelter up,’ he promised. ‘Get the sun off you. That’ll cool you down . . . ’ It wouldn’t help rehydrate him, though, he thought.

  ‘What about over there – the oasis . . . ?’ Peter gazed int
o the shimmering distance and took a couple of steps forward.

  Beck caught him again. ‘There’s no oasis, Pete,’ he muttered, though he looked around quickly just in case Peter had spotted something he had missed. There was nothing. Great, he thought, the hallucinations were back. He cursed himself for not doing something about this the first time his friend thought he saw an oasis. Maybe that was when the heatstroke started to set in. He should have done something then.

  ‘Is too . . . ’ Peter staggered another couple of steps.

  Beck followed him, desperately scanning the landscape for anything that could help. ‘Look, Pete, we’ll find the north side of a dune . . . ’

  ‘But . . . ’ Peter pointed pathetically into the distance at nothing. ‘There . . . ’

  Beck bitterly remembered his little prayer of the night before. Please. Don’t let Peter die, he had said.

  He looked around again. There was something dark in the heat haze. He squinted: it looked like a palm tree. Tall and thin, topped by a cluster of spiky leaves. There was another one next to it emerging out of the haze. It was about two hundred metres away. How had he missed that?

  ‘Son of a gun,’ he breathed. ‘That might actually be an oasis!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Peter turned a tired but triumphant smile onto him. ‘See? Told you yesterday . . . ’

  ‘Oh, sure, you saw this yesterday!’ Beck retorted, remembering Peter’s supposed oasis the day before.

  But even as they bickered, they were heading towards the oasis. Beck had to shorten his strides to match Peter’s – even though his friend was trying to run.

  Soon they came to a small depression, a shallow bowl in the sand. Somewhere deep beneath them was an underground river or aquifer – a reservoir of water trapped between layers of rock, pushed out here by some subterranean pressure to make this tiny patch of green in the middle of the vast desert.

  There was a shallow puddle of murky water, no more than two or three metres across. What kept it from evaporating was the two date palms. They rose majestically, side by side, out of the sand on slender trunks, fifteen metres high or more. Each one was crowned with a clump of long, spiky leaves almost as wide as the tree was tall. Clusters of dates hung down between the leaves, wrinkled and luridly green.

  The trees stood at the southern edge of the oasis and together cast their shade over the water. The fallen trunk of a third palm lay nearby.

  A cluster of bushes bordered the northern side of the oasis like an untidy garden hedge. It filtered out the hairdryer heat of the north wind and turned it into a gentle breeze of cooler air.

  To the boys, the oasis looked like paradise.

  ‘OK,’ Beck muttered to his friend, ‘let’s get you sorted out.’

  The obvious thing to do was plunge him into the puddle and let him cool down, but Beck fought the temptation. The puddle was their only source of water and he wasn’t going to pollute it. They had to drink it. They also owed it to any other living thing that came across this place, human or animal, to keep the water clean. But still, the first thing to do with a heatstroke victim was cool them down by every means possible.

  He made sure Peter was fully in the shade. Not a single splash of direct sunlight fell on him.

  ‘Right,’ he said bluntly. ‘Get your clothes off.’ Out in the sun, clothes gave shelter. Here in the shade, clothes would just keep in warmth that had to be let out.

  Peter was too dazed to argue. While he was undressing, Beck filled the bottles from the pool. They filled up with merry gurgles and bubbles that were heaven to his ears. Then he let Peter drink his fill, but slowly.

  ‘Don’t gulp it,’ he said. ‘Try to sip it down slowly. Let it soak into your mouth first. Make sure your body notices it’s there. Really make the water work.’

  Next Beck pulled out one of the bits of wood he’d taken from the truck and started to scrape a trench in the ground. It wasn’t going to be big – maybe sixty centimetres wide and just long enough for Peter to lie down in.

  ‘Burying me already?’ Peter muttered, his face still flushed. He was still in the grip of his heatstroke fever. Despite everything, Beck had to grin at the sight of his skinny friend. Another flash of memory took him back to his adventure in Alaska. At different times, both he and Tikaani had had to strip down completely to get out of soaking wet clothes and avoid hypothermia.

  ‘Lie down here,’ he instructed, helping Peter down into the trench he had dug.

  Peter’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘It’s really cool!’

  ‘Yup. Go down just thirty centimetres or so and it can be sixty degrees cooler. Wait there.’

  ‘Where else would I be going?’ Peter asked logically.

  Beck took the bottles over to the pool and plunged them under the surface. Then he went back to Peter and stood over him with a wicked grin.

  Peter’s face fell as he realized what was about to happen. ‘Oh, no . . . !’

  ‘You’ve got to cool down, mate.’

  ‘OK, do it . . . ’

  Peter squeezed his eyes shut and Beck started to pour cool, life-giving water over him. He did it slowly and carefully, moving the two streams of water along Peter’s body.

  Peter breathed out in ecstasy as the water splashed over him. ‘I will never complain about cold showers again,’ he vowed. ‘Cold showers are good.’

  When the bottles were empty, Beck filled them up again and this time poured them over a pile of silk. Once the material was thoroughly drenched he handed it over to Peter. ‘Stick ’em under your arms and your, um’ – he gave a two-note whistle – ‘privates. Those are your hottest places.’

  He thought about soaking some more and draping them over his friend, but decided against it. Peter would cool down best with wet skin and a breeze, and he didn’t want anything to block the airflow. So he refilled the bottles and again poured water over him.

  Peter was soon looking a lot less red than before and his face was less drawn.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Beck asked him.

  ‘Blinkin’ awful,’ came the answer, with feeling.

  Beck grinned. This sounded hopeful.

  He set up the shelter over Peter, ignoring his offers of help. ‘If you want to help,’ he said, ‘get better. And that means you lie there until you do.’

  Then Beck started to deal with his own thirst. Long cool sips of muddy, heavenly water. He soaked his turban and wrapped it around his head again. ‘Heaven,’ he muttered, and wondered if this oasis had ever saved any other humans.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Meanwhile Peter was lying in his cool trench, soaked by water, in the shade of a silk shelter, in the further shade of the trees. If that didn’t cool him down, nothing would. So, Beck thought, next priority . . .

  ‘Right.’ He rubbed his hands together and looked around. ‘Food!’

  He looked up again at the nearest of the trees. The trunk wasn’t quite vertical – maybe ten degrees off.

  ‘Right,’ he said again to the cluster of dates at the top. ‘You’re first.’

  Normally, to climb a tree like this Beck would have just hauled himself up with his hands, wrapping his legs around the trunk. But a date palm like this wasn’t just something you could shin up. The bark was made of segments – overlapping triangles. It was like the armoured scales of some desert monster and the scales were very sharp. Beck had heard of people shredding the skin of their legs, and other parts of their body too. So he had to work his feet into the gaps between the segments and climb up slowly and carefully.

  It still didn’t take long. From the top he looked down at the oasis, their little desert kingdom. He could just see Peter’s feet sticking out from beneath the shelter. Then he did a full three-sixty, scanning the horizon in all directions. South, west and east – nothing but sand and heat haze. North – the mountains, a dirty brown ragged line reaching up to touch the sky. He thought they seemed a little higher than the last time he had looked at them. That meant they wer
e nearer. Good.

  Beck studied the clusters of dates carefully. There were three or four within easy reach. Their weight of a hundred or so dates made them hang down vertically. When they were ripe, dates were yellow; when unripe, green. And bitter. He picked the cluster that looked yellowish and sawed through the stem. It fell to the ground with a dull thud.

  Next he cut away every palm leaf within easy reach. They fluttered gently to the ground.

  ‘Huh?’ said a voice beneath him. He looked down. Peter was peering out of the shelter.

  ‘Lie back down!’

  ‘Why are you cutting down leaves?’

  ‘They’re edible if we cook them. Lie back down.’

  ‘You know, it gets really boring just lying here.’

  Beck started to pick his way slowly back down the tree. ‘Pete. Please. Just lie back down. I’ll pour some more water on you.’

  Peter lay back down in his trench, grumbling under his breath. Beck had to look away so he wouldn’t see his broad smile. If Peter had the energy to grumble, that meant he wasn’t dying.

  The sharp bits of the palm-tree bark pointed upwards, which meant they dug into Beck as he climbed down. When he was low enough, he simply let himself slide round the trunk so that he was hanging straight down. Then he let go and dropped.

  ‘We need some kind of container,’ he said when he was back on the ground. ‘Not one of the bottles. Something fireproof.’

  ‘There’s the medical kit,’ Peter said, after a moment’s thought.

  ‘Hey, of course.’

  Beck had forgotten about that. He had taken it from the plane because it would have been stupid not to, but so far it hadn’t been of much use for anything. But it was a small box, and it was made of metal. He dug it out and nodded with satisfaction. Yes, this would do. In fact, it would serve a couple of purposes.

  Beck transferred the contents to a pocket on his rucksack, then got the axe and went over to the third palm –the one lying on its side next to its brothers. Sand had blown up against one side of it. First Beck used the knife to pry the bark away. He grinned at the sight of the insects and grubs that wriggled indignantly away the moment the sunlight fell on them.