Dingo: The Dog Who Conquered a Continent

by Jackie French

  Once again, he had no choice. He had to keep paddling west, into the unknown, hoping that soon he’d see a place to go ashore.

  Soon, he prayed. Let me find safety soon.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Dog

  The air was wind and water. Waves tossed the canoe this way and that, the cords that bound her to the canoe digging into her each time. Her fur was wet. A puddle grew at the bottom of the canoe over her paws, her tummy. She had to close her eyes to stop the salt sting of spray.

  Every instinct yelled, ‘Danger! Hide!’

  There was nowhere to hide in the canoe.

  The dog kept on scraping at the cords. Scraping. Scraping.

  CHAPTER 12

  Loa

  The sky was grey. The air was grey too. Rain lashed about them, thrown by the wind. Waves reared over the canoe, splashing down so he had to use his cupped hands to bail frantically to stop the canoe from sinking, then dig the paddle into the sea to manoeuvre them around the next wave, and the next.

  The waves weren’t Wild Wind high. They weren’t even Big Storm high. But they were higher than a shallow canoe; higher than a frightened boy could cope with.

  But there was no choice. And I am not a boy, he reminded himself. This morning I was a hunter. I fought the sow! I can fight the storm now.

  The afternoon was swallowed by the night.

  Time vanished. The world vanished too. There were only the waves, the wind, the rain. He had no idea how he kept the canoe afloat. He only knew that he had.

  So far.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Dog

  A cord snapped next to her muzzle. She rubbed at the other cords, keeping a cautious eye on Bony Boy. But he was frantically paddling, his back to her.

  The other cords slid free.

  She stretched her jaws, feeling the pain and stiffness, then bent her head. Her teeth worked at the cords that held her paws.

  The wind screamed like a dying pig around them. The canoe bucked, the spray lashed from side to side. Bony Boy urgently scooped the water from around them and threw it back into the storm.

  She could do nothing about the wind or water. Instead she bit the cords. It was hard to get a grip — the rocking, swaying boat kept rolling her back and forth and the storm blinded her. Each time the canoe lurched and rolled she was sure she would be swept from the fragile little shell, tumbling helplessly with bound legs into the water.

  The cords around her paws snapped.

  She tried to move her legs. Nothing happened. For a moment she felt panic. She tried again.

  This time they moved, stiff and so painful she whimpered, then glanced at Bony Boy to see if he had heard.

  He hadn’t. His back was to her as he heaved and bucketed against the storm.

  She tried to stand. At last she realised it wasn’t just the weakness of her legs preventing her from standing. There were more cords about her back, holding her to the canoe. She knew to leave them as they were: her only security now was the bucking canoe and Bony Boy, desperately bailing and paddling. Waves reared about them, capped with foam.

  Just for now, she let the cords stay.

  CHAPTER 14

  Loa

  The air was dark with more than storm now: black sky; black water all around. Even the waves’ foam was dark. His world had shrunk to each battering of water, tilting his body frantically each time the canoe was shoved onto its side, brief gulps of air in between the world of water.

  It took minutes, perhaps, to realise that although the wind still snarled and the foam still whipped across his skin, the canoe was hardly moving. It had lodged somehow, leaning to the right.

  His body knew it before his mind had grasped it. Land! They had come aground, somehow, somewhere …

  He reached out a hand into the darkness and felt water rip and tear, still too deep for his fingers to find sand.

  He stood uncertainly, then lowered one leg over the side of the canoe. Sand sucked and wriggled under his foot, stirred by the force of waves.

  Which way was land, and which was the open sea? He risked pulling the canoe back towards the ocean. But every moment he stayed here he risked being slammed by another larger wave. The storm had dumped him here. It could tear him away too.

  He reached his other leg down, holding onto the edge of the canoe. He took one step, then almost unconsciously pulled against the ocean’s tug. If the sea wanted him that way, he would go this …

  He dragged the canoe with him. The water swirled around his thighs, his knees and finally his ankles.

  He had no strength, no sight, no breath. It didn’t matter. He kept on going anyway.

  Another step. Another and another, digging his feet into wet sand. At last the only water came from the sky, not the sea. He could hear the crash of waves and the growl and swirl of the currents behind him. But wherever he was, he was beyond it now.

  He sank down onto the wet sand, then roused himself, and forced himself to scrabble into the canoe again. Vaguely he thought that it was probably high tide now, but he could easily have lost track of time. The tide might still rise higher, or the storm might bring even larger waves. It was wet and cramped in the canoe, but if the waves were to find him again he was safer here.

  His foot touched something. Something wet and furry, that shivered.

  The rubbish dog.

  The rubbish dog was still in the canoe. He reached blindly into the darkness. The water bladders were still there too, held fast by their cords, just like the rubbish dog and his spear.

  He still had food then, a rubbish dog. Fresh water. He had weapons too.

  He let his eyes close, though the darkness behind his lids was no greater than the night and storm. Suddenly he slept, as though a war axe had bashed him on his head.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Dog

  A large sandbank in the great ocean, the Dry Season

  The rain stopped. The clouds fled past, leaving the star-swept sky clear. The dog watched Bony Boy sleep in the darkness. He lay on his back, his mouth open, his eyes shut.

  She stretched cautiously, ready to run or snap if he moved. He gave a half snore, half cry, then breathed quietly again.

  The dog lifted her nose and took in the smells around them. Land and sea, but much more sea than land. This land was a drift of sand in the ocean, no more. No smell of trees. Worse: no scent of fresh water.

  Only one cord bound her to the canoe now. It didn’t take long to bite through it.

  She leaped from the canoe, feeling it shift slightly as she did. Still Bony Boy didn’t move. She trod carefully through the star-dappled darkness up to the highest point of this tiny piece of solid ground. She lay down, keeping her nose pointed towards Bony Boy and the canoe, so that she’d know if either of them moved. She shut her eyes and allowed herself to snooze, her ears pricked, ready for what the dawn would bring.

  Bony Boy slept as the far horizon grew grey instead of black. The dog gazed around. The waves had crept back across the sand, now the storm was gone.

  She padded down to the water’s edge, her ears still pricked in case Bony Boy moved, or a crocodile lurched from the water. It didn’t take long to trot around the island.

  It was pretty much as she had smelled it during the night: a long drift of sand above the waves. But there was a new meat smell now. She nosed around the seaweed and tangles of branches and leaves, then pounced.

  A dead seagull!

  She was more thirsty than hungry, but she needed to eat too. She carried the dead bird up to the top of the island again, then lay down with it between her paws. She nosed off the feathers, then bit into the flesh, enjoying crunching the bones. The salt-sodden feathers stung her lips and tongue.

  She lifted her nose again, hoping that, somehow, there’d be the scent of fresh water. But there was just the sea and Bony Boy and the canoe.

  She had never been so alone. There had always been the pack: the big female with her pups, the top dog, the uncles and aunts, the pups, toddl
ing and learning to hunt. Even when she couldn’t see them she knew where they were by their smell; knew where they’d been, what they were doing. She could smell where dogs had been for generations leaving their scent by trees and rocks. Her world was full of dog, if you knew how to smell it.

  This world was empty.

  How could you be a dog without a pack?

  The pack would find her, she decided. There had to be dogs, even here. There had always been dogs.

  She put her head on her paws and waited.

  CHAPTER 16

  Loa

  He woke with a start, looking up at the blue sky. Where was he? His tongue was too fat for his mouth, his lips swollen and cracked from the salt water.

  He stared around him. No green tree shadows, no birdsong, no rustle of leaves. No mutters from the other members of the clan, no babies crying.

  He sat up, feeling the roughness of the canoe around him, and remembered.

  The storm. The waves, the frantic tugging of the canoe up onto the beach …

  He looked around. It wasn’t a beach, not really. Beaches gave way to trees. Beaches had streams of fresh water.

  This was just a low hill of sand, bright white in the blue of sea. In another storm it might vanish, or perhaps get bigger.

  No trees. No streams. Just … He stared.

  Just the rubbish dog, sitting on top of the hill, her fur almost the colour of the sand, her eyes staring down at him.

  He swallowed. There was a story passed down among the mothers of how a rubbish dog had taken a baby once. But that had been so long ago no one was sure if it was true.

  The rubbish dogs knew that if they attacked a human, the other humans would attack back. But there was no one to help him now.

  This rubbish dog could leap down and tear his throat open.

  The rubbish dog was almost gold in the sun. She didn’t move.

  Loa looked back at the canoe. The water bladders were still there, and his spear. He automatically tipped the canoe over to empty the sea water from the bottom, untied the spear and held it at the ready, one eye on the motionless dog. He used his other hand to untie one of the bladders, then felt the cool trickle of fresh water against his lips.

  It was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted.

  Above him the dog lifted her head. She gazed at him: she could smell the water.

  Loa retied the neck of the water bladder. He glanced around again, searching the horizon.

  Land! He felt his heart beat as he gazed at the green smudge. The storm had pushed the canoe for so long last night he had been afraid that he’d be so far from land he wouldn’t even be able to see it. But there it was, a day’s paddle away, over to the …

  He caught his breath. To the south. He felt the heat of the morning sun on his left side. It was the morning sun too: he knew he hadn’t slept all day and, anyway, the evening sun was redder than the sun of morning.

  Land to the north, east or even west could be home, but no one had ever seen land to the south. Yet there it was.

  He shut his eyes. When he opened them the green smudge was still there. Land.

  He tried to think. His head was dizzy from hunger and weariness, despite the sleep and the drink of water. Hadn’t someone told a story about land to the south?

  Old Uncle, that was it — a story about how Uncle’s grandfather had seen smoke in the southern sky. The smoke had billowed up for days, as though there was a huge fire.

  And, no, said Uncle sternly, it wasn’t a cloud. His grandfather was not a fool. If there was smoke from the south there must be land too …

  Loa gazed at the green smudge. Green meant trees. Were there also cliffs, mountains, a lagoon? But already the sun was glinting on the water and it was impossible to make out any details through the glare.

  He sat back in the canoe. There was still a hand’s depth of water in it, seeped out of the wet wood, but he wanted its familiarity again, even if it was drier on the sand.

  Land to the south, a day’s paddle away. He had water. He even had food, if he speared the dog, or maybe he could spear a fish in the shallows here.

  Or he could paddle north, and hope he found land there.

  But what if he didn’t? Loa had never paddled more than a few beaches from home, but others had. The uncles told stories of how the land stopped after so many days paddling to the east, or so many days paddling to the west.

  What if the storm had blown him so far west that if he paddled north he would miss his land? Or maybe the land was there, but the storm had flung him too far to paddle home? He looked at his water bladders. They’d last him two days, maybe. How many days could you go without water, with the heat and glare of the sun reflected from the sea?

  How many days and nights could he paddle without sleep? If he slept the tides might wash him back the way he’d come. After all, they’d already brought him here.

  He looked down at his canoe. It was water sodden. Canoes rode low in the water at the best of times. Now it would be only a few handspans above the smallest waves. A shark could leap up and grab him. Sharks were always hungry after storms. Or a crocodile might grab him when he came near to land.

  He looked at the rubbish dog again, wishing she was still safely tied in the end of the canoe, shark bait, crocodile bait, to keep him safe.

  How had she got free? Chewing the cords, he supposed. A clever dog. But not clever enough to get away from his spear. Not on a tiny island, with nowhere to run.

  He needed to drink again. But fresh water meant life or death now.

  He looked back at the thin green line southwards, then at the blank blue of sky and sea that made up the rest of the horizon. Every moment he waited here meant it was longer before he had a chance of reaching land, and water.

  Which way? North, to the wide blue nothing? South, towards the green? Take a chance that land might grow from the seamless blue of sea and sky, or paddle towards where he knew land was?

  It isn’t, he thought, really a choice at all.

  He stood. His legs trembled as he jumped clumsily from the canoe. He looked at the dog and pushed up his spear. He could eat raw meat if he had to. Maybe the rubbish dog’s blood would ease his thirst as well. His hand trembled as he tried to aim the spear. If he missed she might attack him. He’d be defenceless, his spear too far away to grab. He took another drink of water, and felt steadier.

  Now he could kill the dog.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Dog

  The dog rested her head on her paws on her sand dune and watched Bony Boy drink. He was the only familiar thing in this new world.

  There were no dogs here. No dogs would be able to come across the sea either. If she wanted to find her pack again she was going to have to get into the canoe and let Bony Boy take her back. The canoe meant pain and heat and thirst. It meant being with a human. But being alone was worse.

  She did the only thing she could think of.

  She rolled over on her back, her legs in the air, her paws limp. It was the ‘roll over’ that meant the other dog was boss, that you’d do what you were told, let them have the best of the food, the first drink of water. She was trying to say to Bony Boy, ‘Let me back in the canoe. I’ll do whatever you want.’

  She didn’t think he’d understand. Humans didn’t understand dog things.

  But what else could she do?

  CHAPTER 18

  Loa

  Loa stared at the rubbish dog. He’d never seen a dog roll over on its back like that. Rubbish dogs were yellow shadows at the edge of camp, sneaking, chewing, jumping.

  The rubbish dog gave a sharp whine. That was strange too. She rolled back over onto her tummy — slowly, so he knew she wasn’t about to leap. She put her head down on her paws and began to creep on her belly along the sand towards him.

  It was the weirdest thing he had ever seen.

  Was the dog trying to get closer so she could attack him? Suddenly he saw small white feathers in her fur and a pile of larger white feat
hers up on the sand. She had eaten a seagull.

  He felt a flash of jealousy. The dog had eaten and he hadn’t.

  He lifted the spear again.

  The dog kept crawling towards him.

  He took a few paces back, to see what she would do, then watched amazed as she jumped into the canoe. She lay with her head on her paws again for a few moments, then began to sniff a water bladder.

  ‘No!’ He raised his spear. But the dog backed off at the anger in his voice.

  Boy and dog looked at each other.

  Slowly, very slowly, he reached down and untied one of the water bladders. He emptied a little into his hand, and reached out to her.

  He wasn’t sure why he did it. The rubbish dog would bite his hand. She would grab the water bladder and drag it back up the sand dune. She would …

  The rubbish dog crept forwards, still on her belly. He felt her tongue lick the water from his hand.

  It tickled.

  Suddenly he wished someone could see him, alone on a sandbank in the middle of the sea, with an untied rubbish dog licking water from his hand. Of course, if there was anyone to see, he wouldn’t be alone.

  The rubbish dog looked up at him, her brown eyes pleading. She wanted more water.

  He couldn’t kill the dog now. He wasn’t sure why. He was pretty sure he might kill her, some other time. But not right now. And if he gave her more water she would be more likely to leave the bladders alone. Besides, the other one was still full. That far shore must be less than a day’s paddle away, with the wind behind him, pushing him towards the land.

  He trickled more water into his hand. Again the dog drank, and again and again. At last she put her head on her paws, as though to say she’d had enough.

  He drank the rest, squeezing out the last drops, then tied the limp empty bladder to the canoe. He might need it again if he could find fresh water to fill it. He assessed the wind, the tide — heading out, just past the turn, he reckoned — then took a last regretful look at the sandbank. It had saved their lives, but it would kill them if they stayed there.