by Olivia Levez
7. Definitely don’t think about wild pig.
8. Take a deep breath.
9. Eat.
10. That root-thing definitely isn’t ginger.
Rockfall
Maybe it’s because the tide’s turned.
Or the season’s changed.
Or we’ve overfished this little cove.
I untangle Rufus’s line for the eleventh time.
‘Snails?’ we say at the same time.
Rufus is right when he says they’re scarce too.
I remember when the rocks were heaving with snails, tucked like wet stones under the ridges and crinkles. Now we find nine.
We’re running out of food.
We’re getting weaker, though we don’t admit it to each other.
Rufus is thin. I’m thin. Dog too.
Dog’s ribs show sharp through his fur and he no longer dances around the sand. None of us do. The fish have left One Tree Beach and the rocks; I think we’re all fished out. Every limpet has been picked, every crab, every snail.
Neither of us has the energy to go clambering after wild pigs. There are hardly any peepas except in the trees; most of the ones left on the ground are rotten. We try hacking into them every so often but there’s a stink when they crack open which makes us retch.
Dog spends most of the days in his favourite shady spot by the hammock. His tail still thumps when you say his name and he has learnt to answer to both Dog and Virgil. He doesn’t get up much now though.
‘The forest?’ I ask again.
Rufus shakes his head.
‘There’s nothing, Fran. Everything’s been used up.’
‘No more onions?’
‘No more onions.’
Neither of us mentions the melons. They ran out ages ago. I’ve watered the seeds I planted in the new garden I made, but they’re spindly and exhausted-looking, like us.
One day we decide to look for better fishing grounds. This means climbing rocks.
Rufus is uncertain.
‘Too dangerous,’ he says, when I show him where I mean.
I shrug. ‘It’s the only place we haven’t tried. What choice do we have?’
I start to climb the rocks but he stops me.
‘They’re too green,’ he says. ‘And the sea’s too rough. We’ll wait for a better time. Maybe later when the sun’s dried them.’
But I’m stubborn. My stomach growls for fish and I just know they’re out there somewhere, waiting. All we need is a couple of big ones, maybe snapper, and we’ll be set up, at least for a day or two.
‘It’s fine, I’ll be careful,’ I say.
I slip.
Oops. My leg throbs but it’s fine, there’ll just be a bruise later.
‘I’m fine,’ I call.
I pick my way over the drier rocks, the ones that are still crisped by the sun. I no longer bother with shoes; my feet are like toughened leather underneath.
Vaguely, I’m aware of Rufus following. Dog doesn’t bother to join us. I’d hear his little claws tick-tacking on the rocks if he was. He’ll be lying in the shade somewhere close, listening and waiting.
Soon there’s an overhang and a crevasse. It’s deep and slick with green weed. To get to the other side, the rocky outcrop that juts over the sea, we’ll have to climb over. To my right, the sea throbs; it’s absolutely filled with fish, I’m sure of it. Below me, the deep crevasse, which is beginning to fill as the tide comes in.
But there’s the rocks and the fish-filled sea.
And it’s not going to be dark for hours yet.
‘It’s OK,’ I call, ignoring the thudthudthudding as I place one foot and then the other on the driest rocks first; begin to descend the crack before I can get to the other side. I wish I wasn’t so weak and hungry. My legs haven’t always felt as shaky as this.
The sun wobbles.
‘Fran – stop.’
Rufus sounds determined.
I sigh. ‘I’m fine,’ I say.
I watch him approach, face clenched and resolute. He’s shaking his head at me, hesitant as his foot feels for the next rock.
‘I’ll climb across. You wait here,’ he says, when he sees the crevasse. The skin between his freckles is pale.
‘Are you sure? You don’t have to prove yourself to me,’ I say. ‘Honestly. I can do it. It doesn’t matter.’
But it does matter to him, I can see that. And it’s not me he’s proving himself to.
I sit on the rocks and watch Rufus climb down. Try not to feel a flash of impatience as he takes his time; takes a million years to place each foot before continuing.
His foot slips and my stomach lurches.
Avoid the green, I’m thinking. Avoid the green rocks.
Rufus is over now; he’s reached the other side and is starting to make his way back up, to the high rock in the sunshine. The perfect fishing rock.
He’s nearly there. I watch his foot move around for a ledge. Just one more push and he’ll be up.
I see his foot move in slow motion; in slow motion I see the rocky ledge give way.
And that’s when Rufus falls.
He falls awkwardly, his hand still scrabbling for something to hold. There’s a sort of terrible pause. And then he lands. He actually bounces a bit first. That’s how hard he falls.
He lands on the jagged rocks which are deadly with slime. There’s an awful cry, hoarse with pain. And Dog’s there at once, on the top rocks, barking and barking.
I’m screaming; I think I’m screaming. I’m saying:
‘Rufus! Rufus?’ and ‘Are you OK?’ and ‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’
I have no idea how I get to him, but I do; I’m there beside him, shouting at Dog not to follow.
Rufus’s eyes are staring up at me and he knows
he knows
that everything’s so not OK.
‘It’s my leg,’ he says.
Not OK
So.
Where there’s his shorts, there’s a gash. It’s on his leg and it’s a real biggie, torn into his skin all right. It’s deep and wide and bleedingbleedingbleeding. And through the blood, there are things exposed.
I heave with horror.
‘Tendons,’ he says. He’s strangely calm.
We both stare. Dog’s still barking from the top of the crevasse. I wish he’d shut up. I can’t think straight, can’t get past this tide of fear.
Everything’s changed now, in just a click of the fingers.
A foot wrong and whoosh. Your whole world comes slithering down.
‘What does that mean?’ I say, but we both know, ’course we do.
It’s the thing we’ve tried to avoid, ever since we came here. The big what if.
What happens if one of us gets ill? Has an accident? Gets appendicitis? What then?
’Cause you can plan and you can build and you can collect driftwood all you like but nothing will help you once illness happens. No matter how many shells you collect to decorate your home camp. No matter how many water bottles you fill with charcoal and socks to filter it. In the end, you’re just kidding yourself.
We’ve both been waiting to die ever since we came to this island, this little rock in the middle of the ocean. In the end we’re all just spinning and waiting.
We can’t fix it. Can’t mend the tear.
It means that Rufus will die.
But still we pretend. I have to turn away from the knowledge in his eyes.
I take my T-shirt from around my waist.
‘It’ll stem the blood,’ I say.
Rufus nods. He shows me where to tie it so that it acts as a tourniquet, and all the time he isn’t gasping and crying. Just a slight hiss when I force it tight.
‘Bind it up so it doesn’t get dirty.’
We both know this is ludicrous. We’re so filthy that all the scrubbing and scraping in the world doesn’t come close to making us clean.
I pull the T-shirt tight, and my fingers are slithering in his blood –
&
nbsp; there’s so much blood.
Then we both look up, to where Dog is running back and forth. He’s frantic.
‘I’ll help you,’ I tell Rufus.
He nods and I want to die, right there in the bottom of this slime-filled chasm. It’s all my fault – everything. If only I hadn’t made us both come here. If only I hadn’t let him climb up.
If.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
Rufus’s teeth are gritted.
‘It’s me that should say sorry, Cow-bag,’ he says.
We begin the long climb, and each time we get to a ledge I have to pick up Rufus’s foot and place it. And he leans heavily on my shoulder and his breath is hot against my neck. I point out dry rocks and Dog is quiet now, waiting.
The blood’s seeping now, under the makeshift bandage, on to the rocks.
I don’t know how things will be any different when we get to the top.
If we ever get to the top.
Red
‘It doesn’t hurt,’ says Rufus.
His eyes are bright.
I’ve propped him up on the bottle bed and rebound his wound –
don’t look, don’t look, don’t look –
so that it looks neat on the outside. It’s tied with what’s left of Rufus’s TeamSkill polo, which we use for washing up. I’ve rinsed it best as I can and hung it to dry but it’s not clean, ’course it isn’t. What else can we do?
Rufus’s eyes are closed now. He looks fine. Much better than you’d expect after such a shock. He’s just sleeping it off.
‘You’ve got to wash the wound,’ he said, as we staggered back to camp. That meant a trek to the waterfall, and him screaming in pain as I made him stick his leg under the tumbling water.
The water ran red after that.
Can’t think of his pain.
He’s sleeping. He’ll feel better in the morning.
Please be better then.
Perhaps it can still heal, even without stitches.
Rufus does look better. He does.
Treasure
Rufus grips my arm, suddenly desperate.
‘Fran, I don’t want you to go.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Fran, I don’t want you to die.’
I stare at him; he’s slumped on his bed, panting.
‘Can’t be left here alone again,’ he says.
I know how he feels.
‘Don’t be so stupid.’ I plant a kiss on his clammy forehead. ‘Think of all those fish I’ll catch.’
And he watches as I attach the hook to the line. Tug it to check it.
‘OK?’
‘OK.’
I leave Rufus propped up in his bed, untangling fishing net. I make my way back to the rocks, determined to catch something, to feed us all.
It’s slow-going. Not only am I weak and tired from our near-starvation diet, but every time I find a foothold on the rocks, I’m reminded of Rufus’s fall; of the sickening sound he made when he landed. It can’t happen to me; if it does, there’ll be no one to look after Rufus, no one to feed Dog.
I’m giddy with relief when I reach the first outcrop.
I’m about to climb up to the crevasse when something catches my eye.
A much bigger treasure, washed up by the sea. Another barrel, bobbing in the shallows. I grip my fishing pole firmly and climb back down.
So now we have four.
I wade into the sea and use the pole to pull the barrel nearer, then drag it in out of the waves. Even that small effort makes me exhausted. We’re so tired now. Dog no longer follows me to the beach on my fishing efforts, preferring to lie by Rufus.
Rufus – well, he sleeps much of the day. I clean him and make sure he drinks enough, and help him out of bed when he needs the toilet. It’s been two days since the accident and that wound’s not getting any better.
But we need to eat. Rufus needs to eat to get his strength up, so I try not to think of the way the wound smells bad when I change the dressing. I try not to wonder if Rufus’s eyes should be so bright and his cheeks so flushed.
This barrel is wooden, and smells of wine. I peer inside, breathing in the faint fumes. There’s something inside the drum. Something waving at me from just inside the rim. It scuttles deep down when I reach for it. I get down on my hands and knees and peer into the shadows. Suck in my breath.
It’s a lobster. It grabs at my hand with one of its giant claws but I hold it out of danger’s way and pull it right out where I can look at it. It’s a monster; there’s enough flesh here to feed me, Rufus and Dog for two days. Heart skipping, I bind the lobster’s claws quickly with twine from the fishing pole and hang it at my side.
I roll the barrel to the back of the bamboo grove, where the rest of my raft lies. And I spend a long time then, just looking and thinking.
I need to find the energy to finish this.
Rock Lobster
‘So we can use the barrel to finish the raft,’ I chatter, aiming the point of the knife at the base of the lobster’s head and smashing the rock down. I’m hoping that my revelation will spark some interest in him. ‘There’s only three barrels, but we’ve got this coffee drum we use as a table. I thought maybe if lashed them all together, like with creepers or something?’
Rufus has been quiet since I got back. He’s sitting in his bed, staring down. I’ve giving him a couple of limes to chop on a board. They go with fish so maybe they’ll go with lobster.
I place the lobster upside down straight into the embers. It’ll be only minutes till it’s done. I look around for the rocks we used to use to get meat out of crab claws. When we could find crabs. I’ve never tried lobster but I’m sure it’s delicious and those claws are thick as bricks.
Rufus doesn’t answer ’cause he’s probably feeling bad he never let me try to get to the fishing boat all those weeks ago. Or else he’s annoyed that I’ve started building a raft without him.
The lobster hisses and I turn it over. Think of all that fat white flesh.
I use the knife to crack it into sections and my cheeks start to ache as I see how much meat is inside.
I pass Rufus his tin and a rock. Then I fall on to my portion, moaning.
‘Oh my God, Rufus.’
Each mouthful is crazy-gorgeous.
‘Mmm-mm,’ I say, digging at the claw with the knife.
It’s made Rufus speechless.
‘What do you think?’ I say, looking up at last.
But Rufus’s just sitting there, staring down at his leg. His face hovers in the shadows.
‘It’s worse, Fran,’ he says.
Spreading
He’s left all that lovely lobster on his plate. The board of limes unchopped.
It’s bad, really bad.
The edges of the wound have peeled away and they’re reddened. The flesh around them is hot and throbbing.
‘Why’s your leg all hard?’ I say.
‘It’s the infection. It’s spreading.’
His skin’s all tight and he flinches when I touch it. It’s burning too.
I make myself say the words.
‘So what will happen if we don’t treat it?’
Rufus tries to get comfortable, and hisses with pain when his leg moves.
‘The poison seeps into your bloodstream. And it spreads and spreads like curdled milk. And then, unless it’s treated – unless all the pus is removed –’
‘Yes?’
Voice so low now it’s just a murmur, and it might be the sea or it might not.
‘Rufus – talk to me.’
‘Septicaemia.’
I don’t want to know what that word means because I can tell it’s hissing and evil like a snake. I try to get Rufus comfy and it’s difficult ’cause he can’t move; he can’t ’cause every tiniest jolt hurts – I mean, screaming hurts – and in the end I have to prop him up in bed with anything I can find. He was terribly thirsty before, but now he half sits, half lies, watching and not watching me.
how can it all end like this, in this stupid, stupid way? –
seeping out yellow goo and infecting his organs, infecting and burning with throbbing, pulsing pain till it reaches his blood –
how does it reach his blood? How?
Septicaemia.
Sounds like a kiss of death.
Scrambling
I scramble down to the beach, dragging our coffee-drum-table behind me, feet skittering on the scree. The world lurches as I throw it down; watch it bounce on the sand and wedge to a standstill. I hold my sides, gasping. I feel sick with exhaustion, with hunger. I walk to the edge of One Tree Beach and they’re still there, the other barrels; I can see the marks in the sand where I rolled them. Just need to get back to Mosquito Alley. Just need to get the frames now, after I’ve checked on Rufus.
From the bed, Rufus’s breath is catching, but it’s OK – plenty of time.
There’s no time.
Use the old fishing line.
Drag the bottle mattress from the other bed.
It’ll do as a base till we get to the nearest island. And if there’s no other island? Well, then we’ll just stay on the raft, wait for a boat.
We’ll not go without a fight.
It feels good to be active. I may be skin and bones but fear pushes me.
Grab all the rope you can get; pull down the poles from the shelter. Now for the peepa pole.
Rufus half opens his eyes, but doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Beside him, Dog’s tail twitches.
Balancing the poles on my shoulder, I sway and almost fall.
Almost.
One foot in front of the other, I force myself to walk in the direction of the beach.
One more step.
And another.
Nothing Between
Take a breath.
That’s right. And again.
I’ve made it to the sea.
I open my eyes and there’s nothing between me and all that blue; nothing between Rufus and the poison seeping into his blood but me.