by Ann Kelley
Mrs. Campbell doesn’t look much like a duchess right now, either—more like what Mom would call trailer trash. She looks exhausted, wrecked; her eyes are red-rimmed, and she has frown lines at the corners of her mouth. Her hair is stuck to her head. She keeps swigging from a bottle and I know it isn’t water. We’re bruised and scratched and bitten to bits. May is dabbing nail polish on her chigger bites.
“Does that help the itching?”
“Yeah.”
“I think you should share it with the juniors,” I say.
“Do you? Well, back off, Bonnie MacDonald. It’s mine.” Now she’s putting curlers in her sticky hair again.
The juniors are all in a heap, like frightened monkeys. Natalie is totally out of it, shivering and sweaty, pallid and clammy. Occasionally she wakes and moans, her eyes disappearing up into her head. Mrs. Campbell has made her as comfortable as possible in her sleeping bag.
Jas, the only one of us still looking human, stands on the fallen trunk of a palm tree, her hands shielding her eyes, watching for the boat. She looks like a heroic Amazon warrior.
They know we are expecting to leave today, so someone should come, no matter what.
Two hours later there’s still no sign of a boat. Nobody has spoken for ages—our eyes have been searching the sea.
“It was this beach, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Campbell sounds desperate.
It’s about midday. The sun, if we could only see it, is immediately overhead.
“I don’t think he’s coming,” Arlene says, sobbing.
“Shh, you’ll set off the juniors.”
We wait, and wait, and wait. The interminable screech of wind is driving me insane. My eyes are sore from sand. I can’t even write in my journal in these conditions. Mrs. Campbell walks off toward Dragon Point, at the end of the beach. Suddenly she waves her arms frantically and runs back along the shore toward us, but she’s not smiling.
“Hope, stay with the juniors. You others come with me.”
“W-why is it always m-me who has to babysit?” Hope flops down on the sand.
We follow Mrs. Campbell.
“What is it, Mrs. Campbell?” Arlene asks.
“The boat—it’s wrecked on the rocks. Our boat…”
“The boatman?” I ask fearfully.
“I don’t know. There’s no sign of him.” She puts her fists to her mouth.
We scramble onto the rocks and look where she points. The tail of the dragon, the black rocks, form a long, spiky reef. The waves break over them with great intensity, and then I see it. The broken back of the hull, its ribs shattered, water pouring through the broken bones. The outboard motor is still attached to a chunk of the stern, its propeller emerging from the sea between waves.
“Oh! No!” The boat is not a boat anymore; it’s more like a dead seabird, or a child’s toy, small and smashed and dead.
“Oh my God!” shouts Arlene, sobbing in horror.
“Where is he, where is he?” May is hysterical.
“There’s nothing we can do,” says Mrs. Campbell.
“But can’t we get to him? He might be here somewhere; he might be alive.” Jas starts to clamber along the slippery rocks, out toward the wreck.
“Come back—it’s too dangerous.” Mrs. Campbell tries to stop us, but Jas and I jump from rock to rock and crouch to stay on when a large wave breaks over us, the wind tugging at our wet hair and clothes. Then there’s a big gap where no rocks are showing and we can’t get any farther without plunging into the foam, and we aren’t brave enough. We can’t see the boatman. We call and call, but there’s no reply. He’s gone, drowned, lost.
Mrs. Campbell doesn’t scold us when we scramble back to the shore. She’s crouched, her hands over her face, crying. May and Arlene are huddled with her. There’s nothing to say. After a few moments, she rises from the sand and heads back toward the others. Hope has been standing, watching us. They know something’s wrong. There’s no point in hiding the truth.
“He’s not coming to get us. The boat is wrecked.” Mrs. Campbell half speaks the words, half sobs them. There’s disbelief, silence.
“I don’t understand. Why can’t we go home? I want to go home now. Mikey wants to go home now.” Jody throws herself facedown in the sand and sobs.
“When the storm passes someone else will come get us,” says Jas. She and I hold each other and cry.
It must be about two PM, and we’ve eaten nothing but salted peanuts and dried fruit all day. We trudge back to Black Cave. Our tin fire is there. No dry charcoal, though. I take out my journal and write:
When will the nightmare end?
six
DAY 5
Yesterday was the worst day.
I was walking along the beach trying to remember what Lan Kua looks like. His smile. Thinking about Mom. Wishing I was home helping her with something. I never help her. I leave all that domestic stuff to Lek. And Dad—why do we always rub each other the wrong way? When did I stop being his little pumpkin?
I noticed May and Arlene sitting in the shallows together, chatting as if nothing was wrong with the world. Suddenly they leapt up, screaming and pointing at something washing in with the waves. I ran to see what it was. A dead dolphin? A large fish? No, it was the boatman’s body, or what was left of it. He didn’t look human anymore. It looked as if a shark had attacked him; most of one leg was gone, and a chunk was missing from his side.
It is impossible to push the image of the body from my mind. The torn flesh was like white shreds of overcooked chicken; his one eye stared, and in his empty eye socket sat a small transparent ghost crab. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that crab crawling out of his eye socket, like a scene from a horror movie. His eye patch was around his neck. May and Arlene staggered off to vomit in the sand. Acid rose in my throat and I felt faint, but after I bowed my head for a minute, the dizziness went away. Hope and Mrs. Campbell had come to see what the fuss was about. Hope was the lucky one: She couldn’t really see the extent of his mutilation.
“We’ll need to take the eye patch back as proof… for his family….” Mrs. Campbell signaled to Jas to pull it from the boatman’s neck. Jas did as she was told, but I thought she’d be sick. She handed it to Mrs. Campbell, who pushed it into her bag.
“Now we must bury him. We’ll need to dig a shallow grave. Bonnie, fetch the shovel. The rest of you, help pull him up the beach.”
He looked so slight and small, but no one wanted to lift his leg. Finally Hope offered to drag him on her own and Mrs. Campbell just shrugged. Hope’s amazingly strong. He wasn’t bleeding or anything; just whitened bones and bloodless flesh. He did not look like an old man—more like a skinny boy. The one-legged trail he left in the sand was faint and shallow, like a bicycle track. The drifting sand soon covered it.
Jas, Mrs. Campbell, Hope, and I buried him above the waterline, in a shallow pit, with stones on top of his body, like a cowboy’s grave in the desert. Jody wanted to place a cross on the grave, but Mrs. Campbell pointed out that he was probably Buddhist, so we just tucked a handful of tiny yellow flowers between the gravestones. Mrs. Campbell said we should all pray for his soul, but I’ll admit I prayed that someone would come and rescue us soon. Jody insisted on singing “God Bless America.”
We all cried.
On our compound at Amnuythip there are two spirit houses on a raised platform, where the Thais place bowls of rice, fresh jasmine wreaths, and incense every day to keep the spirits happy. Now that there are two wandering spirits on this island, I wonder if we should build one here.
DAY 5, AFTERNOON
How the hell are we going to get home now? Is there a home to go back to? What were those explosions?
I worry about Sandy’s body. It must be deteriorating quickly. Surely rats and other small creatures will start to eat it. I keep hearing strange noises in the night, like an animal grunting. A wild boar? I know they live in thick forests, and we saw one here, in the center of the island. There are still black bears, monkeys,
tigers, and even wild elephants in parts of Thailand. In the forests of the north, anyway. We should have buried Sandy’s body deeper.
Natalie’s leg isn’t any better. If anything, it’s worse.
“Mrs. Campbell, couldn’t you use whiskey as an antiseptic? Don’t they do that in old Westerns? Or do they use it as an anesthetic?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.”
“But couldn’t we try?”
“It’s all gone, Bonnie.”
“All gone? But there was a nearly full bottle.”
“It’s gone, end of story.” She won’t look me in the eye.
We made a fire but couldn’t find enough dry material to feed it all night and it’s gone out.
“What’s that?” Jody asks, frightened.
“It’s okay, Jody. It’s only a wild pig.”
“How do you know, Bonnie MacDonald?” May says. “It could be a fierce baboon or something.”
“Shut up, May. Don’t frighten the juniors.”
“Yeah, shut up, May,” says Arlene, who is thanked with a smack from May; she is accustomed to Arlene agreeing with her every word.
Every time the juniors open their mouths it’s to beg to go home or to complain about something, and they can’t understand why no one has come to get us. Jas and I watch them constantly, cuddling them when they let us. Most of the time they play as if nothing has happened, but then we’ll find one of them on her own, curled up on the sand, wailing for her mom.
We ate the last of the raisins and shared a coconut among all of us for supper. Almost everything else has been eaten.
Natalie is unconscious.
I’m going to cry. No, I won’t. I take out my journal. It’s battered and scuffed around the edges.
This has been the worst day of my life.
I can’t think of anything else to write.
seven
DAY 6
Jas has suggested I make a list of our remaining food, equipment, and other supplies. I wander around what remains of the campsite, trying to make sure I don’t miss anything:
Half a packet of dried apricots
Empty salted peanut tin—good for heating water?
Empty baked bean tins—for heating water?
Packet of raisins
Unlimited water—thank goodness
Salt (in case of dehydration)
4 large water bottles
A bottle of cola
One shovel—for the toilet, and for digging pits and graves
My Zen and the Art… book
My journal
4 flashlights and 8 batteries
8 sleeping bags
2 towels
2 rolls of toilet paper
A waterproof watch—mine
A hand mirror—May’s
Scarlet lipstick—May’s
Black mascara—May’s
Curlers—May’s
Bottle of suntan oil—May’s
A comb, 3 hairpins, and a ponytail clip—May’s
Swiss Army knife—mine
It’s the one Dad gave me last Christmas, and I can’t bear to think of it as a communal item.
A pair of broken glasses (one cracked lens, one missing)—Hope’s
Two teddy bears
Sandy’s was buried with her.
A kid’s cuddly blanket—Natalie’s
A black eye patch—in Mrs. Campbell’s bag
1 plastic carrier bag
1 waterproof bag
Insect bite ointment
Thai tin cooker
2 packets of Thai Safety Matches
A packet of filter cigarettes (Arlene’s)
Hand-fishing line and hook
Fishing net on pole
Mrs. Campbell’s bag—
“What else is in your backpack, Mrs. Campbell?” I know she hasn’t listed everything that’s in there.
“My life-support system and personal medication,” she says and walks away from me.
Wreckage from the boat has begun to appear on the beach. The waves must have lifted it from the rocks. We already found the remains of a very long fishing line and hooks, and then a large piece of canvas still attached to the broken wooden mast, a coil of nylon rope, a torn fishing net, and—best of all—a curved steel knife with a cork handle. The outboard motor has been washed in, too, still attached to a splintered stern post.
More to add to the list in my journal.
More dead birds litter the tide line.
After a group discussion we decided to build a proper shelter. The Black Cave is too small for us all to fit into, and I know I’m not the only one who heard the grunts and squeals coming from the forest behind the beach, so it’s important that we plan carefully. Before we set off to gather the building materials, I pull out my journal again.
Is Lan Kua missing me? What is Mom doing?
Are they okay?
Is anyone coming for us?
DAY 6, AFTERNOON
Spent most of the morning at the top of the beach, building a raised platform from bamboo poles lashed together with rope, and a roof from the washed-up canvas, propped up with the broken mast and some bamboo poles. It took ages, and my arms ache. It’s better than nothing. Makes me feel like I’m actually doing something to help us all survive.
We also built a fire at the top of Storm Beach, close to Black Cave on slightly higher ground where trees fell in the storm, as a signal to passing boats. Not that we’ve seen any.
The waves are still fearsome. The fire is producing only a thin ribbon of smoke, as the wood is damp. We need more smoke, lots of smoke.
Jas and I decide to go on hunter-gatherer duty. We pick up the fishing gear and set off along the beach.
“Why don’t you get off your lazy asses and find some wood?” I shout at the Glossies, who are sitting on a rock swinging their legs and doing nothing, as usual.
“Go to hell, Bonnie Goody Two-shoes MacDonald. Who do you think you are, anyway?” says May.
“Do it yourself,” says Arlene with a sneer.
“C-c-come on, you two, I’ll h-h-help,” says Hope, who has been sitting on the sand biting her nails.
“Yes, go on, please get some more wood,” pleads Mrs. Campbell, who is lying as close to the flames as she can get without setting herself on fire. Reluctantly the Glossies rise and go with Hope, off into the forest. The juniors huddle together, close to Mrs. Campbell.
“These limpets are impossible.” Jas’s face is screwed up with the effort. “It’s so frustrating. Ouch!” She shakes her hand free of the pain. “We could eat them, if only we could get them off these rocks….”
Then I spot transparent shrimp darting around in a rock pool. We manage to get a few handfuls and carry them in the plastic bag back to the camp. We cook them very quickly in a clamshell full of seawater, at the edge of the fire.
“This is the most delicious food I have ever tasted,” I announce, delighted with my easy-cook meal.
“What we could do is collect more of the shrimp and use them as bait to catch something bigger and more sustaining,” says the ever-sensible Jas. But I can tell she’s as buoyed by our lucky break as I am.
“Save the big shell,” I tell the others. “It will make a great saucepan.” May and Arlene make faces at each other, but Hope rinses out the shrimpy remains and stores the shell at the back of the shelter.
“Come on, girls.” Mrs. Campbell stands and stretches. “Who’s going to help find something more to eat? And more firewood? Hope was the only one of you to come back with anything. It doesn’t look as if we are going to be picked up today.” Jas and I stand up, too. But the others just stare into the embers of the fire. “For all we know there could be bananas, birds’ eggs, edible roots, mangoes, and maybe other kinds of nuts. It’s a tropical island, for goodness’ sake; there’s bound to be lots of edible stuff.” Mrs. Campbell’s encouragement has no effect on the others, so Jas and I set off behind her, around the edge of the forest.
It’s dark under the green
canopy of tall trees, and we take turns cutting away thorny bamboo stalks with my Swiss Army knife and the boatman’s knife. It’s very hard work, and my hands are soon covered in blisters. There are countless terrible noises here; you wouldn’t believe the uncanny sounds. A huge flying bug sounds just like a Vespa. There’s a loud honking up in the branches, but we don’t see what makes the racket. Then we hear a sudden creaking, and a falling tree crashes down and just misses Jas. She’s a nervous wreck, shaking with fear. I give her a hug and a smile, and Mrs. Campbell suggests that we rest for a moment and drink.
“Half the problem is dehydration….” she explains. Then suddenly there’s a loud humming from behind us, and Mrs. Campbell shouts, “Get down!” and we duck as a swarm of bees passes overhead. God, I hate this place.
“Bees mean honey,” says Mrs. Campbell. “But they build their nests high up in the canopy. We’ll never get to it.”
“I can climb,” I say. Gymnastics is one of my strongest subjects.
“And how would you collect the honey without being stung?”
“Uh, okay, let’s forget that idea.” I feel stupid and angry at the same time.
We gather up some long, aromatic black-bean pods.
“I don’t know what they are,” says Jas, “but they might be edible, and they’ll be fuel for the fire, if nothing else.” She always talks sense. There are many newly fallen trees, uprooted in the storm. Pink orchids lie crushed under thick branches. I find a peacock feather, its golden eye shining in the gloom. The sudden beauty is so welcome.
And then we stumble upon a comb of honey, in the trunk of a fallen tree. We scoop the honey from the wax cells with our fingers and eat it then and there.
“Look out for bees,” warns Mrs. Campbell, but she eats just as much as Jas and I do. “No point in trying to carry it back to the others; we’d be stung to death.”