by Bear Grylls
Inside was the thing he was after. Each pod was packed full of fibres like stiff, dry cotton wool. Beck scooped them into a ball and packed it into the space at the heart of the tepee.
‘So what do we do now?’ Brihony asked. ‘Rub sticks together?’
‘That would be one way of doing it.’ Beck took the fire steel from around his neck. ‘Takes time, though.’ He held the rod of ferrosium close to the fibre ball and scraped the square plate of steel along it. Bright, shining sparks streamed from the rod and fell onto the kapok.
A few more strikes and the fibre started smouldering. Tiny worms of glowing orange crept along each strand, consuming it as they did so. Beck put his face close to the fire and blew gently. The orange turned to yellow, then white, and spread throughout the ball. He poked more fibre in with a stick and watched as flames began to sprout from the gaps in the pile. Something went crack as moisture trapped in the wood turned to steam and burst out under its own pressure. That was the sound he always listened for: it told him that the fire had caught properly. The smell of wood smoke tickled his nostrils and a wavering heat brushed against his face.
‘Or you can save a little time,’ he told Brihony.
‘Nice one, Beck!’
They huddled together by the fire, feeling their clothes begin to dry out and their spirits lift. They had taken their boots off and propped them up to face the fire. It was earlier than they would usually go to bed, but Beck knew they would wake up with the sun the next day. There were no curtains to keep it out for that extra couple of hours. And so they curled up on either side of the fire to get what rest they could.
Beck lay on his back with his hands behind his head and gazed up the sky. The skeletal, leafless branches of the boab tree above him weren’t thick enough to block it out. ‘Wow . . .’ he murmured.
The sky was alive with a billion shining points of light – many, many more than he ever saw back in England. Al often told him how on a clear night, when he was younger, you could see the Milky Way even in an English sky. That was before the lights of towns and cities grew so bright that now only the brightest stars made their way through the light pollution.
But there was none of that here. The Milky Way was a clear band of stars as wide as his hand, stretching from horizon to horizon. There were other differences too. In the southern hemisphere, the constellations were different. It was not the first time Beck had seen the southern sky, but he always loved taking it all in. Here on the other side of the world, the man in the moon was standing on his head. One constellation, the Southern Cross, was so prominent it had made its way onto the flag of Australia. It lay low on the horizon, four key points of light with a slightly tilted cross-piece, surrounded by a cloud of smaller stars.
Finally Beck felt his eyes growing heavy and welcomed the wave of sleep that would shortly wash over him. His last waking thought was to wonder how Barega and Ganan were getting on . . .
Chapter 13
Something made Beck wake up. He lay staring at the smouldering embers of the fire. What had disturbed him? It wasn’t discomfort. He was used to sleeping on the ground, and his clothes had just about dried out after their dunking.
He thought it might be dingoes, but they generally kept well away from humans. In the Kimberley there were always night-time noises, but nothing you could point to, and certainly nothing to jerk you out of sleep; just the sound of a vast and ancient land quietly getting on with its million-year-old business.
But then Beck heard it again, and he sat up. It was the sound of shouting voices.
He leaped nimbly to his feet and walked barefoot to the edge of the hollow. His boots were still drying out by the fire and the ground was rough and dry beneath his soles. He carefully put his boots on and peered out into the dark, across the river. The entire gorge was one black ditch and he couldn’t see anything. Then there was a flash of light – and another. Ganan and Barega had torches in their packs. Circles of light danced across the far bank, and one of them picked out a dark form that sent a shudder of recognition through Beck.
It only lasted for a second before the light moved on, but Beck had seen enough. The long, slow, armour-plated form of a crocodile moving silently over the river shore. The men must have camped close to the water.
‘What is it?’ Brihony had come to stand beside him.
‘Croc near their camp.’
‘Oh, no!’
The sound of shouting continued to drift across the water. Beck strained his ears to hear the words. ‘Sounds like no one’s been hurt.’
‘How’d you make that out?’
‘If they had been, they’d be screaming, not shouting.’
Brihony breathed out with relief. ‘They’ll probably be OK then. The croc’s lost the element of surprise.’
‘And that’s their best weapon,’ agreed Beck.
‘Yep. Crocs like to feel in charge of the situation,’ said Brihony. ‘They’re ambush hunters. They attack prey that can’t fight back, or that didn’t see them coming. The croc will probably leave them alone now it knows they’ve seen it.’
‘You know that their jaws only have power in one direction, right?’ Beck added.
‘Yeah. A grown man can hold the jaws and stop them opening. Course, if they do open, then one bite could crush you.’
‘And then you’re a goner.’ Beck took a final look into the darkness. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do—’
Then he froze, because part of the darkness had shifted.
‘Move!’ he shouted. He helped Brihony on her way with a shove. She staggered backwards and then rounded on him, demanding to know what he was doing. But then she saw it too. First the jaws, then the rest of the saltwater crocodile as, metre by metre, it padded into their circle of firelight.
It must have come up the same rocky ridge they had used, Beck thought quickly. He would have thought that it was too steep. Maybe the croc had followed their scent, or maybe it was just curious, but either way, here it was.
They backed away in different directions, not taking their eyes off it. Its body snaked from side to side, the claws digging into the ground, looking like they could pierce steel. It seemed in no hurry, unable to decide which of them to aim for. Its body was broad – wider than it was high. It was low slung, though if it lifted its head up, it would be almost as tall as Beck. The armour plates along its back moved together as smoothly as if they had been turned out by a machine. Its mouth was shut, but snaggle teeth as long as Beck’s fingers poked out where the jaws met.
OK . . . Beck ran through his options.
Fight it off with a piece of wood? He glanced quickly at the dead branch that still lay next to the fire. It was as thick as a man’s leg, but too heavy to pick up and wield like a bat.
Hold its jaws closed? He didn’t intend to get close enough to try that.
Beck had come face to face with bears and tigers. They had been angry, and had roared and snarled as if they wanted to punish him for intruding on their territory. He got nothing like that off the croc. It was completely calm, emotionless. He couldn’t read its expression. It was born to eat, and they just happened to be juicy, tender mammals who would make a nice meal.
Where was the machete? he wondered. It was their only weapon, though even that would be pretty ineffective against an animal like this. Maybe he could aim the blade at its eyes. But though his machete was lying somewhere in their camp, he couldn’t locate it without taking his eyes off the approaching saltie. That was something he had no intention of doing.
‘Going to count to three,’ he said, forcing his voice to be steady. ‘When I get there, we both run behind that tree and climb it as quick as we can, right?’
‘Ri . . .’ Brihony’s voice dried up and she had to try again. ‘Right.’
‘One, two—’
The crocodile lunged at Beck. He leaped to one side, over the fire, and hit the ground running. The croc’s reflexes were faster than his, but Beck knew where he was headed. Right now the tr
ee was their only hope of safety, and if he let the croc get between him and it, then he was dead.
The croc kept coming. Its body smashed into the fire, scattering the half-burned logs, and it writhed away from the hot embers.
Brihony was scrambling towards the boab, but the branches were too high for her to grab. Beck joined her and twined his fingers together into a cup, crouching so that she could put her foot into it.
‘Quick!’ They only had seconds. She stepped into his hands and he boosted her up as high as he could. In the same move he jumped behind the tree as the croc lunged forward again.
Now at least Beck had the boab between him and the croc, but sooner or later he would tire of dodging; this creature could move faster than him. And anyway, how did he know it was alone? Maybe the noise would attract others. He had to distract it so that he could join Brihony in the tree branches.
Branches . . . his eyes went to the fallen branch. Maybe he didn’t need to actually fight the croc off with it – it had other uses. He began to sidle towards it, and the croc shifted on its front legs. Very slowly, Beck leaned down to get his hands under the branch . . .
The saltie attacked. There was no time to try and beat it off. Beck raised the branch over his head and threw it into the croc’s open jaws.
The wood splintered as the croc clamped its mouth shut. Beck was already running for the tree, glimpsing the saltie’s head thrashing from side to side. Having something – anything – in its mouth had triggered the instinct to twist and roll, to finish off its prey. It only took the killer a second to realize that it had been duped, but by then Beck had reached the tree. He leaped up, his feet trying to find some purchase on mottled trunk. Brihony leaned down, hand outstretched, feet braced against a branch to help her support his weight. She strained to pull him up, and he collapsed into a wooden hollow formed by the branches; he could have sworn he felt the gust of air as the croc’s jaws snapped shut where his foot had just been.
Chapter 14
It was a long hard night. The crook of the branches was just big enough to accommodate the two of them, but it was mighty uncomfortable and it was impossible to stretch out to sleep. If they dozed off, heads nodding forward, they would suddenly jerk awake with the horrible feeling that they were falling.
But dawn came eventually. The shapes of hills and gorges grew solid out of the dark as the rosy light slid over the Kimberley. Beck peered down into their camp.
The fire had gone out, destroyed by the croc’s charge – just a dark smudge of ash on the red soil, surrounded by charred sticks. There was no sign of the croc.
They climbed down, cautious, neither of them daring to hope that it had really gone. Beck surveyed the camp quickly. There was the machete, still propped against the trunk of the tree where he had left it. He looked around for the water bottle, so vital to their survival. There it was, over to one side. Its presence was almost as welcome as the absence of crocodile.
He was about to wave the bottle triumphantly to show Brihony when he saw the desolation on her face. She looked on the verge of tears.
‘I’m sorry, Beck.’
‘What about?’ he asked in surprise.
‘I . . . I thought we were far enough from the river. We should have been safe. Mum would have known . . . if she was with us . . .’
Beck realized he had barely given Mia Stewart a thought since the previous day; whereas Brihony must be thinking of her constantly.
‘Hey, it wasn’t your fault!’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘You were right about them being ambush hunters, weren’t you? It went away because it realized it was too far out of its comfort zone and had lost the element of surprise.’
‘It took its time to work that out,’ she said with feeling.
‘The main thing is, it’s gone. We should see how the others did.’
Beck quickly checked Brihony’s boots, holding them upside down and shaking hard to get rid of any Australian wildlife that had taken up residence during the night – scorpions or spiders that had mistaken them for a nice, cool, dark cave to hide up in during the hours of daylight. Then they walked to the edge of the hollow. The scene looked calm and tranquil, with the wide river flowing on as it always had. The boat was pulled up on the far shore, but there was no sign of Barega or Ganan. His heart pounded. Please don’t let the crocs have got them. Please . . .
Then his eyes narrowed as he peered across. From the top of the bluffs on the far side of the gorge he could just make out a thin trickle of smoke. He cupped his hands to his mouth and drew breath into his lungs to shout. ‘Hello? Ganan? Barega? You there?’
The sound echoed up and down the river. It faded away into silence, and then there was movement. Two human figures appeared. Relief flowed over Beck like cool water on a hot day.
‘Beck? Is that you?’ It was Barega calling.
Brihony came to stand beside Beck. ‘No, it’s Her Majesty the Queen and the Governor General,’ she muttered.
Beck grinned. ‘How did you sleep?’ he called.
‘Not great.’ Barega didn’t know that Beck was fully aware of what had happened during the night, so it was quite an understatement. ‘You need to watch out. There’s crocs about.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ Beck called back. ‘We’ll keep our eyes open.’ Brihony laughed.
‘Sorry we can’t bring you any breakfast,’ Barega continued.
Breakfast! Beck realized that he really was hungry now. It was a long time since they’d eaten their fruit bars, and the excitement of the night had burned energy. They needed food.
‘Never mind,’ he shouted. ‘Talk to you later.’
They went back to the camp and Beck picked up the water bottle. It was almost empty, and unfortunately there was only one source of water nearby.
‘The crocs better let me refill the bottle?’ he mused.
‘Make sure you walk along the beach a bit to do it,’ Brihony replied. ‘Get away from the point where we came ashore last night. Crocs have good memories, and if they see an animal come to a particular place to drink, that’s where they’ll wait next time.’
‘Yep. Keep a watch from up here,’ he said.
He made his way cautiously down the rocky ledge to the shore, eyes peeled for any disturbance in the water, and carried on for twenty metres before stopping. The water bubbled as the bottle filled with a series of glugs. He screwed the top on and hurried back along the path to the top of the cliff. Then he paused and his eyes lit up.
‘What is it?’ Brihony called down from above.
‘I just saw breakfast! Keep watching for crocs.’
He hadn’t noticed it the previous night, but a tall thin tree clung to the side of the rocky cliff. Its trunk was skinny and twisted, its bark a lifeless grey, the colour of old ashes. It was a rock fig tree – and rock figs were good energy.
Beck climbed the first couple of metres. The roots of the tree dug into the cliff side and made good holds for his hands and feet. He came to the first of the leaves. They were oval, and covered in a light coating of fur to keep the moisture in. He poked his fingers into the clusters of leaves and found what he was after. The yellow fruits were the size of apricots, growing in little knots, protected by the leaves. They felt firm when he gave them an experimental squeeze. He plucked as many as he could reach, and stuffed them into his pockets. Then, with a final check of the shore, he climbed back down and hurried up the cliff to join Brihony.
When he reached the top, he took a look over the Outback. The vista of green plainland and red rock was already starting to shimmer in the sun’s heat. He was glad for what little shade the boab provided. He remembered that he had lost his hat the day before. If they had to move out of the shade, then he would have to deal with that.
But meanwhile he would see if he could add to the breakfast larder. While Brihony rebuilt the fire, he started to look around for anything else that might go with the figs. Now that it was daylight he felt safer poking about.
He used the machete to l
ever rocks up. The first yielded a large spider. It waved its slender brown legs in indignation at the disturbance. Beck was going nowhere near any Australian spiders, so he flicked it away.
Next he found something very long and spiny, with many legs and far too many hairs. It trundled over the ground, its middle flowing over obstacles while its front and back kept walking straight. Again he thought, No thanks. Long hairs on a creature like this were defensive – they got into an attacker’s skin, and at the very least could itch unbearably. They might even be poisonous. It might be OK if he cooked it to remove the hairs, but it wasn’t worth the risk.
The branch that had saved him from the croc the previous night had been bitten in two, but it could still do him another favour. He levered up the bark with the tip of the machete, and a curling, writhing grub fell into his hands. It was about the size of his little finger. Now, that was more like it. With a bit more exploring of the soft inner wood, he pushed the number up to six.
‘Huhu grubs! You tried them before?’ he asked cheerfully. He held them out for Brihony to see.
She frowned. ‘No. But my mum has once.’
It was like a cold wind had suddenly blown over Beck’s cheerfulness. They still only had the doctor’s word for it that Mia would be OK. Brihony was probably thinking of her mum a lot more than she let on.
‘Well, they’re breakfast,’ he said, trying to remain optimistic. They were stuck in the middle of the Outback. The one thing no one could afford to do was get depressed about their situation, or worry about things they couldn’t solve. They had to stay positive. Stay cheerful in adversity, Beck’s dad had often told him.
Brihony’s face froze, then slowly screwed up. ‘Breakfast? As in, first meal of the day?’
‘That’s the only breakfast I know,’ he told her, grinning.
She slowly looked up at him with eyes that begged him to give the right answer. ‘You are kidding? Please?’
He had to smile at her expression. ‘You mean, in all your previous camping you never tried these?’