by Bear Grylls
Downstream.
It was as if a veil of doubt and despair had been blocking the logical thoughts from his mind.
Of course the stream would link to the river eventually – all he had to do was follow it! He began to chuckle, amazed by his own stupidity. Attracted by the laughter, the two pups came over and nuzzled him inquisitively. Mak scratched their heads and they curled up close to him. He lay back and stared at the sky. It was too late to make a move now, but at first light he would set out and follow the stream.
That night’s sleep was the best Mak could remember, despite his damaged body. The moment they had entered the den he had fallen into a deep slumber, all dreams obliterated by exhaustion.
When he awoke, it was morning, and the wolves were not there.
He scrambled outside into the bright sunlight, every movement finding a new, painful bruise on his body. He found the pack feeding on something he couldn’t identify, as the cubs had torn it to shreds. Still, he helped himself to whatever pieces were left, after carefully cleaning out the thick black gunk that had formed under his fingernails. There was no point in poisoning himself now he had a plan for escape!
Only after he’d eaten did he realize this was the first time he hadn’t felt disgust at eating raw meat. He still didn’t find it pleasant, but his mother had certainly dished up worse meals.
As usual he followed the wolves to Boulder Hill and drank, splashing reviving water across his face. The skies were clear and the heat stronger than ever when he announced his plans to his adoptive family.
‘I have to find my parents. My human ones,’ he added when the wolves looked inquisitively at him. He pointed downstream, but their gaze just fell to his finger – not the direction. ‘I’m following the stream to the river. That’s where I came from. Will you come with me?’
Of course he didn’t expect an answer, so began walking along the bank to where the stream vanished into the trees. He issued a series of short whistles in what he assumed was the international canine language, then patted his leg for good measure.
‘Come on, guys.’
The wolves watched him, amused, but whatever entertainment value Mak held for them was short-lived, when a dragonfly the size of his hand set down across the stream. The pups darted into action and chased it. Only Mother Wolf held Mak’s gaze. Emotion unexpectedly washed over him.
‘Thanks for watching over me,’ he said, his voice cracking. He dipped his head towards her in respect. He didn’t know if it would mean anything to the animal, but it felt like the right thing to do. His venture ahead suddenly seemed a lot less appealing without the wolves, compared to the ease of staying put – but go he must.
Mak wiped a tear from his eye, and stepped forward into the jungle.
Mak marched determinedly along the stream bed as it weaved along the jungle floor, his makeshift sandals protecting his feet from the rocks beneath. The canopy above appeared to close up, obscuring any view of the sky, and with it the humidity increased, until Mak felt he was being boiled alive.
The banks of the stream became steeper, bordered by plants so tangled and thick that Mak had no hope of breaking through them without a machete. Instead he was forced to wade through the water, which was becoming noticeably deeper as he pressed on. From shin-deep to waist-deep, Mak had no choice but to continue through, thankful that his feet were protected from some of the sharper stones he stumbled across.
Several times the stream flowed over an abrupt edge, forming little waterfalls no taller than Mak. Even these became problems as the wet moss clinging to the rocks was as slick as ice, and Mak constantly lost his footing and fell into the water.
It was never more than chest-deep, yet Mak was now much more concerned about slipping and breaking a bone – a danger he had narrowly avoided in his fall from the tree and one that he suspected would prevent him from ever getting out of the jungle alive.
Judging time by his rumbling stomach, Mak gauged it was past midday when he was finally forced out of the water. The current in the stream was picking up and had tugged at his feet, making each step more dangerous than that last. He climbed up the steep riverbank to rest and was greeted with the sight of more edible fungi and several green fruits a little larger than his fist, temptingly hanging from a branch.
He plucked the fruit and sniffed it. To Mak the fruit smelt like everything else around him.
Digging his fingers into the flesh, he tore the husk in half and was greeted with a pungent and familiar smell: mango! He gorged himself on several fruit, thankful for a taste other than fungi and raw meat. The sticky juice covered his face and fingers, but he didn’t care. With a full belly and the warm air, it was tempting to fall asleep, but Mak rallied himself. Escape lay onwards.
Energized, Mak stuffed several mangos in his lone spare sock, tied it to a belt-loop on his jeans and set off again.
His progress was slowed considerably by yet more thick tree roots lining the bank, but the stream itself was becoming wider, carving a deeper trough through the floor. Mak struggled on until, without warning, the trees suddenly stopped and he stepped out on to a muddy riverbank.
The stream he had been following now flowed into a broad river. Mak’s heart sang as he looked out across the slow-moving brown water – he had found his river!
Looking in both directions, he could see the river curved away, offering nothing more than a wall of distant trees and no hint at what lay beyond. Not that that mattered; he could see very clearly which way the water flowed and knew he had to head back downstream to get to the village.
How hard could that be?
After an exhausting walk downstream, Mak saw that the river slowly turned to the left, and with it his side of the bank sliced through vertical rock. Following it from the shore was going to be problematic, if not impossible.
‘I need a raft,’ he said to a colourful kingfisher perched on a fallen log. It regarded him for a moment – then darted into the water, flying out with a flash of silver caught between its beak.
‘Wood floats,’ he reasoned. ‘And there’s plenty of it around!’
Mak lay five logs, a little longer than his body, down one way in the mud, then, selecting three shorter ones, he braced his raft horizontally. He could already see the shape of the vessel that would carry him to safety.
After much searching he found a thin stone with a sharp edge, which he used to hack off stray branches from his logs. And the final results were worth it.
Now all he had to do was bind it all together. He shimmied up several nearby trees and used his improvised plastic knife to saw through some dangling vines. They proved to be an ideal rope with which he could bind the raft together.
After several hours Mak’s ship was complete, topped off with a broad length of rotted tree that still retained a gentle curve that he would employ as a primitive paddle.
Feeling quietly rather of proud of himself, Mak tilted his head to the sky and bellowed: ‘I AM MASTER OF THE JUNGLE!’ Then almost at once, Mak felt a bit embarrassed, and looked around to make sure no one was watching.
Several birds had taken flight, but nothing else had stirred. It was as if the jungle was holding its breath, waiting to see Mak’s next move.
He lifted up one side of the raft and dragged it towards the water. It weighed a little more than he’d anticipated. Placing the paddle on-board, he dropped the raft’s leading edge into the water with a splash.
‘I name this ship: HMS Escape!’
He pushed the raft into the water – but it refused to move, the majority of it stuck in the mud. With more grunting, he dragged the raft further into the river, releasing it when he was waist-deep. He had expected it to float proudly on the water – instead it dipped alarmingly beneath the surface. Mak panicked – what had he done wrong?
The raft floated – sort of – though it was a full inch beneath the water. But the current had already begun to take it out into the deeper part of the river.
The water’s tannin-brown
colour obscured any view of what was lurking beneath and Mak’s confidence was rapidly evaporating.
He tried to climb aboard, but every time he put weight on the raft it would sink lower, while the opposite end see-sawed out from the water. His carry-sock containing the mangos and spoon-knife fell away as Mak frantically gripped the edge of the raft as his feet cleared the bottom of the river. Now he was at the mercy of the current and found himself being pulled further away from the shore.
Desperately, Mak lunged to clamber on to the raft once again. The top half of his body made it, his fingers grasping for purchase between the gaps in the slippery logs. He heaved himself aboard, but the opposite side of the raft rose out of the water like a wind-surfer’s sail. His paddle slipped off, clocking him a painful blow across the shin.
Mak tried to redistribute his weight in order to force the raft back into the water. Instead a crack shuddered across the raft as the vine-rope binding suddenly tore. He opened his mouth to scream – but instead gulped down brown water as the raft flipped completely over. The now unbound logs scattered, one cracking him on the shoulder and forcing him underwater.
He kicked his arms and legs, but felt nothing but pain as the spars of his raft hit him one after the other – shoving him lower in the water.
He had escaped drowning in the river once before and a nagging voice in his head told him he had been a fool to challenge it again. This was how he was going to die, and it was all his own fault.
Something then yanked his shoulder and he felt himself being pulled sideways. He wanted to lash out to free himself, but found his movements were sluggish and weak. Just as he was about to accept his fate, he was dragged into the shallows of the river. He rolled over and threw up the water in his lungs – then gasped for air, all the while muttering to his saviour, ‘Thank you, thank you . . .’
Sucking in a deep breath, he rolled over and was surprised to see . . . Mother Wolf. The magnificent animal shook her fur dry, then circled around and licked Mak’s face until he giggled.
‘Stop it! That tickles!’
He couldn’t stop himself from clambering to his knees and hugging the wild creature. The wolf accepted it for a few moments before shucking him loose and walking proudly off to check on Yip and Itch who had been watching from the safety of a rock.
Mak wondered if they had been watching him all day, and was thankful if they had. Yet again he owed his life to this unlikely guardian.
He turned his attention back to the river. Only two of the spars he’d used for the raft were visible as they slowly spiralled downstream, on their path to civilization, a path he had no hope of navigating. As he studied the river, he tried to recall anything familiar about the banks on either side.
Admittedly one tree looked very much like another, and he recalled their captain had diverted them from one river into a tributary at least twice . . .
For the first time it dawned on him that this might not even be the right river.
Exhausted and hopeless, he lay on his back to preserve what little strength he had left. His plans now lay in tatters.
Mak’s detour to the river had spurred Mother Wolf to leave the den behind and travel. As if sensing Mak’s desire, they headed downstream, keeping as close to the river as possible.
Mak kept close to the pack – and time passed. At times they moved to higher ground and had no view of the river for days at a time.
And then the rain came.
Mak lost track of time. Of place. The relentless rain made it impossible for Mak to see where they were going half the time – but it didn’t stop them moving. Never pausing for long, Mak’s eyes fixed on the ground ahead, his mind focused on just the next step to keep him going.
With all the travelling, the family had to find new places to sleep, which was not an easy task. Sometimes they were lucky to find rock ledges and overhangs that protected them from the driving rain; other times they could only find refuge under overhanging boughs.
This forced Mak and the pups to lay close to Mother Wolf. Still Mak was soaked to the bone each night, despite trying to dry himself off with moss or even in dry patches of dirt. He’d heard about trench foot before in a history lesson and was worried he would get it if it kept raining like this.
The thought that a history lesson might actually be responsible for helping save his life made him smile . . .
The choice of food became leaner. One morning Mak was greeted with the gift of a large game bird after the pups had finished with it. It was nothing more than a mass of feathers and bone and he just couldn’t bring himself to chew on those. Instead, Mak opted to bite into an unfamiliar fruit he’d found, but its sharp taste made him sick almost instantly. His illness lasted the whole day and left him straggling behind the wolves as they picked their way along the river.
With the constant rain, pains in his stomach, no clear plan and now the darkness of yet another night closing in on them, Mak felt increasing despair. His nights had become riddled with vivid dreams depicting his mother and father clinging to a log as the river swelled around them.
Everything appeared in his mind’s eye with high-definition clarity yet moved with agonizing slowness.
He watched, frozen, before reaching for his parents as they sank beneath the waves. Each night he would wake with a start; and each subsequent night the dream came back with a vengeance, and he would attempt to save them again . . . and again . . . and again . . .
Only the constant company of the wolves kept Mak going. Even when they had been forced to dig in the dirt to unearth glistening brown grubs that they gobbled down, Mak went along with them. He held a writhing larva between his thumb and forefinger and drew it closer for inspection.
Dirt stuck to its glistening flank, its fat swollen body larger than his thumb. Closing his eyes, Mak held the grub in his mouth, careful that it didn’t touch his tongue – he had no desire to taste it. He tilted his head back, counted to three, and dropped it down his throat.
He swore he could feel it wriggling all the way down. However, he was surprised by the wood-like aftertaste. It was far more pleasant than he had any reason to believe it would be. It was amazing what you could eat when you had to.
The days passed, along with the kilometres, as they continued along the river. Mak now had no doubt that this was not the same river that had swallowed him. He really had lost track of time – had weeks passed? How could he tell? Only by the fact that the dark images of his family had begun to fade, replaced by nothing more than deep dreamless slumber.
He was becoming the jungle.
It was no longer raining when the banks changed from mud to sand and the river began to turn in sharp loops. It was while cutting across the golden sands of one such beach that Mak stopped in his tracks.
The sand was rutted with a series of paw prints that led from the trees to the water’s edge. Mak crouched to inspect them and felt a shiver of recognition – they were big cat prints. The claw marks clearly visible in the sand were just as he’d seen before, except this time the experience revealed more information to him.
There was no rainwater in the prints, and the sand kicked up around them was still relatively dry, meaning they had been created recently, perhaps even in the last hour. Mak looked around in alarm – could the creature still be around? He noticed the wolves stood alert, ears pivoted towards the trees.
Mak tensed. Some primeval instinct was telling him there was danger close by, not to hang around, but he wanted to know more. He slowly crawled on his hands and knees towards the water, following the prints. He could even see where the cat had crouched to drink, its long tail brushing ripples in the sand.
Curiously the prints here were deeper, and led away at a sharp angle, back into the trees. As if it had run at speed chasing something . . . or had been chased.
The thought was barely formed when the water in front of him exploded and the world slowed.
Jagged teeth framed a set of jaws that extended from the water – aimed s
traight for him. Mak sprang from his crouch, darting sideways in a move that saved his life. He felt the rush of air as the powerful jaws slammed shut with a single heavy thud.
He rolled over on his shoulder and was up on his feet again. A quick glance behind revealed the mighty bulk of a crocodile as it hauled itself from the river. Water glistened on its flanks as the beast struggled to change direction towards him.
Mak didn’t even think. He sprinted towards the trees, following the path of the big cat, which had no doubt endured the same attack. The wolves were ahead, growling and barking furiously – but as soon as Mak caught up with them they turned and fled into the trees.
His arms pumped hard as he ran, springing over roots and ducking under branches without thought. He finally stopped when Mother Wolf did, and they turned back to see the enormous reptile had stopped pursuing them halfway along the beach and had instead slumped on the sand to bask.
Mak bent over double to catch his breath and looked sidelong at the wolves.
‘Maybe we should keep away from the water for a bit?’
As if in understanding, Mother Wolf continued deeper into the forest. They followed a foraging trail that made progress for the rest of the day easier. Mak couldn’t help but notice Mother Wolf was now stopping more frequently, ears pricked for unwelcome sounds in the breeze or any scent that shouldn’t be there.
He recalled the fresh paw prints in the sand, and he too scanned the trees for any predators that might be stalking them.
The close encounter with the crocodile had shaken him. Even with a wolf pack by his side, the jungle was dangerous. He was thankful for the safety the wolves afforded him and wondered if Mother Wolf was thinking the same: that there was safety in numbers.
Another couple of days passed without further incident and Mak was relieved when Mother Wolf returned with larger prey once again: a hog that offered plenty of food for the hungry.