The Wild Way Home

by Sophie Kirtley

  I sit up slowly, dazed, spitting bits of muck from my mouth. My ears ring. I feel the boy’s eyes watching me in the half-dark. I turn to face him.

  ‘Cholliemurrum,’ he says quietly, sitting up too. His face looks almost old suddenly in his seriousness. He takes his spear and touches its glinting flint tip to his chest, right where his heart would be. ‘I give thanks,’ he whispers. He touches his spear tip to my chest too. I feel the cool of it through my damp T-shirt. But I don’t pull away, I don’t need to, I trust him. I understand. ‘I give thanks,’ he says again.

  ‘No worries. Anytime,’ I answer. A little tear trickles out of the corner of my eye. I brush it away quickly before he sees, my fingers trembling like crazy.

  Turning away, I squint out of the cave through the net of fallen-tree branches and the sheets of rain. Lightning crackles, making the forest flicker like an old old film; I wince at the brightness. Thunder crashes so loud it echoes in my heart.

  Usually I love storms. But I don’t love this one. I love storms when I’m safe at home, cuddled up with Mum and Dad. Going ‘Oooooh’ and ‘Aaaaah!’ like it’s some sort of massive firework display. A big wave of sadness rises in my chest. ‘I want to go home,’ I whisper. I want to be safe; I want to be looked after.

  Thunder booms, long and hollow. ‘Storm voice,’ I murmur as I look down and a tear drips on to my goosebumpy arm. I wipe it away. I wonder what time it really is? I wonder how long I’ve been gone? I wonder if up at the hospital window they’re all watching the storm … I wonder, are they missing me too? I rub at my pathetic tears with the end of my T-shirt. How am I going to get home?

  Lightning jabs through the sky. I squeeze my eyes tight to try to shut out the storm and the cave. I imagine hearing a team of park rangers in high-vis jackets shouting my name; I imagine hearing them huffing and puffing through the undergrowth towards Deadman’s Cave. I imagine the glare of their torch beams finding me here in the gloom. ‘So here’s where you’ve been hiding!’ they say, and they give me hot chocolate out of a flask and one of those shiny foil blankets. Then they radio Mum and Dad to tell them that it’s all fine; they’ve found me; I’m OK.

  But I’m not OK, am I? A huge crash of thunder makes me open my eyes. It’s all just the same. The storm still swirls through the strange, wild forest.

  I gasp, my breath catching in my throat.

  Over on the beach side of the river. There’s someone there! A shadow, running fast through the blur of rain.

  DEADMAN’S CAVE

  ‘Hey!’ I call, scrambling up to my feet. ‘Hey! You!’

  The shadow pauses for a second. I wave, squinting through the blanket of thick rain. ‘Hey! Hey! Come here, help us!’ But I don’t think he can hear me; he grabs something from the beach, then the shadow vanishes into the trees.

  I spring forward, forcing back the topmost branches of the fallen tree. I shove my way out into the rain. ‘Come back!’ I shout. But my voice is squashed tiny by the pounding rain and the crashing thunder.

  I blink, rub my eyes. Nothing there. He’s gone. Then I start to doubt myself. Was the shadow just a stupid imagining? A trick of the light?

  ‘Did you see that?’ I say quietly to the boy.

  But he doesn’t answer. He has shuffled himself back into a little hollow by the cave mouth. His eyes are closed and his breath is raspy. As I step back into Deadman’s Cave the cave wall behind the boy flashes bright with lightning. ‘Oh!’ I breathe, awestruck, clapping my hand over my mouth at what I see.

  It’s not possible. I know this cave. This isn’t possible.

  The walls of Deadman’s Cave are absolutely covered with pictures; paintings that seem to move like a flick book in the jittering light.

  The lightning fades again. But I have to see more! I tear off Dad’s backpack and rummage about; I find his torch and click the switch.

  ‘Oh, Dad!’ I hiss through my teeth. The battery’s dead, of course. Mum’s always telling Dad off for not changing the batteries on things. ‘For goodness sake, Dad, you total banana!’ I bang the torch on my hand. It flickers to life, a thin, pale beam, but it’s enough. I hold the torch high and peer all around me at the painted walls of Deadman’s Cave.

  They’re not just pictures, they’re pictures that tell stories: there’s a hunter who bounds long-legged in a leap. The hunter’s chasing a red deer, a hart with massive antlers, and the deer’s fast too, I can feel the strength of its muscles in the curve of the line. And there’s another deer ahead, a young one, smaller antlers, less strong, less sure; he’s looking back over his shoulder. But the young deer doesn’t see the hunter or the spear, the spear that’s arcing from the hunter’s empty hand, straight towards the deer’s panicky heart. ‘Spea!’ I murmur. The torch fades and goes out.

  ‘Come on!’ I bang the torch on the cave wall. I want to see more. Trembly thin light wavers through the gloom.

  ‘Wow!’ I whisper, walking a few steps deeper into the cave, forgetting myself at the sheer wonder of it. These walls are alive with eagles that swoop and fish that leap. I see lynx and bear and elk and wolf and other animals whose names I don’t even know. Living pictures of creatures long gone from my Mandel Forest. And there are more people, people just like the boy with wild hair and animal skins, clutching spears in quick, strong hands. ‘Chauvet!’ I whisper. ‘Lascaux.’ Because I’m remembering the pictures in The Wild; photos of famous caves in France with paintings just like these ones, thousands and thousands of years old. ‘Stone Age paintings,’ I murmur as my torch fizzles out properly. All is blackness. Outside thunder booms.

  I can feel the truth sitting beside me in the dark, watching me, waiting, daring me to meet its stare.

  ‘I’m in the Stone Age, aren’t I?’ I whisper; I’m breathing quickly. The air is cold; it tastes of damp and moss and mushrooms; the cave drips steadily like the ticking of a clock. ‘I’m in the Stone Age.’ A tingle of fear and excitement surges through me.

  ‘And you,’ I breathe, squinting through the dim at the vague outline of the boy’s sleeping shape. ‘You’re from here. You’re … you’re a real Stone Age boy.’ I shudder and I giggle and I hiccup all at the same time; my insides fizz and my brain spins.

  Then I hear something. A new something. I slowly turn my head and I listen. There’s a noise coming from way way back behind me, right in the depths of Deadman’s Cave.

  GROWL

  ‘Is there anybody here?’ My voice sounds shrill in the dark.

  The only answer is the rush of my own heartbeat.

  Fear steals through me, cold and shivery.

  There it is again. A tiny whimpering noise; almost like a … a kitten. That’s what I tell myself anyway, forcing myself to think of the least scary thing I can imagine. For a second I hesitate, blinking in the darkness, then I hurry back towards the mouth of the cave. But my foot catches on a sticky-uppy rock and I fall hard, flinging my hands out to save myself.

  My palms sting as they slap the stony floor and my breath’s all knocked out of me. I sit up, struggling to breathe. I touch my knee: sticky, it’s bleeding. The cave water trickles; it sounds almost like a little giggle, laughing at me in the blackness. I put my hand on my chest and take deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

  From the depths of the cave I hear the whimpering sound again and suddenly I realise what it actually does sound like – it sounds just like …

  ‘… a baby?’ I whisper.

  The boy’s baby sister. Mothga?

  I stagger to my feet, wincing at the pain in my knee.

  Then I hear something which turns my blood to ice. A growl, low and steady, and it’s close. I look up; a huge dog stands silhouetted in the cave entrance.

  I hold my breath … maybe it’s just a nice friendly dog, like Nero.

  The dog’s growl deepens. I swallow, thinking of all the wild animals I saw in the cave paintings: there were no nice friendly dogs in the Stone Age, were there? My breathing quickens. It’s not a dog; it’s a wolf.


  The wolf pads into the cave. He lowers his huge body to the ground and slinks towards me, his growl deep and steady. I’m paralysed with fear but, even if I could move, the wolf’s blocking my escape. My breath comes back in quick bursts. I can’t get out! I can’t get out! I smell a metallic smell, like iron, like blood. The growl rises to a snarl and I glimpse the white of the wolf’s teeth in a lightning flash. I need to do something, run deeper into the cave maybe; see if there’s another way out.

  The wolf stops snarling, throws back his head and howls. It’s so loud I can feel it reverberating in my bones; I cover my ears, burying my face in my arms.

  ‘Aloooo-ooooo-oooooone?’ he howls. But he isn’t. Because from all across the forest howls answer howls until the air almost ripples with it.

  The wolf isn’t alone. I am.

  I crouch on the floor, trying not cry, trying not to breathe, trying not to smell like food.

  The wolf turns to stare out of the cave, sniffs the stormy air. His ears twitch. Maybe he hasn’t seen me after all. Maybe he’ll just go off to join the pack.

  It’s OK. It’s OK, I tell myself. I’ve read stuff about wolves. Wolves only attack people really really rarely. I’ve definitely read that in The Wild; you’ve got less chance of being attacked by a wolf than of being hit by lightning. I gulp, looking at the silhouetted branches of the storm-struck tree.

  Then I hear it again; that high, mewling sound, from somewhere deep in the cave dark. Instantly, the wolf turns back to me. He drops to the ground and slowly, slowly comes closer, ears flattened, tail low, silent. He moves out of the dim light at the cave’s edge and into my darkness. He’s even more terrifying when you can’t see him. I hear the click click click of his claws on the floor.

  I try to swallow but my mouth’s too dry. I daren’t breathe but I know the worst thing I could do is panic. I try to think about what else I know about wolves. If a wolf does threaten you, you’re supposed to either act bigger than them, scare them off, or you’re supposed to act smaller than them, so they don’t feel threatened. The wolf’s growl deepens, so low I feel it in my belly. Which one was it? Act big or act small? I can’t remember! What am I supposed to do?

  I decide to act big.

  I jump to my feet and shout as loud as I can.

  WOLF

  ‘Get out, wolf! Get out! Go home!’

  My voice bounces off the walls of the cave. ‘… home … home … home …’

  The wolf’s growl turns into a snarl.

  ‘RRRAAAAAAAA!’ I yell back.

  Paws on stone.

  Click

  Click

  Click

  ‘Go away!’ I yell again, my voice cracking. ‘Get away from me!’

  I scramble back, away from the thin band of daylight, deeper into the dark. I can’t see the wolf but I can hear him, his growl low and steady, more like a vibration than a sound.

  My back bumps into the wall and I can feel the cold dampness creeping through my T-shirt. I whimper, my breath ragged and catching in my throat.

  ‘Go home!’ I scream desperately at the wolf, and he’s so close I can smell his warm stink in the air between us.

  Home! All I want is to go home …

  A scurry of pebbles. The tiniest cold breeze.

  The weight of the wolf, all fur and muscle, knocks me sideways. Winded, flat on my back, I smell the stench of the wolf’s hot, meaty breath. His dreadful growl goes right through me, into my bones. I feel my lungs fill with air and I scream. I thrash and writhe and try to shove him away. My fingers sink deep in his thick fur; I grab a handful in each fist and try to wrestle him off me. The wolf shakes his head and I lose my grip. I tighten my hands and punch with all my strength. The wolf snarls and pins me down; his claws dig into my shoulders like knives. I start to kick and kick my legs, but the wolf doesn’t shift at all.

  I scream. I sound like a small animal. I sound like prey.

  I hear a thunk and a thrum. The wolf lets out a yelp and falls hot and heavy on top of me, thrashing his head from side and side and snapping his jaws. I try to wriggle out from beneath him but his writhing body keeps me pinned to the ground. I get my right arm free and shield my face from his gnashing jaws. I feel him weakening and with my right arm and both my legs I shove, using all my strength, and the wolf rolls off me on to the floor. There’s a creak and a splintery snap, like a branch is breaking and, from inside the wolf’s body, a terrible tearing sound. The wolf sighs and is still.

  I lie there, next to the dead wolf, panting. I open and close my hands, flex my trembling fingers. Everything hurts but I’m alive. It doesn’t seem possible. I nearly died. That was almost the end. But somehow … I’m still here … alive … OK.

  I hear raspy breathing and struggle to sit up in the darkness.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I whisper.

  I GIVE THANKS

  A rattly cough.

  ‘Cholliemurrum?’ mutters the boy’s gruff voice.

  Suddenly my eyes fill up with tears. I sniff and bite my lip but the tears pour out anyway and I sob so hard I’m shaking all over.

  ‘You cry, Cholliemurrum?’ asks the boy’s voice in the dark.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my own voice all strange and choked.

  ‘Not cry, Cholliemurrum.’ The boy speaks softly.

  I hear his limping footsteps coming towards me, see his tear-blurred outline silhouetted in the yellowish storm light. He sits down beside me in the dark; I can feel the warmth of him and smell his human smell. I turn to face him. I open my mouth to speak but no words come out.

  ‘Not cry, Cholliemurrum,’ says the boy again, and he touches my wet cheek. His skin is rough but he’s gentle.

  I shudder and I cry and I feel like I’ll never be able to stop.

  ‘Wolf breath gone, Cholliemurrum,’ says the boy.

  I feel his hand grasp mine and pull it gently towards the wolf’s lifeless body. I try to draw back but the boy holds on tightly, guiding my hand across the wolf’s furry belly. His hand shows my hand a place where the wolf’s fur is warm and sticky with blood; I curl back my fingers but his hand holds me there.

  ‘Wolf in spirit sleep,’ whispers the boy. ‘I kill wolf dead.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, sniffing. ‘Thank you.’

  I stretch out my fingers and wrap them tightly around the smooth wooden spear, imagining that it was me who had thrown it, swift and true through the dark. The boy puts his big hand around mine. Together we wrench the spear free.

  The boy lays his palm on the wolf’s wound.

  ‘I give thanks,’ he says. For a moment I think he’s thanking me, but then I realise he’s talking to the wolf.

  ‘Why?’ I say, wiping my eyes with my T-shirt. ‘Why are you giving him thanks? He nearly killed me!’

  For a long moment the boy says nothing and I wonder if he didn’t hear me, or if he just didn’t understand. Then he says plainly, ‘Wolf give spirit. I give thanks.’

  I shake my head. ‘Thank you, more like,’ I say, but he doesn’t answer.

  I’m about to pass him the spear when I realise I’m only holding half of it.

  ‘Oh no,’ I whisper, fingering the splintery wood. ‘Your spear! Your spear is broken! I’m so sorry!’

  He takes the snapped spear, examines it in the dark. The spear is part of him, really important, and now it’s broken. I wait for his rage, for him to yell or cry or thump me. But he doesn’t do any of those things. Saying nothing, he limps very slowly to the cave mouth. I suddenly notice that outside the storm has passed. The boy stands there, in the strange amber light, wiping the broken spear’s blade on his deerskin.

  I hobble after him, my legs feel all wobbly still. Outside the rain is only drizzle now, somewhere a blackbird is singing. My breathing starts to steady itself as I gaze through the leaves of the toppled tree at this Stone Age world that’s so ancient but so very new to me: the cloud-rippled sky; the endless forest; the boy. I look sideways at him. He’s still got his blue bandage on, even though it�
�s ruched up a bit. This is his home and he knows how to survive in this wild place. Without him I’d be dead. Literally dead. ‘You saved me,’ I whisper quietly.

  He looks at me and does a funny little half-shrug. ‘Make safe,’ he says, plain as toast, like that’s just the way things are. Then he touches his bandaged head. ‘You make safe me, Cholliemurrum.’ He does his little shrug again.

  ‘Make safe,’ I echo back. I guess he’s actually right. Without me, he’d be dead – I saved him too. Maybe now we’re even.

  Maybe now we’re … friends. From nowhere, a nervous little giggle bubbles up inside me. What would Beaky and Lamont say? My Stone Age friend! I shake my head, half in amusement, half in disbelief. I sense the boy looking at me. I peek at him out of the corner of my eye too and a little tingle zigzags through my bones. Fear? Excitement? Wonder? I don’t know.

  HARBY

  I rub the ache of my torn shoulder and I shudder, peeking at the dim shape of the dead wolf back there in the shadows. I’m suddenly anxious to leave this cave. Fast.

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Where we go?’ asks the boy. His eyes are wide and expectant, as if he thinks I know what I’m doing.

  ‘We go!’ I say, trying to sound all decisive and confident, but I can’t hold his trusting gaze. I turn away and bend back the branches to squeeze through their net; my mind is whirling. The boy has lost his memory … so he’s relying on me now, but I … but this … is the Stone Age … the Stone Age! How am I supposed to get us home through the Stone Age forest?

  I hobble out into the golden drizzle. ‘Where we go?’ I murmur, under my breath, as I walk towards the Pinnacle, staring uncertainly into the dripping trees, searching for a plan …