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Authors: Jackie French
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an armful over to the edge of the fire.
Most of it was already out, but the rotten wood on one of the outer mangroves still flickered red. He kneeled down as well as his bad leg would let him, and pushed the wood he had collected next to the coals, then blew on them. Flames flared up, yellow and eager. He added twigs then larger branches. When those were burning, he ventured further into the swamp and hauled out a dead log.
It was far bigger than any mangrove tree. The great tides must come all the way inland to this swamp in the Rain Season, he decided, or maybe a river flowed here too. Some past flood had washed this giant log here. The wood was damp, but that was good. It would burn more slowly and give him time to move his fire somewhere else.
He couldnât camp here. Even a big fire wouldnât keep crocodiles away. And heâd come too far to return to the seaside cliffs tonight. He climbed a tree awkwardly, using his arms to haul himself up instead of his legs, and peered around, trying to see what lay beyond the swamp.
Yes! There was a range of hills, much like the cliffs by the sea, on the other side of the mangroves. Would there be another freshwater pool there?
There was only one way to find out.
âDog! Come on!â The dog had been watching the fire warily. She was growing fatter, Loa noticed. She must be eating well, with her own hunting and his leftovers. She ate better than any rubbish dog back home. He grinned. She could share his cooked fruit bat now.
It still hurt to think of home. The pain in his knee was nothing compared to that. Sometimes he was even glad of the injury, because it distracted him from longing for his family.
The dog leaped to her feet and followed him.
CHAPTER 34
Loa
Boy and dog sat by the fire under a wide rock ledge, chewing the last of the fruit bat. The meat was sweet and tender, the fur singed off before heâd roasted it in the coals, with arrowroot tubers too, and some of the white mangrove worms as well now that he could cook them. He and the dog ate till they were full, then kept on eating.
The stars lazed in a wide wheel above him, the tiny campfires of the sky. Thunder boomed far off past the grasslands. But it didnât matter now if a storm flashed across the land, not with the ledge to shelter him. Not with the fire to keep him warm.
The fire was more than warmth, more than good meals to come. Fire was a way of saying to the darkness, âI am here, I command this tiny place where my light will keep you at bay.â
It was a way to say to wild dogs, even to crocodiles, âYou may be able to eat me, but I command fire. Watch out.â
The ledge was halfway up the first hill, worn away by wind and rain, strong and big enough to shelter him from the rains that would come soon, deep enough toeven protect him from the worst of the wind. The floor was uneven, but he could fix that tomorrow, scraping dirt down to make it more comfortable.
Heâd found no rockpool, but there was a tiny spring at the base of the hill, enough to gather handfuls of water and for the dog to lap. If it had been the beginning of the Dry heâd have worried that it would vanish. But the Rain would be here soon enough to replenish it.
Even better, there was food all around. This swamp was even richer than the one by the sea. He could bake swamp oysters and crabs. There were pandanus trees too, still with nuts he could now cook. He could use the leaves to make fibre for nets and cord too.
But best was the fire. Heâd made a rough basket of pandanus leaves to carry the hot coals from his first fire. It had taken four attempts to get them to his new camp. The first coals had eaten through the basket and his next two efforts had gone out. But now he had a fire where he needed it. He dragged up a damp log that would burn slowly so the coals would keep glowing overnight.
Tomorrow heâd find more logs, spear more fruit bats. He could sit quite still, like the
Most of it was already out, but the rotten wood on one of the outer mangroves still flickered red. He kneeled down as well as his bad leg would let him, and pushed the wood he had collected next to the coals, then blew on them. Flames flared up, yellow and eager. He added twigs then larger branches. When those were burning, he ventured further into the swamp and hauled out a dead log.
It was far bigger than any mangrove tree. The great tides must come all the way inland to this swamp in the Rain Season, he decided, or maybe a river flowed here too. Some past flood had washed this giant log here. The wood was damp, but that was good. It would burn more slowly and give him time to move his fire somewhere else.
He couldnât camp here. Even a big fire wouldnât keep crocodiles away. And heâd come too far to return to the seaside cliffs tonight. He climbed a tree awkwardly, using his arms to haul himself up instead of his legs, and peered around, trying to see what lay beyond the swamp.
Yes! There was a range of hills, much like the cliffs by the sea, on the other side of the mangroves. Would there be another freshwater pool there?
There was only one way to find out.
âDog! Come on!â The dog had been watching the fire warily. She was growing fatter, Loa noticed. She must be eating well, with her own hunting and his leftovers. She ate better than any rubbish dog back home. He grinned. She could share his cooked fruit bat now.
It still hurt to think of home. The pain in his knee was nothing compared to that. Sometimes he was even glad of the injury, because it distracted him from longing for his family.
The dog leaped to her feet and followed him.
CHAPTER 34
Loa
Boy and dog sat by the fire under a wide rock ledge, chewing the last of the fruit bat. The meat was sweet and tender, the fur singed off before heâd roasted it in the coals, with arrowroot tubers too, and some of the white mangrove worms as well now that he could cook them. He and the dog ate till they were full, then kept on eating.
The stars lazed in a wide wheel above him, the tiny campfires of the sky. Thunder boomed far off past the grasslands. But it didnât matter now if a storm flashed across the land, not with the ledge to shelter him. Not with the fire to keep him warm.
The fire was more than warmth, more than good meals to come. Fire was a way of saying to the darkness, âI am here, I command this tiny place where my light will keep you at bay.â
It was a way to say to wild dogs, even to crocodiles, âYou may be able to eat me, but I command fire. Watch out.â
The ledge was halfway up the first hill, worn away by wind and rain, strong and big enough to shelter him from the rains that would come soon, deep enough toeven protect him from the worst of the wind. The floor was uneven, but he could fix that tomorrow, scraping dirt down to make it more comfortable.
Heâd found no rockpool, but there was a tiny spring at the base of the hill, enough to gather handfuls of water and for the dog to lap. If it had been the beginning of the Dry heâd have worried that it would vanish. But the Rain would be here soon enough to replenish it.
Even better, there was food all around. This swamp was even richer than the one by the sea. He could bake swamp oysters and crabs. There were pandanus trees too, still with nuts he could now cook. He could use the leaves to make fibre for nets and cord too.
But best was the fire. Heâd made a rough basket of pandanus leaves to carry the hot coals from his first fire. It had taken four attempts to get them to his new camp. The first coals had eaten through the basket and his next two efforts had gone out. But now he had a fire where he needed it. He dragged up a damp log that would burn slowly so the coals would keep glowing overnight.
Tomorrow heâd find more logs, spear more fruit bats. He could sit quite still, like the
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