Dingo: The Dog Who Conquered a Continent Page 4

  They needed to go now.

  He bent down and pushed the canoe out into the waves. He half expected the rubbish dog to jump out as soon as he moved the canoe. But instead she stood and walked back a couple of steps, turning around and around, then sat on her haunches, facing him, exactly where she needed to be to balance his weight when he leaped into the canoe.

  A good omen? Or was he crazy, heading out to an unknown land over unknown seas, with a rubbish dog?

  No. He had been crazy yesterday — or at least foolish anyhow. He wondered if anyone had missed him yet, if Leki …

  He tried to pull a sheet of bark over the image of Leki and Bu, of home and family, the leftovers of the feast. He jumped into the canoe, steadied it, then began to paddle towards the thin line of green.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Dog

  It felt strange, being free in a canoe. She quickly learned to move to help steady it every time a wave slapped them. She’d have liked to doze, but the bottom of the canoe kept filling up with water, so she couldn’t put her head down. Bony Boy kept scooping the water out, in between sessions of paddling.

  The sun rose higher. It grew hot, but not as hot as when she’d been tied up the day before. The spray dampened her fur; and now she could move the wind cooled her. Every so often Bony Boy stopped and offered her water — just a handful, but it was enough — then drank himself.

  The smell of land grew closer.

  It took her a while to realise what was wrong. The land smelled … different. Not just of new things, but the absence of things that should be there too.

  No pig smell. No dogs.

  But it was land. For now, that was enough.

  CHAPTER 20

  Loa

  Today everything went right. It was as though the dog was a good luck sign. Crawling to him, sitting there at the other end of the canoe. If only the dog could help him paddle!

  He grinned. He had enough strangeness to cope with: he didn’t want a paddle suddenly appearing in the dog’s mouth, to add to the general weirdness of it all.

  The wind pushed exactly where he wanted to go. The currents carried them too. He was making at least twice the speed he had yesterday, maybe more.

  I am a sea eagle, he thought. I am a gull, spearing across the sea.

  Something scraped at the side of the canoe. A branch. He pulled it up, and stared. The leaves were unfamiliar: curved like the water moon, a dull sea-washed green. He let the branch slide back into the water.

  But the branch was also a good sign. The tide which had brought the branch out here would help him back where it had come from.

  He kept on paddling.

  The sun climbed higher. At every extra handspan of the sky he stopped to drink and give the rubbish dog water too. The wind dropped about noon, but he was close enough to see the shape of the land now — cliffs and, far off, the silver shimmer of a beach.

  No rough seas or coral reefs. He would have grinned if he hadn’t been so tired and thirsty. He changed course slightly, away from the cliffs, aiming for the beach. He had paddled for another part span when he realised he wasn’t going to get there.

  A current had caught him again.

  This one was as strong as yesterday’s. It swept him away from the bright beach with its comfortable rolling waves, back towards the cliffs.

  But it wasn’t just a solid line of rock, he saw with relief as the canoe drew closer. What had looked like one giant cliff face further out at sea was really a series of bluffs, separated by coves of mangroves — long stretches of grey mud dappled with small trees.

  It would be better to land on a beach, with firm sand, than in the smelly sucking squelch of mangroves. It would be harder to see a crocodile in mangroves too — and harder to get away. But on the other hand the waves inside the mangrove coves were only ripples. It would be a smooth landing, with no risk of being dumped, canoe and all, by the waves. And where there were mangroves there was usually a stream. Fresh water …

  He let the current take him now, paddling only enough to keep the canoe steady. He put his hand to his eyes to cut out the glare of the sea. No sign of people; no smoke from campfires. He hadn’t seen any smoke all day.

  Maybe this was an island, with no people on it? If so, it must be a massive one. Or it might be the land of ghosts? He shivered, then told himself not to be stupid. A land of ghosts wouldn’t have seagull droppings splattered down the cliffs. They’d be ghost gulls. Ghost gulls wouldn’t leave white droppings.

  He glanced at the rubbish dog. Her eyes were half shut, but her ears were cocked, alert. The aunties said that the rubbish dogs howled when they heard the ghosts of the ancestors.

  The dog wasn’t howling now. And any crocodile would grab the rubbish dog, not him.

  He hoped.

  Nearer, and nearer still … He could no longer see the beach, just the cliffs, bulging brown and streaked white with droppings, and the long stretch of mangroves. The current still pulled him, but he was still able to steer the canoe enough to avoid the cliffs.

  This was going to be easy.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Dog

  She let her nose speak to her. She could smell mud, trees, fresh water, turtle. She could smell crocodile too, but not close enough to be a danger. A breeze blew from the land, bringing more scents from further away. Rock, strange animals …

  Nearer and nearer.

  The canoe lurched. Bony Boy yelled in surprise. The canoe twisted like the water was a giant hand twirling a stick. The sea surged towards her.

  CHAPTER 22

  Loa

  The north coast of the great south

  land, the Dry Season

  He saw the jagged rock just before the canoe struck — dark rock like rotting teeth just below the surface of the water, hidden in the ripples from the breeze.

  He pushed frantically with the paddle to edge the canoe away. It was too late. The canoe’s prow hit the rock. Suddenly he breathed water, not air. He forced the water from his nose and mouth, along with precious bubbles of air, as the world exploded into pain.

  Had he hit the rock? No. The canoe had struck his leg. It still bobbed above him. He pushed with his arms and suddenly the canoe was gone, and he was over the rocks into the smoother water by the shore.

  But his leg … even that small movement had made him almost black out with pain. He gagged, spitting out salt water. How could he swim without moving his leg? But he had to.

  He stroked his arm through the water. The movement kept his head above water, at least. Every sway made him hot and cold at the same time. He refused to let the pain take him. It was agony: impossible to keep going. But he did. Slowly, slowly, the land came towards him.

  At last he saw mud below him, and the small stalks of submerged mangroves, and then trees growing in the water. He grabbed a branch, trying to haul himself upright on his one good leg. The mud sucked at his foot. The water was still up to his knees. The tree bent, but it held.

  He was still several spear lengths from the muddy shore. He tried to hop, hauling himself from tree to tree, keeping to the firm areas of balled tree root so he didn’t sink into the mud. At last the sea was behind him.

  He let himself look down at his leg. Blood oozed from a cut on his thigh. His knee was crooked, puffed up like a water-filled bladder. Knees don’t look like that, he thought vaguely.

  The mud and trees stretched around him. Low tide. Crocodile tide. He had to get out of the mangroves before the rising sea sucked him back into the swirl of water. Had to get to high ground, away from crocodiles.

  Then all at once the world was cold. Then nothing.

  CHAPTER 23

  The Dog

  Water surged and bubbled about her. The dog fought and found herself rising. Her head broke into sunlight and she gulped air. She’d never swum before, but instinctively her legs began to move the right way, through the water, over to the shore.

  She struggled to keep her head above water, panting, splutteri
ng as the waves splashed her nose. At last she felt mud under her paws. She fought her way through the last of the water, the mud sucking at her. She finally found firm ground on a ball of mangrove root. She shook herself dry, then looked for Bony Boy and the canoe.

  The canoe was floating down the coast, out past the place where it had overturned. Bony Boy lay in the mud. He didn’t move, but she thought he was alive.

  She was glad. In this world of strange smells he at least was familiar. But she needed water. Her paws trembled with weakness. Her throat and mouth hurt.

  Water!

  She lifted her nose. Yes, there was its scent again. She bounded out across the mangroves, pushing her body with the last of her strength, too fast for her paws to sink into the mud; too fast also, she hoped, for the crocodile she could smell somewhere not too far away to grab her.

  The mud ended in a broken cliff, steps and stairs of crumbling rock. It was steep, but not too steep for a sure-footed dog to find a way. She began to climb, letting her nose lead her to the water.

  CHAPTER 24

  Loa

  He awoke to mud — and water nibbling at his toes. The tide had risen.

  He looked down at his leg. Blood dribbled down his skin. His knee was a swollen thundercloud, blue and purple, the size of a piglet’s head. His foot poked out at a strange angle.

  The world swam as though he was still underwater. Too much sun, he thought vaguely. Pain. No food. Not enough water.

  He looked around for his canoe … and then remembered. The edge of this land had grabbed him, had pulled him from the canoe.

  He gazed desperately around the small cove. The canoe had vanished. Perhaps it had washed up on one of the beaches or other coves. Perhaps it was already bobbing out at sea, or even sunk. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t search for it, not when every movement made him dizzy.

  The canoe was gone. So were his water bladders and his spear.

  What did he have?

  He looked down at himself. A boy’s body, not a man’s, trembling with weakness. The cords around his waist, his knife. No family. No friends. A strange land, and empty hands.

  Even the rubbish dog had left him.

  It was too much to take in.

  One thing was left. Survive. Get away from the mangroves, where crocodiles lurked unseen in the mud. Find fresh water.

  If he could make it up to the cliffs behind the cove he should find both water and safety. Crocs didn’t like to climb. This mangrove must be fed by a stream or a swamp. Either would mean fresh water.

  He pulled himself upright. The black tide of pain swept over him. He ignored it, holding onto the stunted mangrove tree. He took one step and then another, almost falling as he grabbed the next tree.

  This wasn’t working. He couldn’t keep going if every time he moved he collapsed with pain. He gritted his teeth, broke off two thick branches, then untied the ropes at his waist. He used the cords to tie the branches to his leg, above and below the knee. At least that should keep his knee from twisting every time he tried to hop.

  He hesitated, then tied the knife back on the cord above his knee too. It would be easy to lose the knife in the mud if he carried it in his hand.

  The knife was his only link with home. Without it he was an animal, outcast, with no pack to help him.

  He tried putting some weight on his bad leg. The pain was as bad, but the feeling that the world was going to fade away about him was less. He could hop like this. A little way, at least.

  He began again. Hop, dragging his other leg, hop, grab. Hop, hop, grab.

  Suddenly he saw it: a brown log, the colour of the mud, lying in the shadows of the trees.

  But this log was crocodile.

  Crocs were lazy. They waited for you and lunged. Grandfather said a good hunter didn’t hunt, but waited. Crocs were the best hunters of all.

  He edged further away, slowly, keeping his eyes on the croc. If it wanted to the giant croc could catch him easily, destroy him in one powerful snap of its jaws. But maybe it had fed recently.

  Had it eaten the rubbish dog?

  His knee throbbed. His head throbbed too, his fear easing as step by step he managed to get further from the waiting croc.

  The cliffs grew nearer: grey-brown with lighter stripes, crumbling at the base. He made for the most inland point before the cliffs began. There was still no sign of a stream or river, but he could dig out a hole in a freshwater swamp, and let it fill. That would be enough.

  At least these mangroves were like the ones at home, even if the cliffs were strange. He could see gulls’ footprints in the mud, the tiny holes that meant mud crabs below, and mud worms. There was food here.

  And the swish mark of a tail. Another crocodile! It had been this way. Not long ago either — water still hadn’t seeped into the swish mark. Was it watching him, waiting to grab him, to tear his flesh? High above, a buzzard soared black against the sky. Loa was food for others too. But he had no spear now to protect him, no friends, no grandfather to help him hunt. He felt even more alone than in the storm. He forced himself forwards.

  Nearer and nearer …

  Then he saw the water. A thin seep from the cliffs, just enough to wet the rock. Not enough water to gather in his hands. No other water, except the sea behind. When the Wet Season came there’d be a river here. But not at this time of year. He limped towards it. He could almost feel it on his salt-cracked lips. He bent to touch the wet rock. But his knee wouldn’t let him crouch. He sat awkwardly in the mud.

  He licked the rock. His tongue could taste the water, taste the lichen on the rock. But it wasn’t even enough to wet his mouth.

  If he didn’t drink soon he’d die. If he stayed here, weaker and weaker, a crocodile would get him, tonight, tomorrow, as soon as it was hungry.

  Cliffs above him, too steep to climb with a leg that wouldn’t work. Mangroves around him. And beyond them, the sea.

  He wanted to cry. But a hunter didn’t cry. Perhaps his body had no water for tears either. His head buzzed, like it was full of bees.

  He looked around, vaguely hoping that somehow a canoe of fishermen might appear on the waves; that he’d see smoke rising behind the cliffs and people near enough to hear his yells.

  But there was nothing. Nothing but rock and mud and sea and sky.

  The buzzard flew lower, peering down at him.

  He stood up again, holding onto the cliff to steady himself. He clambered a few spear lengths up onto a jagged ledge of rock, pulling with his arms, letting his useless leg dangle behind. The ledge was just wide enough for him to lie down.

  The ledge wasn’t high enough to keep him safe from a crocodile, not if it really wanted him. But at least he wasn’t lying in the mud, as though to say, ‘Come and eat me!’ He shut his eyes.

  Maybe after a rest he’d be able to think what to do. Maybe it would rain. He could open his mouth and let it fill with water. Cool fresh water …

  Maybe someone would find him. Maybe a ghost would appear, with a ghostly water bladder …

  Maybe …

  CHAPTER 25

  Loa

  He woke to find the rubbish dog licking the wound on his leg.

  For a moment he thought the animal was starting to eat him. Then he realised that she was licking him the way a mother dog licked a puppy.

  He peered around, looking first for a new shape in the mud that might be a crocodile then at his wound. It looked neat and clean, not red and puffed, not nearly as long and jagged as it had seemed before. Either it had stopped bleeding by itself, or the licking had soothed it.

  His knee looked worse. Purple, green. He touched it, felt pain so bad it just made him feel sick, as though his body wouldn’t register so much agony. He couldn’t look at it.

  He looked at the rubbish dog instead.

  She sat on the far side of the ledge, watching him warily. So the crocodile hasn’t eaten her, he thought tiredly. Did she think he still had water bladders?

  ‘Sorry, girl,’ he s
aid. His voice was hoarse. His lips hurt. They tasted of blood; they were dry and cracked from sun and salt. It sounded funny to talk so far from people. ‘There’s no water for either of us. We’re meat for the crows or croc.’ His voice cracked on the words, but he felt no shame: there was no one to call him a coward here.

  The dog stood up. She scampered down the cliff, onto the muddy flats, then turned around, as if she was waiting for him.

  Did she think he could take her back to the canoe and the water bladders?

  Stupid rubbish dog. He shut his eyes again. Something rough and damp touched his arm. The dog’s tongue. He opened his eyes. The rubbish dog ran down the cliff and stared at him once more.

  Suddenly he understood. She wanted him to follow her.

  Later he’d wonder how he knew. It had never occurred to him to follow a dog before. Had it ever occurred to anyone? But now he had nothing, no one. Just the rubbish dog.

  Maybe she was taking him to be the crocodile’s dinner. It didn’t seem to matter now. Following a rubbish dog was the only option that he had.

  CHAPTER 26

  The Dog

  Why were humans so stupid?

  The dog sat on her haunches and watched Bony Boy hobble along the cliff towards her. He was hurt. She understood hurt. But she could smell that he needed fresh water too.

  Why didn’t he let his nose guide him to water? Or at least understand when she made it quite clear that he was to follow?