Dingo: The Dog Who Conquered a Continent Page 7

  He waited till she’d slipped down the hill, then followed her. There was just enough light to see her track. He could smell where she’d been too — not just her doggy scent but the ripe fruit smell of cooked bat. The trail led upwards again, then stopped.

  He peered into the growing darkness. There was a deeper slash of dark in the rock. A crevice.

  She must be there. Hiding.

  From him?

  It was too late to see into the crevice now, to see if she was really there and why she was hiding.

  Tomorrow, he thought, as he limped back up to the campfire, a red blaze throwing shadows into the night. I will find out her secret tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 39

  Loa

  It rained heavily during the night and cleared just before dawn. Morning light speared through the thinning mist. The sun had lost its brilliant whiteness now that the sky held clouds again.

  Yesterday’s leftovers were already flyblown. He’d hunt and eat later.

  Below him the hoppers bent their delicate heads to the grass. Overnight the world had become green, grass green, mangrove green. Even the trees were freshly washed. He could almost see the hoppers getting fatter.

  He limped down to the spring, using his spear as a crutch, and found that it had become a creek meandering towards the swamp. It even tasted different: of leaves and growing things, not its old tinny taste of rock and earth.

  Something moved on the hill above. The dog. He stilled as she slunk past. She must have smelled him and chosen to ignore him. He waited till she crept up towards the leftovers, then circled around up to her crevice and peered in.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness and see them. Puppies. Five tiny squirming bundles with their eyes sealed shut. So that was why …

  Something growled behind him.

  He froze, remembering the sow’s fury when humans had threatened her piglets.

  The dog had been his companion since the storm. But he knew that a mother dog would let nothing — not even him — threaten her puppies. He tried to breathe thinly, shallowly, as though he wasn’t breathing at all. He looked away, not at her, not at the crevice where the puppies wriggled. He pushed himself back from the opening, not getting up to his feet, but sliding along the rock. It was only when he was a spear’s length away that he allowed himself to look at her.

  She carried a piece of cooked fruit bat. It must be for herself — he supposed rubbish dogs’ puppies lived on milk when they were very small, like most other animals.

  She met his eyes. She growled again — an almost imperceptible sound, like the rock had vibrated. She was waiting for him to leave before she went in to her pups. But he couldn’t go any higher, not with his bad leg. He’d have to go past her to get down.

  He sat there, hardly breathing, wondering if she would drop the meat and go for him. But at last she lowered to her stomach and wriggled into the crevice.

  He let out his breath. Heart pounding, he limped down the path, careful not to linger by the crevice in case she jumped out at him. He made his way to the edge of the swamp, quickly speared a sleeping fruit bat — they never seemed to realise that one of their number was gone when they woke at night — then carried it back up to his fire.

  He sat as it roasted, looking out at the new green of the grasslands.

  What would the dog do now? Would she ever come back to him? Or would the puppies be her pack now? Dogs stayed with dogs, humans with humans. That was the way the world was. It should be as impossible as having a whale as a friend. And yet, he thought, we have been friends. It was not just an alliance of convenience.

  Could he bear the loneliness if she left for good?

  He pulled at the fruit bat’s wing to see if it was cooked enough; the bone slid out. He tore off the wing with two bits of twig so he didn’t burn himself, waited till it had cooled a bit and began to chew. Suddenly he longed for real meat — not shellfish or mangrove worm or bat. Hunter’s meat. There were no pigs, but one of the hopping animals would do.

  He needed to find other people. He hadn’t seen any more smoke in the distance, but that didn’t mean there was no one there. Perhaps they made small hot fires with little smoke. Most of his clan’s fires were like that: dry driftwood that flared hot and almost smokeless.

  He could even try to get back home. Not in a canoe — even if he’d had an adze, or a rock that could be made into an adze head, he knew he didn’t have enough skill to make a canoe that would take him that far. A canoe looked simple, but it had to be perfectly balanced or it rolled over. He’d need years of learning and practice to manage that.

  But he could make a raft, the logs tied together with cord made from twisted inner bark, waterproofed with flame. A raft would take him …

  Not home, he realised. The winds and current had brought him here. Now they’d take him even further away. He couldn’t paddle against them, especially not on a clumsy raft. But if he went further along the coast he might see campfire smoke.

  Perhaps.

  He sagged against the rock. The Rain Season was nearly upon him, with its drenching showers and then its wild storms. If he was caught in a storm now there’d be no sandbank to rescue him. The first giant wave would smash him into the sea.

  The Rain Season meant floods too. He didn’t know this land and how strong the floods and storms might be. At least he was pretty sure he was out of the water’s reach up here — there was no debris among the rocks or in the trees. But once he ventured down onto the grasslands a flood might cut him off from the safety of cliffs and high country, easy meat for crocodiles.

  No, he had to stay here till after the Wet. Alone.

  He came to a decision. The dog had trusted him before. He’d win her back. He’d bring her meat … He grinned at himself. Like a warrior courting a girl he wanted for his wife. There were no girls to win here, but he could try to persuade a dog to be his friend.

  CHAPTER 40

  The Dog

  It was hard, living by herself. Not the puppies — that had been easy enough, each in its little membrane sac that she’d chewed up so no predator would smell it. She liked the feel of them feeding. Liked the smell of them, that familiar scent of puppy and dog.

  It was good not to be the only dog again.

  It was food that was so difficult — and dangerous too. Back in the pack the uncles brought the mothers and puppies food. That way the mothers didn’t have to leave the puppies alone and vulnerable to hunt.

  The uncles sniffed out danger: few predators would attack a pack of dogs. But there were no uncles here.

  She had sniffed out danger here herself, though she wasn’t sure what it was — the scent was unfamiliar. But it smelled like a meat eater.

  She thought it had smelled her too. And her puppies.

  At least she didn’t have to spend much time away: just long enough to get to Bony Boy’s camp and back. But there were so many things that would gladly kill a small, blind, helpless puppy. Snakes and hawks, to start with. The babies could even just crawl out and fall off the ledge.

  She hated being away, but there was no choice. Instinct told her she had to eat so she could feed her pups. She was hungry again now, but she hesitated, sniffing the air as she poked her head out of the crevice, checking to see if she could smell danger before she slunk away.

  She stopped. The hair on her neck rose. There was another scent. Bony Boy! She pulled herself back into the crevice just as he limped up the path; she let out a low, rumbling growl.

  Humans ate dogs. The almost forgotten fear was back. She wasn’t going to let a hunter have her babies.

  Bony Boy stopped. Had he heard her growl? Something clattered against the entrance of the crevice. A spear?

  And then she smelled it. Meat. Freshly cooked too. Half a fruit bat, still with the innards that were the bit she liked best.

  She pulled it inside hurriedly, then peered out again. Bony Boy sat a little way up the path. He didn’t move.

  Not hunti
ng, she thought. He had brought her food … just like an uncle dog did.

  The sense of threat faded a little. She still wouldn’t leave her puppies while he was here, even to get a drink. But at least now she had meat. She chewed the bones while her puppies suckled.

  And all the while Bony Boy just sat there, in the sun.

  CHAPTER 41

  Loa

  He brought food to the dog every morning. At first she grabbed it, not looking at him directly, and dragged it inside. But today she sat in the sunlight near him, eating, like before.

  It gave him a good feeling, providing food for the dog and her puppies. It was a bit like a hunter bringing home meat for the camp.

  He plucked a fruit bat out of the tree first thing each morning now, as soon as he knew they’d be safely asleep. He’d tried cooking two, leaving one to take her the next day. But something had stolen the cold fruit bat when he left the camp briefly to get a drink.

  Had a buzzard taken it? An eagle? There were many tracks in the dirt here, but none on the hard rock around his ledge.

  It didn’t matter. One fruit bat a day was enough for himself and the dog. That way there were no leftovers to attract scavengers.

  He lay back against the warm stone, almost dozing. Peace seeped through him. The dog, her puppies, the flicker of his fire glowing beyond them on the hill.

  Above him the thunderclouds slowly gathered in the sky.

  CHAPTER 42

  The Dog

  She needed to drink. She’d snuck out before dawn to drink, but now the puppies needed more milk she needed to drink more often too.

  She stared at Bony Boy, leaning against the cliff. Sometime in the last few days she had almost accepted he wasn’t a threat to her pups.

  Almost. Not quite. If he made any move towards them she’d savage him.

  But he brought her food. He sat by the crevice, like an uncle, even if he didn’t smell like one.

  She sniffed the air again. The danger scent was still there. But she needed water. The puppies needed her milk. And Bony Boy was here.

  She stood up and slunk quietly down towards the stream.

  CHAPTER 43

  Loa

  He watched the dog trot down the path.

  She needs a drink, he thought.

  He waited till she was out of sight, then leaned down to peer into the crevice. He didn’t dare get nearer — he knew she’d smell where he had been.

  He could just see the puppies. They had grown even in the past few days: plump balls of fur tumbling over each other. One was even nosing out towards the opening, looking for its mother.

  He grinned. They were so small, so … doggy.

  Something moved behind him. He turned, just in time.

  A talon lashed at him. Mottled yellow-grey jaws and claws longer than a spearhead. He flung himself back, grabbed his spear, then held it out, his back safe against the wall.

  The beast stared at him. It was a lizard. He’d seen others a bit like it — but they’d been no bigger than his hand. This was a giant. It was wider than his thighs and taller than he was as it reared up, a couple of spear lengths away, striking again with its claws.

  He thrust his spear out to frighten it, then realised that the clawing was a threat too, designed to frighten him away. It wasn’t after him.

  The lizard beast wanted the puppies.

  It had been waiting till the dog left. Why bother fighting when you could gulp down puppies and vanish back up the rock?

  The monster lowered itself onto its four lizard legs and peered into the crevice.

  Loa strode forwards, ignoring the pain in his leg. He thrust his spear deep into the reptile’s belly.

  The lizard reared back, twisting and trying to bite at the pain. Loa’s spear snapped in his hand.

  He stared at the monster as it hissed. A single fierce spear thrust hadn’t been enough to kill it, though it might die of the wound later. But now …

  Now the giant lizard had his knife in its guts, his precious knife. It could still grab the puppies. It could still …

  The reptile reared once more, blood dripping from its wound. A talon slashed at Loa.

  This time it wasn’t trying to frighten him. This time it meant to kill.

  His spear was only a stick now. A stick was better than no weapon at all. He aimed it at the tiny lizard eyes.

  The stick caught it a heavy blow on the nose instead. The lizard retreated and then struck again. Loa aimed at the throat this time. The stick didn’t break the skin, but it was enough to stop the determined lunge. He tried not to think of those massive claws raking his body.

  The monster hissed again, showing its long narrow tongue. It reared above him, closer now. He waited for the claws to strike.

  All at once it turned. He used the moment and struck again, harder, closer, into the vulnerable skin of its stomach.

  The monster lizard dropped back onto its belly. His stick broke again, leaving him with little more than half an arm’s length of wood. Loa saw the dog, her teeth clamped on the lizard’s tail.

  She leaped at the monster’s throat. She gripped and tore at the flesh as Loa too struck again and again. The monster lizard clawed at them, waving its legs one way and then another. But each time it turned either Loa or the dog lunged deeper into its flesh.

  He didn’t know how long they fought, but suddenly it was over. There was just the monster, sprawled limply on its back, bleeding from stomach and neck. The dog, with a bloody muzzle but unhurt; the puppies cowering far back in the dimness of the crevice. He counted them — still five — then looked at himself.

  Blood on his legs, his arms. He wiped it gingerly, then realised it was the lizard’s blood, not his.

  The dog lay on her front, panting. She stood up slowly, then moved towards the lizard’s stomach. She was going to feed.

  ‘No!’ Loa stepped towards her without thinking. For a second he thought the dog was going to attack him — this was her kill too and her blood lust was up. Then all at once she dropped to her belly again.

  He reached his hand carefully into the hole in the lizard’s stomach. He needed to find his precious knife.

  It was still attached to the first bit of spear. He yanked the wood out, his hand even bloodier, then used the knife to hack off some meat from one of the hind legs, and along the backbone, always the best bits on any large animal.

  Tonight he’d eat meat. Real meat, hunter’s meat — not fruit bat.

  He was almost back at his camp before he realised that he and the dog had fought together.

  CHAPTER 44

  Loa

  Loa hauled another log onto the stack under his overhang, glad that his knee was nearly better now. The wood should stay dry there. He’d moved the fire under shelter too. The overhang was smoky now, but that was better than letting his precious fire go out, plus the smoke kept away the mosquitoes that swarmed up in great clouds these days.

  It rained most days now: not the heavy deluges of the Rain Season proper, but the regular rains of the Thunder time. The way back to the sea was cut off by rising swamp waters. Part of the grasslands had turned to swamp too. The mangrove forest that had saved him from the fire was a swiftly flowing stream. Fish lay wriggling in the tussocks after every new storm brought a quick rise and fall of flood water.

  He feasted on fish and crab. The figs were sweet and ripe now too, as well as a black fruit. He’d tried only a taste of them first, then a little more when they didn’t make him sick. He still limited himself to a few a day, as a change from the figs.

  The dog ate the leftover fish, but there were no fruit bats to give her now. Either they’d finally realised he was attacking them as they slept and moved their roosting spot, or they always moved camp at this time of year.

  He knew the dog hunted lizards and frogs and birds to feed her puppies. There’d been no more monster lizards — though at least that one had given her all the meat she could eat for days. When he’d arrived the next day she’d hauled
the carcass away from her crevice. He supposed that was so it didn’t attract other meat eaters that might then be tempted by her puppies.

  Something moved behind him. A pair of hoppers: the small ones, not the big ones taller than he was. The grass was long now from the rains. He’d noticed that the big hoppers only ate grass while the small ones ate leaves and shrubs too.

  His spear was better now he had been able to straighten the new shaft in hot sand, but the hoppers still never came close enough for him to spear them. He’d tried sneaking up, or even standing still, leaves about his waist, his legs together, looking down to hide his eyes, all the hunting tricks to disguise himself as he waited for them to come and graze. But they seemed to be able to scent him long before he was close enough to harm them, even if he covered himself in swamp mud and approached them from downwind.

  It’s like pig hunting, he thought. Pigs were wily. You needed another hunter or, better still, many men, to drive the pigs towards the spears. Or luck, he acknowledged, grinning at the memory of that last pig hunt.

  Would he ever hunt pig again? Ever get home, or even find other people? There was no way to even attempt it now until the next Dry.

  What was his clan doing now? Did his mother still hope he’d return after the rains, bringing a bride with him? Or had Leki even forgotten she’d spoken to him in the excitement of marrying Bu? Perhaps she had left with Bu before he’d been missed. His family might think he had been eaten by a shark, or taken by a crocodile. Perhaps they’d searched for him.

  He shut his eyes for a moment. He hoped they weren’t still searching. But deep down he knew his mother would always scan the horizon for her son’s canoe. Every time his father tracked game in the forest he’d look for a print that might be Loa’s.