Dingo: The Dog Who Conquered a Continent (5 page)

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.

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.

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, spluttering 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.

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 …

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 said. 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.

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?

But now he was following her, at least. She waited till he was closer then clambered up the rock a way, and sat, waiting till he caught up with her.

The rubbish dog was taking him somewhere. He didn't know why, but he suddenly understood where.

She had found a way out of the cove.

If he hadn't been so tired, in so much pain, he might have seen the track too: a narrow passage where the rock had crumbled, leaving a rough track up between the boulders and blocks of cliff. Other animals had used the path, treading silt into packed earth bridging the gaps between the broken rocks. He could even faintly smell them — not just dog and seagulls, and not pig or human either, but animal scents he didn't recognise.

He leaned against the cliff face again to help support his weight, hopping, dragging his leg, until they reached the top. He paused, out of breath. The pain exhausted him, the storm and fright and strangeness.

He gazed around, panting. On one side the sea stretched blue and bare. On the other golden tussocks of grass spread to dull green hills in the distance, the earth between them a patchwork of cracks, parched from the sun. It looked like a land crying for water to make it live. But this was the Dry, he told himself. Rain would come to this land too.

Or would it? The land looked wrong. The colours weren't right — the green too drab, the grass too brown. Only the sea on his other side was as it should be, the bright and fearless blue. Maybe this new land never had a Rain Season to bring it back to life.

The sun glared at him, swollen as his knee. He could see the beach he'd hoped to land on from here too: a vast stretch of trackless sand. No sign of the canoe. No sign of people either. No smoke, even on the horizon.

He had tried not to think about that. It was bad being alone. No fire was worse. Now the true terror flooded over him. Fire kept the wild animals away in the night. Fire drove away the spirits of the dark. Fire warmed the body on windy nights and cooked his food.

He'd once seen his grandfather make fire by turning a dry stick in a patch of rotting wood. It had been a show-off trick. The clan always carried fire with them when they moved camp — a live coal in a slow-burning pig's tusk.

It had taken a long time for Grandfather to get the rotten wood smouldering. Could Loa even remember how it had been done?

He shut his eyes for a moment, in pain and weariness. The pain in his knee felt like knives. He needed water: soon, or he would die.

He opened his eyes. The dog was still there. ‘Water?' he whispered, as though she might understand.

The rubbish dog gave a short ‘hff'. She sounded impatient. She padded away, then stopped to wait for
him. Loa lurched along the animal track towards her, along the cliff, then down into a sort of gorge, where two ridges met.

He stared.

There was a pond down there in the rock, almost perfectly round. Smooth cliffs surrounded it except on this side, where the path led down to it. The water was shallow, but clear. Impossible for a croc to lurk there, or even a snake.

Could it be fresh water? Or was it salt water, splashed here by some high tide?

As if to answer him the rubbish dog ran down to the pool. She drank briefly, then looked up at him as though to say, ‘This is how you drink, you fool.'

‘Water,' he whispered. He lumbered clumsily down the rock to the pool, then lurched into a sitting position next to the water, injured leg in front of him, and lifted up a handful.

It was warm and sweet and wonderful.

The dog gazed at him. He drank again and again, then dunked his head into the water to get rid of the salt and heat. At last he hauled himself onto his good foot again and scrambled up the path onto the rocky ridge.

He was safe from crocodiles up here. A croc could climb the path. But it wouldn't bother. The other animals that used this path, whatever they were, would be crocodile food too. Again he closed his eyes. For the first time in two days he let himself sleep without forcing down terror first.