Tracks of the Tiger (9 page)

Beck remembered the very first time he had tried eating grubs. It had been in Australia – how could he ever forget the feeling in his mouth – the slight resistance of the flesh before it burst between his teeth, the explosion of goo, like rotting fish. And of course, Beck's father had been there, reminding him just as he was about to remind Peter.

‘Good on you, buddy. We need all the nourishment we can get,' he said. ‘And we definitely can't afford to be squeamish in a survival situation.'

‘Yeah, I know . . .' Peter opened his eyes thoughtfully. ‘Y'know . . . it's not actually that bad.' He scooped up three or four more in his cupped hand and ate them one at a time.

‘Hey, don't take the lot!'

When they had eaten as many as they could find, Beck poured water on his bandaged arm, gently moistening the wound. Then he slowly peeled off the bandage, wincing as it ripped at the congealed blood. The cut was still open, glistening, and the flesh on either side of it was red and tender.

‘I think a doctor would want to put a stitch in that,' said Peter, peering at it.

‘That's beyond our resources,' Beck muttered. ‘Though I've heard of jungle tribes using soldier ants . . .'

‘Huh?' Peter was cutting another strip off the spare T-shirt for a bandage. ‘How?'

‘Soldier ants have jaws a centimetre wide. You hold them over the cut so that when they bite you, they actually pull the edges of the cut together. Then you twist their bodies off and the heads stay in.'

‘
Ow!
'

‘Exactly. But we might not have any choice if this gets any worse . . .'

Peter wrapped the new bandage round the cut and Beck pulled his sleeve down over it.

‘And I suppose,' Peter pointed out as they set off into the jungle again, ‘you could always eat the ant bodies . . .'

‘We're gonna make a jungle guide of you soon at this rate, Peter!'

Beck's plan was to eat and drink as they went. If they stopped at all, it would only be briefly. Eating on the move meant they covered more ground, and it suited the ‘little and often' philosophy. They would take in enough energy to keep them going but not so much that their bodies would start to divert the precious water and energy needed to digest a large meal. And eating on the move gave them something to focus on beyond their immediate predicament.

Sometimes food just presented itself, like a cluster of low-hanging figs. Fig trees in the jungle are distinctive: straggly, with aerial roots – knobbly protrusions just like the roots you find below ground, but taking moisture in from the damp air. The leaves are leathery and evergreen, with rounded bases. The figs look like green balls growing straight out of the plant and can be eaten raw.

There was plenty of fallen, rotting wood around, and that meant plenty more insects. Peter seemed to be getting quite into insects, which surprised Beck. He secretly hated them, eating them purely out of necessity.

Beck couldn't help noticing that his friend seemed to have more of a spring in his step today. He was looking around, taking an interest in his surroundings, even if his glasses were fogged up with steam most of the time. Everything that had happened yesterday – the volcano, the crash, Nakula being killed – had been a shock. In their hurry to get away from the volcano and set up a camp for the night they'd had very little time to come to terms with their situation.

Beck remembered Peter's attack of claustrophobia. Yesterday, the jungle had been an oppressive, threatening place. Today it still wasn't exactly
safe
– if they ever made the mistake of thinking that, it could be fatal – but Peter seemed to have accepted it.

A crumbling, thirty-metre-long tree trunk lay across their path. It was another type of palm, with long thin leaves neatly spaced along its branches.

‘Hey, more food?' Peter asked hopefully.

Beck laughed. ‘Could be . . . In fact, definitely. I think this is a sago palm. And that means palm grubs.'

He used the crowbar to lever away the rotten bark, as before, then hacked into the wood. He prised out a chunk of the tree's heartwood and spotted something trying to wriggle out of sight. Beck dug it out and held it up. It looked like a giant maggot, three or four centimetres long.

‘Definitely palm grubs,' he confirmed. ‘You can eat 'em raw or cooked, depending. We'll gather some up for later when we've got a fire.'

And so they dug out a handful more, putting them into one of the pockets of Peter's pack for safekeeping. Then something else caught Beck's eye.

He strolled over to what seemed to be a giant brown growth on the side of a tree. It obviously wasn't part of the tree itself. It looked like an enormous mole or scab.

‘Termite nest,' he called over his shoulder to Peter, who was still gathering insects. Beck dug the knife into the brown mass, and a clump of wriggling, translucent creatures fell out onto his hand and arm. He quickly brushed them away.

‘Don't let them get onto you or they'll infest you – hair, privates, everything. But they're good eating.' He popped a couple straight into his mouth and chewed. There was definite
zing
to termites – a bit like slightly off citrus fruit; something in the region of old orange or lemon. But it was still nicer than the grubs they had eaten earlier. ‘One good thing about them – you'll never run short. There's thousands in this one nest. They're a vital part of the jungle – they digest all that rotting wood, and then recycle it!'

‘There's some interesting-looking ones here too,' Peter added.

Beck popped another couple of termites into his mouth; there was no point wasting the opportunity. Then, from behind him, he heard:

‘Mm, smells like marzipan!'

An alarm bell rang in Beck's head. Before he even knew it, he was running back to Peter – who was holding up a very long, black and red millipede, as thick as a finger and as long as a hand. Its thousands of segments made it look like an evil armour-plated CGI war robot from a trashy science fiction movie. It writhed and twisted in Peter's grip, and what looked like thousands of little legs waved impotently. It might have been the legs that had stopped Peter trying to swallow it. He was about to bite it in half instead.

‘Stop!' Beck swatted his friend's hand and the millipede flew away.

Peter stared at him as if he had gone mad. ‘What?'

‘Did any of it get into your mouth? Anything at all?'

‘No, nothing. Why?'

The millipede hadn't got far. It was heading slowly and steadily back into the undergrowth. Beck picked it up again and sniffed it. Peter was right – there was a distinct smell of marzipan.

‘That's not marzipan . . .' Beck's voice was a little shaky. He didn't like near misses. ‘This kind of bug secretes cyanide as a defence mechanism. Cyanide smells like almonds. Like marzipan.'

The symptoms of cyanide poisoning
. His medical instructor marched through his memories again.
Seizures. Cardiac arrest. Coma. Death . . .

Beck added quietly, ‘Definitely not edible!'

Peter was pale. ‘Wow. I almost ate it . . .'

Beck remembered his friend's new-found confidence. He didn't want Peter losing that again. ‘Yeah, well, you're still alive!' He chucked the millipede as far away as he could and wiped his hand on his trousers. ‘Hey, fancy some citrus . . . ?'

A couple of minutes later Peter admitted, between mouthfuls, that he much preferred lemony termites to cyanide-emitting armour-plated millipedes.

‘And there's another thing . . .' Beck passed his pack to Peter. ‘Hold this open for me, under the nest . . .'

Peter did so, and Beck cut away a section of nest so that it fell straight into the pack.

‘The nest burns nicely and the smoke keeps mosquitoes away,' he explained. ‘We can use this wherever we end up this evening.'

‘I think I read somewhere that termites make their nests out of their own excretions?'

‘Yup,' Beck said with a grin as he zipped up his pack. ‘I believe they do.'

‘So, burning termite poo?'

‘The new scent for men! C'mon, let's keep going.'

Beck maintained a constant, steady pace to press on through the jungle. It meant they covered ground but they didn't get the break or respite that both of them soon craved. Meanwhile Beck's arm was throbbing. Clammy sweat soaked every inch of him and he could feel the salt stinging the gash. Struggling through the jungle made his back and legs ache – the constant bending down, straightening up and twisting round; you could never just
walk
.

He thought of all the jungle movies he had seen where the heroes boldly slashed their way through the undergrowth. In fact, as Beck well knew, the real way to negotiate the dense jungle is not to fight your way through it, but to become cat-like, stealthy, easing your way through the vegetation. But sometimes the whole jungle just grows together into one big tangled knot and you grind to a halt.

‘Can I hear water?' Peter asked suddenly.

Beck stopped and cocked his head. Peter had been following on behind without complaint. He hadn't noticed anything in particular about the jungle, apart from the fact that it was getting thicker and harder work. But he was certain he had heard the sound of running water.

Both boys stood motionless in the tangled jungle, listening.

All at once Beck felt a huge wave of relief wash over him. Peter was right. Through the bushes he could hear a distinct trickling, splashing noise like one pipe pouring into another.

‘Well done, Peter. Quick. Follow me. It's this way.'

It only took another minute of thrashing and twisting through the undergrowth, and then the boys were standing at the edge of a small river.

The splashing sound came from the far bank, where another stream dropped down from some slightly higher ground in a metre-high waterfall. The water bubbled and chuckled where the two flows met.

‘Whoa!' Peter exclaimed. He craned his head back. ‘I can see the sky!'

The sky was a blue strip through the jungle canopy. The vegetation came down almost to the water's edge. There was a narrow strip of river bank, sand and gravel, and then the river was a five-metre-wide watery highway. It flowed from right to left, the waters slow and brown. With no trees to block it there was also a slight breeze – it was still hot and humid, but the air felt a little fresher simply because it was moving.

Beck looked on the river like a gift from above. Gratitude swelled in his heart. This was good in so many ways.

‘We can make our way along the bank,' he said, ‘or even in the shallows. Easier than fighting our way through the jungle! And the great thing about rivers is that they often lead to people. If we follow it, we'll either reach the sea or a town . . .' His voice trailed off thoughtfully and he started to look up and down the river very, very carefully.

‘All the water we can drink,' Peter pointed out, though his voice was distracted. He held his arms up in front of his face and studied them closely. Beck could see the mottled red skin. ‘I think I'm getting a heat rash.'

‘It's sweat build-up. All that salt and gunge going nowhere.' Beck took one more look at the river, first downstream, then up. He couldn't see any signs of what he was searching for, so he relaxed and started to unbutton his shirt. ‘We should take every chance we can to wash – let's do it!'

His first thought was to check on his wounded arm again. The bandage had to be soaked off and the cut looked just as open and raw as before. With all that salty sweat getting into it, Beck wasn't surprised it wasn't healing. He cupped water in his left hand and poured it up and down the cut to wash the grime out.

Then he scooped up handfuls of grit and rubbed them up and down his arms and legs. He could feel the rough mixture scraping off the grime that seemed to cake him; it left his skin feeling fresh and tingling. ‘Try it!' he told Peter. ‘It's nature's exfoliator!' Again, though, he checked up and down the river.

This time Peter was watching him. ‘What are you looking for?'

‘Crocodiles.'

Peter stopped rubbing and took several steps back from the river.

Beck kept talking as he rubbed himself down. ‘They love rivers like this. Murky water, slow flow, and packed with fish no doubt. They're responsible for so many attacks on unsuspecting humans, you can't be too careful.'

Peter winced, before saying, ‘I saw one in a zoo in Sydney once – and I was so glad there were several centimetres of armoured glass between us. It was just lying there – until feeding time, when they dropped a lump of meat in and it lunged faster than you could see. The keepers told us they can swim at something like twenty miles an hour, and when they bite, those jaws pack about three thousand pounds per square inch.'

‘And once they've got you,' Beck added, ‘you aren't going to escape. They drag you underwater and leave you there until you rot and they can eat you . . .'

Peter's mouth was hanging open and he looked a little green. Beck realized that his information wasn't helping Peter's confidence any.

He smiled and went on, ‘So, anyway, look out for them. They lie underwater with just their eyes sticking out . . .'

After that, Peter kept his gaze fixed firmly on the water.

The rub-down left them both feeling cleaner and refreshed. They soaked their clothes and wrung them out as hard as they could. They were still damp when they put them back on, but at least fresh water had now replaced the sweat.

Then they set off along the river, heading downstream. The brief break had lifted their spirits considerably. Sometimes the river dropped down a couple of metres, coursing over smooth rocks that the boys had to clamber down. Sometimes the banks narrowed, forcing them to wade through the water instead, sending sheets of spray up into the air. Even when it came up to their knees, it was much easier than clambering through the jungle.