Lost Girls (16 page)

My plan is to build a fire on the summit and light it before sunset, which is about three hours away. I’ll stay there tonight and get back to the beach in the morning.

Steam swirls around the tops of the trees. There’s plenty of rotten timber, anyway. I snap off twigs and branches from fallen dead trees. But then I think it’s a waste of energy, that I should wait until I reach the fire site before I gather material. The jungle thins out here, and there are more low bushes and ferns in the clearings. I find a small fig tree that the gibbons haven’t discovered
and gather as many figs as I can. I throw out the wood to make room for the fruit in my backpack.

I can hear a trickling, and follow the sound back into thicker forest. The sound of fresh running water has become like a magnet to me. I pass strangely shaped boulders—some might even have been carved to look like animals and huge human heads—and I’m glad it’s not dark; they’d be scary in the dark. I squeeze between two tall rocks and find a perfect little waterfall, tinkling down from a crevice onto a concave rock. I replenish my water bottle, admiring the huge green and red dragonflies and swallowtail butterflies that are hovering in the flow or sipping from the spray, and take the opportunity to wash all over and wet my hair. The water is deliciously icy.

Refreshed, I gaze around me and slowly realize that I am at the entrance to a man-made building of some sort. Hidden by the trees are tall columns of stone, crudely carved, almost covered by climbers. I clamber over fallen columns, also carved with figures. They are difficult to make out, but I recognize a giant figure with tusks. It could be a
Yaksha
, a temple guardian with flames carved at its calves and ears. This must be an abandoned wat, a temple of some sort. Jas would know. I make my way over roots and under low branches into the center of the abandoned temple and come across a reclining figure of Buddha. It is about twenty feet long. I scratch the pale
honey-colored surface, wondering if the color’s from gold leaf. But no, it doesn’t mark. Which means it could be… solid gold. Gold! I’ve never seen a Buddha lying in this position before. His head is resting on his right hand. His eyes are rubies, I’m sure of it. Most of his body is covered by roots and tree branches, strangling fig and ferns. His feet are placed neatly on top of each other, and his toes are painted red.

I feel like falling to my knees and praying, but a gentle rustling nearby makes me jump. A pheasant-like bird emerges, scratching the leaf litter for beetles or seeds. He has a red head and grayish back feathers and a long, curved black tail. He ignores me totally.

Maybe I am a figment of his imagination—or he is a figment of mine?

I try to take in all the detail so that I can record it in my journal later. I’ll name this place Wat of the Golden Buddha. This must be how Charles Darwin or Alfred Russel Wallace felt. (Mom has this really good travel book by Alfred Russel Wallace called
The Malay Archipelago
. He collected thousands of previously unknown species of natural history specimens. I’ve read only bits of it, but it’s brilliant.)

I feel so excited, so lucky. I can’t wait to tell the others. I even think—for a split second—of abandoning the plan to build a fire and hurrying back to the camp.

My eyes are getting used to the gloom when something red close to the ground catches my eye. Hanging limp on a spiny rattan is Sandy’s red neckerchief. My spirits plummet. I remove the cotton bandanna. It has dark brown stains on it. Blood, of course. Sandy’s blood. How did it get here? Did a boar carry it on its horns?

I peer into the darkness of the thick forest. Something is coming this way. My heart’s in my throat.

What do I do?

I stand like an idiot, rooted to the spot, while a wild boar ambles past me, not ten yards away, nose to the ground, grunting and farting, its small tusks gleaming in the green light of the jungle. It glances up shortsightedly, snout quivering, but moves on.

I breathe again.

I’m scared I’ll find the remains of Sandy’s body, a skull or a half-chewed leg bone. My legs are shaking so hard I have to sit down. I take out my journal.

After drawing more details on the map—the Buddha and the temple ruins—I move on, leaving a ribbon of thread to mark my route.

On a small plateau not far from the summit I find a tree full of ripe rose apples. Gathering as many of the egg-shaped fruits as I can, I eat a few right away and slip more into the pockets of my backpack, alongside the figs. (I remember Jas telling me that they are a lucky fruit,
linked in myth with the golden fruit of immortality. I need all the luck I can get.)

There’s a steep rock face to climb to what I imagine will be the highest point of the island, so this is probably the best place to get some wood. I gather what I can and wrap my sleeping bag around the long bits of wood to hold them together, and then sling the lot over my shoulder. I find myself enjoying the climbing, and my thoughts turn to
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
.

Phaedrus says mountains should be climbed with as little effort as possible, and when you feel like hurrying you should hurry and when you feel winded you should slow down. It’s only common sense, really. Each footstep should be a unique moment, to be enjoyed and noticed for itself. In other words, live for the moment, not for the attainment of the summit.

I take his advice, my senses more acute than ever—this rock looks loose.

From this place I can see Dragon Point. This small-leafed plant lives in this cleft. Here’s where ferns grow.

From this one I can hear gibbons sing.

Every inch I move is mine, my life. I have to make the right decision each time I take a step. But not all my decisions are right. One small mistake and I lose most of the firewood. It slips out of the makeshift bundle and slides down the rock.

I’m lucky. It could have been me.

I descend once more to gather and repack it. This time I carry it over my shoulders, in the hope that it will be less likely to fall out this way. As I climb again I recognize the place where I slipped last time and take care not to use that particular foothold. Yes, thank you, Phaedrus.

And finally, I’m here! I’ve done it! I’m on the top of the island. A pair of three-foot-long monitor lizards, shocked by my shout of joy—or maybe they can’t stand the smell of me (and who could blame them?)—hurry away. I wonder if I’m the first human to climb to this summit, a pioneer. I should have the Union Jack or, better still, the flag of St. Andrew, to plant on top.

I can see all around the island from here. It’s made up of lots of small, steep hills, like crowded green teeth with a clearing in the middle, where there are no trees, like a huge crater. The one I saw earlier—the salt lick—was much smaller and is north of where I am now. The small mountain I am standing on is much taller than the others. In fact, the island looks more oval than circular from this view, with the tail of Dragon Point and the thin white line of our beach far away. I watch the wind’s passage through the treetops, like looking over a huge field of swaying green corn. I hear the regular whoosh of waves on the rocky shore, a distant white sound. The rain showers far away on the green and foam-capped sea are
like heavy navy blue lace curtains. To the west the wind hurls handfuls of red and green parakeets into the air, like flung confetti. It could almost be paradise. And beyond our island, more islands and islets, too many for me to count.

And not one boat in sight.

I redraw the map, marking Tiger Cave and Butterfly Falls; the hidden temple, which I rename Temple of the Golden Buddha; and this rocky peak—I haven’t decided on a name for it yet. It calls out for something romantic, dramatic. It’ll come to me. There is no sign of a plane or helicopter. There’s a strong wind blowing, but nothing like the hurricane. Large orange clouds hurry across the sky, hounded by darker, puffier, more ominous clouds, like malevolent nuns in billowing habits pursuing fat Buddhist monks.

I need to gather as much firewood as possible, to build the biggest bonfire imaginable, before I attempt to light it. The hunt for wood takes it out of me. My hands are scratched and bleeding from thorns. I wish I had my knife. But the knife is a psychological prop for Jas, in case of unfriendly animals. Jody calls it a Swiss Family Robinson knife.

I’m breaking off a chunk of good dead branch when there’s a great sighing and creaking and—
crash!
—a huge tree falls and only just misses me. Gibbons screech
and howl; birds rush from the forest into the sky; fruit bats mass like clouds of starlings. My heart thumps against my ribs. The forest seems to be collapsing around me.

I climb the limestone rock face again and again with my bundle of wood. This is harder than it sounds. I wish I had rope. I press as much wood as I can into my backpack, but I can’t close it so I lose bits of wood as I climb.

I rest a moment and take in the 360-degree view once again. It would be wonderful under other circumstances. What am I saying? It
is
wonderful, and I must remember it. Make the most of every step, as I think I remember the writer saying in
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
. This book has turned out to be the most useful thing I packed to come on this trip.

I take out my journal.

I don’t want to be an intrepid explorer.

I want to be back in Scotland with my grandparents, a small child again, safe and cared for.

Those weren’t the thoughts I’d intended to record, but they were the thoughts that came to me most powerfully as I sat on top of my island.

I wonder if I’ll ever see my grandparents again? I suddenly miss them so much. I remember it all so well:

I am never supposed to go out on my own. I can only play indoors, or in the dry moat of the lighthouse, sheltered from the raging gales with Leonard, the lighthouse keeper’s son, who lets me ride his homemade wooden scooter.

So when I go out with Grandpa, it feels like the best kind of escape. The air rings with the sound of kittiwakes and fulmars wheeling and screaming, and the constant wind rustling and blurring the heather. My favorite place is Long Byre, a grassy deep gully where farmers shelter their long-horned cattle in bad weather. We walk through it now and a tiny ball of fluff darts from under my feet—a fledgling skylark—and chirps pitifully from a rock.

“Will its mommy find it, Grandpa?” I am full of remorse and guilt at having frightened the poor wee thing from its nest.

“Aye, Bonnie, it’ll signal to its mother and she’ll find it, don’t you fret.”

Now comes the difficult bit: I must hurry back before the sun disappears. I put a few short twigs in a close crisscross on a level bit of rock, then crisscross broken dead
hibiscus twigs on top of them. Then a layer of the driest coconut husk, finishing with a small nest of hairy lichens, which keeps threatening to blow away. Find the broken specs, hold the lens close to the lichens, and turn it to catch the sun’s rays. Is the sun strong enough this late in the afternoon? Did I blow my chances with all that looking around? A small coin of white heat appears, shimmers and settles. It intensifies. I hold the lens there for several minutes and nothing happens. I see a faint thread of smoke and smell burning. It’s happening—fire! Wonderful little flame! Like Tinker Bell. I try to remain calm, controlled. I blow gently to spread the flame. The dead twigs burn quickly, too quickly. I heap more on top, then bigger hunks. This is the perfect spot for a fire. No trees nearby to catch accidentally. Don’t want to send the entire island up in flames, do I?

But no, my fire is dying.

It’s gone—my flame has gone. I sob with frustration. I can’t even keep a fire going. I blow again. Is it still there? Not a glimmer. Our lifeline—a signal fire.

I can’t stop crying. No one will ever find us now. We’ll all die, one by one, and no one will ever know. My parents and my grandparents will think I perished at sea, drowned like the boatman. They will forever think of me as a bloated unrecognizable corpse, broken and chewed by sharks and nibbled by fish to a skeleton, forever drifting
over the seabed. There will be no body for them to bury or cremate, no grave or cross for them to grieve over. Nowhere to leave flowers.

Am I feeling sorry for my family, or for myself?

I take a deep breath—what would Phaedrus have done? He would work out precisely why the fire had died and do it right the next time, not make the same mistake.

When he took his motorbike engine apart he wrote down every move, so he knew what part went where and how, so he could put it together again. He drew a diagram. That’s what I’ll do.

What did I do wrong? Too much wood, too quickly? I’ve killed the fire, like suffocating someone with a pillow. I’ll have to start again from scratch.

But the sun won’t be there much longer by the look of it. I need to work quickly. I have only a small amount of precious dry lichen and coconut husk left. I don’t have time to go back to the forest. I stand and look out at the horizon.

Oh God, there’s a boat.