Dingo: The Dog Who Conquered a Continent (3 page)

The day grew hotter. The light bounced from the sea, brighter than the sky. She wanted to pant, but the cords that held her were too tight.

Where were her brothers and sisters, the older dogs? Where were the smells of soil and bones and trees?

She had never been so hot before. Never so thirsty. There wasn't even the scent of fresh water out here. She didn't like these smells, or the way the world bounced beneath her.

Her thirst grew worse. She could feel her strength ebbing like the waves from the sand, but she forced herself to keep rubbing the cords around her jaws against the wood of the canoe.

She had to get free.

She didn't try to think how she would get back to land after she had freed her paws. Her world had narrowed to one fierce thought.

Attack the boy.

It was mid-afternoon when he felt the current change, tugging at the canoe. It was as though the reef was pulling him towards it.

He was far beyond anywhere he'd paddled before. The uncles hadn't said what winds and currents they'd faced when they'd paddled to the camp on the giant-headland-near-the-sky. It was best to show a boy how to do a new thing, not tell him.

He should have waited till tomorrow, tried to persuade one of the older, more experienced men to come with him. Two canoes and four men, perhaps, or even three canoes. Three canoes were safest. Yet here he was, one boy and one canoe out on the broad expanse of the sea, alone …

Except for a rubbish dog. He glanced back at it.

The rubbish dog lay on her side. She had been scratching against the edge of the canoe, but she stopped moving as soon as he looked around.

She must be thirsty, he thought. He'd forgotten she'd need water, here in the glare of the sun. A dead dog wasn't as useful as a live one. Sharks liked their prey fresh. But there was no time now to give her
water. He needed to keep the canoe from the reef, or they'd both be dead.

He turned the canoe out towards the open sea, not directly opposing the rip but at an angle to it, and began to paddle as strongly as he could.

His arms ached as he fought the current. At last the drag on the canoe lessened. He relaxed, undid one of the water bladders, then took a deep drink.

The water cleared his head. He crawled over to the rubbish dog, then dripped a little water into his hand and held it out to her.

The cords around her muzzle wouldn't let her open her mouth wide enough to bite him, but were now loose enough for her to put out her tongue a little. She lapped, feebly at first, and then more eagerly.

He filled his hand again, then tied the bladder up, instinctively cautious. He knew she wanted more. He wanted more water too. But they were far from land. So far away that the trees looked as small as leaf ants.

It scared him a little. He had never been so far out to sea before. Canoes were made for fishing in the lagoon, or short voyages around a cape, not for facing the vast sea. He'd imagined creeping around the beaches till he found the headland camp, not drifting alone in the vast blue like this.

He forced the fear away and scanned the waves between him and the shore, trying to see if there was a calm area that looked like a break in the reef.

There had to be one soon!

But he hadn't even been paddling for half a day yet. Maybe there'd be a break soon …

Or maybe there wouldn't. Maybe you had to paddle a whole day in this direction, just to find a place where you could safely take a canoe in to shore. And he'd set out when the daylight was already half over. He'd be out here in the roughness and vastness of the open sea at night, alone.

He twirled the paddle slowly from one side to the other, so the canoe stayed pretty much in one place while he considered. If he turned back now he'd be back at his own camp with enough light to find it, especially with the big fire for songs and storytelling after the feast. You could see a glow like that from a long way away.

Or he could keep going and hope that he'd find a place to go ashore soon, even if he hadn't reached the giant-headland-near-the-sky.

But reefs could be tricky, with outcrops here or there, waves and rips and sandbanks. He'd have to work out the best way through, keeping a sharp eye out for the unexpected, whether that was a rogue wave or a cruising shark.

And he was tired. Up in the first grey light for the pig hunt; carrying the sow back to camp; paddling for so long.

He scanned the coast again, looking ahead and then looking behind him, trying to make up his mind whether to keep going, or head back.

And then he stared. Billows of grey pushed up from the eastern horizon.

Storm! The worst storms came from the east: the wild winds that tore up forests, when all you could
do was huddle together in a cave till the fury of the storm was gone. But it wasn't the Thunder Season yet, though that was coming next. It wasn't even the Rain Season, with its sudden downpours, when the sky turned to solid water and then, just as suddenly, sunlight returned.

Sometimes the seasons came early, but the aunties had a pretty good idea when that would happen. The trees told them by the way they flowered or fruited. The aunties hadn't said anything about an early Wet this year.

So this was just a storm. A little storm.

Probably.

But any storm would be bad out here in the rough water, in a shallow canoe. He had to get to safety. Fast.

He had no choice now. He had to turn back and get near the camp, into the seas he was familiar with, before the storm hit.

He manoeuvred the canoe around. He had only tried to paddle half a dozen strokes before he realised.

The current was pushing him away from the camp. He hadn't noticed because he'd been trying to go the same way. It was going to take him twice the time, twice the energy, to get back home.

The grey clouds filled all the low horizon now. This is going to be a bad one, he thought, just as the first gust of wind hit. It was so hard it almost blew the canoe over on its side.

This morning he'd thought the sea was his to play with. Loa the pig killer was lord of the sea too.

Now the sea and sky were vast, and he was small.

A current tugging west. A wind blowing him west too. He couldn't paddle against them both.

Behind him the rubbish dog whimpered as though she sensed the danger. He gritted his teeth as he turned the canoe back yet again.

Once again, he had no choice. He had to keep paddling west, into the unknown, hoping that soon he'd see a place to go ashore.

Soon, he prayed. Let me find safety soon.

The air was wind and water. Waves tossed the canoe this way and that, the cords that bound her to the canoe digging into her each time. Her fur was wet. A puddle grew at the bottom of the canoe over her paws, her tummy. She had to close her eyes to stop the salt sting of spray.

Every instinct yelled, ‘Danger! Hide!'

There was nowhere to hide in the canoe.

The dog kept on scraping at the cords. Scraping. Scraping.

The sky was grey. The air was grey too. Rain lashed about them, thrown by the wind. Waves reared over the canoe, splashing down so he had to use his cupped hands to bail frantically to stop the canoe from sinking, then dig the paddle into the sea to manoeuvre them around the next wave, and the next.

The waves weren't Wild Wind high. They weren't even Big Storm high. But they were higher than a shallow canoe; higher than a frightened boy could cope with.

But there was no choice. And I am not a boy, he reminded himself. This morning I was a hunter. I fought the sow! I can fight the storm now.

The afternoon was swallowed by the night.

Time vanished. The world vanished too. There were only the waves, the wind, the rain. He had no idea how he kept the canoe afloat. He only knew that he had.

So far.

A cord snapped next to her muzzle. She rubbed at the other cords, keeping a cautious eye on Bony Boy. But he was frantically paddling, his back to her.

The other cords slid free.

She stretched her jaws, feeling the pain and stiffness, then bent her head. Her teeth worked at the cords that held her paws.

The wind screamed like a dying pig around them. The canoe bucked, the spray lashed from side to side. Bony Boy urgently scooped the water from around them and threw it back into the storm.

She could do nothing about the wind or water. Instead she bit the cords. It was hard to get a grip — the rocking, swaying boat kept rolling her back and forth and the storm blinded her. Each time the canoe lurched and rolled she was sure she would be swept from the fragile little shell, tumbling helplessly with bound legs into the water.

The cords around her paws snapped.

She tried to move her legs. Nothing happened. For a moment she felt panic. She tried again.

This time they moved, stiff and so painful she
whimpered, then glanced at Bony Boy to see if he had heard.

He hadn't. His back was to her as he heaved and bucketed against the storm.

She tried to stand. At last she realised it wasn't just the weakness of her legs preventing her from standing. There were more cords about her back, holding her to the canoe. She knew to leave them as they were: her only security now was the bucking canoe and Bony Boy, desperately bailing and paddling. Waves reared about them, capped with foam.

Just for now, she let the cords stay.

The air was dark with more than storm now: black sky; black water all around. Even the waves' foam was dark. His world had shrunk to each battering of water, tilting his body frantically each time the canoe was shoved onto its side, brief gulps of air in between the world of water.

It took minutes, perhaps, to realise that although the wind still snarled and the foam still whipped across his skin, the canoe was hardly moving. It had lodged somehow, leaning to the right.

His body knew it before his mind had grasped it. Land! They had come aground, somehow, somewhere …

He reached out a hand into the darkness and felt water rip and tear, still too deep for his fingers to find sand.

He stood uncertainly, then lowered one leg over the side of the canoe. Sand sucked and wriggled under his foot, stirred by the force of waves.

Which way was land, and which was the open sea? He risked pulling the canoe back towards the ocean. But every moment he stayed here he risked being
slammed by another larger wave. The storm had dumped him here. It could tear him away too.

He reached his other leg down, holding onto the edge of the canoe. He took one step, then almost unconsciously pulled against the ocean's tug. If the sea wanted him
that
way, he would go
this
…

He dragged the canoe with him. The water swirled around his thighs, his knees and finally his ankles.

He had no strength, no sight, no breath. It didn't matter. He kept on going anyway.

Another step. Another and another, digging his feet into wet sand. At last the only water came from the sky, not the sea. He could hear the crash of waves and the growl and swirl of the currents behind him. But wherever he was, he was beyond it now.

He sank down onto the wet sand, then roused himself, and forced himself to scrabble into the canoe again. Vaguely he thought that it was probably high tide now, but he could easily have lost track of time. The tide might still rise higher, or the storm might bring even larger waves. It was wet and cramped in the canoe, but if the waves were to find him again he was safer here.

His foot touched something. Something wet and furry, that shivered.

The rubbish dog.

The rubbish dog was still in the canoe. He reached blindly into the darkness. The water bladders were still there too, held fast by their cords, just like the rubbish dog and his spear.

He still had food then, a rubbish dog. Fresh water. He had weapons too.

He let his eyes close, though the darkness behind his lids was no greater than the night and storm. Suddenly he slept, as though a war axe had bashed him on his head.

A large sandbank in the great ocean, the Dry Season

The rain stopped. The clouds fled past, leaving the star-swept sky clear. The dog watched Bony Boy sleep in the darkness. He lay on his back, his mouth open, his eyes shut.

She stretched cautiously, ready to run or snap if he moved. He gave a half snore, half cry, then breathed quietly again.

The dog lifted her nose and took in the smells around them. Land and sea, but much more sea than land. This land was a drift of sand in the ocean, no more. No smell of trees. Worse: no scent of fresh water.

Only one cord bound her to the canoe now. It didn't take long to bite through it.

She leaped from the canoe, feeling it shift slightly as she did. Still Bony Boy didn't move. She trod carefully through the star-dappled darkness up to the highest point of this tiny piece of solid ground. She lay down, keeping her nose pointed towards Bony Boy and the canoe, so that she'd know if either of them moved. She
shut her eyes and allowed herself to snooze, her ears pricked, ready for what the dawn would bring.

 

Bony Boy slept as the far horizon grew grey instead of black. The dog gazed around. The waves had crept back across the sand, now the storm was gone.

She padded down to the water's edge, her ears still pricked in case Bony Boy moved, or a crocodile lurched from the water. It didn't take long to trot around the island.

It was pretty much as she had smelled it during the night: a long drift of sand above the waves. But there was a new meat smell now. She nosed around the seaweed and tangles of branches and leaves, then pounced.

A dead seagull!

She was more thirsty than hungry, but she needed to eat too. She carried the dead bird up to the top of the island again, then lay down with it between her paws. She nosed off the feathers, then bit into the flesh, enjoying crunching the bones. The salt-sodden feathers stung her lips and tongue.

She lifted her nose again, hoping that, somehow, there'd be the scent of fresh water. But there was just the sea and Bony Boy and the canoe.

She had never been so alone. There had always been the pack: the big female with her pups, the top dog, the uncles and aunts, the pups, toddling and learning to hunt. Even when she couldn't see them she knew where they were by their smell; knew where they'd been, what they were doing. She could smell
where dogs had been for generations leaving their scent by trees and rocks. Her world was full of dog, if you knew how to smell it.

This world was empty.

How could you be a dog without a pack?

The pack would find her, she decided. There had to be dogs, even here. There had always been dogs.

She put her head on her paws and waited.