Dingo: The Dog Who Conquered a Continent (4 page)

He woke with a start, looking up at the blue sky. Where was he? His tongue was too fat for his mouth, his lips swollen and cracked from the salt water.

He stared around him. No green tree shadows, no birdsong, no rustle of leaves. No mutters from the other members of the clan, no babies crying.

He sat up, feeling the roughness of the canoe around him, and remembered.

The storm. The waves, the frantic tugging of the canoe up onto the beach …

He looked around. It wasn't a beach, not really. Beaches gave way to trees. Beaches had streams of fresh water.

This was just a low hill of sand, bright white in the blue of sea. In another storm it might vanish, or perhaps get bigger.

No trees. No streams. Just … He stared.

Just the rubbish dog, sitting on top of the hill, her fur almost the colour of the sand, her eyes staring down at him.

He swallowed. There was a story passed down among the mothers of how a rubbish dog had taken a
baby once. But that had been so long ago no one was sure if it was true.

The rubbish dogs knew that if they attacked a human, the other humans would attack back. But there was no one to help him now.

This rubbish dog could leap down and tear his throat open.

The rubbish dog was almost gold in the sun. She didn't move.

Loa looked back at the canoe. The water bladders were still there, and his spear. He automatically tipped the canoe over to empty the sea water from the bottom, untied the spear and held it at the ready, one eye on the motionless dog. He used his other hand to untie one of the bladders, then felt the cool trickle of fresh water against his lips.

It was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted.

Above him the dog lifted her head. She gazed at him: she could smell the water.

Loa retied the neck of the water bladder. He glanced around again, searching the horizon.

Land! He felt his heart beat as he gazed at the green smudge. The storm had pushed the canoe for so long last night he had been afraid that he'd be so far from land he wouldn't even be able to see it. But there it was, a day's paddle away, over to the …

He caught his breath. To the south. He felt the heat of the morning sun on his left side. It
was
the morning sun too: he knew he hadn't slept all day and, anyway, the evening sun was redder than the sun of morning.

Land to the north, east or even west could be home, but no one had ever seen land to the south. Yet there it was.

He shut his eyes. When he opened them the green smudge was still there. Land.

He tried to think. His head was dizzy from hunger and weariness, despite the sleep and the drink of water. Hadn't someone told a story about land to the south?

Old Uncle, that was it — a story about how Uncle's grandfather had seen smoke in the southern sky. The smoke had billowed up for days, as though there was a huge fire.

And, no, said Uncle sternly, it wasn't a cloud. His grandfather was not a fool. If there was smoke from the south there must be land too …

Loa gazed at the green smudge. Green meant trees. Were there also cliffs, mountains, a lagoon? But already the sun was glinting on the water and it was impossible to make out any details through the glare.

He sat back in the canoe. There was still a hand's depth of water in it, seeped out of the wet wood, but he wanted its familiarity again, even if it was drier on the sand.

Land to the south, a day's paddle away. He had water. He even had food, if he speared the dog, or maybe he could spear a fish in the shallows here.

Or he could paddle north, and hope he found land there.

But what if he didn't? Loa had never paddled more than a few beaches from home, but others had. The
uncles told stories of how the land stopped after so many days paddling to the east, or so many days paddling to the west.

What if the storm had blown him so far west that if he paddled north he would miss his land? Or maybe the land was there, but the storm had flung him too far to paddle home? He looked at his water bladders. They'd last him two days, maybe. How many days could you go without water, with the heat and glare of the sun reflected from the sea?

How many days and nights could he paddle without sleep? If he slept the tides might wash him back the way he'd come. After all, they'd already brought him here.

He looked down at his canoe. It was water sodden. Canoes rode low in the water at the best of times. Now it would be only a few handspans above the smallest waves. A shark could leap up and grab him. Sharks were always hungry after storms. Or a crocodile might grab him when he came near to land.

He looked at the rubbish dog again, wishing she was still safely tied in the end of the canoe, shark bait, crocodile bait, to keep him safe.

How had she got free? Chewing the cords, he supposed. A clever dog. But not clever enough to get away from his spear. Not on a tiny island, with nowhere to run.

He needed to drink again. But fresh water meant life or death now.

He looked back at the thin green line southwards, then at the blank blue of sky and sea that made up
the rest of the horizon. Every moment he waited here meant it was longer before he had a chance of reaching land, and water.

Which way? North, to the wide blue nothing? South, towards the green? Take a chance that land might grow from the seamless blue of sea and sky, or paddle towards where he knew land was?

It isn't, he thought, really a choice at all.

He stood. His legs trembled as he jumped clumsily from the canoe. He looked at the dog and pushed up his spear. He could eat raw meat if he had to. Maybe the rubbish dog's blood would ease his thirst as well. His hand trembled as he tried to aim the spear. If he missed she might attack him. He'd be defenceless, his spear too far away to grab. He took another drink of water, and felt steadier.

Now he could kill the dog.

The dog rested her head on her paws on her sand dune and watched Bony Boy drink. He was the only familiar thing in this new world.

There were no dogs here. No dogs would be able to come across the sea either. If she wanted to find her pack again she was going to have to get into the canoe and let Bony Boy take her back. The canoe meant pain and heat and thirst. It meant being with a human. But being alone was worse.

She did the only thing she could think of.

She rolled over on her back, her legs in the air, her paws limp. It was the ‘roll over' that meant the other dog was boss, that you'd do what you were told, let them have the best of the food, the first drink of water. She was trying to say to Bony Boy, ‘Let me back in the canoe. I'll do whatever you want.'

She didn't think he'd understand. Humans didn't understand dog things.

But what else could she do?

Loa stared at the rubbish dog. He'd never seen a dog roll over on its back like that. Rubbish dogs were yellow shadows at the edge of camp, sneaking, chewing, jumping.

The rubbish dog gave a sharp whine. That was strange too. She rolled back over onto her tummy — slowly, so he knew she wasn't about to leap. She put her head down on her paws and began to creep on her belly along the sand towards him.

It was the weirdest thing he had ever seen.

Was the dog trying to get closer so she could attack him? Suddenly he saw small white feathers in her fur and a pile of larger white feathers up on the sand. She had eaten a seagull.

He felt a flash of jealousy. The dog had eaten and he hadn't.

He lifted the spear again.

The dog kept crawling towards him.

He took a few paces back, to see what she would do, then watched amazed as she jumped into the canoe. She lay with her head on her paws again for a few moments, then began to sniff a water bladder.

‘No!' He raised his spear. But the dog backed off at the anger in his voice.

Boy and dog looked at each other.

Slowly, very slowly, he reached down and untied one of the water bladders. He emptied a little into his hand, and reached out to her.

He wasn't sure why he did it. The rubbish dog would bite his hand. She would grab the water bladder and drag it back up the sand dune. She would …

The rubbish dog crept forwards, still on her belly. He felt her tongue lick the water from his hand.

It tickled.

Suddenly he wished someone could see him, alone on a sandbank in the middle of the sea, with an untied rubbish dog licking water from his hand. Of course, if there was anyone to see, he wouldn't
be
alone.

The rubbish dog looked up at him, her brown eyes pleading. She wanted more water.

He couldn't kill the dog now. He wasn't sure why. He was pretty sure he might kill her, some other time. But not right now. And if he gave her more water she would be more likely to leave the bladders alone. Besides, the other one was still full. That far shore must be less than a day's paddle away, with the wind behind him, pushing him towards the land.

He trickled more water into his hand. Again the dog drank, and again and again. At last she put her head on her paws, as though to say she'd had enough.

He drank the rest, squeezing out the last drops, then tied the limp empty bladder to the canoe. He might need it again if he could find fresh water to fill
it. He assessed the wind, the tide — heading out, just past the turn, he reckoned — then took a last regretful look at the sandbank. It had saved their lives, but it would kill them if they stayed there.

They needed to go now.

He bent down and pushed the canoe out into the waves. He half expected the rubbish dog to jump out as soon as he moved the canoe. But instead she stood and walked back a couple of steps, turning around and around, then sat on her haunches, facing him, exactly where she needed to be to balance his weight when he leaped into the canoe.

A good omen? Or was he crazy, heading out to an unknown land over unknown seas, with a rubbish dog?

No. He had been crazy yesterday — or at least foolish anyhow. He wondered if anyone had missed him yet, if Leki …

He tried to pull a sheet of bark over the image of Leki and Bu, of home and family, the leftovers of the feast. He jumped into the canoe, steadied it, then began to paddle towards the thin line of green.

It felt strange, being free in a canoe. She quickly learned to move to help steady it every time a wave slapped them. She'd have liked to doze, but the bottom of the canoe kept filling up with water, so she couldn't put her head down. Bony Boy kept scooping the water out, in between sessions of paddling.

The sun rose higher. It grew hot, but not as hot as when she'd been tied up the day before. The spray dampened her fur; and now she could move the wind cooled her. Every so often Bony Boy stopped and offered her water — just a handful, but it was enough — then drank himself.

The smell of land grew closer.

It took her a while to realise what was wrong. The land smelled … different. Not just of new things, but the absence of things that should be there too.

No pig smell. No dogs.

But it was land. For now, that was enough.

Today everything went right. It was as though the dog was a good luck sign. Crawling to him, sitting there at the other end of the canoe. If only the dog could help him paddle!

He grinned. He had enough strangeness to cope with: he didn't want a paddle suddenly appearing in the dog's mouth, to add to the general weirdness of it all.

The wind pushed exactly where he wanted to go. The currents carried them too. He was making at least twice the speed he had yesterday, maybe more.

I am a sea eagle, he thought. I am a gull, spearing across the sea.

Something scraped at the side of the canoe. A branch. He pulled it up, and stared. The leaves were unfamiliar: curved like the water moon, a dull sea-washed green. He let the branch slide back into the water.

But the branch was also a good sign. The tide which had brought the branch out here would help him back where it had come from.

He kept on paddling.

 

The sun climbed higher. At every extra handspan of the sky he stopped to drink and give the rubbish dog water too. The wind dropped about noon, but he was close enough to see the shape of the land now — cliffs and, far off, the silver shimmer of a beach.

No rough seas or coral reefs. He would have grinned if he hadn't been so tired and thirsty. He changed course slightly, away from the cliffs, aiming for the beach. He had paddled for another part span when he realised he wasn't going to get there.

A current had caught him again.

This one was as strong as yesterday's. It swept him away from the bright beach with its comfortable rolling waves, back towards the cliffs.

But it wasn't just a solid line of rock, he saw with relief as the canoe drew closer. What had looked like one giant cliff face further out at sea was really a series of bluffs, separated by coves of mangroves — long stretches of grey mud dappled with small trees.

It would be better to land on a beach, with firm sand, than in the smelly sucking squelch of mangroves. It would be harder to see a crocodile in mangroves too — and harder to get away. But on the other hand the waves inside the mangrove coves were only ripples. It would be a smooth landing, with no risk of being dumped, canoe and all, by the waves. And where there were mangroves there was usually a stream. Fresh water …

He let the current take him now, paddling only enough to keep the canoe steady. He put his hand to his eyes to cut out the glare of the sea. No sign of
people; no smoke from campfires. He hadn't seen any smoke all day.

Maybe this was an island, with no people on it? If so, it must be a massive one. Or it might be the land of ghosts? He shivered, then told himself not to be stupid. A land of ghosts wouldn't have seagull droppings splattered down the cliffs. They'd be ghost gulls. Ghost gulls wouldn't leave white droppings.

He glanced at the rubbish dog. Her eyes were half shut, but her ears were cocked, alert. The aunties said that the rubbish dogs howled when they heard the ghosts of the ancestors.

The dog wasn't howling now. And any crocodile would grab the rubbish dog, not him.

He hoped.

Nearer, and nearer still … He could no longer see the beach, just the cliffs, bulging brown and streaked white with droppings, and the long stretch of mangroves. The current still pulled him, but he was still able to steer the canoe enough to avoid the cliffs.

This was going to be easy.