Page 90 of Shipwrecked

I take off down the beach. I don’t bother stopping by the hut to ask for permission because I’m doing this anyway. Nobody is stopping me, risk or not. I tear into camp and grab the surviving jerrycan. Petrol sloshes in the container as I race down the jungle path, following the straight shot to the watering hole.

The death of my parents is a distant thing to me. They’re gone, and it’s sad, but I don’t remember them as individuals as much as in the abstract. The feeling gripping me now is pure terror. A monster, looming loss waiting to fell me. This isn’t a vague I’ll never have a safety net. It’s a terrifying Cillian won’t exist. The man who stood on deck in that storm, risking his life to save me. The man who’s been caring and kind and gentle, in spite of everything. He’ll be gone. That’ll be it.

There’s barely any light when I reach the pool. I shoot past it, tackling the hill, throwing myself through thick growth. I get pierced, snagged, bitten, and a million other things. I taste blood in my lungs with every inhale.

I reach what I think is the top. I can’t fully tell. The canopy is too thick for light to pierce.

I uncap the petrol and pour, drenching branches and bushes in the firestarter. Cillian’s warning about using petrol for a fire echoes in my ears. Please don’t ever do that, it’s worse than bad. I toss the empty can aside, breathing in the fumes.

I’m breaking my promise to Cillian and Mathieu not to be reckless, but surely they’ll forgive me given the circumstances.

I look at the shadowy forest floor. I pat my empty pockets.

“You idiot. You idiot!”

I didn’t bring the matches. They were right there next to the jerrycan! The petrol-wet earth is ready to go up, but there’s nothing to ignite it. I’m only just catching my breath. The thought of running back fills me with panic and despair. I don’t have time to go back for matches. My mind is a blur of noise.

My survival instincts kick in. Not the ones that I learned on the island, but the ones that got me through years in youth care. I stop. I think. What do I need?

Fire. Ignition. A spark.

What do I have?

The clothes on my back.

Cillian’s knife.

I rip it from its sheath. I remember Cillian’s lesson: you don’t need flint, just a rock that’s harder than steel and has a rough edge. Any hard rock can do it. Jasper, agate, chert. I scan the ground, but all I see are shadows. I drop to my knees and dig my hand into the soil, seeking stones.

My vine necklace slides forward. My heart slips out of my shirt, dangling in the air beneath my chin.

Quartz works too.

I snatch the rock from my neck. Mathieu’s sweet gift. It’s too dark to see, so I feel for the rough edge. I bring it to the ground, setting it right on the edge of the petrol, and brace the knife spine against it at the angle Cillian showed me.

It sparks on the first try, and the entire puddle goes up. I’m downhill of the petrol, and didn’t take into account gravity. The forest floor beneath my knees catches fire, and I suck in hot, burning air before throwing myself backwards, tumbling head over heels down the steep slope behind me.

◆◆◆

I strike the water with force. By some miracle, I must have fallen into the deeper gap in the centre of the pool because the only thing I feel break is my arm. My elbow strikes hard rock, and everything below it goes numb. My left hand might have fallen off for all I know.

I flail in the water.

It’s dark. I can’t see which way is up. The panic of breathlessness rises in my head, and visions that I thought were gone resurface: towering waves turning me over, rolling me on churning tongues, and spitting me out on the sandy shore as if they didn’t like the taste.

Suddenly I’m yanked sideways and dragged out of the pool.

“I’ve got you,” Mathieu says.

I fall to my knees, and he holds me as I crumple forward over my arm. I can’t feel anything below my elbow, but it’s agony everywhere above it. My knees sting, and my hand does too. I’m burnt. I don’t know how badly. I can smell singed hair and what I’m afraid is melted skin.

Cillian’s knife falls from my right hand onto the ground. Mathieu’s gift is tangled around my left fingers, the vines snagged on my thumb.

“That’s going up well.” Mathieu’s voice draws me back into the present.

Teary-eyed, I tip back my head. The branches are already blazing, throwing up light and smoke.

“We need to go.” Mathieu stands and gingerly helps me up, avoiding my left arm, sticking to the right side of my body.