year, but better than nothing. But they too needed to be cooked, like fruit bat.
He limped back up the track, trying to work out what he needed most. Fire first, and wood and tinder to make it. Then the right sort of rock and wood to make a spear. Fire would give him hot sand to straighten the spear shaft, but the rock here was crumbly. It would never pierce an animalâs hide â it probably wouldnât even spear a fish, which he couldnât do anyway till his leg was better.
The path wasnât as steep down to the grasslands. He took his time, hauling down dead bits of branch as he walked, the crumbliest, driest wood he could find,then two long hard sticks. At last he sat, the tinder in a small pile next to him, and pressed the hard stick onto the long rotten one.
This was how Grandfather had done it, wasnât it?
The dog watched from a rock nearby, curious at first. Eventually she shut her eyes, though her ears stayed pricked.
Loa began to rub the vertical stick between his palms. Patience, he thought. It had taken Grandfather a long time to get the tinder smouldering so he could blow in it to produce flame. Rolling and rolling the stick into the rotten wood â¦
The sun shone above him, hot and white. How long had he been rolling the stick? Far longer than Grandfather. He touched a finger to the tinder.
It wasnât even warm.
He let the sticks fall. It wasnât going to work. Not unless he could remember some other trick Grandfather used to make a spark.
He glanced up at the dog. She snapped lazily at a passing fly and crunched it.
Not a fly. A bee!
He sat perfectly still and listened. There was no telltale hum from any of the nearby trees. He watched the air instead, till he found another bee, then blinked.
The bee had vanished into the ground!
Bees lived in trees back home. But he was sure that had been a bee.
He grabbed one of the sticks heâd hoped to use as firewood, and used it to help him limp over to the tinyhole in the ground. He put his head down to the soil and listened.
A hive!
He grinned. He poked the stick into the hole, making it bigger and bigger still. The bees poured out. He brushed them away, glad that bees couldnât sting like biting flies, then bent down and scooped out two handfuls of honey and wax.
It was wonderful, though not as sweet as the honey heâd known before. This was runnier and slightly green-tinged. He ate handful after handful, spitting out the wax onto a little mound that grew as he ate.
A shadow sat next to him. The dog. He held out a hand, sticky with honey.
The dog licked it, blinked, licked again, then gave an almost-grin of distaste. It was so funny he had to laugh.
At last he gathered the wax and stood up. The wax had given him an idea. He mightnât have a spear point, but he had his knife. He could use wax and twine to fasten it to a long stick.
It wouldnât be a proper spear, not balanced enough to hunt with, not until he could straighten the stick with hot wet sand. But it would be good enough to spear fish. He could stand still on the rocks at the edge of the sandy beach heâd tried to land on and let the fish come to him, then strike. His bad leg wouldnât matter. You could eat fish raw if you had to.
And heâd be a hunter. A man.
CHAPTER 31
The Dog
The Thunder Season
Days passed. The smells here were strange, and many of the animals and birds too, but at least day and night and Bony Boy were still the same.
Bony Boy was a boring companion. He moved slowly and awkwardly. Most dawns she left him to hunt alone, following strange scents for the fun of it, for Bony Boy found enough food for both of them now.
This morning she lay on her tummy in the grasslands, the dry grass the same colour as her fur. Slowly the world around her woke up, the birds singing, then rising in a shifting cloud to settle on the grass nearby.
She moved slowly, still on her tummy, closer, closer. One of the birds saw her
He limped back up the track, trying to work out what he needed most. Fire first, and wood and tinder to make it. Then the right sort of rock and wood to make a spear. Fire would give him hot sand to straighten the spear shaft, but the rock here was crumbly. It would never pierce an animalâs hide â it probably wouldnât even spear a fish, which he couldnât do anyway till his leg was better.
The path wasnât as steep down to the grasslands. He took his time, hauling down dead bits of branch as he walked, the crumbliest, driest wood he could find,then two long hard sticks. At last he sat, the tinder in a small pile next to him, and pressed the hard stick onto the long rotten one.
This was how Grandfather had done it, wasnât it?
The dog watched from a rock nearby, curious at first. Eventually she shut her eyes, though her ears stayed pricked.
Loa began to rub the vertical stick between his palms. Patience, he thought. It had taken Grandfather a long time to get the tinder smouldering so he could blow in it to produce flame. Rolling and rolling the stick into the rotten wood â¦
The sun shone above him, hot and white. How long had he been rolling the stick? Far longer than Grandfather. He touched a finger to the tinder.
It wasnât even warm.
He let the sticks fall. It wasnât going to work. Not unless he could remember some other trick Grandfather used to make a spark.
He glanced up at the dog. She snapped lazily at a passing fly and crunched it.
Not a fly. A bee!
He sat perfectly still and listened. There was no telltale hum from any of the nearby trees. He watched the air instead, till he found another bee, then blinked.
The bee had vanished into the ground!
Bees lived in trees back home. But he was sure that had been a bee.
He grabbed one of the sticks heâd hoped to use as firewood, and used it to help him limp over to the tinyhole in the ground. He put his head down to the soil and listened.
A hive!
He grinned. He poked the stick into the hole, making it bigger and bigger still. The bees poured out. He brushed them away, glad that bees couldnât sting like biting flies, then bent down and scooped out two handfuls of honey and wax.
It was wonderful, though not as sweet as the honey heâd known before. This was runnier and slightly green-tinged. He ate handful after handful, spitting out the wax onto a little mound that grew as he ate.
A shadow sat next to him. The dog. He held out a hand, sticky with honey.
The dog licked it, blinked, licked again, then gave an almost-grin of distaste. It was so funny he had to laugh.
At last he gathered the wax and stood up. The wax had given him an idea. He mightnât have a spear point, but he had his knife. He could use wax and twine to fasten it to a long stick.
It wouldnât be a proper spear, not balanced enough to hunt with, not until he could straighten the stick with hot wet sand. But it would be good enough to spear fish. He could stand still on the rocks at the edge of the sandy beach heâd tried to land on and let the fish come to him, then strike. His bad leg wouldnât matter. You could eat fish raw if you had to.
And heâd be a hunter. A man.
CHAPTER 31
The Dog
The Thunder Season
Days passed. The smells here were strange, and many of the animals and birds too, but at least day and night and Bony Boy were still the same.
Bony Boy was a boring companion. He moved slowly and awkwardly. Most dawns she left him to hunt alone, following strange scents for the fun of it, for Bony Boy found enough food for both of them now.
This morning she lay on her tummy in the grasslands, the dry grass the same colour as her fur. Slowly the world around her woke up, the birds singing, then rising in a shifting cloud to settle on the grass nearby.
She moved slowly, still on her tummy, closer, closer. One of the birds saw her
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