Wild Man Island by Will Hobbs

stone knife was about three inches long, and made from greenish jade-like rock. The handle was made of antler, probably deer antler. The blade was hafted to the handle with some sort of animal sinew.
    Under the straps of my life jacket would be a perfect place to stow the knife.
    Could I feed myself with the spear and the knife? I didn’t know. If I threw the spear at something, a fish or something, I might break the point. It was too valuableto use like that. With the knife, though, I could make a long jabbing stick. The next time I crossed a stream, I would be able to spear fish. I should be able to make a lot of other things too. Enough to get by.
    Then, if I followed the coast a little farther, I might get past these rocky bays. I might reach a place where fishing boats hugged the coast. Signal one fishing boat and all this would be over.
    I had to keep walking, but walking was already too hard, too painful with the bruises and all the small cuts on my feet. As soon as I thought about it some more, my gratitude to the wild man wore thin. I couldn’t eat the spear or the knife. He could have invited me to dinner.
    I laughed out loud. This was all too crazy to be believed.
    At least you can still laugh, I told myself. That must be a good sign. I tried the knife on a lock of my hair. It was sharp as a razor.
    Make something to protect your feet, Andy. Weave some sort of sandals like the wild man’s.
    Out of what?
    The answer came immediately: cedar. Julia had said that the Indians had been able to stay warm on this rain coast for thousands of years because of their mastery of the inner bark of the cedar tree. The wild man must have mastered it too.
    When I got started again I was wearing footgear of sorts. I’d figured out what inner cedar bark was, freed a slab of it with the knife, made strips, pounded them softwith a rock, and woven a crude pair of sandals. They were two layers thick, so they would last. It had taken me the rest of the day and half of the next. They looked awful, lashed over the tops of my feet and around my ankles, but they would do the job.
    I’d also made a long jabbing stick with a sharp wooden point. All I needed now was a salmon stream, and I wouldn’t be hungry again. Sushi would suit me just fine.
    I followed the coast to the east. From far off came the sound of a foghorn. A ferry, I guessed. I thought about the cafeteria on that boat. Unbelievable amounts of food. Hot food, hot showers. People to talk to. Cell phones. But mostly, food.
    Midafternoon, the fog finally started to lift. There was another creek up ahead, the biggest yet. In Colorado it might have been called a river. As I hurried toward it I pictured salmon so thick I could walk across on their backs. That’s what I really needed, a salmon run.
    What I found was a few trout that flashed away into the holes under the banks. With a groan, I lay down on my belly and made myself drink some water. Nothing on this island was ever going to be easy.
    Where the creek crossed the beach, I rinsed seaweed. Bite by bite, I put a disgusting amount of it into my stomach. Why weren’t there salmon in the stream, big fat salmon, so many I could spear any one I wanted? I was sick of this, so sick of the hunger, like a wolverine in my insides, and it never went away. I didn’t know howmuch longer I could stand it. Most of all, I was sick of my luck.
    My eyes fell on a bed of mussels. I grimaced at the image running through my head: I was starving to death in the middle of a grocery store.
    Every so often they’re poisonous, Julia had said.
    Every so often, I thought. As in, once in a while. As in, rarely. It was just that they were risky.
    I was ready to take that risk. If chances are good that they’re edible, I heard myself thinking, I’m going to try it. I can’t be unlucky all the time.
    A minute later I was smashing a mussel with a rock, prying away pieces of shell with the knife. It wasn’t