The Secret Path

by Karen Swan

  She didn’t reply. She didn’t want even to roll down her sleeves – to reject his advice just to reject him was a pleasing thought – but there would be only one victim of that mindset. What was that Buddha quote Holly loved throwing at her? Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and wishing the other person would die.

  She went to roll down her shirt sleeves, but he suddenly reached over and held her arm still. ‘Hmm, that looks nasty,’ he muttered, examining it closely. She saw she had a scratch on the underside of her forearm, just down from her elbow, several inches long. It was livid-looking, a raised red weal, and she flinched as he placed a hand protectively over it, feeling the heat. He looked up at her. ‘How did you get that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know I had,’ she frowned.

  ‘Really? It looks deep. You must have felt it at the time?’

  He was right. They both continued staring at the wound. ‘. . . It must have been when Jed was attacked,’ she said, thinking back. ‘There was a lot going on. I was running, trying to find him, and . . .’

  His eyes narrowed as he regarded her afresh. He looked . . . she wasn’t sure what. Concerned? ‘And you’re sure they didn’t hurt you?’

  She looked back at him coldly. She didn’t want his concern. Or pity. ‘Do I look hurt to you?’

  Mission accomplished.

  He blinked, letting her arm drop. ‘No. You look damn near armour-plated to me.’

  Another moment passed in which they said nothing, just stared at one another, both of them fundamentally bewildered to find themselves in this scenario.

  He turned away, checking on the water, and she examined the wound herself more closely. She didn’t like the look of it either – deep, angry, hot – and she rolled her sleeve back down. With the heat, humidity and lack of washing facilities here, she would need to take care it didn’t become infected.

  The light had all but gone and the fire threw out a spreading, warming glow. Alex poured a packet of rice into the pan, added some black beans and began stirring it. She went over to her rucksack and pulled out her head torch and the crank-up flashlight he’d given her, putting them both inside her hammock. She fussed with her mosquito net like it was the drapery to a four-poster, hearing the flames crackling at her back. She resented how easy he made this all seem. She knew perfectly well that to be out here alone would have been a very different story; the lessons Jed had taught her in childhood wouldn’t have covered much of what had happened on the journey so far.

  ‘Jed must be a good friend, for you to be doing all this for him,’ he said, still stirring the rice as she came back to the fire, nothing else to do. He had found and rolled some logs – of course he had! – for them to sit upon, and she sank onto the nearest one.

  ‘Anyone would do the same.’

  He frowned. ‘Would they? This isn’t exactly camping for beginners.’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly a beginner. Not completely. Jed used to take me and Miles into the forest for overnight trips when we were little. He taught us what to look out for, all the things not to do.’

  ‘Sounds like fun.’

  ‘It was. Our times out here were the best we ever had,’ she said flatly; she didn’t like agreeing with him.

  ‘That makes it even more of a shame, then, that you haven’t come out in so long.’

  ‘How do you know I haven’t?’ Her voice was arch.

  But she knew he knew. He looked at her and away again, their shared past and what he’d done forever sitting between them. It was there in every conversation, every look. He cleared his throat.

  Something overhead, hidden in the shadows, made a sudden movement, sending down a shower of leaves and seeds. She watched Alex catch sight of whatever it was, his eyes narrowing as he tracked it with a keen eye along the branch. He caught her staring and shrugged his eyebrows. ‘Capuchin.’ His eyes fell to the gold chain around her neck; it had a clear glass locket and a single ruby inside it – a gift from Rory on their first anniversary. ‘Be careful, they like shiny things,’ he said with an even stare, as though he knew that too.

  She watched as he took the pan off the heat and carefully ladled the rice from the water. Two enamel cups were passing as their bowls and he filled them, handing her one. There was no cutlery.

  ‘I don’t understand how you have time to be out here doing this when the handover is happening in a few days,’ she said in lieu of thanks.

  ‘I don’t,’ he said, not raising his eyes as he scooped the food with his hands, the way she’d seen the children do in Jed’s village. ‘But it’s an emergency, right? A kid is sick. Who’s gonna put anything above that? If this is the only way to get him help, it has to come first . . .’ He shrugged.

  She stared at him with quiet fury. So there was something, then, that he put before his ambitions? There was some sort of moral code he lived by? He could deceive and seduce her in order to get the introduction he needed, but he wasn’t so calculating as to put his career before a dying child? He wasn’t that bad?

  He didn’t seem to notice her contemptuous stare. He seemed to be enjoying his meal, in fact, and she stared down at the cup of dinner. She began eating with her fingers, tentatively at first, but it tasted so good, the starch stinging her tongue as her body realized how depleted it was. She was starving and she hadn’t even realized.

  ‘Besides, it’s not like organizing a dinner party or something,’ he continued, picking up the conversation as though he hadn’t just eaten a meal between comments. The cup – almost empty – was just inches from his face as he ate. ‘The handover itself is pretty much just a paperwork issue at this stage; the lawyers will be pulling some all-nighters, I guess, but for me it’s all ongoing long-term projects that are going to continue next week, regardless of who owns the land.’

  She chased a bean with her finger. ‘. . . Like what?’ she asked in her most bored voice.

  He glanced up at her. ‘Like right here.’ He jerked his head around, his gaze scanning the towering giants that loomed above them, interlocking fingers and creating intricate aerial playgrounds for the animals that lived within their reaches. ‘These trees are only nine years old.’

  She stopped eating. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. Found a guy out here cutting down the trees and planting coffee bushes everywhere. We kicked him out, rewilded the place.’

  ‘But they look . . . ancient,’ she mumbled, looking around them both too.

  ‘I know. It doesn’t take much for things to return to their natural states and thrive again. Nature will always prevail. It’s just a matter of providing the right protections.’ He watched her from across the fire. ‘In the past decade, we’ve reclaimed and reforested over seventy thousand square hectares of land; and in protecting and nurturing those habitats, it’s saved countless species from extinction.’

  She heard the pride in his voice. The lack of regret. He was telling her it had been worth it, that he’d do it all again. ‘Well,’ she said after a moment. ‘No wonder my father’s so pleased.’

  She stared into the flames, grateful for the dry heat; it was a respite from the rain and humidity that had left her permanently damp all day.

  ‘Tara . . .’

  She looked up to find him staring at her. She could see there were things he wanted to say, apologies perhaps that would make him feel better – I never meant to hurt you – but they wouldn’t change a thing. Because he wouldn’t change a thing. She knew he’d do it all again. What had happened had happened, and flames would always divide them. She looked away, cutting him off with her silence.

  ‘We’ll wash up in the morning,’ he said finally. He got up and, taking her cup from her, placed both in the pan of starchy water. ‘This’ll keep the bugs at bay till then.’

  It was far too dark to go back to the river now and even the white-striped leaves would be hard to locate by torchlight. It might only be half past six, but it may as well have been three in the morning. The day had been gruelling and very, ve
ry long. She yawned and stretched, unable to stop herself.

  ‘We should sleep,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t argue with that,’ she mumbled, walking over to her hammock and putting on her head torch. She turned it on and looked back at him. ‘Where are the . . . facilities?’

  ‘About twenty metres over there,’ he winced, almost blinded as her torch beamed straight onto him. He pointed. ‘See that red cord on the bush?’ She looked over and saw a length of red twine tied to a bush, draped over the leaves and extending out of sight. ‘Just follow it along. It’ll take you straight over.’

  ‘Huh.’ Wasn’t he just the Boy Scout! The simple ingenuity annoyed her. His constant mastery over somewhere so wild as this . . . At every turn he proved how he could thrive anywhere. Without her. Without anyone.

  She felt the twine run through her palm as she walked carefully along, leaves and twigs rustling and snapping in the dark. She checked behind her several times to make sure the way really was clear before she unzipped her trousers, peeing faster than she ever had in her life. The jungle still teemed with activity, tiny rustles making her jumpy, the constant sound of flickering static in the air as insects chattered and scratched.

  She hurried back again within minutes, stopping only as the glow of the campfire lit up the scene before her. She switched off her head torch as she approached, although she was quite tempted to ‘accidentally’ dazzle him again with it, but something in his movements made her stop walking. She stood hidden in the trees, watching as he shook out her hammock, sending multitudes of catkins and seeds that had fallen from the branches to the ground. He pulled hard on the ties of her hammock, checking they were secure. He pulled the mosquito net back across and tugged the tarp to make sure she was covered—

  A twig snapped somewhere close by and the sound made him freeze and look up. She realized he couldn’t see her in the shadows – the firelight was too bright – but he strode back to his own hammock and began rifling in his rucksack instead. She stepped out of the trees a few moments later and he glanced at her casually. ‘All okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He disappeared the way she’d come. She knew without being told that they were going to have to sleep in their clothes despite the humidity; bare skin was to the jungle insects what roadkill was to buzzards back home. She pulled off her boots and climbed into her freshly swept hammock, refusing to be grateful for his secret kindness. A groan escaped her as her exhausted body finally stretched and became heavy. Her eyes closed almost immediately.

  In spite of her earlier fears that she wouldn’t be able to sleep near him, she knew now she would drop off quickly. The day had depleted her and her breathing was already heavy and slow . . .

  Only distantly did she hear him come back a few minutes later, his footsteps pausing as he saw her already in bed, motionless. Feeling far away, she heard him move about for a bit, busily rearranging things, checking his own bed, kicking the fire apart and smothering the embers with damp leaves and soil so that it smouldered. There was another pause, a long one, then she heard his footsteps come over, closer. Right by her.

  Her eyes were still shut – the lids leaden – but her heart was pounding as she felt him stare down at her, watching her sleep through the twilight hum. There was a slight rustle as her mosquito net was pulled back and something light traced over her hair, pushing back a tendril on her cheek. The touch felt shocking, almost electric, but she didn’t stir.

  There was a sigh, then his footsteps retreated again and she listened to the sounds of him pulling off his boots and getting into his own hammock a few metres away. She heard him settle into position and listened to the sound of his sighs begin to slow. She opened her eyes and stared into the remains of the fire, watching embers still flickering, refusing to burn out.

  Chapter Twenty

  She was woken by, of all things, a tapir snuffling about under her hammock. It took her a moment to understand what she was hearing before she opened her eyes, and then another moment to recognize what she was seeing. It was walking, nose down, through their small camp, having seemingly investigated and abandoned the promise of the starch-water pan and two cups within it. The pan was now tipped on its side, the water seeping into the earth.

  She watched from behind the gauze of her mosquito net for several minutes, entranced, but also wanting to delay what was dawning on her again – the reality of her ex-fiancé, sleeping just three metres away.

  She looked up to find Alex already awake, his eyes trained upon her like he’d been guarding her all night. She supposed she was precious cargo of a sort – an heiress; the daughter of his billionaire boss. His meal ticket.

  ‘Morning.’ His voice was thick with sleep, his accent seeming stronger first thing; she remembered that about him, pushed the memory away again. ‘Sleep okay?’

  ‘Yup.’ She rolled onto her back, silencing any further encouragement for conversation and stared up, her overhead view of the trees blocked by the silver-backed tarp. It wasn’t an Instagram moment, but it appeared to have kept the dew off her; it was literally dripping off the leaves all around them.

  Blessedly, it wasn’t raining – at least not yet – but the prospect of another long, hard day like yesterday, stretching before her, felt overwhelming. She was sweating already, her clothes clinging to her limbs, and one pat of her hair told her it was like a tangled birds nest. She gave a small groan and let her arm fall across her face like a strap. She wasn’t sure she had the energy for this. She felt completely drained, besieged all over again by doubts over what she was doing out here. This wasn’t her life; it wasn’t her story. Somehow she had just . . . strayed into someone else’s drama. Her story, right now, was supposed to be ten-hour sleeps and lie-ins and dancing on the beach and lots of sex with her handsome boyfriend. That was the point of holidays – normal life and all its unwelcome tribulations went on hold. It wasn’t supposed to get worse. She should be having cocktails for breakfast and surfing under a full moon; not sleeping in a hammock, opposite the person she hated most in this world, with a giant herbivore snuffling underneath her.

  Alex must have felt something similarly bleak because he rose with a sigh, checking his boots and scooping out a very large millipede before he put his feet in.

  ‘There’s some bananas for breakfast,’ he said, going over and pulling one from a large banana hand that had been put on the tree stump. When exactly had he foraged those? she wondered in disbelief as he came over and held one out for her. ‘Eat as many as you can. You’ll need the energy today.’

  As many as you can? She took it with a bemused look. Did he think she was going to eat five bananas for breakfast? As if.

  She watched in silence as he picked up the pan and bowls, grabbed the camping towel and headed in the direction of the river. She began to eat. Lucky for her, she loved bananas. Rory hated them. She thought of him as she chewed and wondered whether his hangover had gone, or if he’d decided to overlay it with a fresh one. He was going to be livid with her when she finally got back, she knew that. This wasn’t the holiday he had signed up for – nor her, of course – and he wasn’t going to be persuaded by her argument of finding leaves on a remote mountain spot in order to treat a child who quite possibly needed a liver transplant. She was going to be going back to a fight, she knew that.

  The banana eaten and the tapir long gone, she swung her legs awkwardly out of the hammock; it was harder than it looked, and she was stiff as hell. She checked her boots too, before sliding her feet in. She itched at her arm absently – in spite of the net, plenty of mosquitoes had still found her, it seemed – and winced as she caught the edge of the nasty scratch again. Peeling back her shirt cuff, she took another look. It was even redder than before and definitely showing the first signs of infection. It was very hot to the touch, swollen and had what seemed to be tiny pustules or cysts developing in the most tender part of the wound. The humidity, no doubt, was accelerating her response.

  She went to reach for t
he antibiotic cream in her kit, remembering only as she rummaged fruitlessly that Holly still had it for Dev’s foot. ‘Ugh, bugger,’ she groaned. Just her luck. She would need to get it treated the moment they got back. The irony wasn’t lost on her that she’d brought a dozen boxes of the stuff over for the clinic, but still had none for herself.

  Her hands found something cool and unfamiliar in the bag, and she pulled out the small leaf-wrapped anti-mozzie ointment the Awa had given her yesterday morning. She had forgotten all about it, but the mozzies had found an easy target in her last night; something had to be better than nothing, surely? And if it was anywhere near as good as his headache drink . . . She realized her head was still clear – no vice-like grip at her temples, no stabbing pain behind her eyes.

  He had told her to put the cream on before getting dressed. She glanced round but she was alone, Alex still at the river. Nonetheless, she turned herself so that her back was facing that direction as she quickly took off her shirt and bra. There was still a full bucket of water that she’d collected last night and, kneeling down, she splashed water onto her face, neck and torso, trying to wash herself as best she could.

  It felt so good, even if only for a few moments, to have her skin clean and cool. She opened the parcel of leaves wrapped with vines; the ointment inside was thick and pungent and she rubbed it over her skin quickly. It was sticky and she waited impatiently for it to absorb into her skin. She couldn’t wait long. The man who had once known every last inch of her body would be coming back any moment.

  Sure enough, after several minutes, she heard the sound of footsteps coming through the bushes again – twigs snapping, leaves brushing – and she just had her bra clipped back on as he emerged with the clean pans. She kept her eyes down but she heard him stop at the sight of her, back to him, shrugging on her shirt. Her fingers kept fumbling with the buttons, not quite fast enough, but she reminded herself this was nothing he hadn’t seen yesterday. She had reintroduced herself to him in exactly this look.