Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2)

by Mikey Campling

  Chapter 10

  AS I WALKED THROUGH THE FOREST, the faint aroma of wood smoke drifted this way and that on the gentle breeze. I followed it as best as I could, but just as I thought I was getting somewhere near the source of the smoke, the scent disappeared. I stood, turning in a slow circle and sniffing the air, but it was no use. There was no trace of wood smoke. I’ll never find it now. I might as well give up. But finding the fire had been my only plan; without it, I had no idea what to do next.

  I looked down and shifted my weight from foot to foot. How long had I been walking anyway? It felt like hours. Maybe it was time to sit down for a rest. But if I did that, would I have the strength to get back on my feet and keep walking? “I don’t know,” I muttered. “I just don’t know.”

  I took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and in that moment, the breeze dropped. Suddenly, the smell of wood smoke was stronger than ever. Quick! Before it blows away again. I set off on the trail of the scent, walking as fast as I could, wading through the waist-high ferns. I was breathing hard, and the sharp tang of scorched wood caught in my throat. Surely the fire must be nearby. Surely there’d be someone there. And they’d help me—wouldn’t they?

  I pressed on. A trickle of sweat ran down my forehead and ran into my left eye, but I just blinked it away and carried on, blundering through the dense undergrowth. And making a lot of noise. What happened to sneaking up? What happened to being cautious? “To hell with that,” I muttered. I was thirsty and hungry, lost and alone. I wanted to open my mouth and yell for help as loud as I could. But I kept my mouth shut. All I had to do was find that fire and everything would be all right.

  I was close. So close. Faint wisps of smoke hung in the air, lit by the beams of light filtering down through the canopy overhead. The forest was less dense here and I broke into a jog. It looked like there was a clearing just ahead. That was where the fire would be. That was where my rescuers would be waiting with bottles of fresh water, and bread and bacon and burgers. I rushed forward, and without hesitation, I stepped into the clearing.

  “Bloody hell,” I hissed. And I stared around me in utter disbelief. I was too late. There was no one there; nothing but the remains of a fire still smouldering in the centre of the clearing.

  “Hey,” I called. I put my hands up to my mouth to amplify my voice. “Is there anyone there?” I hollered. “Anyone? Hello. Can anybody hear me?”

  I turned and called again in another direction. And again. And again. I shouted until my dry throat was sore. But it was a complete waste of breath. I strained my ears for the sound of an answer, but there was nothing. Even the birds in the treetops were silent. “Please,” I called. But there was no force in my voice. No hope.

  I hung my head and hot tears of frustration welled up in my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Oh my god,” I whispered. “What am I going to do?” But I didn’t have any answers. Not one. If only Dad were here, I thought. He’d tell me to get a grip, to take control and get myself out of this mess. I allowed myself a little smile. “Dad would’ve loved all this,” I murmured. He’d have gladly given up a weekend to spend a couple of days roughing it in the wilds. And for a moment, I pictured him rubbing his hands together, his face beaming with excitement as he talked about all the fun we’d have: building shelters, foraging for wild food, fending for ourselves.

  And that was exactly what I had to do—fend for myself. After all, I was still in one piece. I’d managed to have a drink, I’d found a few leaves to eat, and now I had a fire. Things were heading in the right direction. I took a breath and raised my head. “Just keep trying,” I told myself. “I’ll be all right if I just keep trying.”

  I wandered over to the fire, scanning the clearing for clues. Someone had left a small pile of sticks to use as firewood, but apart from that, there was little else to tell me who’d been there. The grass was flattened in places, as though a group of people had lain down on it. But there were no other signs of human life; not a scrap of litter or a patch of pale grass to show where a tent had been pitched. Whoever you were, it looks like you’re not coming back.

  I shrugged my backpack from my shoulders and lowered it to the grass, then I squatted down by the fire and poked a stick into the embers. “Ah well,” I said. “At least I’ve got a fire.”

  As I poked at a half-burned branch, the charred wood crumbled away, revealing a glowing core. I grabbed a few of the smaller twigs from the small pile and gently laid them against the embers, then I leaned forward and blew on them—far too hard. Ash and smoke swirled up into my face. I coughed and swore and sat back, rubbing at my streaming eyes with my grimy fingers. Gently. Blow gently. I tried again, and this time, the embers glowed with each breath. But as soon as I stopped blowing, the glow faded to dull black. The twigs I’d added were charred and blackened, but nowhere near alight.

  “Burn,” I said. But something wasn’t right. The twigs were too damp or too green, and the embers weren’t hot enough. I selected a handful of fresh twigs, checking they were brittle and dry, and broke them into smaller pieces. Carefully, I piled the small stack of kindling onto the embers and blew again. This time, the glow seemed brighter with each breath. The smoke gathered into a more definite stream. Then, suddenly, there was a lick of flame. “Yes,” I said. I fed more small sticks onto the fire. The flame grew and I sat back, smiling. I’ve done it! I’ve actually got it burning properly.

  But already, the handful of sticks I’d added to the fire had almost burned away to ashes. I looked at the small pile of firewood. “That’s not going to last long,” I muttered. If I wanted to keep the fire going, I’d have to gather more wood. And soon.

  I rubbed a hand across my face. The fire was great, but it didn’t make me any less thirsty or ease the hard knot of hunger in my stomach. In many ways it made sense to forget about the fire and just carry on walking. That way I might find a path or some sign of civilisation. “I don’t know,” I muttered. As far as I knew, the forest stretched on for miles and miles, and it would be far too easy to wander in circles for hours. And there was no guarantee I’d find anything useful out there. I glanced at the sky. How long before it gets dark? If I was still stuck in the woods at nightfall, I’d be very glad of the fire. And perhaps, if I built the fire up, someone would spot the smoke and come and investigate or even report it to the authorities. Either way, I’d be rescued.

  I snorted and shook my head. “Not the way my luck’s going,” I muttered. Still, the fire had been made by someone so there were people around somewhere. And someone had chosen this place as a good spot to camp—they must’ve had their reasons.

  I chewed my lip, stared into the meagre flames, and I made my mind up. “I’m staying,” I said, and nodded to myself. “I’m going to need a lot more wood.”

  I stood and crossed to the edge of the clearing. The ground was strewn with dead branches, some of them quite big, but a lot of them had been there long enough for the grass to grow up around them, and they were damp and spongy with rot. Even so, it didn’t take me long to gather an armful of dry branches and I took them back to the fire and piled them up. I tossed a couple of the better pieces onto the flames and returned to the edge of the forest to get more. But as I scanned the ground, I saw something that made me stop in my tracks.

  “No,” I whispered, because I couldn’t quite believe what I was looking at. But there it was, lying among the dead leaves and the wild flowers, the most bizarrely primitive object I’d ever seen—a homemade knife. I bent down and reached out to touch it. “No,” I whispered. “It can’t be real.” I let my fingers trace along the edge of its handle. Is that wood? No. The texture was wrong somehow. I wrapped my fingers around the handle. It’s too light to be wood. And suddenly, I realised that the handle was made from bone. I lifted the knife and stood up straight, holding the handle carefully, turning the knife to admire the blade. “It’s real,” I murmured, and I shook my head in disbelief.

  The knife’s blade was made from a finely sharpene
d and highly polished piece of stone and I guessed it was flint. The blade was tied into the handle with a binding of translucent strips that looked like some sort of plastic. But that couldn’t be right. “Sinew?” I muttered. “What the heck is sinew anyway?” I smiled to myself and turned my attention to the handle. The smooth bone had been carefully decorated; carved with a simple pattern of fine, curved lines that criss-crossed each other. The end of the handle flared out slightly. I supposed that was the natural shape of the bone, but when I curled my fingers around it to grip the handle, the shape of it fitted nicely into my hand. It felt good.

  “Beautiful,” I whispered. And it was. It was perfect. Someone had poured hours of careful work into making it. It’s strange—how could someone be so careless with something so precious? Of course, the knife had been dropped by accident, so perhaps someone would come looking for it. “They’ll be furious when they realise they’ve lost it,” I said. And how would they react if they found me holding their prized possession? I frowned. I should just put it back.

  I looked down at the ground. But I didn’t move a muscle. “No way,” I said. I couldn’t just leave it on the ground. It was too valuable, too special. And anyone might pick it up—perhaps some little kid. I sniffed. I should hold onto it for now. I’ll hand it in later. It would probably get back to its owner eventually. And if they wasted a few hours looking for it, then so what? It was their own stupid fault for taking it into the woods. Something so beautifully made should’ve been kept safely indoors.

  For a moment, I pictured the knife in a glass case, locked away in a museum. But I pushed the thought away. This knife was brand new. It could’ve been made yesterday. I tested the knife’s edge with my thumb, felt the fine stone serrations snag against my skin. I gasped. The blade was sharp enough to slice into an animal’s flesh. Or a man’s. A sudden chill ran up my spine. Yes. The knife would make a fearsome weapon. “For Christ’s sake,” I muttered. “Don’t be such a moron.”

  I looked back toward the fire. The flames were already dwindling. I needed to fetch some bigger branches, some proper dry firewood. And for that, I’d have to go farther into the forest. I peered out into the trees. Compared to the clearing, the forest was dark, its shadows forbidding. I looked down at the knife in my hand. I’ll take it with me, I thought. Just in case.

  I slipped my fingers under my belt on my left side and pulled at the leather, making just enough slack to squeeze the knife’s handle snugly under my belt. I angled the knife so the blade wouldn’t dig into my thigh as I walked, and I was ready. I glanced back at the fire, fixing the place in my mind. If I could try and keep the thin column of smoke in sight, it would be easy to find my way back. “So long as it doesn’t burn out while I’m away,” I said. I rubbed the palms of my hands together, my sweat mingling with the layer of grit and grime on my skin, then I stepped back into the shade of the trees.

  As I walked, the knife’s handle rubbed against my hip bone and in some ways, it was reassuring. But the knife begged a question that nagged at the back of my mind: What kind of person brings a flint knife out into the woods? For all I knew, I might suddenly run into a bunch of hard-core survivalists. After all, they’d camped down for the night but it didn’t look like they’d had a tent. I frowned and glanced over my shoulder. The clearing was just behind me. There was no sign of movement except for the dappled sunlight playing on the forest floor. “It’s fine,” I murmured. “Fine.” But when I moved on, I was more careful. I watched where I put my feet. And this time, my progress did not scare the birds into silence.

  It wasn’t long before I found what I was looking for. The tree had fallen a long time ago, perhaps blown over in a storm. It lay at an angle, almost on its side, but was propped up by its neighbours. Its roots stuck up from the ground, along with a mass of earth and rocks, and it was very clearly dead. Most of the bark had flaked away from its trunk, and the wood was smooth and bare, bleached pale by the sun. “Bingo,” I whispered. The tree’s branches were in easy reach so I grabbed a small one and twisted it. It snapped cleanly with a satisfying crack and I smiled. The wood was dry and brittle. I reached up and grabbed a branch that was as thick as my arm, but just as I began to put my weight on it, I heard something behind me. Just one sound. And I froze.

  There it was again—the tiny crinkling crunch of dry leaves, crushed underfoot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. My breath seemed to stick in my chest. What the hell? Slowly, I let go of the branch and turned around as quietly as I could. Where had the noise come from? I turned my head, peering into the gloom beneath the trees, but the mottled shadows stirred and shifted as the breeze blew on the leaves above. For one gut-wrenching fraction of a second, a dark shape became the bulk of a man, crouching, ready to spring up from his hiding place among the ferns. I blinked. No. It was just the stump of a broken tree, wrapped in ivy. I swallowed hard and took a breath. And when I looked down, the knife was in my hand. I stared in horror. Without thinking, I’d taken the knife from my belt, and held it out in front of me, ready to strike. The handle was suddenly slippery in my sweaty fingers. I shook my head and lowered the knife. “You’re losing it,” I muttered. “It was probably just a—” But before I could finish my sentence, I heard it again. Closer. And I was sure of it now—someone was coming toward me, creeping carefully over the carpet of dead leaves. I spun around, frantically scanning the forest. And there it was, incredibly close, the biggest deer I’d ever seen in my life. My mouth fell open. The creature was standing sideways on to me, and it obviously didn’t know I was there. It chewed contentedly, then lowered its head to feed. At least, that’s what I thought at first. But then I heard it—the gentle splashing sound I’d been dreaming of. “It’s drinking,” I whispered under my breath. And again, louder, “It’s drinking.”

  The deer’s head snapped toward me, its ears pricked forward, then suddenly, it turned and ran for its life, hurtling through the forest with hardly a sound. And I ran too, heading for the place I’d seen the deer drinking.

  The stream was very small, but it was the most wonderful sight. I put the knife back in my belt then I knelt down and scooped up the crystal clear water in my hands. Without hesitation, I drank it down in great gulps. It was delicious. I drank more. And more. I drank until my stomach ached and gurgled and then I scooped up more water and splashed it over my face, my hair, the back of my neck. The cold water coursed over my skin, sent shivers tingling down my spine, until finally, I sat back, looked up into the leafy green canopy, and I smiled.

  “I’m going to be OK,” I said. And it was true. I had a fire, a good supply of wood and now I had running water. I even had a sharp knife. Sure, it wasn’t enough for the long term, but at least I’d make it through the night. And up until this moment, though I’d tried not to think about it, things hadn’t been looking good. Now the only things I needed were a shelter and something better to eat than dandelion leaves. I laughed. Dandelion leaves. Just wait until I tell Dad about the dandelions. I pictured his face, imagining his look of utter disbelief. I heaved a sigh. “That’s if I ever…” I started to say. But I couldn’t finish the sentence. I had to get home. I just had to. I rubbed my eyes. I was suddenly very tired. I took one last drink then pushed myself up to my feet. As I stood, the blood rushed to my head and the ground felt unsteady beneath my feet. I staggered sideways a little and put my hand on a tree to keep my balance. “I don’t feel…” I murmured. “I don’t feel too good.” I took a few deep breaths. I’m getting weak. I’d been running on empty for too long. I needed to rest and conserve some energy. I needed to get back to the fire. The fire. How long had I been away?

  Walking as quickly as I could on my unsteady legs, I went back to the fallen tree. I sized up a branch that looked easy to break and grabbed it with both hands. I pulled it downward and twisted it with all the strength I could muster. But when the wood gave way with a loud crack, the branch was suddenly too heavy for me, and as I let it drop to the ground, I almost fell over backward.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered. “I’m weak as a baby.”

  I stood for a moment and caught my breath. A squirm of queasiness stirred in the pit of my stomach and a cold shiver ran through me. Maybe I shouldn’t have gulped down all that cold water. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten all those dandelion leaves. I grimaced. I definitely shouldn’t have drunk from the muddy puddle. I rubbed my stomach and groaned. I thought of my bed at home, and pictured Mum bringing me a bowl of warm soup. “Maybe later,” I mumbled. “Maybe later.” Slowly, I bent down and picked up one end of broken branch. I didn’t feel up to carrying it, but I reckoned I could drag it, so I set off, trailing the branch along the ground behind me. It was heavy, but it slid easily across the dead leaves on the forest floor. Now I had enough wood, I just had to hope the damned fire hadn’t gone out by the time I got back.

  It didn’t take me long to find my way back to the clearing, but by the time I got there, I knew I was ill. Sweat ran down my forehead and my shirt clung to my back. But I was cold. So cold. I couldn’t stop shivering. I dragged the heavy branch to the fireside then sat down heavily and stared at the tiny flickering flames; they were all that remained of my fire. Still, at least it hadn’t gone out.

  I threw on a few twigs from the pile, and as the flames revived, I added a few larger sticks. I looked at the branch I’d dragged from the forest. It was far too long for the fire so I’d have to break it up into smaller pieces. But I just didn’t have the strength to tackle it. I’ll use up the wood pile first, I thought. Maybe when the fire picks up, I’ll feel a bit better.