Spirit of the Jungle

by Bear Grylls

  Twigs broke as the thing shifted its weight. Could it see him? Was it sizing him up for a pint-sized snack?

  Mak turned around and, as softly as he could, went back in the opposite direction. He didn’t care what direction that was, as long as it was away from the unseen menace.

  Scurrying through the undergrowth sent Mak tripping over more times than he cared to count. Branches whipped his face and thorns grazed his arms, forcing him to slow down to pick his path through the tangle of branches and gnarled roots with more care.

  In his rush to increase distance between himself and the unseen menace, Mak had bolted without any thought of the direction he was headed. Reasoning he couldn’t get any more lost than he already was, and with the danger far behind, he chided himself for being such a coward. With a deep breath he calmed his nerves and made a mental promise not to act so rashly next time. With no clues to point him in the right direction, Mak pressed onward.

  He didn’t know what else to do but keep moving.

  As the day wore on, Mak’s stomach rumbled with increasing frequency and the humidity gnawed his strength. He made regular stops to drink water from the plants, double-checking for frogs and insects first.

  The landscape around him didn’t ever seem to change and Mak could have been walking in circles for all he knew. His plaintive cries for help became less regular as he feared attracting the attention of whatever beastly killers lurked in the shadows.

  A sudden familiar trill from close by made his pulse quicken – and for a moment he thought it was the stupid home phone ringtone his mother had set, the sound ready to pluck him from the depths of this nightmare as it always did in films. But this was no dream, and the sound came from a small bird with flecks of red plumage, which looked at Mak with interest before giving a last chirp and flying off.

  For the first time the thought came – what if nobody was looking for him?

  The mere words, expressed in his own head, filled him with so much dread that his legs began to shake. He sat on a log as dark thoughts swamped him without warning.

  Do they think I’m dead? Will they still search for me if they do? Or did everybody in the boat die? Mum and Dad . . . ?

  No . . .

  Mak was alone.

  That he couldn’t argue. Alone . . . but alive. And if he was alive there was every reason to believe the others were too. Perhaps they were just as lost as he was?

  Peering through the occasional gaps in the trees, it was easy to believe that civilization lay just beyond, and Mak couldn’t help shake the feeling that he’d suddenly see the top of a bus pass by and discover he was metres away from a busy road . . . but it was just his imagination’s wishful thinking.

  Exhausted, Mak stopped to sit on a log that was dry and brittle to the touch. He strained to listen for any noises that might hint of rescue.

  Nothing stirred.

  Except Mak’s stomach. He gently rubbed it as it grumbled again. It was so frustrating. There must be plenty to eat around him . . . if only he could identify it. As Mak thought of food, a searing pain suddenly shot through his leg. Looking down he saw ants crawling over his jeans. The entire log was filled with them – not so much a log as an ant-refuge.

  And these were no normal ants: they were half the size of his thumb, with jaws so large he could see them extend wide before biting into his skin.

  Howling in pain, Mak jumped off the log rubbing every part of his body to swat the brutal pests away, but not before they had inflicted a dozen more injuries, each leaving a nasty red welt that itched like crazy.

  Mak splashed muddy water over the bites but that did nothing to relieve them. He knew leaves helped soothe pain, so he tore a soft leaf from a vine and rubbed his wound. But instead of soothing his skin, the tiny hairs in the leaf inflamed it – leaving a red rash that looked as if he’d been burned.

  ‘Come on!’ he snapped at himself in desperation. ‘Stop being an idiot. This is real. This is happening.’ He tried to think of the books he’d read and the survival shows he’d half-watched on TV – there must have been plenty of survival tips in those, yet nothing now came to mind.

  ‘Food,’ he said aloud. ‘Food, water . . . check . . . shelter . . .’ He wasn’t sure about the last item on his survival list – after all, he’d spent the night unconscious in the outdoors – but he knew he’d have to get out of the rain and try to dry off at some point. His stomach growled again to emphasize point one. ‘OK, food.’

  He began with an initial recce of his immediate area, diligently checking each shrub and branch for something resembling fruit, berries or nuts. He discovered several colourful flowers, orchids perhaps, but nothing more. Desperate, he plucked a leaf from a shrub, taking care it wasn’t the one he’d applied to his bites.

  He cautiously sniffed it. It smelt exactly like it looked – green. He nibbled the end and an acrid taste flooded his mouth. It was so bitter he spat it out and then immediately gagged.

  Mak was getting desperate.

  Feeling more sorry for himself than ever before, Mak took refuge under a huge fallen tree that had wedged itself against another as it fell, preventing it from striking the ground. A thick carpet of moss now hugged the trunk and a variety of plants had made their home amongst the cracks in the bark, but most importantly it offered protection from the driving rain. A broad rock underneath it served as a raised platform above the damp forest floor.

  Mak sat there, tightly hugging his knees. The patter of rain was hypnotic and he felt his eyelids closing. Before he knew it he nodded off into a deep sleep.

  A boom of thunder woke Mak with a jolt. His eyes snapped open and he was instantly aware of his surroundings. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but the fading light indicated it had been for a couple of hours. Another volley of lightning flashed overhead, followed seconds later by thunder that sounded more aggressive than anything Mak could remember hearing before.

  He knew standing under a tree in a lightning storm was the worst thing he could do – but in the middle of a jungle he had little choice. He couldn’t remember why it was dangerous – but that question was answered moments later as another flash of lightning struck overhead.

  The bang was deafening. Then the half-rotted limb it had struck several storeys above him fell. It was the size of a motorbike and would have killed him if he hadn’t been cowering under the fallen tree. Instead, the branch smashed to the ground only metres from his shelter – accompanied by a horrific noise – and shattered into multiple splinters.

  Then the gentle sound of rain resumed and all was calm once again. Except Mak, who was still clutching his legs and trembling in fear.

  It was several long moments later when he realized that it would soon be dark. The thought filled him with fresh fears. He needed a fire. Rummaging through his pockets he produced his shiny coin and a plastic spoon he had absently pocketed in the hotel over breakfast the previous morning.

  Along with his wet sock and single trainer, Mak probably had the worst survival kit in history.

  He dabbed his palm over his clothes. They felt as wet now as they had when he’d first gained consciousness. He stripped his clothes off, still managing to feel embarrassed in case anyone suddenly came to his rescue and found him naked. Then he wrung them out as hard as he could and was amazed at the torrent of water he managed to expel. But still they were damp to the touch. He hung them on twigs and hoped they’d dry in the hot humid air.

  His body was damp all over and, aware of the smell from his feet and armpits, Mak tore a handful of dried moss from under the log. Checking there were no bugs inside, he diligently wiped down his body. The moss was surprisingly absorbent and scrubbed away layers of filth.

  Next he assembled a pile of twigs and leaves from the floor of his shelter. Miraculously they were dry. He made a small pyramid of twigs and placed the leaves inside. He found two sticks. Using the broad one as a base, he put the tip of the thinner twig against it and furiously rubbed his hands back and for
th, rotating the twig just as he’d seen people do before in films.

  Nothing happened. With growing frustration, Mak rubbed the twig until his palms became bloody, yet there wasn’t even a hint of smoke.

  ‘Cavemen could do this, why can’t I?’ he roared.

  Determined not to give up, Mak ventured beyond his shelter. The rain was just as heavy and the light was rapidly diminishing. He prodded around some likely-looking drier nooks for more kindling. He found some more dry moss and several interesting mushrooms the size of his hand. He considered eating them . . . but was convinced he’d probably die on the spot, so left them alone.

  As he returned to his shelter he suddenly noticed something in the mud: paw prints. They looked the same as the ones Anil had excitedly shown them on the shore the day before. Mak suddenly felt his heart beating with fear. He hadn’t noticed the prints before; had he simply overlooked them, or were they freshly made, indicating there was a predator prowling around?

  He darted back to his shelter, convinced every rustle and faint crack of a twig was a big cat ready to pounce. He dried himself off again then added the moss to his would-be fire and began rubbing the twig, building the friction heat between the wood.

  Still nothing happened.

  Silent tears of frustration ran down his cheeks as he pressed the sticks harder and faster until he eventually lashed out, scattering them in utter disgust. He couldn’t even create a fire, the basic building block of civilization. How was he supposed to survive another night in the wild?

  Mak pressed himself into the shelter’s smallest space, and wrapped his arms around his legs. Despite the warm air, he shivered.

  He took the coin and began rolling it through his fingers. It was such an ingrained activity for him that he wasn’t consciously aware he was doing it, yet it was something familiar and soothing.

  He stared into space and wondered where his parents were and what they were thinking. He hadn’t heard the sound of any aircraft, but surely a search party must be under way. Perhaps they couldn’t fly in the storm? Yes, that must be it. They’d come tomorrow. He’d wake up and this nightmare would be over.

  He suddenly became aware of a creature standing in the shadows watching him. But, strangely, Mak felt no fear.

  How long it had been there, Mak couldn’t tell – yet the animal stood silently regarding him with piercing blue eyes.

  It was a wolf, head bowed in the rain as it stared at him. Its mouth hung open revealing a range of deadly incisors that Mak had no doubt could effortless tear him apart, but even they failed to draw his attention. What did was the tiny bundle of fur hanging from the creature’s jaws.

  A dead wolf pup.

  Mak didn’t move. He didn’t even dare breathe . . .

  Mak’s first thought was that the wolf had killed the poor pup and he was about to become its next victim. Then he realized that the beast was not staring at him, but at the coin glinting as it played through his hands. His fingers were moving on autopilot now and he dared not stop, fearing that doing so would trigger a frenzied attack.

  Into Mak’s head came a brief spark at the thought of what his father would say if he saw him dazzling a wolf with his magic trick. Not such a waste of time now, eh?

  The wolf gently laid its baby on the floor and nosed it, issuing a heartbreaking mournful whine. The wolf’s tongue licked the pup, but the tiny creature did not stir.

  Mak was so wrapped up in the scene that he didn’t notice the coin slip from his fingers until it spun on to the rock floor. The metallic whirling noise caused the wolf’s head to snap back up and they both watched as the rupee rotated, catching the dying light, before finally flip-flopping to a standstill, heads side up.

  Heads you die, thought Mak as the wolf stepped forward and sniffed the coin. Then she turned her attention to Mak, her wet nose snuffling all over him. He froze as the lupine circled him. To his mind, each heave of its mighty lungs sounded like a hungry rumble. He dared not move, even as the tangled grey-and-white fur of the wolf’s body rubbed his bare skin, leaving behind the distinctive scent of wet dog.

  Mak still didn’t feel the fear he expected to feel – but he noticed that every cell of his body was primed and alert. Was he just too tired to care about death or was there something reassuring to him about the presence of another living being – however deadly it could potentially be?

  Then, to Mak’s astonishment, the wolf padded away from him, moving off into the thickest of shadows. It paused and looked back at its pup . . . then up to Mak. For the first time, their eyes met and Mak caught his breath. The animal’s steely blue eyes looked almost human and he felt a wave of sorrow issuing from the creature.

  Mak also sensed a curiosity, as if the animal wanted him to follow. He knew that was nonsense, merely his own deep longing. Yet the wolf took a few steps then stopped again and regarded him.

  Every fibre in Mak’s body urged him to follow, although the sensible voice in his head, sounding much like his father’s, yelled at him to stay in his shelter and not follow a vicious predator into the stormy darkness.

  Yet there was something in the way the wolf regarded him that forced Mak to silence the foreboding thoughts.

  He slowly extended his hand for the rupee. The wolf watched as he slipped it back into his palm. Then he rose to his feet as best he could, which meant he was stooped over. He expected the movement would cause the wolf to run. It didn’t. It just studied him with the same look of curiosity.

  ‘Good . . . wolf,’ he muttered, in the most soothing tone he could manage.

  He grabbed his clothes, which were still just as damp as when he’d hung them out to dry, and quickly slid them on. He pocketed the plastic spoon and his single trainer, then nodded at the wolf.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Mak felt a thrill as the wolf lazily turned and walked off into the darkness. Mak cast one last sad look at the dead pup, then nervously followed at a safe distance.

  The wolf trotted down a narrow trail that Mak had failed to notice in the daylight. The floor had been smoothed by the passing of generations of animals, and the overhanging branches were easily cast aside. Still, in the twilight it was proving difficult for Mak to keep up and his feet were throbbing and sore from stepping on what felt like every stone and sharp twig in the jungle.

  He still couldn’t shake the thought that the wolf was leading him into some trap, perhaps bringing him back to an entire pack of slavering killers. And, aside from for company, he didn’t really know why he was following. But he just couldn’t stop himself.

  Several times the wolf patiently halted and waited for him to catch up, forcing Mak to draw ever closer as complete darkness descended. At last the wolf reached what looked like a small cave, only as high as Mak’s waist, and it slipped through the vines that draped the entrance.

  Now almost completely blind, Mak followed. He hadn’t expected the steeply sloped floor beyond and lost his footing. He slid down a dry earth slope and crumpled into the wolf’s flank. Mak tensed as the animal gave a murmur, but not a growl. Then he felt it moving, getting comfortable on the floor. Its warm body pressed against him, feeling like a smelly, damp, but very comfortable fluffy blanket.

  Gradually Mak felt himself relax as he realized that the animal was comforting him, keeping him warm. He stared into the darkness, which was now complete.

  The slow rise and fall of the wolf’s chest was soothing and he heard a gentle whimpering indicating she was asleep. And as all his tension at last began to leach from him, Mak was hit with a wave of fatigue that swept away both his trepidation and even the very insistent rumbling of his stomach.

  And so he slept.

  Mak’s eyes flicked open the moment something wet and coarse ran across his face. He restrained every urge to panic – which was helped by the cute ball of fluff in front of him. A small wolf pup industriously licked his face, while a second nuzzled around his feet.

  Light streamed in from the sloping entrance, illuminating the sma
ll den. The earth was dry and piles of brown leaves added to the primitive comfort level. Mak slowly sat up, so as not to scare his new companions. There was no sign of their mother.

  Mak scratched the nearest pup behind the ears and it responded by tilting its head, demanding more.

  ‘You like that?’ He furiously scratched, much to the pup’s delight. ‘I’ll call you Little Itch.’

  The other pup licked Mak’s foot, which, despite the throbbing pain on his soles, tickled him. ‘Hey! Cut that out! I wouldn’t lick those feet in a million years.’ In response, the pup gave a single shrill bark. ‘Looks like I’ll be calling you Little Yip.’

  Mak stretched – and banged his head on the low ceiling. ‘Ouch!’

  The two pups finished licking him, then scrambled up the slope, and nuzzled their way out through the vine-covered entrance.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  On his hands and knees, Mak followed. He squinted as he emerged into the daylight and it took him a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. He was not surprised to find it was still raining, although it had eased considerably overnight, and what clouds he could see through the canopy were whiter than the severe black ones he had become accustomed to.

  He stretched, every bone in his body clicking as he did so. He slowly turned – and froze when he saw the wolf had silently appeared behind them. Clamped in her jaws was a young fawn almost as big as she was. She dragged it by the throat and dropped it in front of them.

  The two pups moved closer, sniffing enthusiastically. Then they began to tear into the carcass. Their tiny paws ripped skin, the cute little mouths that had been licking him only moments before were soon stained with blood, as needle-sharp tiny teeth tore into the deer.

  Mak couldn’t pull his gaze away. Within moments this serene fairy-tale scene had transformed into a horror story, as bright red internal organs were exposed and the pups sank their fangs into them. Despite the gore, Mak’s stomach rumbled harder than ever. The metallic scent of blood seemed almost welcoming and, to the astonishment of the civilized voice nagging at the back of his head, Mak edged closer to the kill as Itch and Yip tore into the flesh with satisfied growls.