by Bear Grylls
A grisly thought sprang into Beck's mind. He remembered the day Uncle Al had taken him to the Louvre, the famous art gallery in Paris. The Mona Lisa, with its crowds of jostling tourists, had not interested him. Instead he sat for nearly an hour, staring at a huge canvas that covered almost the entire wall of one of the gallery's other rooms.
It was a painting called The Wreck of the Medusa by the artist Géricault. Uncle Al told him the real-life story. A French ship had been wrecked in a storm and some of the crew had escaped on a raft. After several weeks at sea the crew had become so desperate and hungry, they began to eat each other.
He looked over to where Christina lay curled up, her leg stretched invitingly towards him. Beck raised his eyes to the heavens and laughed out loud. 'I must not eat Christina's leg,' he chanted. And then repeated it three times, as if he were back at school, writing out lines in detention for Mrs Armington. 'But parrots are just fine,' he added, suddenly jumping to his feet and making a mock charge at Ringo, who hopped around the deck, screeching loudly and flapping his wings in alarm.
The commotion shook the twins out of their stupor. Marco groaned and crawled towards the side of the raft, saying he was about to throw up. Grabbing his arm so his palm was facing upwards, Beck pressed his thumb hard into the veins in the centre of Marco's wrist. Marco's shoulders slumped and he felt the muscles in the pit of his stomach relax. The desire to vomit slowly lifted.
'How did you do that, Beck?' asked Marco, amazed.
'It's an old acupuncture technique my mum taught me,' said Beck. 'It's best not to be sick if you can possibly help it. You'll lose so much body fluid, and you know what that means.'
'More eyeballs,' said Christina. 'Yum, yum!' She yawned and shook her head, her earrings flashing in the bright sunlight. She looked up to see Beck staring intently at her.
'I think I've got it,' he said.
'Aye, aye, skip,' said Marco, who was now feeling better and was looking at Beck curiously. 'But we haven't!'
'Your earrings, Christina. Give me your earrings.'
Christina spun her head out of the way as Beck made a grab for her ears. 'What are you doing?' shouted Marco. 'You've been drinking the sea water, haven't you?' A short scuffle broke out as Marco leaped to protect his sister, the strength in the boy's skinny frame taking Beck by surprise.
'Fish hooks, loco,' hissed Beck. 'Your sister is wearing a pair of fish hooks in her ears. We need food. But she doesn't need to look pretty. And if you do that again, you'll capsize the raft.'
Marco loosened his grip and Beck wondered whether the boy realized how easily he could have tossed him aside. But Marco was showing signs of stress and now was not the time for Beck to show off his skills as a junior judo champion.
As Christina reached for the lobes of her ears, Beck could see tears welling up in her eyes. 'I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'But we need food. Unless we eat some fish, the fish will soon be eating us.'
Dropping her head to first one side and then the other, she removed the earrings with deft flicks of her wrist. 'I'm beginning to hate you, Inglés,' she said. 'Mum gave me these as a present after she came back from a trip to Brazil.' She dropped them into Beck's outstretched palm. 'And I expect them back with a fish supper attached.'
Beck sat down with his back to the mast as Marco took over the tiller. The wind was beginning to get up again and the sun was dropping lower in the sky as evening drew on. Working away at the soft metal with the blade of the machete, he had soon fashioned a pair of fish hooks. He held them up for the twins to inspect.
'All very clever, skip,' said Marco. 'But we don't have any fishing tackle.'
'That's where you're wrong,' said Beck, untying the laces of his trainers.
But Christina wasn't listening. She was jumping up and down, pointing at the water in front of the raft. 'Look! Look! Over there!'
Beck peered down into the depths. Dark shapes were zigzagging at high speed around the raft. Like fleeting shadows, they moved so fast that they were gone as quickly as he could focus on them. Christina let out a cry of delight as one broke through the surface, arching into the air ahead of them. It was followed by another and then another, until they were surrounded by leaping creatures like acrobats at a circus.
'Dolphins,' laughed Marco as arcs of water droplets from their smooth white underbellies sparkled in the evening sun. The twins had seen dolphins in aquariums, jumping through hoops as a trainer threw fish into their mouths. But this was the first time they had encountered them at sea.
Their spirits soared as the dolphins soared and spun in an intricate dance. Christina gasped again as a mother with two babies pirouetted through the air, turning somersaults before plunging back into the water.
'Bailemos, bailemos. Let's dance, let's dance,' she shouted, doing a little jig across the desk.
'This beats synchronized swimming any day.' Marco's eyes were alight. 'They're just so graceful.'
'Look, look. She's smiling at us,' Christina said in delight as the mother dolphin leaped through the air once again. And then suddenly, like the sun disappearing behind clouds, they were gone. Christina crumpled to the deck, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
'Why did they have to go so quickly?' she cried as Marco put his arm around her and they slumped in a deflated heap against the mast.
But Beck wasn't listening. He was staring out to sea, his eyes making a slow sweep of the water around them. Sensing that something was seriously wrong, the twins sat bolt upright, following Beck's gaze.
And then Marco saw it. It felt like a knife had been plunged into the pit of his stomach. A sinister black triangle like the sail of a miniature pirate ship was slicing through the water around the boat.
No one spoke. There was no need.
The Bella Señora was being circled by a shark.
CHAPTER NINE
The twins watched, mesmerized. The black fin was slicing through the surface of the water like the blade of a knife through cling-film. With idle flicks of its huge tail, it cruised ominously just below the surface of the water; the evil silkiness was so different from the arching playfulness of the dolphins just a few minutes before.
But Beck's gaze had shifted. No wonder the shark had shown up. A river of red goo was dribbling over the side of the raft. During the encounter with the dolphins, the tin can with the fish guts had been knocked over. Talk about a red rag to a bull, thought Beck. More like a tin of tuna to a starving cat.
His mind raced. He knew only too well what a shark could do to a raft like the Bella Señora. Memories of his father flashed through his mind. They had been fishing on Australia's Great Barrier Reef, taking time out from a Green Force mission. Throwing Beck a knowing look, his father had poured blood from a bucket of fish guts into the sea. Within minutes, three tiger sharks were circling the boat.
Beck had learned some sobering facts about shark behaviour that day. Lesson One: tiger sharks can smell a single drop of blood in an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Lesson Two: they can swim at speeds of up to forty miles an hour. Beck had worked it out. That was faster than he could manage flat out downhill on a racing bike.
Grabbing the can, he turned it upright and wedged it against the mast before shovelling in as much of the bloody slop as he could before it slipped back out through his fingers. 'Probably best if the rest of the family don't join the party,' he said, wiping the slime from his hand on his shirt. 'Those fish guts make great bait, but a tiger shark wasn't quite what I had in mind. But we've got to keep still. The more we move around, the more excited that shark's going to get. If we're lucky, it might lose interest and leave us alone.'
But the shark was showing no signs of losing interest. The telltale trail of blood had clearly come from this fragile pile of sticks above him and he had an empty stomach that needed filling. Christina clutched at Marco in terror. The fin was charging straight towards the raft. The creature's wedge-shaped snout had flipped over on one side and for an instant she was staring straight into its glas
sy eye.
Beck winced in relief as, at the last moment, the shark dived under the raft before reappearing again on the far side. Like a guard circling the perimeter of a prison camp, it continued its patrol, every now and then making sudden, unexpected darts towards them. By now the twins' faces were fixed in horror. With their arms wrapped around the mast in a vice-like grip, they were mumbling something Beck could not hear. Christina dropped her head and made the sign of the cross.
The impact, when it came, took the crew of the Bella Señora completely by surprise. The deck flexed, lifting them high into the air as the shark's nose smashed into the balsa logs beneath. In a blind panic, they rolled towards opposite sides of the raft while the mast shuddered and shook. Ringo was nowhere to be seen.
Grabbing at the mast to steady himself, Beck leaped to his feet. 'That was just a mock charge. If he charges us again, he'll sink the raft. Chrissy, Marco – we've only got one chance.' Even Beck was struggling to stay calm.
The shark was coming round again now, but this time it had tightened its circle and was no more than seven or eight metres away. 'Untie one of the vines from the sail.' Beck's eyes were fixed like searchlights on the fin, tracking its every move. 'It doesn't matter which one. Just untie it. Now.' His voice was taut with urgency.
Rigid with fear, Marco and Christina worked in tandem like zombies. Their eyes stared straight ahead of them, unable to take in what was happening. With trembling fingers, they dragged the vine from where they had so carefully threaded it through the sheet and around the bamboo frame of the mast when they built the raft.
Marco cursed. 'Why did we tie this so tightly? It just won't come free.'
Beck was holding the tiller with one hand as he stood on the edge of the raft, watching the ever-decreasing circuit of the shark's fin through the waves. 'Quick, guys. Quick, quick.' His voice was quieter and calmer now. He knew the twins were doing everything they could as fast as was humanly possible.
'Done it!' shouted Marco at last, sweat pouring from his face.
Beck had removed the machete from its sheath and was holding it in his hand, mouthing encouragement to himself as if he were preparing for a race. A look of calm determination spread over his face. He knew for certain that he only had one chance and he was not about to blow it now.
As Marco fed him the vine, Beck looped one end through the metal ring that dangled from the handle of the machete. As his fingers danced around one another, he mouthed the famous scouts' mantra: 'Up through the hole. Round the tree. Back down the hole.' He could tie the sailor's famous bowline knot in his sleep, but never before had he needed it like he needed it now.
Pulling the knot tight, Beck glanced at the shark again. 'Tie the other end to the mast,' he hissed through clenched teeth. 'Clove hitch is best. But anything, anything will do so long as it holds. If we lose the machete, we're done for.'
Then the shark charged. Like a torpedo, it was coming straight for the raft. Christina screamed as Beck threw himself across the deck. Rows of jagged razor teeth were now clearly visible above the surface of the water. To the twins on the far side of the raft, Beck looked as if he were about to be swallowed whole by the shark's jaws, its teeth framing the outline of his body like a trophy on a game hunter's wall.
For an instant Beck stood rooted to the spot. His right arm held the machete high over one shoulder as every muscle in his body flexed beneath his skin. Then, with a sudden flick, he sent the blade of the machete circling through the air like a boomerang whistling towards its prey.
To Marco, the scene unfolded like the slo-mo replay of a winning shot in the final moments of a World Cup final. The flashing steel of the blade spun through the air with a whop, whop, whop sound before slicing through the creature's head and eye. A livid red line opened up along the side of its head and a jet of blood spurted high in the air.
Then the shark's snout crashed down into the water, just missing the side of the raft. The impact sent a wave pounding over the deck, catapulting the far side of the raft into the air. For the third time in as many minutes, the crew clung to the mast for their lives.
As the shark's head came to rest near the side of the raft, it looked for a moment as if it were smiling at them in surprise. The flow of blood was soon a gushing torrent and the water around the raft turned scarlet. Its tail flapping wildly, the creature shuddered as the life force drained out of it like air from a burst tyre. At last the snout dropped slowly below the surface of the waves and the carcass slumped onto its side, the jaws hanging limply open.
With a determined grimace, Beck plunged the machete further into the creature's brain. Unable to believe the danger was finally over, Marco and Christina still clung to the mast. Beck punched the air in triumph. His face and arms spattered in blood, he sank down onto the deck as the creature floated lifeless beside the raft.
For a few moments no one spoke. The sail flapped loosely in the breeze. Then, without warning, Beck sat bolt upright, muttering to himself as if in trance. 'Cut it free. Cut it free. If we don't cut it free now, every other shark in the sea will be around us like flies.'
Pulling himself back onto his feet, Beck tugged at the handle of the machete, desperately trying to free it from where it was buried deep in the side of the shark's head. But try as he might, he was unable to pull it out. Marco let go of the mast, and together the two boys tugged at the handle with all their might.
Then, with one final heave and a sickening sucking noise like a boot coming free from a bog, the blade finally came loose and the boys staggered back across the deck, dripping with blood. Christina grabbed the tiller as the shark and the raft slowly drifted apart.
The battle for the Bella Señora was over.
CHAPTER TEN
Beck let the raft drift. Bruised and exhausted after their battle with the shark, the crew slept as the Bella Señora sailed on into the night. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the sun slipped around the Earth and was rising once more in front of them. The colour of the sea began to change. From black, it changed to purple. From purple to red, and from red to pink.
Beck was calculating their position. The wind and the current were taking the raft at a steady pace towards the rising sun. 'Sun rises east, so we sail east,' muttered the exhausted skipper, as if trying to convince himself of what his brain was telling him. They had been at sea now for two nights and a day. At an average of four or five knots per hour, Beck estimated they must have sailed around 150 miles.
Flocks of birds were visible in the far distance and cumulus clouds were popping into the sky like blobs of cotton wool. Beck peered up at them, deep in thought. A tinge of green stained the flat white base of the clouds. 'Reflection from the jungle,' he said at last. 'And those birds are pelicans. Which means we can't be far from—'
'Land!' shouted Marco, jumping to his feet and pointing excitedly. Christina was awake in an instant, shaking the sleep from her tired limbs and peering into the haze in the direction in which Marco was pointing. The outline of the highest mountain peaks could just be seen on the horizon, patches of snow glistening in the morning sun. A smile broke over Marco's face. 'The famous Sierra Nevada mountains of Colombia. Lost City, here we come!'
But Beck was already looking back out to sea, an expression of concern on his face. Clouds like banks of layered snow were massing on the horizon. 'Bad news, guys. Looks like nimbostratus clouds. We could be in for a bad storm later in the day. Our only hope is to reach land before it breaks.'
Beck was grappling under his shirt. A buckle dropped down as he dragged a plastic map case onto his lap. 'I bet Gonzalo could have done with one of these,' he said, spreading it out on the deck. Inside was the conquistador's map. 'Never leave home without a waterproof map case. That's my motto.'
'It looks more like the map of a rabbit warren than a map of a Lost City,' said Christina as the twins peered over Beck's shoulder at the intricate mosaic of lines scrawled in faded, black ink.
'I've been thinking about it again,' sai
d Beck. 'I think it's in three parts. Three different sections of the journey.' He looked up at the mountains, where the jagged outline of the highest peaks was etched against the deep blue of the morning sky.
Suddenly, with a shout, Marco grabbed the map case from Beck's grasp and held it up to the sky. A thick wavy line had been drawn across the top of the parchment. Lines ran off it down the page, with here and there a cross and some words in an ancient Spanish script. Marco held it up to his eyes so that the light shone through the parchment. He squinted at it, moving it slowly from side to side. Finally he held it still.
'Look,' he said, the excitement rising in his voice. 'This must have been Gonzalo's view of the mountains when the ships landed. He's got every little ravine and peak. The outline of the mountains is almost exactly the same as the line on the map. You can see it through the parchment. They're an almost perfect match.'
Under a notch in the high mountains, a straggling line led down to a large cross. Next to it, in bold capitals, were the words:
AQUI. 8 DIC. AÑO DE. NUESTRO SEÑOR MDXXII
'Here. December the eighth. The Year of Our Lord fifteen twenty-one,' whispered Marco. 'This must be where the conquistadors landed. It fits completely. The lines running down from the mountains must be rivers. The other lines must be paths through the jungle. It's all beginning to make sense.'
Euphoria gripped the crew as land drew closer. But as the sun passed overhead and the afternoon wore on, the wind began to blow more strongly. Brooding storm clouds were massing above them. Almost black towards their base, they were stacked hundreds of metres into the sky. At its top, one of the clouds had flattened out like an anvil in a blacksmith's forge.
'Q nims,' said Beck. 'Cumulonimbus clouds. Bad sign. I was hoping we would have landed before the storm broke but no such luck. We could do with some fresh water but that little lot could drown a city.'
