Page 25 of Shipwrecked

We return together, and I shrug my shirt back on. It smells like ocean water, which is an improvement from the stench of sweat that had been clinging to me for the past day. Given the heat of the sun, it won’t be long before I’m in need of another bath. First thing this morning, Seán warned everyone to stick to the shade—the last thing we want is anyone getting heatstroke—but even the shade is hot and humid.

“Can I help with something today?” Jules asks.

I catch the immediate no that wants to come out. If I refuse to give Jules a job, he’ll find one for himself. “I want to get a fire lit. We don’t technically need the heat right now, but throw on some fresh plants and we’ll get a smoke signal going.”

Jules swats his arm, killing a mosquito. They were brutal during the night, but not nearly as bad as the sand flies.

“Smoke will help with the bugs too,” I add.

“Then I vote it’s the camp’s top priority.”

“This way, I noticed a downed tree we can gather dead branches from.”

I lead a little way down the beach, sticking to the shade of the canopy. A rough arrow of stones marks the spot.

The felled tree is deciduous, and there are plenty of thick branches to gather. “You can pick up loose branches, nothing too heavy. Alright? That’s all. Try and do more, and I’m assigning Mathieu to you again.”

I watch Jules out of the corner of my eye as he gingerly retrieves a long branch. He lifts one end, and, realising it’s too long, sets it aside and retrieves a small branch. Satisfied he isn’t pushing himself to move in a way that would cause harm, I start gathering too.

“What does flint look like?” Jules asks.

“It’s black or dark grey. Usually it’s got a lighter coating that’s dull, kind of chalky.” I set a handful of dead branches into the pile, wary of the bugs we’re turning up. I’m aware of Jules’s bare feet. Aside from myself and Seán, nobody else has shoes. I’d give Jules mine in a heartbeat, but they’re several sizes too big. He’d only trip. “Keep an eye out for snakes. If you see movement, back up and tell me.”

“Got it.” Jules stops, frowning. “I haven’t noticed any rocks like that. Is flint the only stone that works?”

“For starting a fire? No, any hard rock can do it. Jasper, agate, chert. Quartz works too.” I realise where this is going as Jules scans the forest floor. “You strike steel against a stone harder than it to get little shavings of superheated metal. Those are your sparks, and those light the fire. Unfortunately, we’re lacking the steel part for the ‘flint and steel’ technique.”

Jules’s eyes dart to me, mouth forming an O.

“I’ll show you what we’re going to do instead.” I pick up a large dead branch with a natural hollow. “Unfortunately, it’s a lot more annoying than your way.”

Back at the camp, Seán has a flexible bamboo stick and several lengths of strong vine laid out next to it. He sees my dead piece of wood and is pleased when I hand it over for examination. Jules and I stack the rest of our collected deadwood into a pile, next to where Seán has an abandoned bird’s nest and dried grass fibres ready to go.

I walk Jules through the process of rigging up a bow drill, letting him hand me things as I work. It takes Seán and me a good hour to get it into decent working shape. It’s clear that was the easy part, as the frustration begins afterwards.

“The concept is simple,” I explain, sweating through my newly washed shirt. “Fashion a bow. Loop a stick into the middle of the string. Saw back and forth. Friction leads to heat, heat leads to embers. Problem is, with a rigged-up thing like this, it’s hard to get consistent friction.” I tell myself that this is still better than just rubbing our hands raw, sawing the stick between our palms. The last time I tried to light a fire that way, I gave up before the stick was even warm.

My shoulders are burning, and I lean back on my heels to catch my breath.

“Can I?” Jules is squirming where he’s sat himself down, cross-legged in front of me. He’s cradling the bird’s nest in his palms.

“No, you’re not allowed.”

“Charles?” Mary volunteers her boyfriend, who rises from where he’d been flat out on his back. He approaches, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Time to show the missus what I’m made of.”

That gets an affectionate laugh out of Mary and draws a grin from Jules. I like Charles very much.

Seán watches, fingers plucking at his sling. I catch his eye and give him my best stern look—I’ve been practising it all day on Jules—until the tension releases from his face and he holds up his good hand in surrender. He backs off, accepting that he can’t help, and he’d better be accepting that it’s fine that he can’t, too, or I’ll be having words with his dad when we’re rescued.

Mathieu sits next to Jules, who has set the nest down in favour of turning over the leaves surrounding him and scanning the edge of the camp carefully. “Looking for bugs?” Mathieu asks.

“Quartz,” Jules says. “Cillian said you can use it as a replacement for flint. We don’t have steel,” Jules adds, when Mathieu starts looking around too. “I was just curious. I haven’t ever thought about how hard a rock is before…”

“Me either,” Mathieu says. Their eyes meet, and they start laughing. I smile to myself.

Everyone takes turns sawing, gathering and resting.

Sweat drips from Mathieu’s lip as he saws.