Change of Heart

Author:A. Bertram Chandler [Chandler, A. Bertram]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-02-23T21:24:38+00:00

It was just on sunset that our dinghy grounded on the sandy beach of the island. It wasn't much of an island, although we were glad enough to tumble out of the boat and to stagger up on to the dry land. It wasn't much of an island, as we were to discover when we got around to exploring it the next day. There were a few palm trees, but either they weren't coconut palms or coconuts weren't in season. There was some low scrub. And that was all.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. We staggered up the beach, as I have said, and then, after we had got some of our strength back, we began to feel thirsty. But there wasn't any water—we never found any then, neither did we find any later. Clarry suggested that we dig — which we did, with our bare hands. The trickle of moisture that oozed through into the holes —after a long, long time — was salt. Clarry said that we should pull the boat well up on to the beach so that it would not drift away during the night; it seemed that we should not be able to stay on the island, there was nothing there to support life.

But the boat was gone. There was no sign of it.

And then we saw a commotion out to sea. It was light enough — the full moon had risen as the sun had set — and we could see the flurry of white water, the leaping bodies. It was the porpoises back again—and this time they were driving before them a shoal of mullet. They chased those fish right up on to the sand where they flopped, energetically at first, them more and more feebly.

"Water," said Clarry.

"Food," croaked Des. "Food — if you don't mind eating raw fish. But where is the water?"

"In the fish," said Clarry. "In the flesh of the fish. You always have to take salt with fried fish, don't you? The body fluids are practically pure fresh water."

Those body fluids were fresh water all right — but far from pure, very far from pure. Raw fish is so very much fishier than cooked fish. There was food, and there was water, and we got the revolting mess down somehow, tearing the still living bodies to pieces with our fingers and teeth, spitting out scale and bone and ... and other things.

And that was the first night on the island.

We slept well enough. Come to that, we slept surprisingly well. When we woke up at sunrise we made our exploration of the tiny island, found nothing that would raise our hopes. But we were alive, and that was something. And then Clarry set us to building a pile of brush for a signal fire. How we were going to light it — in the unlikely event of our sighting a passing ship or aircraft — nobody was quite sure, not even Clarry. It's one thing reading about making fire by friction — the acquisition of the necessary technique isn't so easy.

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