Monkey Mountain Read online

  Luckily for the monkey, I didn’t catch up. And luckily for me, too. Because the chase had taken us along the new beach almost to the river of lava. To my right, just above the high-tide mark, was something I hadn’t noticed until now.

  A boat lay upside down on the sand.

  6

  CRUNCH!

  The boat wasn’t the only thing that caught my eye. Behind it, nestled under some coconut palms at the edge of the jungle, was a small blue house. And a pen made of wire and sticks where several chooks pecked at the ground. Someone lived there.

  Even though I was exhausted and out of breath, I ran flat-out up the beach to see if anyone was home.

  Nobody came to the door when I banged on it. I knocked again, then tried the handle. It turned.

  ‘Anyone home?’ I said, cautiously poking my head around the door. When no one answered, I slipped inside.

  The house was tiny. There were only two rooms. One was a bedroom, the other was a small kitchen and living area. The first thing I looked for was a mobile phone. I couldn’t find one. On the table, a red saucepan sat on a gas-fuelled camping stove. I lifted the saucepan’s lid. It was half filled with vegetable stew. I tested it with my finger. Still warm. Racing back outside, I ran right around the house.

  ‘HELLO?’ I yelled into the surrounding jungle. ‘HELLO? IS ANYONE THERE?’

  Nobody heard me. The only signs of life were the chooks in their rickety pen, and a small black-and-white pig with a rope tied around one back leg. A well-used four-wheel-drive track led into the jungle. There were fresh tyre prints in the mud. The people who lived in the little blue house must have cleared out when they heard Mount Bako blow its top. Judging by the still-warm stew, they’d only been gone a short time.

  I wished they had waited a bit longer.

  But if they’d done that, they wouldn’t have made it off the peninsula. The lava would have cut off their retreat. Like it had cut off mine.

  I could still hear it approaching, crackling and sizzling as it came flooding through the jungle in a red-hot tide of death and destruction. Nothing could stand in its way. Small animals and lizards scuttled ahead of it. Screeching birds flew overhead. A winged insect the size of a sparrow buzzed past my ear. All heading for the sea.

  Where the sharks were waiting.

  The boat was my only chance. I rushed back to the beach and flipped it over. It was a strange craft – long and narrow like a canoe, with high, square ends, and painted blue like the house. We’d seen similar brightly coloured boats the previous day on Sarawak River – they were called long-tail boats and were used for fishing. This one was smaller, about five metres long, and didn’t have a motor. I started dragging it down to the water. It was heavy. But I had survival on my mind, and something like that gives you extra strength. No matter how strong I was feeling, though, I couldn’t row the boat without oars. Luckily, I remembered seeing some leaning against the side of the house.

  On my way back to get them, I remembered something else. The reason I’d chased the monkey. Mr Griffin needed a drink.

  I raced inside. There were no taps in the kitchen, just a large plastic jerry can on the table next to the gas cooker. Liquid sloshed about inside when I shook it. I unscrewed the cap and checked. Water. I lugged it down the beach and tossed it into the boat with the oars.

  Keeping a sharp eye out for sharks, I pushed the boat out into the sea. When the water lapped around my calves, I clambered in awkwardly over the stern. A wave pushed the boat backwards. It scraped on the sand and started to turn sideways. I grabbed one of the oars and pushed against the sandy bottom, trying to get clear of the shore. The boat slewed around broadside to the waves and I nearly fell out. Before I could recover my balance, another wave caught the boat and drove it back onto the sand.

  Shishkebab! I was back where I’d started.

  Worse, I’d wasted valuable time. All the time I’d been struggling to launch the boat, the lava was getting closer. I couldn’t see it yet, but I could see the flames that marked its trail of destruction through the jungle-enormous tongues of fire that rose fifty or sixty metres into the sky. It wasn’t a wall of flame, it was a cliff.

  In front of the fire cliff, dwarfed by the size of the flames that would shortly consume it, stood the little blue house.

  What about the chooks? asked the little voice in my head.

  Holy guacamole! They were still in their pen. And the little black-and-white pig was still tied to its tether. They’d be cooked alive!

  I leapt out of the boat and charged back up the beach. Straight towards the firestorm and the unstoppable tide of lava below it. It hadn’t reached the edge of the jungle yet, but I could feel a wave of heat pushing towards me through the trees. The air quivered like a mirage. It was almost too hot to breathe.

  Luckily the wind was at my back, otherwise I would have been completely blinded by smoke. But there was a lot of smoke anyway. As the lava flow came closer, it seemed to create a wind of its own. It pushed ashes and flaming cinders ahead of it. They fell all around me as I fumbled to undo the gate to the chooks’ pen. There were about six red hens and one scruffy black rooster. As soon as the gate was open, all seven birds rushed out past me, flapping and squawking as they made their getaway towards the beach.

  The pig was harder to set free. It was so panicked by the heat and the smoke and the roar of the approaching firestorm that it pulled hard on its rope, making the knot impossible to untie. Finally, I ripped up the iron stake it was tethered to, and the pig raced away, dragging its tether behind it.

  When I got back to the boat, there was a surprise waiting for me. I had a passenger. A macaque huddled on the tip of the bow, its crafty brown eyes flicking from me to the fire, then back to me. I wondered if it was the bottle thief.

  ‘Coming for a ride?’ I said, pushing the boat out from shore.

  But I didn’t push it out very far. And I didn’t try to get in. This time I wasn’t going to make the mistake I’d made last time. It was only a short distance back to the rocky point where I’d left Mr Griffin. Instead of trying to row there, I waded beside the boat, guiding it through the shallows along the shoreline.

  And kept my eyes peeled for sharks.

  I didn’t see any. The water was a lot clearer on this side of the point. Maybe all the sharks had gathered around the other side. Maybe this side was safe, I thought.

  Wishful thinking.

  Suddenly my monkey passenger began screaming. I looked where it was looking.

  Hooley dooley!

  I don’t know how I missed it. Probably because I was looking for sharks, and this wasn’t a shark. But the macaque knew what to look for. Macaques spend a lot of time on beaches, searching for crabs, shrimps and other monkey delicacies, so they’re alert to all the dangers.

  Which was lucky for me.

  As soon as the macaque started shrieking, I saw it – a four-metre shadow surfing inshore under a wave, coming straight towards the boat like a torpedo.

  My body reacted faster than my brain. Even before I recognised what the shadow was, my legs were running. Carrying me out of the sea and up onto the sand. I didn’t stop running until I was halfway up the beach. Halfway to the burning jungle.

  The lava flow had reached the top of the beach.

  And the underwater shadow had nearly reached the boat. But the silly macaque hadn’t moved. It sat frozen on the point of the bow as a huge pair of jaws exploded out of the water in a boil of foam.

  At the very last moment, I closed my eyes – I couldn’t watch.

  CRUNCH!

  When I opened my eyes, the monkey was gone.

  7

  CROCODILE BEACH

  Whoever named Crocodile Beach got it wrong. They should have called it Shark Beach. It was the beach on the other side of the point – where I was now – that they should have named Crocodile Beach. Two more crocs bobbed in the small waves about fifty metres offshore. There was another one, closer to shore, a little further along. The lava
must have driven them from the rivers and out to sea. Not expecting them to be there, I’d thought they were logs until the macaque warned me of the danger.

  Poor monkey. It had saved my life, but now it was dead.

  I’d be dead soon, too, if I didn’t get moving.

  So would Mr Griffin. Or was he dead already? When I looked towards the point, I couldn’t see anything except smoke. The wind had changed direction again and now smoke was everywhere. Smoke and flames. All along the beach front, the jungle was an inferno. Whirlwinds of fire corkscrewed into the sky. Through a gap in the smoke, I saw that the little blue house had disappeared. In its place was a sputtering wall of lava. It flowed towards me like a tide of red-hot toffee, hissing and bubbling and shooting out spurts of yellow flame. So hot it was melting the sand! The heat pushed me backwards like a giant, invisible hand. Without realising it, I’d backed right down to the water’s edge. I kept going.

  Something bumped against my shin. In the split-second before I saw what it was, part of my brain screamed: Crocodile!

  Another part thought: The boat?

  Luckily, the second part was right.

  Gripping it by the stern, I turned the boat out to sea and began pushing. This time I didn’t make the mistake I’d made the first time – I didn’t climb straight in. Instead, I pushed it out through the waves, further and further from shore, and tried not to think about crocodiles. That wasn’t easy. In my head was a picture of the monkey a split second before the crocodile’s jaws snapped shut. Then – CRUNCH! It was a sound I’d never forget.

  I kept expecting to hear it again – the last thing I would ever hear.

  But I heard another sound instead – a really loud HISSSS! behind me.

  The lava had reached the sea.

  I didn’t look back. I concentrated on steering the boat through the incoming waves. Seawater splashed in my eyes. The nerve-ends in the backs of my legs tingled in expectation of feeling a crocodile’s teeth.

  CRUNCH! I thought.

  It didn’t happen. At last the water was deep enough for me to climb into the boat. Hauling myself up, I rolled in over the stern. It was a pretty unco move – all I could think of was getting out of the water as quickly as possible – and I went headfirst under one of the wide wooden seats.

  Shishkebab!

  I was eyeball to eyeball with a quivering macaque. The crocodile hadn’t eaten it after all. It must have dived for cover when my eyes were closed.

  ‘Hey, monkey,’ I said, glad it was still alive.

  Leaving the badly scared animal hiding under the seat, I scrambled forward and grabbed the oars. But there were no rowlocks to fit them into.

  While I looked for some other way to fix the oars to the side of the boat, I noticed something else – rusty clamp marks on the stern made by an outboard motor. It wasn’t a rowing boat, it was a motorboat like the ones I’d seen on Sarawak River. The oars must have come from a different boat. But they were all I had. Motorboat or not, I had to row. Or paddle – the boat was long and narrow like a canoe, and you paddle canoes. So I scrambled back to the rear seat and used one oar like a canoe paddle.

  It didn’t work very well. The oar was nearly two metres long and quite heavy – it was really difficult to swing from one side to the other and keep the boat going in a straight line. The waves didn’t help, either. They kept turning the craft sideways, pushing its bow back towards shore. Back towards the hissing lava. Around me the sea was beginning to steam, heated up by the sizzling river of molten rock flowing into it.

  Finally, I managed to get out into the relatively flat sea past the waves. I turned parallel to shore and began paddling as fast as I could towards the rocky point. I could just see it through the smoke and steam. There was a high rocky buttress just back from the point – it acted as a shield, diverting the lava flow away from the cliff. Mr Griffin might still be alive.

  When I drew level with the point, I turned the boat back towards land and started paddling flat out. It caught a wave and I steered with the oar.

  Almost too late, I saw a partially submerged rock shelf directly in front of us. The wave ahead of ours crashed over it in a boil of spray and foam. I leaned on the oar, pushing sideways to avoid the underwater rocks. It was going to be close. Suddenly, a bank of steam came swirling across the water, obscuring my view of what was ahead.

  KER-RUMP!

  There was a huge jolt. The oar was ripped out of my hands and disappeared into the churning sea. I fell into the bottom of the boat next to the macaque as the bow reared upwards. Then it fell, too, hitting the water with a loud smack, and the boat spun around. A wave came crashing in over the side, half drowning me and the monkey. The animal shrieked in panic and wrapped its arms around my neck, half choking me.

  Too dazed to do anything about it, I lay still, waiting for the boat to flip. Another wave hit us. The boat lifted and turned, but it didn’t go over. After a few moments of relative calm, there was a scrape of sand under the keel and we stopped altogether.

  The monkey raised its head. Unwinding its long arms from their strangle-hold around my neck, it stood upright on my chest to get a better view. It must have liked what it saw. With a burst of excited chatter, the macaque leapt over the side of the boat and disappeared.

  By the time I sat up, the terrified monkey was halfway to the cliff face. The rest of its troupe were waiting on the same ledge where I’d last seen them.

  But I was more interested in the little cave at the base of the cliff further along. And what was sheltering there.

  It looked like a dead man.

  8

  MONKEY PIRATES

  ‘Mr Griffin! Mr Griffin!’

  He opened his eyes.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ I muttered, crouching over him. ‘I thought you were …’

  ‘Dead?’ he asked, giving me a tiny smile.

  I nodded. I felt silly. But he had looked dead. In fact, he didn’t look much better with his eyes open. His skin was grey, his lips were blue and he was shivering like someone with hypothermia – even though it felt about forty degrees.

  ‘How are you feeling, Mr Griffin?’

  ‘Not so good, actually,’ he said, rubbing his left arm. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘To get some water.’ I showed him the plastic jerry can I’d taken from the blue house. ‘And I got us a boat.’

  Mr Griffin’s voice was croaky. ‘You’ve been busy. A drink would be good.’

  I filled the jerry can’s lid with water and held it to Mr Griffin’s lips. He was really thirsty. I had to refill it about thirty times before he’d had enough. Then I had a drink myself – straight from the jerry can’s spout.

  ‘Can you walk, Mr Griffin?’

  ‘You might have to help me,’ he said. ‘Where’s this boat you were talking about?’

  I pointed. ‘Just over there. I’ll help you up. Is this arm okay?’

  Neither of us talked about the tide of molten lava that had reached the sea on both sides of the point. We could hear it spluttering and hissing as it met the waves. We could feel its heat in the air, and we could smell its sulphurous fumes. But we couldn’t see anything because of all the smoke and steam and flying ash that swirled around us.

  After I’d helped Mr Griffin into the boat, I ran back to the cave to fetch the jerry can. Already two tiny mouse deer – no bigger than rabbits – were taking shelter there, along with one of the chooks I’d released from the pen near the blue house. Both the miniature deer ran off as I approached, but the chook stayed put.

  Stephanie’s backpack was in the cave as well. I’d forgotten all about it. When I picked it up, its zipper gaped open. Two round, honey-coloured eyes peered out at me. It was the little possum-like animal that had been in the cave when Mr Griffin and I first arrived. It looked quite at home in the backpack. I decided to leave it in there – its chances of survival would be better if it came with us.

  ‘We’ve got a stowaway,’ I said, showing Mr Griffin when I got back to t
he boat.

  He pointed behind me. ‘I think someone else wants to come, too.’

  The little red chook had followed me from the cave. It came running across the sand and flapped up onto the side of the boat.

  ‘I guess it won’t take up much room,’ I said.

  I stowed the backpack and jerry can under one of the seats, then tried pushing the boat off the beach. But it was heavier with Mr Griffin on board, and wouldn’t budge. I had to run around to the other end and drag it, stern-first, into the sea. This meant I was facing the cliff. So I saw the macaque coming. It must have been the same one that had hitched a ride earlier, because it came charging down the beach and leapt up onto the bow as if it belonged there. The little red chook squawked in fright and came flapping down to my end of the boat.

  ‘Shoo!’ said Mr Griffin, trying to scare the monkey away.

  It ignored him. Turning in the other direction – back the way it had come – the macaque made a loud chattering noise, like it was calling.

  I was still dragging the boat into the sea. And trying not to think about sharks or crocodiles. Half in the water now, partially afloat, the boat moved thirty or forty centimetres every time I heaved.

  The monkey’s calls became louder and more urgent.

  Then I saw why it was upset. For a moment the swirl of smoke and steam cleared, and I could see all the way up the cliff. The trees at the top were on fire.

  The smoke closed in again, hiding the cliff top from view. I’d dragged the boat nearly all the way into the water. A few more heaves and it would be fully afloat. Heave! Heave! Heave!

  The monkey was going hyper – screeching, waving its arms, and jumping up and down.

  Suddenly, there was movement in the smoke. A line of monkeys came flying across the sand. Mr Griffin yelped in fright as they leapt into the boat. They swarmed all over it like a pirate raiding party. The chook flapped up onto my shoulder to escape them. I yelled at the monkeys to chase them away, but they wouldn’t leave the boat. Mr Griffin tried pushing one off the seat next to him. It spun around and nearly bit him.