Monkey Mountain Read online

  ‘I think we’d better bring them with us,’ I said. As if we had a choice. The monkeys had made it fairly obvious that they were coming along, whether we liked it or not.

  As soon as Mr Griffin and I stopped trying to shoo them off, the macaques settled down. They were all over the boat – on the seats, between the seats, balanced on the sides, squatting on the bow. I counted fifteen, including one baby. Plus, there was Mr Griffin.

  Would there be room for me?

  9

  KARATE

  The boat was fully afloat at last. With the chook perched on my shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, I swung the long, narrow craft around until it pointed out to sea.

  Now came the tricky bit. Last time I’d launched the boat, it had been from a flat sandy beach. This time there were underwater rocks. I couldn’t see them, which made my task even more hazardous. Every few seconds there’d be an explosion of spray and foam as a wave smashed over one. Then it would happen somewhere else. There were rocks everywhere. If we hit one, the overloaded boat was likely to capsize. Or have its bottom ripped out. Either way, it would be a disaster.

  The rocks weren’t the only thing worrying me. The water was heating up from all the lava flowing into the sea on both sides of the point. Already it was the temperature of a hot bath. How hot was it going to get?

  Too hot for comfort. About thirty metres from shore, I couldn’t stand it any longer. My legs were getting stewed! I had to scramble into the boat. There was a mad panic when I tried to get the single remaining oar out from under the seats. Four monkeys were sitting on it, all in a row. One of them screeched in anger. When I kept pulling the oar, it jumped at me, teeth bared.

  Macaques are lightning fast, but they don’t know karate. A palm heel thrust sent it tumbling down the other end of the boat. Another monkey leapt at me from the side. There was just time to put up an elbow block, but the impact knocked the chook off my shoulder. It landed in the middle of the monkeys. Flapping, squawking and pecking, the panicked chook was more effective than karate. The monkeys scattered to the sides, under the seats, and to the far end of the boat. Finally, I was able to drag the oar free.

  In the few seconds since I’d climbed in, the incoming tide had swung the boat around, turning it side-on to the waves. I made a snap decision.

  Instead of turning the boat back out to sea, where there was the danger of hitting underwater rocks, I followed the shoreline, using the oar like a pole to push us along. A couple of the larger waves carried us closer to shore, but both times I was able to get us back on course with the oar. When we seemed to be clear of the offshore rocks, I turned the boat out to sea, changed my grip, and paddled like mad.

  It was touch and go. For a while it seemed like we were making no progress. I’d get us out a few metres, then a big wave would drive us back the same distance. But I didn’t give up. I was paddling for my life. Literally. And for Mr Griffin’s. He’d had a heart attack, but he was still alive. He sat slumped forward on the boat’s middle seat, looking down at his feet in a daze.

  But the monkeys were all watching me. They seemed to know what was going on. I was paddling for their lives, too. And for the chook’s life. And for the little possum-like creature in the backpack under the front seat.

  I kept paddling. And paddling. And paddling. My arms felt like they were about to drop off, but I didn’t dare stop. If I took a rest, or even slowed down, we’d be driven back into the lava. It was behind us now, directly inshore from the boat. We’d drifted along parallel to the beach, away from the dangerous offshore rocks, but right into the path of the lava flow coming from the other direction.

  I couldn’t actually see the lava. When I looked over my shoulder, there was just a wall of boiling steam where it entered the sea, hissing like a million angry snakes.

  Tired arms weren’t my only problem. My hands were getting blisters from the rough wood of the oar. The right one was particularly painful. A blister had popped. There was blood trickling down my wrist.

  ‘Mr Griffin!’ I called.

  His head jerked up, as if he’d been asleep. ‘What was that?’ he mumbled.

  Fifteen monkeys and one chook looked at me, too.

  ‘Can I borrow your socks?’

  I felt bad for asking. Mr Griffin had had a heart attack. He had enough problems of his own. But I was the one rowing, so my problems were his problems.

  ‘My socks?’ he said.

  ‘I need them for gloves,’ I explained, loosening my fingers from the sticky oar to show him my bleeding hand.

  Mr Griffin seemed to have trouble moving his fingers. It took him ages to get his socks off.

  ‘Sorry if they’re a bit smelly,’ he said, tossing them over.

  Who cared if they were smelly. They were nice and thick, just what I needed. I threaded Mr Griffin’s socks onto my blistered hands – that felt better – and started paddling again.

  Slowly and steadily, we began moving out to sea.

  For the first time since Mount Bako erupted, I started thinking that maybe – just maybe – we were going to make it.

  ‘What’s that behind you?’ Mr Griffin said.

  His eyes weren’t too good, but there was nothing wrong with the monkeys’ eyes. Before my head was turned halfway around, fifteen terrified macaques had gone charging down to the other end of the boat.

  Before my head was turned three quarters of the way around, the chook had followed the macaques.

  Before my head was turned all the way around, a crocodile exploded out of the water.

  10

  SURVIVAL MODE

  There was no time to react. No time to do anything. The crocodile hit me like a battering ram, just below my right shoulderblade. The impact threw me forward. I landed flat in the bottom of the boat. I was stunned and bruised, but – amazingly – still in one piece.

  Why wasn’t I dead?

  Then I remembered the single snapshot image my brain had taken of the crocodile in the millisecond before it slammed into me. Instead of being wide open, its killer jaws were closed. That’s why I was still alive. The crocodile wasn’t after me.

  It must have been after the monkeys.

  It was still after them. I could hear its deep, throaty growl and I could hear the monkeys shrieking. The boat jerked and wobbled. Something was pounding against my leg – wham! wham! wham! It felt like wet leather.

  Or like … crocodile skin!

  I bunched my legs up under me and rolled in the opposite direction.

  ‘Get up, Sam!’ puffed Mr Griffin, kneeling next to me. ‘I can’t hold it off much longer.’

  He was prodding something with the oar. I knew what it was without looking. Wriggling around behind Mr Griffin, I propped up on my knees and peered over his shoulder.

  The crocodile looked back at me. Its head, front legs and most of its body were inside the boat. Just its back legs and tail dangled in the sea. The rear of the boat dipped like a seesaw as the big, ugly reptile tried to climb all the way in. Mr Griffin was trying to fend it off with the oar. It was an uneven contest. The crocodile was bigger than him and ten times stronger.

  ‘Give me a go,’ I said, worried he was going to have another heart attack.

  By the time I’d swapped positions with Mr Griffin and taken the oar, the crocodile had swung one of its back legs into the boat. Before it could get the other one up, I used the oar to jab its snout. That’s the wrong place to jab a crocodile. Quick as a blink, its massive jaws opened and slammed closed – CRUNCH! – on the oar blade. The impact sent a shock wave all the way up the shaft to my blistered hands. Luckily, I had Mr Griffin’s thick woollen socks to cushion them.

  I gripped my end of the oar and the crocodile held the other end in its vice-like jaws. We glared at each other. It made a growling noise and swung its head from side to side, nearly sending me overboard. I saved myself by falling to my knees. Bracing the backs of my thighs against the seat behind me, I pushed forward on the oar, driving the crocodile backwards
. It couldn’t let go because the oar would go down its throat. I pushed harder, gaining valuable ground. The crocodile’s front legs scrabbled for a grip on the bottom of the boat, its rear legs spun in the air above the stern, its tail splashed in the sea. I was winning. Centimetre by centimetre, I was pushing the crocodile out of the boat.

  Then its claws found something to grip – the rear seat – and it stopped sliding. I gritted my teeth and strained with every muscle in my body. The boat rocked and swayed, but the crocodile didn’t budge. Its muscular front legs strained against the seat. Its yellow eyes glared at me. I glared back. We weren’t getting anywhere.

  ‘Mr Griffin?’ I said without turning around. ‘Are you strong enough to give me a hand?’

  There was a wheezy laugh behind me. ‘I’ll give it a try. What do you have in mind?’

  Sliding my sock-covered hands along the wooden shaft, I edged towards the crocodile on my knees until a metre of oar poked out behind me. ‘Squeeze in where I was, Mr G, and brace yourself against the seat. Then grab the oar and get ready to push.’

  ‘Aye aye, Captain,’ he said.

  I felt Mr Griffin move into position.

  ‘Have you got the oar?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to push now?’

  ‘Not yet. Wait until I tell you.’

  Sliding my hands further along the shaft, and walking on my knees, I moved closer and closer to the crocodile. It narrowed its eyes and watched me coming.

  ‘Get ready,’ I said to Mr Griffin.

  Less than a metre separated me and the crocodile. Gripping the oar really hard with my right hand, I took my left hand from the shaft and dragged the sock off with my teeth. Then I leaned forward and waved my bleeding palm only a few centimetres from the reptile’s nostrils.

  Crocodiles aren’t very smart. When it saw a tasty meal right in front of its nose, its tiny brain forgot there was an oar blade wedged between its teeth.

  It opened its mouth and lunged.

  ‘NOW!’ I yelled.

  The crocodile came after my hand, but the oar went the other way. Pushed with all the force Mr Griffin and I could muster, the oar went halfway down the crocodile’s throat, choking it. The crocodile switched from feeding mode to survival mode. Arching its back, it reared upwards and flipped over the side of the boat, with a metre and a half of oar poking out of its mouth.

  ‘Nice work, Indiana,’ Mr Griffin gasped.

  Fifteen monkeys and one little red chook seemed to agree with him.

  But I didn’t. Indiana Jones would have thought of another way of getting rid of the crocodile. One that didn’t leave us without an oar. With no way to stop ourselves being washed back by the waves into the deadly lava flow.

  11

  FLOP!

  ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ Mr Griffin said. ‘We’ll have to paddle with our hands.’

  What about crocodiles and sharks? I nearly said. My hands were bleeding and blood is a sure way of attracting sea predators. But I kept my mouth shut. Red-hot lava was a bigger threat than crocodiles and sharks.

  The boat was narrow enough to allow you to dip your hands into the water on both sides at the same time. Ideal for what we had to do. Mr Griffin claimed the rear seat and I scrambled forward to the front one. Half the monkeys scampered back past me to make room. None of them showed their teeth or looked aggressive, even when I shooed three big males off the seat so I could sit down. They had seen us get rid of the crocodile and must have decided we were okay.

  I was just getting into position when I heard a splash behind me, followed by a loud cry.

  ‘Owwwwww!’

  ‘What’s the matter, Mr Griffin?’ I asked, twisting round in my seat.

  ‘The water,’ he gasped, wringing his hands. ‘It’s hot!’

  I should have listened. Instead, I dipped my hands in to test it. Big mistake. I jerked them straight back out. Mr Griffin wasn’t kidding. The water wasn’t hot, it was boiling!

  No way could we paddle with our hands.

  Sucking my scalded fingers, I turned back to Mr Griffin. ‘What are we going to do?’

  He just shook his head.

  The boat rocked over a wave. The wave hadn’t broken yet, but it carried us with it for two or three metres before it swept away ahead of us towards shore. The next wave carried the wallowing boat another few metres. We couldn’t see the beach – there was too much steam and smoke – but our ears told us where it was. The terrifying hiss of molten lava and vaporising sea water grew louder every moment.

  I had an idea. Taking off my sneakers, I used them as paddles. But that only lasted two or three strokes. The boiling-hot water splashed up onto my fingers and wrists, making the task all but impossible. Even when I threaded my socks back onto my hands for extra insulation, I still got scalded. Paddling was a no-no. I tossed my sodden sneakers and socks into the bottom of the boat, thinking I’d probably never wear them again. Never set foot on dry land again. It was a scary thought.

  Even scarier was what would happen when finally we were washed into the lava flow. I tried not to think about it. But all around me were reminders. The sea was so hot I could feel the heat rising up through the boards under my bare feet. It was too hot for the fish. All around the boat, little silver minnows started jumping out of the water to escape the heat. That’s why the crocodile had jumped into the boat, I realised. It hadn’t been attacking us at all; it was just trying to get out of the hot water. Poor crocodile, I thought. Poor fish. Slowly their jumps got lower and lower as they were overcome by the heat. It was horrible to watch. I turned my eyes away, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Our turn would be next.

  The bottom of the boat became so hot I had to put my sneakers back on. The mother monkey blew on its baby’s face to cool it down. The little red chook had its beak open and flapped its wings slowly to make a breeze. I turned round to see how Mr Griffin was getting on.

  He was as red as a tomato and sweat fell off him in big drops.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked.

  ‘Why not,’ he gasped.

  I dragged the jerry can back to him and lifted it up so Mr Griffin could drink straight from the spout. Water dribbled down his chin and splashed into the bottom of the boat. It didn’t matter, I thought. We wouldn’t be needing water much longer. You can’t drink when you’re dead.

  When Mr Griffin had had enough, I lifted the jerry can and gulped down as much water as would fit in my stomach. And then a bit more. All the monkeys looked on thirstily. I would have liked to give them a drink, too, but I remembered what had happened with Kirk’s muesli bar. Offer one of them something, and it causes a riot.

  Suddenly there was a riot anyway.

  I’d deliberately stopped looking at the sea because of all the jumping fish. The monkeys weren’t looking at the sea either – they were too busy watching me have a drink.

  So nobody saw it coming until it landed – FLOP – in the bottom of the boat.

  Fifteen monkeys, two humans and one little red chook scattered in panic.

  Because you don’t mess with a stingray.

  12

  WATERSPOUT

  I don’t know who was more surprised – the stingray or us. It must have jumped out of the sea to cool down like all the other fish, and accidentally landed in our boat.

  Now it couldn’t get out.

  It was a big one – nearly two metres from wingtip to wingtip – and must have weighed fifty kilograms. Flapping and struggling in the bottom of the boat, the stingray rocked us from side to side. Water slopped in over the edges.

  ‘It’s going to sink us!’ cried Mr Griffin.

  He and about eight monkeys were trapped down one end of the boat. I was trapped at the other end, with the rest of the monkeys and the chook.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ I said.

  All fifteen monkeys began shrieking in alarm as I edged towards our unwelcome passenger. They must have known about sting
rays. The twenty-centimetre-long poisonous barb on its tail could kill a macaque in a matter of minutes. I might last a little longer – long enough to be killed by the lava – but I didn’t plan to get stung.

  I didn’t plan to get killed by lava, either, but first I had to deal with the stingray.

  It lay in the bottom of the boat, facing me. I needed to get behind it so I could grab its tail. But the stingray was wider than the boat. The tips of its broad, greenish-grey wings dangled over the sides. There was only one way to get past it – jump over.

  No way, José!

  I knew a bit about stingrays from a documentary I saw on Animal Planet. They spend most of their time on the ocean floor, so if something attacks them it will usually come from above. That’s why a stingray’s eyes are on top of its head. And why the poisonous barb is on top of its tail. When something attacks, the stingray will flip its barb straight up like the blade of a flick knife, so the most dangerous place is right above a stingray’s back.

  A very good reason not to jump over it.

  But I rose to my feet anyway. The boat wobbled all over the place. Keeping my knees bent and my feet spread wide for balance, I leaned forward until I was practically standing over the big, quivering ray. Right in the danger area.

  ‘Sam, what are you doing?’ gasped Mr Griffin.

  I was too tense to answer. All my attention was focused on the stingray’s deadly weapon.

  ‘C’mon, big fella,’ I said, waving my left hand above its eyes. ‘Give me your best shot.’

  Swish!

  As quick as a striking snake, the ray whipped its tail up, slashing at me with the barb.

  But I was ready for it. I jerked my left hand back and reached across the barb with my right hand, grabbing the long skinny tail as it swung forward over the stingray’s body.

  Gotcha!

  A stingray’s barb isn’t nearly as long as its tail. I’d caught its tail near the end, out of range of the deadly barb.