‘Read about it in a book?’

  ‘Right,’ Max said. ‘Come on, that Blackshirt is watching us. Let’s get chopping. And remember, collect as many splinters of wood as possible so we have some decent kindling.’

  They soon realised why none of the other Blueshirts wanted to be on chopping duty. It was hard, hot, back-breaking work. The axes were blunt. Soon the boys were sweating and aching, their hands blistered and their lungs burning. Shards of wood flew up into their faces. As he chopped, Max kept one eye on the kid with the sore hands. He was on his feet but not really digging. He just seemed to be propping himself up on the shovel, obviously too scared to lie down. Max thought he might collapse at any minute, but he couldn’t go to his aid. He had to keep a low profile while the sun rose.

  When the sun was high enough for its light to start flooding into the clearing, Max estimated it was about 10 a.m. Another half an hour passed before the sun’s rays reached the log pile.

  ‘Keep chopping,’ Max told Sami. He put down his own axe, then wandered over to the metal container filled with stale water. He held his breath so he didn’t have to inhale its rank smell. A nearby Blackshirt glanced over at him, but turned away when he saw Max splash the filthy water over his face and neck. And he was still facing the opposite way when Max pulled the Ziploc bag from his pocket, filled it with water and sealed it. He walked back to the log pile, the bag of water hidden under his shirt.

  ‘Ready?’ he said to Sami.

  Sami wiped the sweat from his brow, glanced nervously across the clearing and nodded. ‘Ready,’ he replied.

  14

  Fire

  Carefully, Max laid the Ziploc bag on the ground behind the log pile. While Sami kept watch, Max scraped handfuls of dry moss and lichen from the bark of the felled trees with his fingernails. He collected some pieces of bark too, and some splinters of wood. He put these in neat piles next to the bag.

  His next problem was where to position himself. He needed to be in the sunlight, but out of view of anybody else in the clearing who might become suspicious if they saw him. He reckoned the Blueshirts wouldn’t be a problem. They were like zombies, the way they dug their pits without even looking up. It was the Redshirts and Blackshirts he had to avoid. If he crouched behind the log pile, he was completely out of sight, but he was also in the shade. He had to shift a little to the left, but that put him in the line of sight of part of the clearing. His only option was to crouch low and trust Sami to stand in front of him and keep watch while he continued to chop wood.

  The bag was bulbous and still wet on the outside. He wiped it with his sleeve so that it wouldn’t drip on the dry tinder. Then he squeezed it gently so the skin of the bag tightened, making it smooth and convex. Like a lens.

  Now came the difficult part. It was a question, he decided, of holding the bag at just the right angle and at the perfect height above the tinder. He spent a full five minutes trying to do this, checking every few seconds that Sami wasn’t trying to attract his attention, before deciding it was impossible. There was a faint patch on the ground where the water was refracting the sunlight, but he couldn’t get a concentrated beam.

  ‘Put it down!’ Sami hissed suddenly. Max almost dropped the bag. He laid it gently on the ground so it didn’t burst or tear, then he stood up just in time to see a Blackshirt marching towards them. Max quickly turned his back on the log pile so that he was facing the jungle. He pretended to be peeing, before looking over his shoulder, ‘noticing’ the Blackshirt and deciding it wasn’t a good idea. The Blackshirt stormed up to him and started shouting something, pointing towards the steaming pit Max had already assumed was a latrine. Max hung his head apologetically. The Blackshirt grunted, shouted something at the other Blueshirts, who shrank back at the sound of his voice, and sauntered back to the centre of the clearing.

  ‘It’s not working,’ Max hissed at Sami. ‘I can’t get it right.’

  ‘Try again,’ Sami said. His face was full of trust. ‘I know you can do it.’

  Max retook his position behind the log pile, picked up the water bag and started trying to get a beam again. He had to do it methodically, he decided. He put the bag by the tinder and rotated it 360 degrees. Nothing. He raised it a little and did the same. Nothing. Another inch …

  There it was! A sudden spot of white light on the tinder. It disappeared almost immediately. Max adjusted the bag, trying to find the white spot again. Now he knew he could do it, the job was easier. The beam focused on the tinder again. Max kept his hands as still as possible. The beam needed to stay on the same point to build up the heat.

  Five seconds passed.

  Ten.

  Thirty.

  Sixty.

  His hands were shaking. He took long, slow breaths to calm himself. Then, almost from nowhere, a thin tendril of smoke rose from the pile of lichen and dried moss. Max kept the beam on it for a few more seconds. The smoke grew thicker. He got in close and gently blew on the tinder to get some oxygen into the mix. He reached for the smallest shard of kindling he could find – it was little bigger than a needle – and laid it on the tinder. There was the tiniest, faintest crackle as the shard flamed like a match. Max took some more shards. He could hear Woody’s voice during training back at Valley House. Guys, remember. Look after a fire when it’s small, it’ll look after you when it’s big …

  ‘Don’t rush it,’ Max muttered to himself. He knew that the best way to kill a fire was to add too much fuel too soon. He carefully fed the flames with tiny pieces of wood, increasing their size only when the fire was big enough to take it. Five minutes later, he had a decent blaze. The flames were a couple of hands high, and the fire was close enough to the log pile that the dry wood had started to catch. Max blew on it a little more. Then he emptied the Ziploc bag, shoved it in his pocket and went to re-join Sami.

  Sami was sweating nervously. ‘When do we raise the alarm?’ he whispered as Max grabbed his axe and they both started chopping again.

  ‘We don’t,’ Max said. ‘Wait till it’s big enough for them to notice by themselves. If we’re going to get over to Babaka’s hut, it’s got to take up everyone’s attention.’ He glanced over at the Blueshirts, who were still digging.

  It happened faster than Max had expected. The log pile was dry and the fuel it provided was plentiful. A few minutes later, there was a shout. A couple of Redshirts pointed at the log pile. All of a sudden, it was as if the whole camp knew what was happening. Max couldn’t help a faint smile. Flames were licking up to the top of the pile, and the frame that covered it was ablaze. He and Sami stepped away from the fire, feigning surprise and fear. Even the other Blueshirts had noticed it now and were staring at it, looking uncertain. Should they run or stay where they were?

  Max had correctly predicted that burning the camp’s fuel supply would be a big deal. Within seconds, the Blackshirts were pointing and shouting, yelling for the Redshirts to grab any containers they could find and fetch water from the stream. One of the Blackshirts ran up to Max, Sami and the Blueshirts. He screamed at them and pointed towards the stream. His meaning was clear: Get to work. Put this fire out.

  The Blueshirts started to jog across the clearing. Max and Sami joined them. They passed Redshirts coming the other way, carefully carrying water in all sorts of containers: cracked plastic buckets, tin cups, bamboo tubes. None of the containers held much water. Max noted with satisfaction that it would take a long time to extinguish the flames – if they managed it at all.

  As he jogged, Max looked around. He glanced up at the plateau. Blackshirts were running down the steps to help extinguish the fire. He couldn’t see Lukas. Babaka’s hut was three along in the direction of Max’s ten o’clock. He checked carefully for any sign of Babaka himself. There was none. ‘I’m going,’ he hissed at Sami. ‘Stay with the other Blueshirts. They’re more likely to notice if we’re both missing.’

  Sami nodded imperceptibly. They were by the nearest hut. Max made sure nobody was watching him. Everybody was focused on the fire. He slipped away from the line of Blueshirts and, with his back against the wall of the hut, edged round to its far side.

  He was sweating. His heart thumped. People were shouting in alarm. He tried to zone them all out, to focus on his immediate surroundings and the path to Babaka’s hut. To get there, first he had to cross open ground to another hut that stood between him and Babaka’s. If anyone was watching from the plateau, they would see him.

  But nobody was. Max checked left and right. All clear. He sprinted across the open ground and, breathless, hid in the shelter of the second hut.

  He could see Babaka’s place. Distance: eight or nine metres. From this angle, he could just see that the door was ajar. Max reckoned he could be in and out in less than a minute. But he had to choose his moment carefully. If anyone found him in there, he was a dead man.

  He checked his surroundings again. To his left he could just make out the fire and the line of people rushing to put it out. To his right, the plateau. Up ahead, nothing. Instinct told him to wait, but logic disagreed. Nobody was watching him. The longer he left it, the greater the chance that the situation would change and someone would arrive. He wouldn’t have a better chance than now.

  He ran.

  Halfway to Babaka’s hut, he froze.

  In front of him was Babaka. He had appeared from behind another hut and was hurrying towards his own. He hadn’t spotted Max yet because he was looking back over his shoulder, shouting at somebody. As soon as he looked ahead, however, he’d see him.

  It was as if Max was paralysed. He couldn’t move. Although his brain shrieked at him to sprint back, his limbs wouldn’t obey. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, he stared at Babaka, frozen to the spot, even as the Blackshirt started to turn his head …

  To Max, it felt as though everything was happening in slow motion. Something flew through the air from the jungle. Max didn’t realise it was a stone until it cracked Babaka in the head. He shouted in pain and covered his face with his hands. Suddenly Max’s limbs were free. He turned and sprinted back to the first hut, hurling himself out of Babaka’s sight.

  He cursed under his breath. From here he could see that the log-pile fire was subsiding. Two Redshirts were moving the tank of putrid water Max had used to fill the Ziploc bag over to the flames. They tipped it onto the fire.

  Max’s stomach churned. After all that, he’d missed his chance. The Blackshirts ordered the Blueshirts back to work. Sami was with them, surreptitiously searching for Max, who jogged up to join him. ‘Did you find it?’ Sami whispered.

  ‘I couldn’t get in,’ Max said. ‘Babaka turned up. But listen, something really weird happened. He was about to catch me when someone threw a stone at his head.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see them. But I think they must have been watching, because it came at just the right time.’ They were back at the wood-chopping place along with all the other Blueshirts. A couple of Blackshirts were examining the charred woodpile, but there were no more flames. Max picked up his axe, pretending to get back to work. ‘We haven’t seen Roland in a while,’ he said. ‘I think it might have been him.’

  ‘No,’ Sami said. ‘It wasn’t Roland.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He pointed back into the clearing. ‘Look over there.’

  Max looked at the entrance to the clearing. Two Blackshirts had emerged from the jungle, leading a prisoner by a rope around his neck. They were quite a distance from Max and Sami, but they could tell from the slouch of his body that he was exhausted, demoralised and possibly in pain.

  They could also see that it was Roland.

  Babaka strode up to Roland. The Blackshirt was clutching his face where the stone had hit him, and his anger exploded as soon as he reached the prisoner. He backhanded Roland across the cheek. Roland’s knees buckled, but he wasn’t allowed to fall to the ground. The Blackshirt holding the rope yanked him up by the neck. Babaka pointed in the direction of the plateau and Roland was led in that direction, towards Oscar Juwani’s lair.

  A strange silence fell over the camp. Everybody watched as the Blackshirts forced Roland up the stairs to the plateau. Max and Sami watched too. For the first time, Max thought he could see Lukas at the edge of the plateau, surveying the scene. Maybe he was searching for his former friends. Maybe he was doing something else. Max didn’t know.

  ‘What are they going to do to him?’ Sami said.

  ‘I don’t want to think about it,’ Max said. But he could think of little else. Roland was a good guy. He had helped them. It was up to them to help him, in whatever way they could.

  He glanced over towards Babaka’s hut. There was no chance of getting there now. There were too many people – Redshirts and Blackshirts – milling around. He couldn’t help thinking about the stone again. It had come from nowhere, but surely it hadn’t been a coincidence. Somebody had thrown it. Somebody who was trying to help Max.

  And then he thought about last night, and the figure he had seen running around the clearing. A wild, impossible thought formed in his mind.

  15

  Genius

  Lukas had not been allowed to move from the plateau outside Oscar Juwani’s hut. He had not slept, and had eaten only a few mouthfuls of cold meat and congealed fat for breakfast. Nor had he been allowed to leave his position by the covered snake pit. He had grown used to the smell and the sound of the hissing from the black mambas, though it still made him shiver. He noticed that, as the sun grew higher, the slithering increased. He supposed that was because the snakes were warming up.

  He knew Max and Sami had set the fire, though he wasn’t sure how they’d managed it. As soon as he had seen the smoke billowing up from the far end of the clearing, he had been on high alert. He had watched carefully. Was he the only person who had seen Max slip from hut to hut, only to be repelled by Babaka’s arrival at the last minute? Was he the only person who had seen the rock fly into Babaka’s face? Was he the only one who knew who had thrown it? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was, Max was surely attempting to get into Babaka’s hut to find the watch. He had failed to do that. They were back to square one.

  In fact, they were further back than that.

  Then there was a commotion at the top of the stairs leading to the plateau. Several Blackshirts appeared, pulling Roland along. He was obviously terrified. Lukas felt a pang of remorse as Roland glanced at him, because the sight of Lukas seemed to make Roland doubly fearful. But it was nothing to his expression when Oscar Juwani appeared outside his hut. Amid the confusion, Lukas realised that Babaka was there, sidling up to Oscar Juwani. He muttered something to the cult leader and pointed at Roland. Roland, terrified though he obviously was, jutted his chin out in defiance. Oscar Juwani almost seemed to find that funny. He waddled over to Roland, held his prisoner’s chin between his fat fingers and examined his face closely. Then he turned to Lukas. ‘Do you know who this is, my friend?’

  Lukas knew better than to lie, with Babaka standing close by. ‘I recognise him,’ he said.

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good! That will make this so much easier for you.’ He issued an instruction. Two of the Blackshirts hurried up to the snake pit. With obvious reluctance, they lifted the lid from the pit and laid it on the ground. Oscar Juwani nodded at the Blackshirt who was holding the rope around Roland’s neck. The Blackshirt led Roland to one end of the pit. When he saw what was in there, he tried to run, but another Blackshirt was there to grab him by the shoulders and hold him still. The guy with the rope walked it round to the other end of the pit. Lukas noticed that he kept his distance from the edge. One good tug, however, and maybe a push from the Blackshirt holding him, and Roland would be dragged inside. The rope guy held it up and looked enquiringly at Oscar Juwani.

  Oscar Juwani, however, was more interested in Lukas. He was staring carefully at him, as though judging his reaction. Lukas tried very hard not to give him one. He just stared straight ahead.

  ‘This boy,’ Oscar Juwani announced, ‘is not a stranger to us. Did you know that, Lukas?’

  Lukas didn’t trust himself to reply.

  ‘He was here some weeks ago, with his brother. For some reason, they did not find it convenient to stay. They tried to escape. His brother? Him, we found. He is no longer with us. This boy, on the other hand, eluded us until he was discovered prowling round our camp. No doubt he was to blame for our little fire. I can only think that he wished to do us harm, so I regret a punishment is necessary.’

  Roland was sweating and trembling. His eyes were continuously drawn to the seething, hissing contents of the pit. Every time he saw inside, he recoiled and turned his head. But then he would look again, drawn back to the horror.

  ‘Perhaps, Lukas,’ Oscar Juwani said, ‘this could be a good job for you. Perhaps this is an opportunity for you to earn yourself a black shirt.’

  Lukas felt his jaw clench. He didn’t – couldn’t – reply.

  ‘Yes,’ Oscar Juwani said. ‘Yes, I think that is a good idea. Take the rope. Finish the job for us.’

  There was silence. Nobody moved apart from Roland, who was trembling violently. Lukas could feel everybody staring at him.

  ‘Come along, Lukas,’ Oscar Juwani wheezed. ‘Show us how keen you are to be one of us.’

  Nobody moved. Lukas could barely breathe. He swallowed hard and glanced towards the steps. Maybe, if he made a run for it that way … But no. The stairs were guarded. He glanced left, towards the jungle at the back of the plateau. To run that way meant getting past at least three Blackshirts. And if they caught him, which they would, he knew what would happen. As if to confirm it, there was a crescendo of hissing from the pit.

  ‘What is it, Lukas?’ Oscar Juwani said. ‘Is Babaka right? Are you not as loyal as you pretend?’ He was not smiling any more. ‘Do it.’

  Slowly, Lukas walked to the end of the pit opposite Roland. Now that he was close, he could see inside more clearly than he had last night. The snakes were a black, knotted mess in slow but constant motion. The smell was foul. Lukas looked away as he approached the Blackshirt who was holding the rope. With an unpleasant grin, the Blackshirt handed the rope to Lukas, then stepped away. Lukas gripped the rope firmly. There was not much slack. One good tug and Roland would be in the pit. Roland’s expression silently implored Lukas not to do as Oscar Juwani was urging him.