The encounter
Hunger drove him to quit his immaculate solitude. “Stores
empty” he noted, checking the larder shelves one last time. He shouldered a
rucsac containing only a penknife, water and cash, locked the door and headed
down the track away from the bay. It was time to see whether the old way to the
village was still passable.
The large boulder was his marker, its slabby face unchanged
since George’s first climbing session on it three decades ago. He turned past
it and took the goat track into the scrub. For the next 20 minutes he navigated
using a combination of memory and skill, which took him up the hill and down
again onto the side of the next bay. The village spread below him as he sat on
top of a crag, sipping water. The path snaked round the rocks and down to a
road, which would take him to civilisation.
He allowed himself to relax before continuing his journey,
to observe the territory ahead. After several slow, deep breaths the sounds and
smells of the place came into focus. Beyond the constant noise of crickets
there were passing flies and beetles on the wing. Beyond them, birds sang. One
sounded a note of alarm below him, to the right. He wondered what creature had
passed beneath its perch and been registered as a threat.
The answer came almost immediately, in the form of a quiet,
gasping whimper and a sob. “Human, juvenile, possibly female,” he thought,
“almost certainly injured.” He stood for a second and listened again. It was
crying with pain but quietly, not calling for help. There were no other voices.
This kid was some distance from home.
He stowed his water bottle in the rucsac and set off down
the path, towards the child. Although it wasn’t making much sound the bird
whose territory it had fallen in was, so he used it as a guide. About two
hundred feet below the rock outcrop he found an almost invisible track, more a
thoroughfare for goats than humans. One hundred feet along it he discovered his
target.
She was about ten years old, slight and wiry. A local child
he guessed, given her thick black hair and brown skin. She was functionally
dressed in battered trainers, shorts and a plain T-shirt. One glance told him
that she had recently sustained a fracture of the fibula – her lower right leg
was swelling about halfway up her shin. She was in enormous pain, but alert.
She managed a faint smile as he jogged the last few feet to her. She didn’t
look afraid.
He knelt down beside her. “Hi,” he said, “I’m George. I can
help you. What’s your name?” With a shock he realised that these were the first
words he had said aloud for ten days. In her eyes he saw that despite the agony
she had registered his accent with curiosity. This was a strong girl. After a short
while of observing him she replied: “I am Anastacia. I’ve hurt my leg.”
“Do you live far from here?” he asked. “Are you from the
village?” She seemed to guess that his strategy would depend on her answer, and
gave a comprehensive reply: “Near the village but not so far. My house is on
the road, before you cross the river.” “Ah,” he replied without thinking, “near
the olive mill.” She nodded, through tears of pain.
“Okay Anastacia,” he said, “I’ll carry you there. But first
I’m going to stop your bad leg moving. That way it won’t hurt any more than it
does already.” A quick survey of his kit revealed that he was woefully
unprepared for this scenario. Why the hell hadn’t he packed a first-aid kit? He
dug his combination knife from the top pocket of the rucsac, opened the large
blade and sliced away the webbing straps that ran criss-cross down each side.
Then he took off his T-shirt and chopped a pair of two-inch strips from the
bottom of it. As he was putting the remainder of the garment back over his head
he noticed the girl. She was staring at his chest and stomach. “Oh well,” he
thought, “it’ll distract her from the busted leg for a while.” “I’ve had adventures,”
he said, trying to make his tone light. She half-smiled, despite the shock. He
guessed that in her own way she was familiar with adventures.
He cut the shirt circles once then wrapped them around the
girl’s knees and ankles. Around these he tied lengths of rucsac webbing. “That
should stop you running around,” he said. This time she grinned properly. He
gave her a drink of water, stowed his kit, slung the rucsac on his back and
lifted her gently. She felt incredibly light, although he suspected that this
wouldn’t be the case for long. They set off up the path together.
They might have been on an overall descent, but his hunch
was correct – the child’s weight seemed to increase with every step. His job
was made harder by the need to smooth out his movements in order to avoid
hurting her. But she hung on strongly, occasionally murmuring alerts about
potential underfoot hazards. “You know your territory,” he said. “How did you
manage to get hurt?” “I was thinking about my mama,” she replied in a matter-of-fact
tone. “And the tree root got me.”
They reached the road and set off down it. After ten minutes
the girl said: “I live here”. Her words were unnecessary – although she was
unaware of it, he had been here before. He turned up the path a few yards
before the old mill building. “Which house is yours?” he whispered in her ear.
“Red door,” she replied. He headed for it and she knocked
with surprising strength. It opened in seconds to reveal a woman in her
thirties, whose questioning expression turned quickly to one of shock. “Mama, I
hurt my leg,” the child said. Her mother gestured inwards. George followed her
lead and pushed into the house with his burden. Spotting a sofa, he set the
girl down gently and kneeled to untie her legs. “Her bone is broken here,” he
pointed. “She will need to go to the hospital.”
The woman had by this time knelt beside him and embraced her
daughter in a fierce hug, soft sobs already issuing from her. She looked up
after a minute and caught his gaze. Her eyes widened and she looked into his
for what seemed an eternity. “You,” she gasped. “Where the hell did you go?”
