The Encounter. My effort.

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?”