Charlie might have been the most adventurous, but she was the most sensitive too, the most easily depressed, and by far the most affectionate. She and I had already become inseparable. She’d often wake me up in the mornings by prising open my eyelids, and then – nose to nose – she’d look deep into my eyes. She liked to do hugging too, lots of it, and kissing too. She liked to kiss my nose in particular, I don’t know why.
She had thin wispy hair that stood up on the top of her head, so that she looked in a permanent state of shock. Her eyes looked like upside-down commas facing one other. There was something comical about her, but like a clown, always a sense of sadness too, even when she was fooling around and showing off. She was the best athlete of them all, which was just as well, because Tonk and Bart could gang up on her sometimes. But she always had the speed and the agility to swing away and get herself out of trouble. The boys could get jealous of her, and were inclined to give her a bit of a hard time if I ever gave her too much attention. So I did all I could to share my affection out as evenly as possible.
In the end I found that I couldn’t stay up there in the sleeping nest where we’d made our home for as long as I’d hoped. The trouble was that the little orang-utans frequently fouled the nest, and it soon began to smell, and that brought the flies. Besides, we were fast running out of accessible fruit where we were. I was having to climb further and further from the nest to find it, taking greater risks all the time. If I’d had the strength and skill I would have been able to move through the trees like an adult orang-utan. I’d seen, on that terrible day in among the fig trees, how they’d reach out, grab a branch, bend it, then let the spring of the branch swing them across into the next tree where there was more fruit.
But I couldn’t do that.
I could climb well enough by now, and fearlessly too. I was balancing and leaping more confidently all the time, but I knew I’d never be able to swing through the jungle like an orang-utan. I didn’t have the strength, in my arms and shoulders, nor in my fingers. I didn’t have the flexibility.
I realised that sooner rather than later I was going to have to risk it. I would have to climb back down to the forest floor, and go on a search to discover another suitable tree where enough fruit was growing to keep us going, a tree from which I could climb across into others just like it, where the leaves were broad and large enough to collect water, and most importantly of all, where I could find a promising nest site with enough foliage around to hide us from any prying eyes on the ground. But I was still reluctant to make the move, to take the risk.
As it turned out it was something else altogether that finally persuaded me that we had to move on. One afternoon in the heat of the day, as we all lay resting in the sleeping nest, I heard the sound of rustling from somewhere high above us. I thought little of it, but the more it went on, the more the little orang-utans became alarmed. They kept squeaking, and darting frantic looks upwards. To begin with I couldn’t see what it was they were getting so agitated about.
Then I saw it, the dark shape of a large orang-utan, moving stealthily through the canopy. He was sitting there studying us now, scratching his neck, yawning, his eyes never leaving us. It was obvious he had no intention of going away. He’d come to stay. I didn’t have the impression he was annoyed with us, and certainly not angry. He wasn’t displaying or shaking the branches at us, but he wouldn’t leave us alone, and the little orang-utans were working themselves up into a frenzy of anxiety. It occurred to me after a while that the orang-utan up there was telling us in his own way that this was his tree, that we should move on, and that if we didn’t, then he might turn nasty. I realised by now that the only way I could calm the little orang-utans down was to move, and move now. But even after I’d made up my mind, I spent just a few moments sitting in the nest, listening out for any telltale alarm calls from the jungle, before finally deciding it was safe to climb down.
Once back down on the forest floor, all three of the orang-utans clung to me more tightly than ever, terrified, I think, that the orang-utan might be following us. I didn’t see him or hear him again, and in fact I soon forgot about him altogether. But they didn’t. I talked to them softly, hummed my songs to them – I’d found they liked the Chelsea song best – and the further we walked the more I could feel them relaxing. I was becoming less worried myself too, about being caught on the ground by the hunters and their hounds. I wasn’t looking any more for a new tree to climb into. I was thinking of something else entirely.
It was the first stream we came upon that put the idea into my head, the same idea I’d had a long time ago when I’d been with Oona: that if I followed a stream, then it must lead me to a river, and I could follow any river to the sea. And maybe, maybe, there was just a chance that Mum might be there, that she might have survived, might still be alive. I thought I had put all that out of my head a long time ago, but I found the hope was still there. It was possible. She could be looking for me right now. I couldn’t stay in this jungle and hide for ever, hoping that Oona would come and find us. I had to get out, I had to try to find Mum. I would stick close to the stream and go wherever it led me. I would find a tree where we could lie up each night, feed as we went, just keep going.
It was then, as we were walking along the banks of the stream, that I noticed the little orang-utans seemed rather nervous of the water. To begin with, they wouldn’t go anywhere near it. But they didn’t much like being left on the bank either. The more they saw me enjoying it though, drinking it, swimming in it, washing in it, the closer they dared to come to the water’s edge. Charlie was the first to dip her finger in, then to try to drink from it. Then all three of them were doing it, nervously still, but doing it all the same. But however much I tried to encourage them and tempt them in, they drew the line at following me into the water to swim.
As we travelled on day after day, I never ceased to be surprised at how quick they were to imitate me, how quick to learn, even when it came to walking. Although they would generally go about on all fours when they were walking or running, they would sometimes now get up on two legs, especially if they were close to me. Charlie in particular seemed to prefer it, and would often walk upright alongside me, holding my hand.
I had only to throw a stick, and one of them would pick up another stick and do the same, and then like as not they would all join in. Whatever I did they liked to be doing too, except swimming. When the time came each evening to find a tree for the night, they would help me make a sleeping nest. They’d be folding in the twigs and branches, weaving them into a solid base, then pressing down fresh leaves for bedding. They were clever with it too, working things out for themselves, finding their own way of doing whatever I was doing. Branches I could not hope to bend, they managed with ease, and they seemed to know instinctively what branch was needed and where. There was such power in their arms and shoulders, and in their fingers too.
The longer we were together on our journey down the stream, the more I came to wonder at just how similar we were. The orang-utans seemed to me to be capable of so many of our emotions and feelings: affection, jealousy, fear, pain, anger, sympathy, empathy, joy and sorrow. I saw that they learned just as we learn, by example, and by trial and error. And like small children they loved the fun of play. It was when we all four played together, hiding games, ambushing, chasing, wrestling with one another, that I became aware of just how much they trusted me now, how much they saw me as one of them. As far as they were concerned I was their mother. As far as I was concerned, they were my children.
But what I truly loved about these creatures was how unhuman they were. They seemed quite incapable of any kind of calculated violence or cruelty, such as I had witnessed in Mister Anthony’s camp. These were peaceful creatures, generous-hearted. Yes, I had known people like them – Kaya for one, my own family, and my friends back home too. But the more I thought about it, and I thought about it a lot, the more I was coming to believe that deliberate cruelty was to be found only in hu
mankind, men like Mister Anthony who killed for greed and pleasure, men who destroyed the world about them.
Whenever we’d found the right tree and settled in for the night, we would very soon discover we had inquisitive visitors from all around the forest. The first to come were usually the gibbons, swooping and swinging down through the canopy above to check us out. They would stay for a while, howling and hooting at us, showing off their astounding athletic versatility. When they’d finished a performance, they would sit around for a while watching us, but sooner or later they would get bored and leave. I never wanted them to. I could have watched them for ever. Their acrobatics were amazing, flowing, graceful, balletic, so effortless it seemed to me, that at times they were actually flying.
With the gibbons gone, we were often investigated by whole families of long-tailed lemurs. And redbottomed monkeys with flashing eyes would approach us through the trees and watch us, but they never came too close. All of these visitors were nervous enough to keep their distance. They were just curious. The young orang-utans showed little interest in them. They kept their eye on them, but they didn’t seem at all fearful.
It was only when that same orang-utan appeared one morning in the canopy above our sleeping nest, rummaging around as if he meant us to notice him, that they became at all alarmed.
The moment I saw him, I had no doubt it was the same orang-utan who had bothered us before, and the uncomfortable truth was that if it was him, then like as not, he was following us. And only then, as this realisation sank in, did it occur to me that this might even be the same orang-utan who had shadowed Oona and me through the jungle all that time ago. He didn’t scare me, but as the days passed and he was still up there, still following us, it did unsettle me.
The little orang-utans, on the other hand, seemed to get used to having him around, and ignored him almost completely. He was so often with us – more often than not now – that we all began to think of him as a travelling companion, though he wasn’t very companionable as such. I gave him a name – the others had names, so I thought I should. I thought of calling him Big Mac, after my old head teacher – but that didn’t seem fair on the orang-utan. In the end I couldn’t think of a proper name, not one that suited him anyway, so I called him ‘Other One’. I’d call up to him sometimes, and wave. “Morning Other One,” I’d say. I’d only get a long dark look in reply, of course. He was good at long dark looks. Then after several days with us, he just wasn’t there any more. I missed him. I think the little orang-utans did too.
I was beginning to find the long days trekking along the stream more than a little disheartening. Other streams did join it, and it joined other streams, but it never became the river I was looking for, the one that would take me to the sea, and back to Mum. And that was another thing I wasn’t coping with well at all. In my mind’s eye I kept seeing that great green wave coming in, and the devastation it brought with it, and I realised more and more that I was hoping for the impossible. I would follow the stream, I would try to get to the sea, I would keep going, but I knew in my heart of hearts that it was just kidding myself in my desperation to believe that Mum could have survived. I tried, as I’d tried before, to put that hope out of my mind once and for all. I had to try to concentrate all my energies on the little orang-utans, on finding us food, on keeping safe, keeping strong.
Instead, I turned to the only real hope I had left – Oona. During the day I was always too busy looking after the little orang-utans to think of her that much. But every night now as I lay listening to the forest around me, I’d make a point of closing my eyes and thinking of her. I’d wonder where she was and what might have become of her, how long it would be till I saw her again.
I had no idea how she was ever going to be able to find me in the immensity of this jungle. But I told myself she would, that she was out there somewhere, that she was alive. We were living under the same stars, the same moon, listening to the same din of the jungle. Every night I tried to fill my heart with fresh hope, hope that she was still looking for me, that one way or another our paths would cross. Another reason then to follow the stream, I thought. She needed water, she loved water. If I hoped hard enough, I thought, then it might happen, it might. Keep believing – every night, it was the last thing I told myself – just keep believing. It wasn’t surprising then that she appeared in my dreams as often as she did.
So when I woke one morning and heard the trumpeting of an elephant sounding out distantly through the jungle, I thought that I must be imagining it, still in my dreams. Only when I heard it again some time later – more fully awake by now – did I begin to dare to hope that it hadn’t been a dream, that my ears might not be deceiving me. Charlie was sitting on my shoulders, grooming me, delving into my hair with her fingers, an established morning ritual by now. She stopped her grooming. She had heard it too. She climbed at once on to my lap, her eyes wide with alarm. Tonk and Bart were already gone from the nest, playing somewhere nearby, but they came scurrying back, and sat there with Charlie, all of them clutching me. Still not allowing myself to quite believe it, I waited until I heard it again. When it came this time, it was louder, closer, more urgent.
It was real!
I wasn’t imagining it. The trumpeting echoed through the forest. Gibbons and lemurs scattered screeching high into the treetops. Clouds of birds and bats rose into the air, filling the forest with their thunderous din.
The little orang-utans were becoming frantic by this time, as the trumpeting sounded out again, and again, and again. She was calling me, I was sure of it. It had to be her! It had to be Oona! But now it seemed to me as if the trumpeting was coming from further away. She was moving away from me. I had to go after her. I had to let her know I was there, that I was still alive. I was yelling out now at the top of my voice, terrified that the moment might have passed, that it was too late, that my last chance of rescue was gone for ever.
I did not hesitate any more. I was on my feet in the sleeping nest. With the little orang-utans clinging on where they could, I began the long climb down, talking to them all the way, reassuring them as best I could. “We’ve got to find her,” I told them. “She won’t hurt you, I promise. Just hang on.” And hang on they did, like limpets, their sharp little nails digging into me, as I shinned down the tree to the forest floor. Leaving the stream behind us, I set off through the jungle as fast as my legs could carry me, in the direction of Oona’s last trumpeting call, stopping every now and then to call for her, to listen for her.
But all too soon, with no new trumpeting call to guide me, I lost any sense of the direction I should be going. I found a track and followed it through the forest, hoping and praying she might have found the same track and be following it too. Suddenly it occurred to me that the hunters and their dogs followed tracks, maybe this track, that I could just as easily be walking towards them, as towards Oona – or away from her come to that. But even as I was thinking all this, I dismissed it as unlikely. I hadn’t heard or seen anything of the hunters in a long time now. They must surely have given up the chase by now and gone back to Mister Anthony’s mine. There was a risk, though, and I knew it. But I had no choice. If I was to find Oona, I had to take the risk. I had to go on looking for her, go on calling for her. So, time and again I stopped, cupped my hands to my mouth, and shouted out as loud as I could, “Oona! Oona! Oona!”
It was loud enough to upset a few starlings and doves and to send them fluttering skywards, and to flush a pair of squawking peacocks out of the undergrowth. But I could tell that my voice was not carrying, not far enough anyway. The jungle was simply soaking it up, stifling the echoes. Even so, I never gave up trying. Every time I called her, I’d stand there and listen, waiting for a response, listening for it, longing for it. But none came.
The little orang-utans clearly hated it whenever I stopped to shout for her. They kept hiding their heads against me, clinging to me and to one another. I think they must have thought I was angry with them. I stroked them, put
my arms round them and hugged them. “It’s all right,” I told them. “It’s all right. Only once more, I promise you. I’ll call her just once more.”
Ahead of us now I saw there was a great mound of grey rock rearing up through the trees from the jungle floor, a miniature mountain shaped a bit like a giant ant hill. That was the place to do it, I thought. If I could manage to climb to the top of it, then maybe my voice might carry further. I knew it was going to be a difficult climb. And it was too. Handholds and footholds were difficult to find, the rock face wet and treacherous, and all the time Charlie was hanging tight round my neck, half throttling me. Somehow I made it. Standing at the top I took a deep breath, and tried again, for the last time. “Oona! Oona! Oona!” Around and around I turned, sending my call out into the jungle in all directions. I did not stop until my throat was raw, until I could shout no longer. There was no answer except for the rasping of some nearby frogs that I must have disturbed. Once they’d begun, others answered until the whole jungle was loud with frogs.
I sat down on the rock in deep despair. I did not doubt for one moment that it had been Oona out there, that she had been searching for me, calling for me, and that she had now wandered away out of earshot. We had been so near to one another, yet so far. I put my head in my hands and cried. Almost at once little fingers were prising away my fingers. Charlie was looking up at me, reaching out and touching my mouth. Her eyes were telling me that she didn’t like to see me sad, that I had her, that I wasn’t alone.
“I’ll be fine, Charlie,” I said, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand, and I knew I had to be too, that I mustn’t give in to despair. I had to be fine, I would make myself be fine. “You’ve got to chill, Will.” I said it out loud. “That’s what Dad used to say, Charlie. You’ve got to chill, Will. Where there’s a Will there’s a way – that was another one of his jokes. He was full of jokes, my dad.” But no words, not even those could lift my spirits. I closed my eyes to stop the tears coming again, and they would have come too, had Charlie not insisted on opening my eyelids too. I was thinking that Charlie, just like Oona, spoke with her eyes. She was telling me to cheer up. So I did. I smiled back at her, and I could see that made her happy again.