alive.
She thought they had to bury Donny. Uncle disagreed. He wanted to cover Donny in more green branches, as if he was sleeping. They argued about it, and at last they agreed to cover Donny in green branches, with the best presents they could spare him (the last tin of peaches, his torch, some flowers), and then bury the branches under a cairn of stones. . . . Tay was dimly aware that she was making believe that Uncle talked to her and argued with her, but it didn’t matter if she was pretending because it was
true
that Uncle cared. He didn’t care like an animal, he cared like a person. The hardest part was when they had to cover Donny’s face and she knew that she would never, never see him again. But they did it, and they made the cairn. It took a long time, but they did it well.
Tay cried one last time, and then they set out together, the orangutan with his immense strength and Tay with her unquenchable energy, for the river crossing and whatever lay beyond.
They had to think of some way to cross the mighty Waruk River. The raft ferry that had carried vehicles at Aru Batur was grounded in the mud, tipped at a crazy angle. There were other rafts, motorboats and a few dugout canoes pulled up along the waterfront. Most of them, when you looked closely, had been put out of action in some way. Planks had been staved in, fiberglass had been smashed, the outboard motors had been wrecked. The river was wide and the current was very strong. Tay paced up and down while Uncle sat and watched from the boardwalk, chin on his furry hands. “One thing we mustn’t do,” she told him. “We mustn’t lose the radiophone, because we mustn’t lose the beacon. If we capsize, we can swim . . . but then we might lose the rucksack. Oh. Can you swim, Uncle?”
Uncle gestured reassuringly.
I’ll be all right.
“Now, if Pam was here . . .” She had thought she never wanted to see Pam Taylor again, or even think of her. But she could not bear to think of Donny, or Mum and Dad, or Clint, and she must think of someone. Everything she loved had been taken away, but she must keep cheerful, for Uncle’s sake. She was the captain of this team. She had to keep up his morale.
“Pam would know what to do. You know, Uncle, she’s done some amazing things. Once she was on the coast of Vietnam, researching into the survival rate of the mangrove swamps, and she was stranded with a whole TV crew. Their support ship couldn’t reach them and tropical storms were lashing the coast, so she led the whole group through the swamps and over the mountains, and there were bandits and land mines, but she dealt with everything. There was a river that they had to cross, like this one, so she swam across it with a rope, which she tied to a tree on the other side, and then she made a harness to slide along the rope, so even the weakest TV person could be hauled across safely, and all the equipment too—”
When they’d been friends, Pam had used to tell Tay and Donny stories about her adventures as a conservation scientist. It had started when Tay was younger, so young she didn’t know what was made up and what was real. It had become very funny and silly: Pam giving herself the role of an action-movie hero and inventing ever wilder, more unlikely situations. Tay didn’t know if she was making up a new story now or if it was one she remembered. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if it was truth or fiction, so long as it made Uncle feel better. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled by grief and helplessness. In the slick ooze under the waterfront boardwalk little mudskippers hopped about. Donny used to love watching the muddy-mudskippers.
“You see, we’re going to be all right because I’m a copy of Pam Taylor,” she explained, “and she’s a remarkable person. I’m an exact copy of a remarkable person. I hated it when I saw the
Teenage Clones Are Among Us
headlines. I felt as if my life had been taken away. But now my
She thought they had to bury Donny. Uncle disagreed. He wanted to cover Donny in more green branches, as if he was sleeping. They argued about it, and at last they agreed to cover Donny in green branches, with the best presents they could spare him (the last tin of peaches, his torch, some flowers), and then bury the branches under a cairn of stones. . . . Tay was dimly aware that she was making believe that Uncle talked to her and argued with her, but it didn’t matter if she was pretending because it was
true
that Uncle cared. He didn’t care like an animal, he cared like a person. The hardest part was when they had to cover Donny’s face and she knew that she would never, never see him again. But they did it, and they made the cairn. It took a long time, but they did it well.
Tay cried one last time, and then they set out together, the orangutan with his immense strength and Tay with her unquenchable energy, for the river crossing and whatever lay beyond.
They had to think of some way to cross the mighty Waruk River. The raft ferry that had carried vehicles at Aru Batur was grounded in the mud, tipped at a crazy angle. There were other rafts, motorboats and a few dugout canoes pulled up along the waterfront. Most of them, when you looked closely, had been put out of action in some way. Planks had been staved in, fiberglass had been smashed, the outboard motors had been wrecked. The river was wide and the current was very strong. Tay paced up and down while Uncle sat and watched from the boardwalk, chin on his furry hands. “One thing we mustn’t do,” she told him. “We mustn’t lose the radiophone, because we mustn’t lose the beacon. If we capsize, we can swim . . . but then we might lose the rucksack. Oh. Can you swim, Uncle?”
Uncle gestured reassuringly.
I’ll be all right.
“Now, if Pam was here . . .” She had thought she never wanted to see Pam Taylor again, or even think of her. But she could not bear to think of Donny, or Mum and Dad, or Clint, and she must think of someone. Everything she loved had been taken away, but she must keep cheerful, for Uncle’s sake. She was the captain of this team. She had to keep up his morale.
“Pam would know what to do. You know, Uncle, she’s done some amazing things. Once she was on the coast of Vietnam, researching into the survival rate of the mangrove swamps, and she was stranded with a whole TV crew. Their support ship couldn’t reach them and tropical storms were lashing the coast, so she led the whole group through the swamps and over the mountains, and there were bandits and land mines, but she dealt with everything. There was a river that they had to cross, like this one, so she swam across it with a rope, which she tied to a tree on the other side, and then she made a harness to slide along the rope, so even the weakest TV person could be hauled across safely, and all the equipment too—”
When they’d been friends, Pam had used to tell Tay and Donny stories about her adventures as a conservation scientist. It had started when Tay was younger, so young she didn’t know what was made up and what was real. It had become very funny and silly: Pam giving herself the role of an action-movie hero and inventing ever wilder, more unlikely situations. Tay didn’t know if she was making up a new story now or if it was one she remembered. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if it was truth or fiction, so long as it made Uncle feel better. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled by grief and helplessness. In the slick ooze under the waterfront boardwalk little mudskippers hopped about. Donny used to love watching the muddy-mudskippers.
“You see, we’re going to be all right because I’m a copy of Pam Taylor,” she explained, “and she’s a remarkable person. I’m an exact copy of a remarkable person. I hated it when I saw the
Teenage Clones Are Among Us
headlines. I felt as if my life had been taken away. But now my
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