The Survival Game by Tim Wynne-Jones

days.”
    Burl pulled the plastic package from the bag. The Wobbler gleamed gold.
    â€œThanks,” he said. It seemed a lame thing to say. But then he hadn’t spoken much lately. “Was the rod Mr. Gow’s idea?”
    She looked at him inquisitively, looked at the N.O.G. on his shirt. He felt his hand floating up to cover the monogram.
    â€œMr. Gow? Is that what you call him?”
    Burl didn’t quite like the look on her face. He didn’t answer.
    â€œYeah. Yeah,” said Bea, good-natured again. “It was his idea.”
    â€œCan I see that paper?” Burl asked. Bea handed him the invoice. Ghost Lake. He had not known this place had a name until then. The Old Starlight Claim. That must be the prospector the Maestro had mentioned. But these things did not claim his complete attention. “Burl”, it read. Not “Burl Crow”, as he had feared. By now there might be a search party out looking for him. That is if anybody had declared him missing.
    He glanced at Bea. She was helping herself to a good long look at him. He wondered if she knew who he was.
    â€œAnything wrong?” asked Bea.
    â€œNo,” said Burl. Then, with a shock, he noticed the price of the flight, over three hundred dollars. The invoice was stamped Paid.
    Bea was busy unhitching the Beaver from its mooring.
    There was one other thing on Burl’s mind.
    â€œWhat does it mean, ‘Round Trip’?”
    Bea leaned on one of the wing struts. “Well, Burl. As pretty a spot as you got here, I hadn’t planned on staying. So you see, it’s a round trip you pay for.”
    Burl made one last inspection of the invoice and then handed it back.
    â€œYou can send anything back you want. The trip’s paid for. Anything up to twelve hundred pounds. Yourself included.”
    There was nothing Burl wanted to send back.
    â€œYou sure now?” she said.
    â€œNothing,” he said. “Thank you.”
    She looked out at the lake again, my-my-mying quietly to herself. “You got yourself one honey of a retreat here.” There was a directness to the statement that annoyed Burl, though he couldn’t say why. She was right.
    â€œYou known him long?” she asked.
    Burl was on his guard.
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œHe said he had a young sentinel and custodian – those were the words he used – watching over things for him ’til he could get up again. Did he hire you?”
    Again Burl didn’t answer.
    â€œNo,” said Bea. “Somehow I didn’t think so.” She gave him one more penetrating inspection, then put on her shades. “Well, we’ll be seeing you again, Burl, I imagine.”
    â€œYes,” he said. “Thanks again for the stuff.”
    â€œDon’t thank me.”
    She unhitched the plane and pushed it back into the water. The waves pushed at the Beaver, rocking it like a rocking horse. Bea climbed back on board. Burl retreated a little up the beach. Bea flipped down her window, waved.
    â€œYou take care now,” she said, her face up near the tiny opening.
    Burl nodded. Then he waded out so he could see her just as she was closing the window.
    â€œTell Mr. Gow thank you, for me,” he said.
    She smiled. “I’ll be sure to send Mr. Gow your regards.”
    Then the silence of Ghost Lake was shattered for the second time in less than an hour as the plane roared off.
    Burdened with both gratitude and curiosity, Burl began to heft the groceries up to the cabin. There was easily a month’s worth of supplies.

14 THE CABIN ON THE CLIFF
    He ate, slept, fished, explored, flattened cans, played on the piano, counted shooting stars, tried reading the Bible, unearthed a flint arrowhead, conducted the Northern Lights, watched the poplars turn yellow, built a raft out of planks and plywood, wrote his name in frost on the railing of the deck, tried to remember what his father looked like, his mother,