Page 32 of Wandering Wild

“If we can’t find anything else to eat, we’ll grab some of this,” he says, scraping moss from the side of a tree. “It’s pretty tasteless and won’t do much to restore our energy, but it’ll fill us up and keep any hunger pains away.”

I soon hear the trickling sound of gently flowing water, and a few steps later, the trees clear enough to reveal a shallow, bubbling stream.

For a moment, I just stand there and soak in its beauty, but then I glance up and see Zander’s pale face, his eyes haunted as he stares at the water. An image flicks across my mind, a photo that has surfaced in the media multiple times over the years showing Zander fishing in a creek like this one, beaming widely between two people—close relatives, I presume, given their features, though not his parents, who I’ve seen pictured with him at various events. All three fishing companions appeared happy and carefree, so I can’t understand the reason for the look on his face right now. But maybe that’s not where his mind is; I don’t know him well enough to make assumptions, and I try to convince myself that I don’t care enough to comfort him.

Thankfully, before I can acknowledge how much that is beginning to feel like a lie, he blinks, and his expression returns to normal once more.

“This looks nice and clear, doesn’t it?” Hawke says, opening his backpack and pulling out a stainless-steel water bottle.

“I’m guessing that’s a trick question,” I say, eyeing the stream distrustfully.

Zander nods his agreement. “Clear doesn’t mean clean.”

“Top marks to you both,” Hawke says. “You’re right—no matter how clear or clean water seems, there’s usually all kinds of bacteria and parasites living in it that can make you sick, or even kill you.” He balances on a boulder and crouches down to scoop water into his bottle. “There are different techniques we can use to filter out those nasties, but the most foolproof way is by applying heat.” He shakes his full bottle. “We’ll give this a good boil and it should be okay.”

“Should?” I repeat, wanting more assurance than that.

“Just be thankful that it’s not covered in algae and dead bugs,” Zander murmurs, causing me to shudder with revulsion.

Five minutes later, Zander, Bentley, and I have all finished slipping and sliding over the mossy rocks to fill our own bottles, and retreated to a clear spot a few feet away from the water’s edge, where Hawke has already gathered a small pile of kindling.

“There are plenty of ways to start a fire in the wild,” the survivalist says, “especially in an environment like this where it’s mostly dry and out of the wind. But since we still have some distance to cover before we make camp tonight, we’re going to cheat.” He pulls a fire steel from his pocket and holds it out to me. “Want to have a crack at it?”

I take it from him eagerly and follow his instructions to strike the flint.

Nothing happens, not even a spark.

“That was anticlimactic,” I say, frowning.

“Try again, but apply more pressure.” Hawke repositions my hands. “It’s not about speed, though that helps. It’s the pressure that’s most important.”

Concentrating, I strike again, pressing hard against the flint this time. Sparks instantly leap from the steel onto the kindling, causing me to raise my hands triumphantly and cry, “I’m the fire queen!”

“Hey, fire queen, you might want to make sure it doesn’t blow out before you get too excited,” Zander drawls.

I curse when I see he’s right, and I quickly fan the sparks until the kindling is covered in healthy flames.

“Well done,” Hawke praises, holding his palm up for a high-five, before he moves all of our water bottles into the center of the fire. “These are specially designed to withstand heat, so let’s leave them here to boil while we go find some lunch. Just stay in sight of the flames—the last thing we want is to accidentally start a forest fire.”

As hungry as I am after everything we’ve done in the last few hours, I’m still dreading what kind of food we might have to stomach, so I drag my feet as Hawke directs us to keep an eye out for worms and ants and other insects. I’m secretly grateful when we only manage to find snails and slugs, both of which are too dangerous to eat.

“Some people make the mistake of thinking wild snails are the same as escargot at a restaurant,” Hawke says, shaking his head. “They only make that mistake once.”

On that grim note, we continue our search, until Zander makes a pleased sound and says, “Look what I found,” while revealing a bunch of orange berries cupped in his hands.

I instinctively slap them to the ground. “Are youcrazy? Haven’t you readThe Hunger Games?” Remembering who I’m talking to, I amend, “Or seen the movies?”

He crosses his arms. “I did both.”

I ignore my surprise and point to the scattered berries. “Then you should know better.”

“Actually,” Hawke interjects, kneeling to retrieve the small fruits, “these areEustrephus latifolius—wombat berries—and they’re safe to eat. Nice spotting, Zander.”

A blush rises to my cheeks, and I don’t dare look in Zander’s direction.

“These, however, are even better,” Hawke goes on, moving a few steps deeper into the forest and stopping before a lush green bush full of dark pink berries. “Lilly pillies—common Indigenous bush tucker food. They’re high in nutrients, and they also have antibacterial properties, which is helpful when you don’t have any salve handy.” He pops a few in his mouth. “Mmm. We’ll save these for dessert. Butthat”—he indicates another bush, smaller and tucked away behind the lilly pilly shrub—“is something we’ll avoid all costs.”

I take a closer look, seeing green leaves, purple flowers, and a cluster of what appear to be blueberries.

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