Chapter 12: Stones That Boil
1526 Words
The first problem with boiling water was that they had no pot.
The second problem was that everyone kept looking at Idris as if the lack of a pot was a personal failure.
He crouched beside the fire and stared at the small pile of wreckage they had dragged into the shade. Broken plastic. A cracked tray. Seat belt buckles. A twisted strip of aluminium. Two empty bottles, one with mud-coloured stream water inside. A handbag mirror. One metal drinks flask with a dented lid that refused to open.
Owen sat nearby, pale and sweating, his injured arm wrapped against his chest. "Could we just hold the bottle over the fire?"
"Plastic melts," Rosa said before Idris could answer.
Owen nodded. "Right. I knew that. I was testing morale."
No one laughed properly, but the corner of Tom's mouth twitched.
Small mercy.
Idris picked up the metal flask again. It had washed up sealed, its side buckled inward, the lid jammed at an angle. He wedged it between his knees and twisted until pain sparked in his ribs.
Nothing.
"Give it here," Tom said.
He took it, set his jaw and tried with both hands. The lid shifted a hair, then stuck.
Gareth watched from a fallen palm trunk. "Brilliant. We survive the shipwreck and lose to a flask."
"Help or keep quiet," Maya said without looking up from Peter.
Gareth gave her a long look, then stood. "Fine. Let me."
Tom hesitated, then passed it over.
Gareth gripped the lid with a strip of wet cloth for traction. His forearms bunched. For a second nothing happened. Then the lid gave with a sharp c***k.
A bitter smell rose from inside.
Gareth looked triumphant for half a breath. "There."
Idris took the flask, sniffed and grimaced. "Coffee. Old coffee."
"Rinse it," Maya said. "We are not in a position to be fussy."
They rinsed it with a little of the stream water, wasting more than Idris liked but less than sickness would cost them. The flask held only enough for a few people. It would not solve the camp's thirst.
"We need another method," he said.
He looked at the stones near the edge of the fire.
Dark. Smooth. Dense enough, perhaps.
Maya followed his gaze. "Hot stones?"
"If we can heat clean stones and drop them into a container of water, they can bring it to a boil."
"What container?"
Idris turned towards the wreckage pile. "Suitcase shell. The hard one."
Rosa frowned. "Will it melt?"
"Maybe. If the stones touch the side too long. We line it with wet cloth and keep the stones moving. Or we use the metal tray if we can bend the cracks closed enough."
Maya stared at him. "That sounds horribly improvised."
"It is."
"Good. As long as we are being honest."
They worked because the alternative was waiting to die.
Tom and Gareth collected stones from higher on the beach, away from the saltwater wash. Idris rejected the pale, porous ones and kept the darker, heavier stones that looked less likely to split in the fire.
"Less likely?" Owen said.
"Some stones can explode when heated if there is water trapped inside," Idris said.
Owen stared at the fire. "You were not going to mention that casually?"
"I just did."
"I preferred ignorance."
Rosa made the list on the blank back pages of the ruined paperback, using a pen that worked only when she shook it hard. Her handwriting was neat at first, then less so as sweat dripped onto the page. She listed everything. Even the dead lighter. Even keys. Even broken glass.
"Glass can cut," Idris said when Gareth muttered.
"So can people," Gareth replied.
Maya's eyes lifted.
Idris pretended not to hear it.
They rinsed the hard suitcase shell and set it in a hollow of sand. Idris lined it with the cleanest cloth they had, though clean meant only less filthy than the rest. Tom filled it with stream water from the bottle. The water looked clearer now that the mud had settled at the bottom, but clear did not mean safe.
Maya stood beside him, arms folded, watching every step with a medical suspicion he found oddly reassuring.
"How long does it need to boil?" she asked.
"At least a minute at a rolling boil. Longer would be safer if we were high in the mountains, but we are not."
"You sound like you know."
"I know the sentence. We will see whether I know the practice."
She looked at him then, not smiling but close. "You are very good at making confidence sound like a warning label."
"It saves disappointment."
"Does it?"
He had no answer to that.
The stones blackened in the fire. Heat pushed against Idris's face until his skin prickled. He used two sticks as tongs and rolled the first stone from the coals.
"Everyone back," he said.
For once, no one argued.
He lifted the stone, carried it to the suitcase shell and lowered it into the water.
A fierce hiss rose.
Steam burst upward.
Lily gasped.
The stone sank against the cloth, and Idris nudged it with the stick so it did not rest too long in one place.
"Another," Maya said.
Tom brought the second. Gareth brought the third, his face set in concentration despite himself. The water shivered, steamed and began to move.
Not boiling yet.
The sun burned over them. The fire smoked. Idris's ribs ached every time he bent. His bare foot throbbed where hot sand had blistered the skin.
Still they worked.
Stone after stone. Heat carried from flame to water. Steam rising into faces that leaned closer despite fear.
Then the first bubbles broke the surface.
Small.
Then more.
The water rolled.
A sound moved through the group, almost the same soft release that had come when the fire first caught.
Owen whispered, "That is beautiful."
"It is ugly water in a suitcase," Rosa said.
"Still beautiful."
Idris counted under his breath. Slow. Careful. The boil held, then faded when the stones cooled. They added more. Held it again.
When he finally nodded, Maya covered the shell with another cloth and warned everyone not to touch.
"It has to cool," she said.
Gareth stared at the steaming water as if betrayed. "How long?"
"Long enough not to burn your throat," she snapped.
He looked ready to answer, but Lily spoke first.
"Can Peter have some?"
That broke something in the air.
Maya's face softened. "When it is cool enough, yes."
The child nodded solemnly.
Idris looked away because tenderness, at that moment, hurt more than the wounds.
By late afternoon they had boiled enough for each survivor to drink a little. Not enough to satisfy. Enough to keep the worst away. They used the metal flask, the juice bottle and the bottom of a cut plastic container to distribute it in turns.
No one drank deeply.
No one dared.
Even Gareth obeyed, though he glared at Idris over the rim.
Peter swallowed with Maya's help. His feverish eyes opened and fixed on her.
"Hurts," he whispered.
"I know," she said.
"Am I dying?"
Maya did not answer quickly.
Idris respected her for that and feared the answer at the same time.
"Not this minute," she said at last. "So you stay with me."
Peter's eyes drifted shut.
The sun began to lower.
Shadows stretched from the palms. The jungle at the edge of the beach darkened by degrees, not black yet, but deepening into a green that no longer looked like shade. It looked like a mouth.
Idris added wood to the fire.
Tom crouched beside him. "Do we have enough to keep it going all night?"
Idris looked at the pile.
"No."
Tom swallowed. "Right."
"We keep it smaller until dark. Feed it properly when we need the light."
From the tree line came a rustle.
Everyone heard it.
Not the long growl from earlier. Something lighter. Feet through leaves. Then silence.
Gareth stood very still.
Owen whispered, "Most animals do not like fire, yes?"
Idris took one of the burning sticks and placed it at the edge of the fire, ready to lift.
"Most," he said.
Maya looked towards the darkening jungle, then at the steaming water, the dying man and the thin circle of survivors gathered around flame.
"Then let us hope this island believes in most."
No one laughed.
Idris moved the boiled water into the shade and covered it with cloth, then made Rosa write another note in the ledger: cooled boiled water only. It looked ridiculous, writing instructions for water in a book swollen by the sea, but already he could feel how memory frayed under fear. By evening, someone would swear a thing had not been said. By tomorrow, thirst would edit what they had agreed.
Rules on paper were weak.
Still, weak was better than nothing.
The first night was coming.
When the first cooled cup reached Helen, she held it in both hands and whispered a name Idris did not know. Perhaps her sister's. Perhaps a prayer. He looked away and let her have the privacy of being grateful without an audience.
- Writer
