Chapter 49 - Marooned

The jaws of the turtle opened and lunged toward me, snapping and gnashing. They locked around my chest and squeezed so hard I thought I might come apart. It wasn’t as bad as getting stabbed by the javeline spear, but it was damn close.

Of course, I couldn’t die unless I was the last member of the tribe. Instead, a random goblin would take the hit for me. I beat at the turtle’s head as it tried to take another chunk out of me. This time, it forced me under the water and against the muddy bottom. I kicked and punched, unable to breath. Its sharp jaws dug into my center, trying to get purchase.

God, the thing was strong. It felt like pushing against a brick wall. Leading from the rear, I sometimes forgot just how weak goblins were as individuals. The turtle dragged me across the bottom. My lungs burned. Would drowning just start ticking down goblins?

I didn’t have to find out as the turtle whipped its head around and tossed me over its shell. I cartwheeled through the air, splashing back down into the bog water. Ol’ boy was probably frustrated with the fact that I wasn’t dead already, but it planned to rectify that situation presently. I got my bearings as quick as I could and reached down to my hide belt. The turtle came back around, swimming just under the surface. This time, when its head broke the surface and made to chomp me again, I stuffed a popper in its mouth instead.

Startled by the audacity, the turtle reeled back and chomped down. I barely managed to get my fingers out of the way before its jaws snapped shut, as if the popper were a gumball. A bright flash shone through its nose and eyes, along with a gout of flame from his nostrils that singed my fur. The thing froze, blinked, and looked at me, bewildered.

“There’s more where that came from,” I warned as I backpedaled toward the island. “Just try it again. Actually, please don’t try it again.”

Smoke billowed out the thing’s nostrils. Honestly it was a shock the popper hadn’t blown its head completely off, but I guess the turtle was made of out sterner stuff than the low-level clifford that had chomped a bomb fruit my first day on Rava. Still, it glared at me with a wary eye, probably debating if I was a morsel worth the trouble. After a tense moment in which I held another popper out and ready, its internal calculus must have fallen to the side that there were less spicy meals around. It sunk below the surface with a final glare. The ripples headed away, and I let out a breath and replaced the popper in my padded case. I only had two of them left. I’d have to make them count.

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With the turtle gone, I was able to wrestle the wreckage of the waterlogged balloon up onto the shore of what I thought was a small island but turned out to be an outcropping of a larger piece of land that led west, deeper into the bog. I dragged the wreck up higher, hoping that the croc-knockers wouldn’t go up further from the shore than I’d seen them previously. But they were clearly not our biggest fans, so they might make an exception for me.

In the grand scheme of things, I hadn’t drifted far from the tribe. 2, maybe 3 kilometers. I could even still see hints of the smoke from the main camp through the canopy. But 3 kilometers on foot to a lone goblin might as well have been another continent. Every time I’ve been isolated since setting foot on Rava, I’ve immediately been under threat. And the bog wouldn’t exactly be kind to a rescue party, either. If a rescue came for me. They would have to A) know where to find me, and B) survive the swamp themselves. We’d lost almost 10% of the tribe just trying to steal a little iron to smelt, so that didn’t seem likely. No. If anyone was going to get me out of this situation, it was me.

While I pulled off my wet cloak and hung it on a low branch to dry, I took stock of all the tools and materials I had handy. It wasn’t much, admittedly. I’d taken to carrying a hide cord belt with a few small bags on it and a hard case for a few emergency poppers. Of those, I had two left. I also had some cordage, my hooked bogging knife, and a set of ceramic precision tools. I had some dried fish and meat, as well. But, I wasn’t being digested in a monster’s stomach while my tribe slowly ticked down, so that was a plus.

From the balloon, I salvaged the lizard skin envelope, the rigging, the heating cradle, and most of the platform. The hole I’d torn in the skin looked potentially reparable. I just needed cordage small enough to thread through, and fuel (or rather, more food than I had, in order to manufacture it inside my own body). And a favorable wind. I ran a hand through my fur. And to not be a borderline helpless, 1-meter goblin.

Enough of that. That was defeatist thinking. This was a setback, but I was not going to let it define me. I would not spiral, and I would not wallow in my misfortune. That wasn’t me. I push forward. Always. And I never let anyone or anything define my limitations. I thought back to the footprints on the edge of the campsite. Something had figured out how to survive in this place, despite the carnivores, the insects, and whatever other threats lurked. Of course, they were another lurking threat. But if I was going to make a list of all the things in Rava that could kill me, I’d die of old age before I finished.

It was time to go to work.

After a quick snack.

And maybe a nap.