Cristelle Comby - Alone Together

Anne-Marie must have been thinking along the same lines, as she hadn’t moved away from me. Close as we were, I could hear her laboured breathing in the dark.

“It’s going to be ok,” I said, though I felt more than uncertain. I wasn’t sure who I was lying for: my unfortunate companion or myself.

It seemed to do the trick, though. One of her hands found my shoulder and she patted her way down my arm. Grabbing my wrist, she tugged until we both reached the back of the galley. She left me in one corner and I heard her move to the other side before sitting down.

I imitated her, patting my way around the various clothes and supplies until I found a space large enough to sit upon. Then I moved things out of the way, using what I was fairly sure was a sweater as my pillow.

Between the sounds of the storm raging outside and the cold, wet wind that seeped through the wall of blankets and suitcases, finding sleep was a lost cause. Had I been a religious man, I may have even been tempted to utter a prayer or two. But I wasn’t, so I settled for staying awake and monitoring the situation, laying in the dark in the hopes of making it to the morning.

Though the rain had stopped sometime before we woke up, clouds hung low in the sky. They were charged and dark, seemingly ready to open the floodgates on us again.

Jumping out of the cabin’s jagged mouth, I landed in rain-soaked earth and groaned as my trainers sunk in the mud. A second later, a large smile bloomed on my face. Yesterday, I’d been concerned that our water bottles were running low. Now, I realised we’d found our much-needed fresh water source. It was all around us; on every tree leaf, in every muddy pool. What originally had been a major problem would become a life-saving solution in no time.

With two empty water bottles, Killian and I went from leaf to leaf to collect the droplets that had gathered upon them. It was slow-going but felt a little like morning meditation in a weird poetic way. Once our bottles were full, we gulped them down heartily, before repeating the process. We did this about four times.

Compared to what had happened both yesterday and last night, the entire process was a delightful way to start our morning. Killian seemed to be enjoying the peace. Or at least accepting it. Well, maybe tolerating it, for lack of a better term. Regardless, he seemed to be going with the flow. Our movements became like a dance through the forest. We waltzed from tree to tree, mindful of where the other was, united in a common goal. And, like the water we harvested, we flowed from leaf to leaf.

As we carried on, a thought occurred to me that we needed to set up receptacles to collect some more of this water the next time it rained. As help clearly wasn’t coming, we couldn’t afford to waste more potential resources. Optimistic though I could be, even I didn’t see us fishing out a third suitcase any time soon.

As we sat down on the beach for a Kitkat breakfast, a steady wind kept blowing at us, coming from the waterfront. There was little doubt that the warm temperatures wouldn’t hold for long. No matter where exactly we were, it was farther north than I’d ever been. I bet that autumns and winters here could give Switzerland’s capricious weather a run for its money. Seeing as we were in the Arctic Circle, we had to be ready for when winter came. That meant our best chance at surviving it would be to keep warm and sustain ourselves through it.

That also meant we couldn’t keep sleeping outside or cramped up in the tail. No, if we wanted to survive more dire weather, what we needed was a proper shelter. And no-one but us was around to build it. Other than the very fundamental basics—roof, floor, four walls—I knew absolutely nothing about architecture. While I had my doubts that Killian knew more than I did, it didn’t hurt to hope… or ask.

After breakfast, I motioned for Killian to follow me to the wet sand. Once there, I drew my best approximation of a rudimentary shack. He was quick to take the branch from me and to sketch his version of a proper cabin. So he had been thinking about it too. Granted, his was much more… exquisite. But it didn’t look very doable with what resources—or lack thereof—we’d accumulated.

What we needed out of any shelter was simple functionality. We didn’t need it to be luxurious, just safe, dry and warm. I hoped Killian would understand and respect that, rather than let his raging emotions be offended in any way by it.

But before we went into architect mode, we had to find a place to build it on. I drew what we’d come to know as the pictogram for “island” in the sand—an undefined oval-ish shape surrounded by horizontal wavy lines—before placing a question mark in the middle. It had seemed simple and direct enough to convey the question.

Seeming to get my message, Killian stood up and started looking around. Having given some thought to this myself, I decided that had to be dictated by the terrain. No matter what kind of lodging we were going to build, we’d have to dig and plant some support beams if we wanted it to last. The softer the ground, the easier that task was going to be. Then again, the softer the ground, the flimsier those beams would be. Balance was essential. Getting that notion through to my partner wasn’t something I could draw with stick figures. So, pantomime it was.

I reached for the hem of his sweater to get his attention. He reacted to this in an extreme way, as always. He acted like he was wondering why I was even touching him, never mind grabbing him so forcefully. But since I’d gotten his attention, I pointed at the ground beneath my feet before miming shovelling. Killian’s eyebrows drew closer together as he watched me with an uncomprehending face. How could he not understand what I was doing? What else could he have thought I was…?

I moved to the beginning of the forest, pointed at the ground, and repeated the action. This time I made the shovelling motion seem more difficult and even stopped mid-swing to wipe imaginary sweat from my brow. Damn, but this was starting to feel like a game of charades.

As I jogged back to Killian, I could see him trying to make sense of my actions. His face had this lost-in-thought quality to it, as opposed to his typical irritated expression. But was he trying to understand my message or was he working on the solution already? While I truly hoped for the latter, it could have equally been either or none, knowing him.

He moved back to the spot where I’d made my second mime-session, bending down to inspect the soil. Then he stood up and walked further into the woods. Ten steps into the forest, he did the same thing before going another ten steps further. Then he came back to where I’d been waiting.

He motioned to the ground again, and his gesture had a finite quality to it. “There,” it seemed to say as if he’d made up his mind, matter-of-factly.

I gave him my version of a puzzled look. He bent down to grab a reluctant fistful of dirt, bringing it up for me to inspect. On his wrinkled palm, I discovered a mix of dirt and sand that only existed in this very spot, right where the forest ended and the beach started. A surface that was neither too hard to dig into, nor too loose to support the beams… perfect balance.

This length of mixed soil, where green grass grew amidst the golden grains of sand, ran all along the beach, maybe two or three metres wide at best. Nothing big, but wide enough to hold the small shelter that we aspired to create.

There was one glaring drawback to this unprotected location. This far outside the forest, the wind would hit us pretty strongly. But at least the view here would be nice , another part of my brain supplied. Keeping with that train of thought, I wondered if we couldn’t build it closer to the mountain. Such a tall structure might offer us some shelter from the elements.