Isle of Woman (Geodyssey) Page 9

  It was a heaving mass of women and children. The women in the center had grabbed the children, and the women around the edges had grabbed the center women, and the mass of them was anchored within the cabin. They were bedraggled, but all there.

  “Mommy!” It was Crystal.

  Ember reached out for her, and pulled her from the mass. Then every child was going for its mother, and the mass disintegrated. There at the bottom was Scorch, anchored by two older children, with another woman’s child in his arms. He looked up at Ember, surprised. “Well, I started with ours,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. He handed the child up to her mother, who seemed to have gotten similarly mixed up.

  A quick survey established that all the children had found their mothers except one. A two-year-old boy was gazing blankly around, confused and shivering from the recent soaking. Suddenly Ember knew who had been lost to the storm.

  “Crystal, we must share,” she murmured. Then she strode across to pick up the little boy. “You will be with me, for now,” she told him. Then she looked for his father.

  She found the man untying the paddles. He didn’t know. How could she tell him, while holding the boy?

  She started to turn away, to find someone else to tell him privately. But the boy recognized him, and cried out. Ember had to go to him. “I will hold him, for now,” she said, giving him a straight stare.

  The man’s expression changed from recognition to surprise, and then to a neutral mask. He left the paddles and went to the cabin. Ember knew what he would learn there: the worst. All she could do was shield his child from the horror of it, for awhile.

  But there was more horror coming. People were pointing out to sea. There was no land in sight. In the distance was one of the other rafts—and a tangle of floating debris.

  The third raft had been torn apart. Only the unsinkable bamboo poles remained, and some floating fruits. No people.

  The sixth day was bright, and the paddling was easy. But the gloom of the loss of twenty-one people was as bad as the gloom of continued isolation. Had they merely been the first to go? No children and only one young woman had been lost, but the sacrifice of the strength of men and wisdom of seniors was a crippling blow to the People.

  Ember gave out the last of the stored fruit to those who were paddling. The children were whining with hunger, but only the paddlers could get them all to food and safety. If they lost their ability to move, they would all die of hunger. At least now they had some fresh water; several men had been able to hang on while holding water bags, and the deluge had filled them.

  The day was waning. Ember looked out toward the east, hoping to see what she knew she would not. She saw others doing the same. Now it was not bright hope, but desperation; if there was nothing but more sea out there, they were doomed.

  “Maybe I can see it,” Crystal said.

  Why disillusion the child? “Maybe you can,” Ember agreed. “Let me hold you high so you can look.” She heaved her daughter up until she was sitting on Ember’s head, then precariously standing on her shoulders.

  “Oooo, I see it, I see it!” the child cried.

  “What do you see,” Ember asked, suspecting that this was a game. “A cloud?”

  “A little bit of land,” Crystal said. “I think.”

  Was it possible? Ember doubted it. “Can you point to it? So someone else can see it?”

  “Yes. Over there.” The child pointed slightly north of east.

  It might be just something floating on the water. But Ember followed up, just in case. “Crystal says she sees something,” she reported to the others. “In that direction.” She pointed.

  In a moment five people were peering into the dusk. “I see a seabird,” one said. “Where does it roost?”

  “I think there is something there,” another said. “Maybe an outcropping of rock.”

  “With the waves splashing over it,” Crystal agreed.

  “Yes.” The man turned to Ember. “Understand—I can not be sure. But it could be. If only there were more light!”

  “It could be a barren isle,” another man said.

  “But let’s go for it,” the first said.

  The paddlers oriented on it and worked more vigorously. They were driven by hope, knowing that the morning would most likely show it to be illusion.

  But as the night progressed, there came the sound of it: the crashing of surf. There was something there. But was it what they needed?

  Ember leaned back against the wall of the cabin, one arm around Crystal, the other around the little boy, who still did not realize why his mother wasn’t with him. The more attention he got elsewhere, the less traumatic it would be. The boy’s father was staying clear because he knew his own grief would give it away. So he was rowing, trying to wear out his awareness along with his body. Ember, having come so close to losing her own mate, and also so close to having him lose her, understood.

  “That is land!” a voice exclaimed. “Real land! I can smell it!”

  Or had she dreamed it? Ember went back to sleep.

  But in the morning it was true. The dawn came over a shore extending north and south as far as anyone could see. There were trees growing thickly on it, and birds flying above them, and hills beyond them. It was an island large enough to support their population.

  Ember’s tight internal reservations let go, and she wept. She was not the only one to do so.

  It turned out to be a huge land, larger than the island they had left behind. There were creatures unlike any seen before. Some were large running birds, while others were giant hopping rabbits. A hunting party even encountered a monster standing twice the height of a man, with a massive tail and huge front claws, and a head with a tremendous nose that flexed like the body of a snake. They wasted no time in killing it, hurling a dozen spears into it before it twitched into stillness. The meat had an odd taste, but was solid.

  Truly, they had found the promised land.

  Indeed, it was more than an island they found, perhaps 40,000 years ago. It was what is known as the Sahul Shelf, a land bridge linking Australia and New Guinea. They had crossed about a hundred miles from Tanimbar, an island at the end of the long chain extending three thousand miles south and east from Asia, to reach land near the present Aru Islands, then part of the new continent. From there it was easy, and they quickly spread across it and went on to the islands of the south Pacific. Other waves came, and their descendants became what are known as the Australian aborigines. They flourished until the recolonization of the region by Europeans in relatively modern times.

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  NEANDERTAL

  Thirty-five thousand years ago, having advanced through much of the rest of the world, mankind was finally conquering Europe. This was forbidding territory, because of its mountainous terrain and savagely cold climate. But the population was expanding, and it was only natural to migrate into the remaining wilderness. As it happened, this particular region was still occupied by Neandertal (Neanderthal) man, and there were occasional encounters between the two cultures. How did modern humans fare against these brutes who had brains as large and bodies which were considerably more powerful? Mankind prevailed, but perhaps not in the fashion once believed. This sequence takes place in what is now southern France.

  BLAZE pulled his hood down across the mark on his forehead, watching his breath fog. It was cold in the mountains, and winter was coming. They would need a big supply of dry wood for the main hearth. The other men of the tribe were busy hunting, so Blaze went out alone to prospect for suitable wood.

  This was rugged country. There were no level sections; the slopes were continuous, leading up toward bare crags and down toward winding valleys. In between it was mostly forested. There had been plentiful deadwood, but in the course of the past few years this had been collected and burned. Now it was necessary to range farther, seeking a region where the dropped branches and fallen trees had not already been cleaned out. When he found enough woo
d, he would tell the others, and a party would be organized to haul it into the village.

  Blaze thought about his mate, Bunny, who was still lovely in his eyes after eight years and three surviving children. She was now gravid with the fourth, and working at weaving another blanket to keep it warm. The first baby had died, but the second had survived and was now five years old. They had named him Stone, to avoid what had turned out to be the bad magic of the first name, Fire. It seemed that Blaze’s son was not fated to be a fire tender. But there was a good future in the crafting of stone, so that would do. The other two were girls, already taking after their mother, being pretty, coquettish, and talkative. He had only one regret about the relationship, and that was that she wasn’t his first love. It wasn’t Bunny’s fault that he had longed for what could not be. That she was not, quite, his perfect woman.

  A stone turned under his foot. Blaze, foolishly lost in his thoughts, misstepped and took a plunge down into a ravine. His arms flailed ineffectively, and he struck the ground, bounced, and slid down into a dry riverbed. The slope was so steep that he could not stop himself. He reached the base at speed, saw that it was actually a drop-off into a bed of boulders, spun onto it—and felt terrible pain as one leg caught on something. He screamed and blanked out.

  Some time later he woke to agony. He tried to move, and discovered that his foot was caught in a crevice, and that his leg was strained. Even if he could wrench himself free, he would not be able to walk. He would have to try to crawl—and he wasn’t sure he could make it out of the ravine. He was probably done for, because the others would not know where to look for him, and indeed would not have the time to search the entire region. It would be night before they realized that he had not returned, and they might not be concerned until the following day, because sometimes a man did stay out overnight when the search was long.

  Unless he could summon help. If the hunting party happened to be within range of his voice—

  He called, and called again, and again. There were echoes down the ravine, but no one answered. They were not close enough.

  But there was another way. He gritted his teeth against the pain and struggled to get his hand to his pack. There was the symbol and essence of his trade: his smudge pot. The source of his fire, which he always kept smoldering. Because without it he would have to go to a great deal of trouble to evoke a new fire, if something happened to the home hearth. That would be a horrible loss of esteem for a fire man.

  He brought out the pot, which had been fashioned from surplus stone chips and exterior wood braces, bound into the shape of a cup. Within it, couched in a bed of ashes, was the smoldering punk. He gathered what grass and leaves he could reach and formed them into a little pile. He found a bit of dry moss and set it in the center. Then he brought his punk to it and blew up its flame.

  As he blew, he got a strange feeling. It was as if he had done this before, once, with someone. With a woman, or a girl. Someone he loved. Yet he could not quite remember. It did not seem to make much sense. There was only the fleeting familiarity, the awakening of emotion along with the flame. Perhaps something he had dreamed.

  The pile of material ignited, sending up a small cloud of smoke. Blaze continued to blow on it, making it burn more strongly, and more smoke appeared. He reached as far as he could, fetching in any bits of wood or root or stem he could, and added them to the little fire. Still more smoke went up.

  He carefully repacked his punk in the pot and covered it, returning it to his pack. It had done its job. He was sending out his signal.

  But soon he had used up all his fuel and the fire was dying. The smoke was thinning as it diffused, becoming invisible as it cleared the ravine. Was it enough? Would anyone see it or smell it? He feared that no one would.

  The sky was clouding up, obscuring the sun, so that he could not mark the passage of time on his fingers. A storm was building, and at this season it would be snow. Probably a lot of it. That would finish him, because not only would it bury him and freeze him, it would cover any possible traces of his trek through the forest. He was bundled against the cold, but he would not be able to withstand this, caught as he was.

  “Bunny,” he breathed. “Stone. My wife, my son. I love you both, and my daughters too. You will have to do without me.” It was sad to think of it, because another man would not want to mate with Bunny now. Not with her three or four children. She would have to survive by herself, and this was the worst time. They might free her for another man by killing her children, but she wouldn’t accept that, and in the end she would die too. All because of Blaze’s foolish misstep.

  There was a sound. Something was coming! Blaze called out, because if it was an animal this would scare it away, and if it was a man this would bring him in.

  The sound became clearer: the tramping of a man’s feet. Rescue!

  Then the man’s upper body showed above the edge of the ravine, and Blaze knew horror. That wasn’t a human man, it was the hulking outline of a beast man! The deadly enemy of all true men. A creature to be killed when encountered—but it required a group of at least three well-armed and -prepared men to do it, because none could match the speed and power of the beast.

  Blaze realized that his ploy to bring help had brought disaster instead. The beast man had seen or smelled the smoke, and come to investigate, for they used fire too. Indeed, sometimes they roasted and ate their own kind. This time it would be Blaze they ate.

  Blaze had lost his staff in the fall, but he still had his good bone knife. He would try to get in a strike before the beast bashed him into oblivion. Even if he had been on his feet in full health, well armed, his chances alone against the beast would have been slight; as it was they were nil. But he had to make the effort.

  The beast man stepped over the edge and slid down into the gully, maintaining his balance in a way that Blaze hardly believed. Physically, these creatures were amazing. Their faces were brutish, with their low foreheads, receding chins, and protruding jaws, but their dexterity was matchless.

  Blaze held the knife ready. All he would be able to reach was a leg. The beast men, though massive, were shorter than real men, but Blaze was lying on the ground. Probably the beast would simply sidestep the thrust, then kick the hand, breaking it. Perhaps he would kick the head first, ending it there.

  The beast man reached the bottom of the gully, then tramped across to Blaze. He reached down with one hand.

  Blaze struck. But his motion had hardly started before the beast caught his wrist, his reflex so swift that Blaze had not even seen the motion. All he knew was that his wrist was caught in a bone-crushing grip. The knife fell from paralyzed fingers. So much for his one effort.

  But the beast did not break his arm with one twitch, as he could readily have done. He merely held Blaze helpless. He grunted, pointing to the last of the fire with his free hand. When Blaze did not respond, the beast grunted again, imperatively.

  He didn’t know about fire? That was impossible; the beasts used it themselves. Maybe not well or consistently, but they certainly knew what it was, and had no fear of it. Of all the creatures of the land, only true humans and beast men were attracted to fire.

  The beast grunted a third time, and now his cruel grip on Blaze’s arm tightened. He was demanding a response.

  “Fire,” Blaze gasped. “I made it.”

  “Fhurh,” the beast grunted, his grip relaxing slightly. He was trying to say the word!

  “Fire,” Blaze repeated, enunciating clearly. If the monster was intrigued by a bit of fire, would he postpone killing Blaze? Or did he want a bigger fire made, so he could roast his prey?

  “Fire,” the beast said, getting it more clearly. His kind could speak, but had a different and far inferior language. Blaze understood that they spoke only single words at a time, being unable to assemble them into larger concepts. Then the beast pointed to Blaze’s trapped leg. He grunted once more.

  “Caught,” Blaze said. “Hurt.”

  The beast s
tudied the leg, seeming fascinated by it. Then he spoke: “Home.”

  “Home?” Blaze asked, bemused. That sounded like a legitimate word.

  “Home.” The other hand came down, catching Blaze’s thigh. The beast began to haul on the limb.

  This motion put pressure on the other leg, the trapped one. Pain flared. Blaze screamed.

  The beast let go of him. He peered at the caught leg. Then he put his two hands on the caught foot and yanked it out. Blaze screamed again.

  The beast waited for him to subside. Then he looked at the leg, which was swelling.

  “I fell,” Blaze explained unnecessarily. He knew the beast couldn’t understand, and wouldn’t care anyway. He was just curious. “Now I can’t walk. Hurts.”

  The beast nodded in a surprisingly human way. Then he picked Blaze up and put him across his massive shoulders. It was as though Blaze were a child.

  He clenched his teeth to avoid screaming again, because this time the pain was not as bad as before; his leg was turning numb. And because he somehow had the impression that the beast was not trying to hurt him. So he relaxed as well as he could and let himself be carried.

  The beast man tramped down the valley of the gully, then up the side where it sloped less precipitously. He carried Blaze tirelessly, not seeming to notice the burden. He moved rapidly on across the land, knowing where he was going.

  The wind was rising. The storm was coming across. The first flakes of snow were coming down. Blaze realized that even if he didn’t die to feed the beast, he was lost, because the snow would still cover any traces. Even if a hunting party searched for him, and realized that he had been in the ravine, it would not be able to follow beyond it. There would be no swift vengeance for his death.