Chapter 22
– Theodora –
The second day is harder than the first. I don’t have an appetite, and I don’t drink much.
The going is much tougher than I thought.
I’ve never walked in the jungle for hours and hours before, and it doesn’t get any easier.
It’s hot and clammy and smelly, and there’s never an obvious way to go.
I keep having to make decisions. Do I go on the left side of that tree, or the right?
Will there be a dense bush that forces me to go around it, or a big boulder?
And which way am I facing now? Where is the sunrise?
At the same time, I have to be on my guard for dangers. Is that bush moving? Is there something hiding behind that tree? Is there something waiting in the treetops, ready to jump on me like the drok dropped down on Kenz’ox?
It’s exhausting like nothing else I’ve done, both for my body and my mind.
Otis doesn’t seem to mind. He sometimes stands still and just listens, ears twitching, and sometimes he will change direction. When he does, I follow him. And so far, we haven’t been attacked.
“This is going to be a challenge,” I mutter to myself as I climb over a cluster of vines, only to find myself facing a widely flared root that’s at least ten feet wide. I can’t climb over it, so I have to make my way back over the vines. “But maybe it gets easier.”
Past that hindrance, I spot Otis ahead of me. His tail is pointing behind him, straight at me, in a way that I’ve learned to recognize—he’s sensing someone. His huge eyes are staring ahead, double snout twitching.
I stop, too, and shift my grip on my spear. I think I hear voices over the usual hiss and roar of the jungle.
I duck and quickly hide behind a dense bush with so many thorns that I doubt anyone will walk close to it.
The voices come closer. Caveman voices, speaking softly. I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but it sounds like there are many of them.
Shit. They could be a band of outcasts. The best I can hope for is a clan of Foundlings, although those can also be dangerous.
The first caveman comes into view. Blue stripes, just like Kenz’ox’s. But there are more tribes with blue stripes, so that doesn’t have to mean anything.
I stay totally still, aware that the human eye is attracted by movement. These guys aren’t human, exactly, but they’re close enough.
More men come out of the jungle, passing me about fifty feet away.
I only see small glimpses of them. They’re too many to be a hunting party, and if they were hunting, they should be keeping quiet.
But these are chattering away while they walk.
Not loudly, but they’re clearly confident that no dinosaur will attack them.
One man has a tall hat, and he walks beside one with a really big headdress made from fangs, claws, and metal, forming a weird kind of crown. I guess those are the shaman and the chief. Behind them, four cavemen are carrying a big wicker basket.
That could be Kenz’ox’s tribe. In fact, it could be his whole tribe. If so, that basket may contain Dex.
And it looks like they’re going towards the ocean.
This complicates my mission. Now they may reach the beach in a day or two, and there are so many of them that they’re bound to discover the saucer. It’s not hidden. There’s also a chance they may pick up my tracks, which will lead them straight to it. Or straight to me.
More men pass, and then the whole entourage has passed me, the sound of their voices growing weaker.
What do I do? Go to the Borok tribe and hope that these guys won’t kill Kenz’ox and Aker’iz before I can get there with a group of warriors? Warriors that I might not get at all?
The crucial part here is Dex. If he’s inside the basket, then I have to find out—
“Ah,” says a deep voice behind me. “Our hunt is successful.”
I spin around, almost falling on my butt.
Two cavemen are standing ten feet away, one of them leaning on a tree. They also have blue stripes of the same hue as Kenz’ox.
I straighten up and pull back my spear. “Greetings, warriors. Which tribe are you from?”
They saunter towards me, hands on the hilts of their swords. “Greetings, female. We are men of the Tratena tribe. Whose turf is this?” They run their gazes up and down me as they approach.
The Tratena tribe. That’s Kenz’ox’s tribe. Dex may be really close. And I have to get to talk to him somehow. What was it that Cora said I could do, in a pinch?
“Turf?” I ask as I draw myself up and lift my chin. “What do I care about turf? I am the Woman. Take me to your chief and your shaman.”
They stop and look at each other. “The Woman?”
“Yes. Have you not heard of me? Do you not know the Prophecy? Your tribe is nearby. Take me there.” As I remember what Cora told us about the caveman prophecy, it’s about one man finding the Woman and then worshipping her, then mating with her and making her the Mother of Xren.
I really don’t want these guys to get ideas like that, so I have to stay in charge and keep them off balance.
They stare unashamedly. They’re not quite as big and muscular as Kenz’ox, but they’re still much larger than any man on Earth. “The Woman? You are her?”
“Have I not said it twice?” I ask with impatience.
“Talk less and do more, warrior. Your chief and shaman are that way. Or must I go alone?” The days with Kenz’ox have made my cavemannish much better, but I make a mental note to say less and be more mysterious.
Maybe I should express myself more vaguely.
Finally, one of the two walks past me towards the way the tribe went. “Come.”
I follow him, with the other behind me.
“Men of Tratena!” the first man yells. “I have found the Woman!” His voice cracks hilariously at the last word. Yeah, these guys are excited.
“We have found the Woman,” the man behind me corrects. “I saw her first.”
After a while, there’s a rustling in the jungle ahead, and two other men come towards us. “Whoever raises his voice in the jungle calls for his own death—oh!”
Word spreads, and soon I’m surrounded by a hundred towering, blue-striped cavemen. They’re all staring and keeping some distance from me, which I take as a good sign. Maybe this tribe is better than Kenz’ox thinks.
There’s movement in the crowd as the chief and shaman make their way through it.
They also stare, but the shaman is the first to collect himself. “I am Shaman Vort’ix of the Tretena tribe. This is our chief, the great Smirt’ax. It is said that you are the Woman. Is this true?”
I’m getting really tense. I’m actually not in a good position here.
These guys can pretty much do what they want to me.
But I have to act as well as I can. And a mythical Woman sent from the Ancestors wouldn’t answer a straight yes-or-no question.
“If it is said, then perhaps it is so. Do I not look like a woman?”
The crowd is quiet. They haven’t heard a woman’s voice before, of course. I spot the man carrying the wicker basket at the back of the tribe.
“You do look… achm… look like one,” the shaman says, having to clear his voice midway. “From what we can see. But more must be revealed if we are to believe it.” His voice goes gruff again, and he’s practically asking me to strip naked for them.
“You are the shaman!” I say as calmly and loudly as I can.
“Do you not know when you are in the company of the Woman? Perhaps there is another among you who is better suited to wear your tall hat!” I feel with all my instinct that I cannot go on the defensive here.
I am a mythical being, a god sent from the big gods to do something important. I have to act like one.
All I have to do is channel Cate Blanchett in Elizabeth, and I’ll be fine. “Take your hand off your sword! Do you think you can harm me?”
The shaman yanks his hand away from the hilt of his weapon as if stung. “Of course. Apologies.” He makes a secret sign with both hands.
Yeah, this guy is all fake. Just a regular tribesman who has to act as if he has special knowledge.
“You have an Envoy,” I state loudly. “I wish to speak with it. Bring it forward!”
A movement goes through the crowd as they all turn to look at the wicker basket.
“How does she know?” someone whispers. “It is the Woman.”
The men carrying the wicker basket come through the crowd.
Finally, the chief gathers his wits enough to speak.
“I am the chief of the Tratena tribe. If you are the Woman, we are your servants. And your… worshippers.” He can barely get out the last word.
He’s not much older than the others, maybe in his forties.
He’s heavy-set and saggy, with shorter legs than most of his tribesmen and a sly look in his small eyes.
Yeah, they know what’s expected of them in that prophecy. I have to guide them away from that idea. “It is proper to wish to worship the Woman,” I tell them regally. “And yet, there is no need for it.”
The four men set the basket down.
“Open!” I command. “Let the Envoy out!”
Obviously puzzled, the chief opens the lid.
Inside there’s a sheen of a black hull the size of a carry-on suitcase, with red and yellow stripes here and there. There are four propellers, but there is room for six. Two places are empty. There are scratches and gouges and dents in the metal, and it really looks much the worse for wear.
Damn, I hope he still works.
“Dex?” I ask. “Are you awake?” I speak English, which seems appropriate for a legendary being, and it’s the only language that I know Dex knows.
“I am awake,” the AI-controlled drone says. “You are still alive, Theodora. I am relieved.” His voice is still male, but it has lost the warm resonance that I remember. Now it’s tinny and scratchy, and it sounds more like someone radioing in from Antarctica.
“I have been in the saucer,” I tell him. “I was trying to start it. But it won’t. Do you know how?”
“No.”
Shit. I didn’t expect that. This could all be in vain. “Are you sure? There’s still light, and it sometimes hums.”