Chapter 6 #2
“And we didn’t expect it,” he reminds me. “The ice is too cold to melt, even with fire. Unless the fire were extremely big and warm. And there’s not enough wood in that forest for that, I think. And anyway, it doesn’t burn that hot. We’d need oil—ah.”
“Oil from a Big,” I finish his thought. “Those Bigs have much oil.”
He stares after the escaping dino, clearly thinking of following it.
“No,” I tell him, with a hand on his chest. “I need you here. For safety. My safety.”
He shrugs. “All right. I wasn’t looking forward to fight a Big that size.”
We finish eating the rest of the roasted alien-turkeys while the pale sun slowly sinks toward the jagged ice horizon. The meat is still good, though a little cold now.
Night comes early on the glacier. We retreat into the tilted saucer as the temperature drops and the wind begins to howl through the crevice. Inside, the soft blue light of the walls glows faintly around us. I deliberately avoid looking at the Plood locker.
The furs are warm. And Nator’ax is even warmer. I wonder where he gets the heat. I press close to him under the furs, pretending it's only because of the cold.
He shifts slightly beside me. “Riley,” he rumbles, making my softest parts tremble pleasantly.
“What?”
“You're very close.”
I wiggle my butt closer to him. “Maybe I enjoy be close. Did you think of that?”
He groans softly. “I have sworn an oath.”
“You have?”
“I have.” He doesn't say anything else. But I can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds himself rigid even while I'm practically wrapped around him. And of course, there’s a hard poking at my lower back. I play with the thought of innocently reaching back there and asking what that is, but it would be too blatant, and I don’t want to embarrass him.
I actually don’t really know what I want. Although there must be a reason why all the girls who are married to cavemen are so happy. The hints I’ve picked up indicate that they’re all being taken really well care of. In every way. And nobody can blame a girl for being curious.
Sleep eventually takes us both.
Morning light glows through the viewing walls when I wake.
Nator’ax is already sitting upright beside me. “Something's coming,” he says, staring at the screens.
I push myself up and follow his gaze out through the transparent wall. At first, I think the shapes moving across the glacier are rocks. Then they move again. People. A group of them.
“They look… big,” I say.
“They are tribesmen,” Nator’ax replies. “As big as me.”
The figures grow clearer as they approach. They are tall men wrapped in heavy furs, carrying spears and bone-tipped weapons. Pale, white stripes cover their arms.
They walk directly toward the saucer.
“They saw the smoke,” I whisper.
“Possibly. It’s also possible this is where they walk anyway.”
“Should we run?”
His eyes narrow as he thinks. “This is their hunting ground. If we run, they will chase us. Some tribes allow others to tread on their turf. We’re not here by choice. We will talk to them and hope that they are honorable men.”
We make our way out of the saucer and stand in front of it. Nator’ax keeps his hand on the hilt of his sword. For all the good it’ll do—this is a group of about fifteen men.
The hunters spread out as they approach, quietly forming a loose circle around us. Their weapons are not raised, but the tension is clear.
One of them steps forward. Then he stops, and his gray eyes lock on me.
The others follow his gaze. For a moment, none of them move. They just stare. At me. One of them mutters what sounds alarmingly like a prayer of thanks.
“A woman,” the first man breathes, in ordinary cavemannish, to my surprise.
“A woman on the ice,” says another. “And we found her.”
They all stare. Which is understandable. I’m the first woman they ever see.
Nator’ax steps in front of me, placing himself between me and the hunters.
“Greetings, hunters,” he says calmly. “I am Nator’ax of the Borok tribe. This is Riley, from the same tribe. We mean no harm to you or your tribe.”
The hunters look at Nator’ax when he speaks, but their eyes keep drifting back to me. I can feel their curiosity almost like a physical thing.
The man who spoke first studies Nator’ax for a long moment. He’s wide, even compared to the others, his fur cloak heavy with frost and his bone mask pushed up onto his forehead. White stripes spiral along his arms and chest.
“You stand on the hunting ice of the Gar tribe,” he says at last. His voice is deep and controlled. “You crossed into our turf.”
“We did not cross by choice,” Nator’ax replies. “We fell from the sky.”
That gets a reaction. Several hunters glance behind us at the tilted curve of the saucer. One of them mutters something sharp.
The chief’s eyes narrow slightly. “We saw smoke yesterday.”
“That was us roasting food,” Nator’ax says calmly.
The chief studies him, then glances at the ashes of our fire. “Food? What food? Something you hunted?”
It’s plainly useless to lie about that. There are still alien-turkey bones on the ice.
“Everyone needs to eat,” Nator’ax says. “We hunted what we needed, unaware that your tribe claims this as its turf. What is the name of your tribe, Chief?”
The caveman’s gaze slides past him again and settles on me. “I am Prak’ox of the Gar tribe,” he says. “I am not the chief of our tribe. But our chief must decide what we shall do with you.”
Up close, the men are even more intimidating than they looked from a distance. Tall, broad, scarred, wrapped in thick white and grey furs. Their bone masks hang at their belts or on cords around their necks.
And every single one of them is staring at me like I’m a miracle, or a treasure, or both.
One of the younger hunters finally blurts out, “Is she truly a woman?”
Nator’ax answers before I can. “She is a woman of the Borok tribe, warrior, but not the only one.”
The hunter looks stunned. “There are more? The Borok tribe has women?”
“We count some women among our members,” Nator’ax gently corrects. “It would be wrong to say that we have them. They have themselves, but most are married to men of our tribe.”
“Married?” one man asks, dumbfounded. “What’s that?”
“To be married means that the woman is bonded to a man for life,” Nator’ax says. “And the man is equally bonded to the woman. None may break that bond. It is impossible.”
“Ah,” Prak’ox says, clearing his voice. “Then you are married to this woman here.”
Nator’ax gives me a glance. I understand his concern — it would be easier if we could say we were married, and so gain some protection behind the sanctity of marriage, if these guys believe in that.
“I am not married to Riley, nor is she married to me. But I am sworn to protect her. And I shall, to my last breath.”
There’s such finality in his voice that it makes my stomach feel weird, despite the clearly serious situation we’re in. He’s not kidding.
“Hopefully you haven’t taken your last breath yet,” Prak’ox says. “But that time may be coming. You are trespassing on Gar turf. And by your own admission, you have hunted on our ice. Judging from the tracks and blood spots all around us, you may have hunted more than two stokas.”
“We were attacked by two Bigs,” Nator’ax says. “And be it your turf or not, it is the law of the jungle that any man may defend himself on any turf when attacked.”
“That is the law on the ice as well,” Prak’ox says. “You come from a jungle tribe, then. That must be why you’re so strangely dressed. Do all jungle tribes have things that fall from the sky?” He nods to the saucer.
“No, just the Borok tribe,” Nator’ax says. “It was conquered from the Plood.”
“Nothing of the Plood is welcome here,” Prak’ox growls. “This is all very strange.”
Another man circles slightly closer, studying my face with intense concentration. “She is smaller,” he says.
“Yes,” another agrees. “And the face is different. But she’s not a Plood.”
The leader lifts a hand, and there’s instant silence. He steps closer to us. His grey eyes move slowly over me, not with hunger exactly, but with careful curiosity. “She is not of your people,” he says. “She smells wrong. She looks wrong. She comes from elsewhere. From the Plood.”
Nator’ax inclines his head slightly. “She is unusual. But she doesn’t come from the Plood.
She comes from Earth, and crashed in the jungle in that.
” He nods to the saucer. “The Borok tribe found her and several other women. Later, Riley and I entered this saucer in order to understand it. It started flying without us wanting it to. It flew by itself, and we could as easily control where it flew as a man may control an irox. It flew in the air for a long time. Then it fell here. If we have intruded on your turf, that was not our intention. But I think you know that already.”
The hunters shift uneasily. “Nothing good comes from the sky,” one of them mutters.
“She did,” Nator’ax says and looks at me. “And she has been good for our tribe.”
“I can imagine,” Prak’ox says with a neutral tone, while his gaze runs me up and down.
“We not dangerous,” I say quickly. “We just crashed here. We trying to leave.”
Several hunters look at me with fascination when I speak. “She talks strangely,” one of them says.
“Yes,” another agrees. “But she speaks well.”
The chief raises a hand again. Silence falls, and we all hear the trapped Big roaring faintly from deep inside the crack.
A hunter grins widely. “A stoka fell.”
Several of the men walk quickly toward the edge and look down. Excited voices rise.
“A large one!”
“Good horns!”
“Very good horns!”
The chief walks over and peers down as well. Even he looks pleased.
“A gift from the ice,” he says. “Was this you as well, outtribers?”
Before Nator’ax can reply, one of the hunters looks at the tracks in the snow, then glances back at me. “She baited it.”
Now the chief looks at me again. “You hunted a Big?”
“We try to chase it away,” I say, unsure whether this is good or bad. “Not hunted.”
The hunters stare at me with renewed interest. One of them laughs in disbelief. “She runs like prey, and the stoka follows across a crack. The snow holds her, but not the stoka.”
Prak’ox considers this for a moment, then turns back to Nator’ax. “You will come with us. The chief will decide what we shall do with you, and with the Plood ship.” The words are calm but absolute.
“And if we refuse?” Nator’ax asks, touching the hilt of his sword.
The leader taps the end of his spear on the ice. “You are on Gar turf. Surely jungle tribes understand what that is, and what it means? Baper’iz, see if that stoka can be killed, and its tusks harvested.”
Three men get busy with ropes, hammers, and iron spikes.
“Nork’oz, see if you can get inside that Plood ship. There may be more intruders inside.”
A smaller man looks up at the saucer that stands on its side.
With the hatch closed, it’s nearly impossible to see where the opening is.
And it takes a knack to open it with the hidden button.
At least, I hope it’ll be hard for them to do.
Because if they discover that actual, half-living Plood inside, it’s not going to improve our standing with them, or mine with Nator’ax.
I have an idea. “Warrior Prak’ox. This is easy. Help us push the saucer so it flat on the ground.” I show it with my hands. “Then we will leave and never intrude again.” I have no expectation of it working, and I’m right.
“You are here now,” Prak’ox says flatly. “The chief will decide.”
Two hunters step forward with long leather cords. Before I can react, they grab my arms.
“Hey!” I protest. Nator’ax growls and takes hold of his sword.
Instantly three spears point toward his chest.
“Come peacefully and this may not end in death,” Prak’ox says. “Our chief is wise.” I don’t think he’s a bad man, but he is bound by his tribal laws and obviously doesn’t have a choice in this.
Nator’ax slowly relaxes his shoulders. “They are afraid we will run,” he tells me quietly.
“They not need to be,” I state. “We may run from stoka, but not from men.”
The men bind Nator’ax’s hands, too. It doesn’t look like it would stop him for long if he really wanted to break free.
Prak’ox gives me a thoughtful look. “You were inside that Plood ship? How do we get in?”
I think fast. “It only opens if no enemies around. It think you are enemies. And maybe is it right.”
The man assigned to the saucer kicks at the ashes in the crevasse. “Strange place for a fire.”
“Will it fly away again?” Prak’ox asks.
I shrug. “Maybe. Warrior Prak’ox, can you see that we are not dressed for cold weather? Can you see that we do not want to be on ice, on your turf?”
He barks a command, and two of his hunting party shrug off their long furs.
One drapes his over my shoulders, almost making my knees buckle with its weight.
The other tries the same with Nator’ax, but he just snarls and shrugs the thing off him.
“I won’t wear the fell of a tribe who won’t trust me to not run like a scared visk pup! ”
Prak’ox shrugs.
There’s a great deal of yelling and activity from the crevasse where the stoka fell. After a while, men climb back up carrying two enormous curved horns and several slabs of thick fur.
“You may not have meant to hunt it, but it was a good hunt even so,” one of the men says. “It’s rare to conquer a stoka. Who shall own the tusks?”
“The tribe that owns the turf,” Prak’ox says easily. “We’re ready.”
The hunters start walking.
And we go with them across the frozen world.