A BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO TIME TRAVEL
PART 2--CHAPTER 5
PART TWO
5
Jaleen tumbled to the ground ahead of me, laughing and spitting hair out of her mouth, and just as quickly brushing it aside without a second thought as she turned to look at me. She was about to plant a solid boot in my chest when I smiled at her; she laughed again as I pushed myself to my feet, untangling the sword at my side I’d tripped over, before reaching down to help her up. I looked around our small camp, wondering where Jarel had gone off to.
“Do you see him anywhere?” I asked. I was picking up crossbow bolts where they’d scattered across the rocks.
She shook her head, brushing dried leaves and dead grass out of her hair. I reached over and pulled a twig out, showed it to her, and then tossed it into the stream beside us.
“It’s not like him to just leave,” I said, now turning my attention to the hide raft we’d floated downstream on three days ago. It was made of Tusker bladder and hides I’d made myself. I used Tusker bladder because they are stronger than the smaller aurochs, and tied it together with gut-string and determination. It would take no time at all for me to deflate it and tie it up again. It was just one more thing to hang off my pack. It did make for a comfortable mattress at night that we’d made certain to use.
“No, but it is like him to hide and try to ambush us,” she said, picking up her pack and slinging it over her shoulders. I turned her around and made some adjustments. The trip downstream had been treacherous, the rapids unforgiving, which was why I’d made sure to bring the Tusker raft. After three days of rest though, it sounded strange hearing the pots and pans hanging from the bottom of her pack sing out their light melody as she stepped onto the trail.
“You think he’d do that?”
“Like he wouldn’t?” she laughed at me. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s my brother, so believe me when I tell you, he’ll be waiting to pounce on us the first chance he gets.”
“Do you seriously think he’s hiding on us?” I laughed.
I could see him standing behind her on the Ridgeline, looking down into the valley below. We’re all but there I thought, at last. After four days of travel over rocky terrain, we were finally leaving the Vandals behind us. I wasn’t going to miss the cold winds and sudden rains, I thought, looking back at the sheer cliffs and walls of solid ice. But we’d done it; we proved the mountains passes were still accessible. The Star Charts had proven to be accurate.
“Do you think Algor will be there all ready?”
“I hope not,” I laughed, grabbing her from behind and squeezing her. The pots and pans on her pack sang out a horrible tune as my hands found her breasts. I tried to rub myself against her, to feel myself stir against her, but the pack was in the way. She laughed, and turned around in my arms, her lips seeking mine.
I still wake up in the morning sometimes, thinking I’m the luckiest man in Amaroose for having taken Jaleen as qiza. Soon, we’d start a family together, and with Algor’s blessing, have our own piece of land, with peace and prosperity.
With everything packed away and ready to go, we set out on the trail. Jarel had come back to tell us that the tribes were just arriving. He counted more than two score, he claimed. We would be out of the pass by tomorrow.
“And will you seek Tassas as your qiza this spring?” I asked Jarel later as we sat around a roaring fire. We’d enjoyed a hearty meal of rabbit stew, with herbs and tubers. I was smoking thinroot, its pungent odour at odds with its medicinal value, while Jaleen’s warmth was pressed against my side. I could feel the heat of her through the furs we wore, and looked forward to taking them off of her. The two yurts we’d set up earlier promised comfort on the soft loam under the cover of tall, arching, trees.
“You should seriously think about it. I was your age when I first broached the promise to Algor,” I said, smiling down at Jaleen and offering her a taste of the thinroot.
“Algor would be a fool to say no to you, Whit,” Jarel laughed. “You’re the best huntsman in these parts. Tell me one Algor who’d say no to you; knowing you’ll give him with-Sons in his old age? The man would have to be a fool.”
“And what do you offer, Jarel?” Jaleen asked softly.
“I have nothing to offer,” he said.
“That isn’t true,” I said. “You who read the Star Charts and guided us through the Vandals,” I reminded him. Algor and the others scoffed at the idea of the Vandals being quicker; they’d scoffed at the idea that any man left alive could read the Star Charts. It was a Magic lost to all Men, they said, and for good reason. And what would that good reason be?
I woke with the morning with the sun breaking over the Vandals behind us; I could feel the heat coming through the walls of the yurt. I knew the air outside was still cool and crisp, with the shadow of the mountains a heavy burden on our troubled souls; one has to make certain to appease the gods, I reminded myself.
I kissed Jaleen on the neck, taking in the scent of her, tasting the saltiness of her body. She rolled into me, stretching herself like a feline, her breasts reaching out from underneath the slight coverings, tempting me with their allure.
I took up my long bow and quickly dressed.
“Will you be long, my love?”
“Game will be plentiful,” I said as I placed my foot around the bow and notched the catgut into place. “An hour’s trek out, at the most,” I said as I pulled on the bow once or twice to test its tension. Picking up my sword and quiver, I made my way outside.
The cold air hit me and I took in a deep breath, letting the steam exhaust out of me like I’d seen machines do in old time viddy-screens. I haven’t seen a lot of the machines in my day, but I know they used to be plentiful when my father was a younger man than I. Algor told of a time when men in machines waged war from the skies. I looked up at a clear blue sky, somehow grateful my father made the trek out here to the Wastelands to escape the wars.
*
I’ve always enjoyed the hunt.
There’s something about finding the trace of a spoor and following it—whether it’s a broken branch because of a hoof, or a drop of fresh dung—knowing you’ll be putting food on the table as it were, or feeding the tribe, is sometimes reward enough. It’s not the kill that satisfies me as a hunter, but the chase. It’s the adrenaline pumping through my system when I realize the prey I’m following is larger, and more powerful, than I am; it’s also knowing that I may be another beast’s prey, or that the prey I’m tracking may well be tracking me. One can never allow themselves to become complacent when it comes to hunting.
One must always be aware.
I’ve had several times in my life when it felt that I’d taken on too much. It’s all well and good to follow a spoor for several hours out into the wild, but when the wild turns against you, and you find the trail you’ve been following has fallen victim to a pack of wolves, or wild dogs, or perhaps a large, shaggy-maned mountain lion, you have to cut your losses and hope you’ll come across a warren of rabbits, or perhaps a flock of birds. When you track down an auroch, or a bison, and bring that beast down with a crossbow bolt from a distance of ten paces, you then have to clean that animal and take what meat you are able to carry. The longer the trek, the more likely you are to become the prey.
It makes little sense going out more than an hour’s trek from camp. It makes for a difficult climb if the prey you’re following is wounded, and runs. If the animal stumbles and falls down an incline, it’s up to you to retrieve it, and if not that, to at least show it the mercy it deserves and complete the kill. Skinning, gutting, and packing up several choice pieces of meat, can also lead to you becoming the prey. If a predator catches the scent of blood, it will not hesitate to hunt you.
We are all predators.
Game will be plentiful I’d said to Jaleen before leaving the yurt, and by all rights, it should’ve been. I’d only had to walk a hundred paces yesterday before I picked up the subtle scent of rabbit on the wind. Today, with the wind behind me, I had to double back several times to get upwind of any intended prey. But there were no rabbits, or any other small game to be found. It seemed as though the birds had all taken flight, as well. I searched the sky about me thinking perhaps a raptor was on the hunt, and with the white crests and peaks of the Vandals gleaming in the distance and looming large, still I saw no sign of game. I pushed my way through the brush into a small clearing. It was strangely quiet.
I stopped and ducked down into the shrubs nearby, having caught the scent of something on the wind I remembered from my distant childhood, unable to remember when I’d last tasted its scent. Although it was a scent I knew well—a man-made scent—it was something I’d never hunted before. My father had brought it to my attention once upon a time to show me what I should fear most, above all else.
“It’s called a drone,” he said. “If you see one, it’s already too late. Pray that you never see one,” he said softly. “It’s a scent that should haunt your nights,” he said, picking the thing up and turning it over. It dripped a thick liquid that stained the ground a deep purple.
“Smell that,” he said, and I bent myself closer to it, the smell repugnant. “I said smell it, boy!” and he pushed my face into the thick ooze. I pushed his hand away and sputtered, spitting the foul tasting liquid out of my mouth as I wiped my face with the ragged sleeves of my coat.
“Let that be a lesson to you. Never forget that smell,” he said. “Never. Now, tell me what it is.”
“I don’t know,” I said, at a loss for words. He slapped my face, hard enough so that I could taste blood.
“What is it?”
“A drone.”
“Never forget it.”
I knew instinctively to search the horizon.
It came out of the sun with a light buzzing sound that played a strange melody in my ears. I picked up a handful of dirt, smearing it on my face—I didn’t want the sun reflecting off my face—knowing that the furs I wore would make it think I was an animal. I pulled a crossbow bolt out of the quivered sleeve of my coat, at the same time reaching for the crossbow hanging at my side. Using my longbow would leave me too exposed, I thought, so I placed it on the ground beside me, careful of my quiver as I lifted the halter over my head.
I watched the thing as it floated in the air, perhaps twenty paces away. It was a flat black colour that didn’t reflect the sun as it hovered like a hummingbird in front of me. I pulled back on the crossbow string, one notch at a time, until I’d pulled it back as far back as I could, then ducked again as the thing flew over my head. I watched, waiting, throwing a tiny pebble in front of it so that I might gauge its reaction. It shot a small bolt of lightning that impacted with the pebble and turned it into dust.
I stood up, raised the crossbow and released the bolt. It pierced the metallic shell and the thing fell to the ground with a hiss, spinning on the ground in ever-growing concentric circles until it came to a stop. I approached with caution, looking over my shoulder in case there were others about, then bent down to retrieve the crossbow bolt. I had to put my knee on the thing to hold it down. The bolt had gone clean through it, and I could smell the liquid oozing out of the broken seams. I touched my fingers to it and tasted it on the tip of my tongue, memorizing the scent once again.
There were lights on it still blinking; one steady beam shot directly at my face, a horizontal line of green that moved from the top of my head to my chin, and back again, the whole process taking no more than a heartbeat. There was a series of beeps that followed. I twisted the thing in my hands, feeling the sharp edges cut into my palms, and then twisted it back again in the other direction. It came apart in my hands with a slew of sparks as a blast of light hit the rocks behind me, exploding. I turned, and then ducked, feeling the rocks raining down on me. Several of the larger pieces landed beside me, and I realized that had they hit me, they might’ve caused serious damage. I stood up, casting the thing to the side as I walked to the edge of the clearing.
I’d circled the camp as I made my way eastward and into the surrounding hills; I looked down at the two yurts below me. I could hear strange noises in the distance, loud booming sounds the likes of which I’d never heard before. Jarel opened the flap to the yurt he’d slept in, his hands in his pants as he walked to the edge of the camp to piss. He moved to the edge of the cliff face, suddenly calling out to Jaleen who rushed out of the yurt.
There was a strange, muted sound, and I watched Jarel pitch forward over the cliff. He made no sound as he fell, and I knew he was dead even as his body fell from view. Jaleen screamed, and I found myself running down the hill at full speed, leaping over rocks and giant boulders.
Without warning there was an explosion in front of me, and I felt myself pitch forward, my body catapulted through the air and landing on a large pile of rocks where my head struck hard and I found myself passing out.
The last sound I heard was Jaleen screaming, and the sound of feet marching across the clearing.
*
I woke up to the smell of smoke in the air; my head aching and my body feeling as though I had been stomped on by a Tusker. The small camp we’d made into our home for the last three days, was now a pile of ash. I turned my head to the side and could see one of the packs smouldering in the distance; the second one was untouched. I tried to sit up and reason out what happened.
I was in too much pain to move; it hurt just to breathe and I cried out when I moved too suddenly. I put my hand to the back of my head, my body screaming in protest as I raised my arm, and felt a sticky wetness. Pulling my hand away, I saw a smear of blood. I dropped my hand into my lap and looked at the thick congealed blood. Whatever happened, I’d been out for longer than I needed to be. I looked toward what had been the yurt. The only thing left was the raft we’d used as a mattress; it was still intact.
I slid down the face of the rock I found myself splayed across, and felt my knees give way. I fell to the hard-packed ground. I felt the bones in my legs, grateful to find them all intact. My right knee felt swollen and I told myself not to look at it. I attempted to run my hands down my sides, looking for injuries, and winced in pain the moment my hand touched my left side. I had to put my right hand out to steady myself—even though I was still sitting on the ground trying to gather myself as I looked about the camp for Jaleen. I forced myself to stand and staggered about for a time. With my sense of balance out of line, and found myself sinking to the ground.
I could hear the sound of screaming in the distance and forced myself to crawl on the ground where I soon reached the edge of the Ridgeline. Looking down at the valley below, I saw several drones blasting at the numerous camp sites as row upon endless row of steel-clad men waded through the futile defences of the camps. There were flashes of light that cut through several men as if they were made of straw. The things did not discriminate, women held their children close to their breasts, only to be cut in half when they didn’t move fast enough. The children taken, along with those women who were fortunate enough to be spared.
I tried to look into the distance, but the smoke of several large fires obscured my view. There were wagons lined up and the remaining prisoners were forced into them, their hands bound with chains and looped to the sides of the wagons.
“Slavers,” I told myself as I rolled onto my back and looked up at the pale blue sky.