BACK    ABOUT    REVIEWS   

Page 9.

For a moment, before the next ripper attacked, Alex forgot his fear and his pain and his hunger and stood in awe of the natural world.

It was the first time in his life that he could feel the air on his skin, smell the trees and flowers, hear the snap of a bird’s wing above. The reality was far better than he’d imagined from the memories he’d inherited from Alex. For the first time, he understood the urgent love and wonder of being alive.

He turned and was able to get a quick overview of his world. He was on a hill about 100 feet high and lightly covered with pine trees and scrub bushes. Behind him loomed a cliff of sorts, with more pine trees on top, about 300 feet high. Down below, he could see the two surviving rippers tearing apart the prizes that would be their last. Directly opposite—across a valley of tall deciduous trees with a river flowing through the middle—was another cliff, and beyond that lay a forest. The river came from a low mountain range to the right, and flowed out into an emptiness on his left in which shone a silver thread, which he made out to be an ocean horizon.

The river that flowed through the valley was about 60 feet across and looked a cold, choppy green—ice melt, he figured—flowing fast. On either side were sandbars, and on these lolled a pride of rippers with their young—He spotted ten animals before losing count. And running out of time.

One of the rippers below had spotted him. It dashed out of sight, probably around the bottom of his hill, and he could hear its rapid thrashing motions in the brush.

He ran in the only direction he could think of—toward the tall cliff. He ran across some logs and thick layers of dead brush that covered a fault about 50 feet deep. He ran desperately along a narrow ledge around the cliff. He saw now that it was a pillar of sandstone, like a natural tower, that had separated from a long stretch of cliff.

Just then the ripper came bounding into view, magnificent-looking with its powerful paws and flying leg manes.

He looked desperately about—He could go down or he could go up.

In his downward glance, he saw forest below, with jagged boulders sticking up on which he would impale himself if he fell on them. Around the edges of this cliff standing up like a tall finger from the forest, he saw the sandy beach, and beyond that the crashing white foam of sea water torn up by rocks away from the shore.

Looking up, he saw what looked like a small patch of trees on a plateau, blindingly x-rayed by sunlight so that it looked as if the light were a dazzling white liquid amid which the trees looked like black sticks and the leaves themselves appeared to be afire without burning up.

The ripper ran across the bridge of logs and brush—and started to crash through. For several moments it hung precariously by its front hocks and claws, straining its neck to pull its dangling lower half up.

Alex spotted a set of serrations in the cliff and began climbing.

The ripper crawled laboriously onto a log and inched carefully after him. He climbed, feeling the wind blow through his rough leather garment. The animal stood on the ledge below him and bellowed. He could almost feel its breath on his heels. It was afraid to jump, for fear of falling the 50-60 feet into the jumbled rocks below.

He kept climbing, until he reached a larger ledge that tilted sharply upward to his right. Careful not to slip on loose sand, which would land him in the animal’s mouth, he continued upward until he found himself on an undulating green plateau. His position relative to the sun had changed, and the sun in fact seemed to have moved in the sky. There was a semicircle of tall, thin trees around the back edge of the plateau, and their crowns were still bright green with sunlight. He glimpsed the vast expanse of bluish-gray sea over the opposite edge.

He looked down and saw the cat prowling along the ledge, looking for a way up. As luck would have it, he didn’t think there was. But up here, there were about 30 feet separating the edge of the plateau from the range of hills, opposite, from which it had separated. Several fallen logs spanned the chasm (which was hundreds of feet deep). He was able to run from one to the other, throwing several smaller ones to one side until, with a screech of wood, they tumbled end over end and crashed on the boulders far below.

The ripper slipped away, looking for another way up to make a meal of him. He was down to two logs spanning the divide. One was about a foot in diameter, but rotten and light enough to move. He labored on that one until he had almost no strength left. The root end was on his side, so he dug furiously with his hands. He kept looking up afraid to see one of the rippers running toward him on the opposite hillside—not yet!

He felt the soil yield and was almost pulled down with it as the tree emitted a loud cracking noise and went down into the chasm with a load of soil and rocks.

The other tree was bigger, but what he had on this end were the tips of its crown. He rocked up and down, testing—and found the tree had been dead for some time. It was rotten in places, but still fairly formidable. No way could he budge this monster.

As he had feared, the ripper stood on the opposite edge, sniffing at him and challenging him with snarls.

He stepped out onto the one big member that hooked over his rim and began jumping up and down.

The ripper started to cross at the other end and stopped, backing away.

He kept jumping, and a major branch thrusting into the hillside made a cracking sound. There was hope! He must not stop rocking, or the ripper would be upon him.

The tree cracked again, and brown chips rained down from its trunk.

The ripper was starting out across the log again. It moved silently, hissing at him, its yellow eyes greedy, and its claws digging into the sides of the log while it kept its belly low.

The log gave a mighty crack and started to move. He heard soil beginning to rain amid a clatter of stones. He ran and just barely caught hold of some bushes to pull himself up. The tree crashed down about twenty feet and then stopped, jammed against the rock face below him. He must move it another dozen feet, and then there would be no more bridges for the beasts to cross.

On the other side, the ripper had retreated back to the rim and was looking for its next opportunity to cross on that remaining log that partially spanned the divide. Alex was exhausted, but he was so close to safety—he must not quit moving. He pushed several boulders over the edge until one crashed into the tree crown, and with loud cracking noises the tree renewed its final descent. The boulder plummeted down, twirling, while the tree swung down toward the other side. As the tree did so, it leveraged its root ball out of the earth. The ripper let out a yelp and tore away as the tree’s bottom bounced out of its hole, pivoted on the rim, and then fell sideways into the forest below.

As daylight began to fade, Alex made a feverish run around the edge of his new domain. Huge butterflies flapped languidly around him as if mocking him. Their tiny bat-faces with inscrutable, their eyes like large, luminous buttons. They seemed wise enough to stay out of reach.

It appeared this tower of stone had long ago separated from the cliff face, tilting toward the sea. It had sheer reddish sandstone facings on all sides, and it did not appear there was a path anywhere for the predators to climb up. The area was about the size of a football field, tilting higher at its forested end, and undulating down in grassy hillocks toward the sea end.

Never mind he might not be able to find a way down, for he would have to live here, to feed himself, to hunt and fish. For the moment, as evening approached, Alex was safe from the rippers—but for how long? He was beginning to hunger, but even more, he needed to sleep. Dreading what else might live up here, he found a large, fallen tree and dug himself a depression between its roots. He laid leafy branches across the roots, which acted as ceiling struts. He surrounded himself with dry, rustling leaves and promptly fell into an exhausted sleep full of fearful dreams. He kept seeing those four-inch incisor teeth aimed at him from hissing mouths. And then, too, he dreamed of a luscious blonde named Maryan Shurey who rode by on a horse, smiling...

She wore a baseball cap and a light blue sweater, same color as her eyes. Alex Kirk had been in love with her.