BACK    ABOUT    REVIEWS   

Page 27.

Alex and Maryan talked and talked, of nothing and everything, chattering constantly, never growing tired of touching one other, yet each still very shy with the other.

They sailed to the sky island together, delighted to have each other’s company. She asked questions about this strange new life, and he told her his story and his theories about the world in which they found themselves. When she saw his dwelling on the sky island, she said: “Hmm, this is going to require some work.”

He put his arm around her. “It’s not much, but it’s our home.”

After showing her around the cliff, he became anxious about the hide in the water. He was even more anxious about parting from her side, but she lay down to rest. She fell asleep in minutes, and he lay beside her. He watched the even rise and fall of her shoulder, the strong and steady pulse in her neck, even the fine down along the line of her cheek. He felt good having her here, and the shelter felt warm and secure.

A little bit of light leaked in, and for those moments it might as well have been a motel room at Lake George a million years earlier.

While she slept on her first day in her new home, Alex climbed down and crossed the beach.

The buffalo carcass had moved out a bit, but the tide was low and it was stuck on the sand, covered with birds. The ribs and spine were clearly visible. The fish had done a good job of cleaning it, alternating with seagulls and pelicans. He sharpened his stone knife as best he could on a thick piece of bone, and then carved away what he wanted of the hide. There were ripper teeth marks throughout, and this particular hide would be good only for odds and ends. But nothing would get thrown away. He left the hide exposed for the birds and fishes to clean it up.

Climbing back up to the cliff, he looked in on Maryan. She slept soundly and evenly. A good long sleep would do her good.

He went to the north edge and surveyed the valley. The surviving four rippers appeared restive—one adult and three young. They knew their numbers were dangerously low to defend their territory. The cubs were probably up to about 100 pounds by now, and quite powerful looking. Perhaps, with the birthing cave no longer such a safe and lucrative feeding source, they would move on in search of other food. Or they might intensify their efforts to get him. And now that he had Maryan, he must make the world safe for his kind.

As he sat watching them, he figured that he had their movements down pretty pat. In the afternoons, after hunting down and devouring the morning’s kill, they liked to sun themselves on that spit of sand that protruded into the river. They were surrounded on three sides by dense, old brush, and it was pretty dry. He formed an idea, and went to his fire chamber.

Some time ago, he had idly fashioned the first of several clay vessels. This was shaped like a cup, and contained stray bits of tinder and fat. He had also made a candle from buffalo tallow. He emptied the cup and inserted the candle. Making sure his sacred fire was well fed, he lit the candle and placed a stone lid on it. With his bows and arrows and stone knife, and holding the cup carefully in both hands, he made his way down to the beach.

This time he did not swim, but he walked through the marshes in the alluvial plain. He’d never been here before, and saw plenty of small game and wild life. If he could keep the valley clear of predators, he could live well here with his bride.

He jogged along, careful to stay downwind of the rippers.

He had a tricky time crossing the river outside its fan, where its current was weak. He had to keep the cup above water at all times—the bottom of it was wet by the time he paddled ashore on the west beach, but the flame still flickered. If that went out, his trip here had been in vain.

He climbed up the rocks and made his way into the woods above the valley, not far from where he’d found Maryan. There he gathered just the right kinds of torch materials—goodly sticks, and dry moss to wrap around them. He fed the little fire carefully with a bit of spare tallow and a new wick. He also built a small campfire using what he could find—some cow dung, leaves, dry wood. The fire was hot and not very smoky—it would take them a while to smell it.

Even at that, as he watched from above, he could see their muzzles sniffing—but they would do that all the time. They lay lazily on their sides, ribs showing, heaving with sleepy breathing. They blinked into the sunshine and soaked in the day’s warmth.

He was working hard, and perspiring.

When he was ready, he had about two dozen torches lying in a row, and a nice fire going, about a foot in diameter.

He laid five of the torches in the fire, head first, and waited a moment until they were ablaze. One by one, he threw them down. Another five. Same thing. And another. And then the last.

By now, all four animals were on their feet staring dumbly.

A wall of fire was growing faster by the second, a wall of smoke and heat about 100 feet long, cutting off their escape. They milled nervously, snarling, and kept to the edge of the water.

The water boiled by at a furious clip, bringing branches and other debris from the mountains. It looked green like jade and cold, with foamy teats and a mean disposition. The rippers seemed to fear it as much as they did the smoke on their other flanks.

He must act fast to capitalize on the situation. Recklessly, he slithered down directly into the valley. The adult female was trying desperately to cross through the hot embers as the fire began to die town. He put three arrows through her and she went down, twitching.

He circled around the north side, coming down in the sand just at the edge of the fire. With the greenery burned away, the three cubs had a similar idea to come his way. He shot the first one and it fell in the water. The other two turned to run, and he followed them up onto their skull-laden inner sanctum. There, he shot the second, and it lay down helplessly, taking deep twitching breaths as it started to die with his arrow protruding from its side.

The last cub snarled and got in a stance ready to spring at him. He shot an arrow down its open throat, and emptied his quiver into it.

Alex cooked a bit of ripper meat over a small fire and washed it down with cold river water.

Then he skinned them, one by one, until his hands ached and his arm felt numb and wooden. They would make nice pelts for his bed. Maryan’s bed. Their bed.

He even forced open the women’s birthing door and there, amid the stink of decay, pulled out the two other carcasses and dragged them to the river. He watched them catch in the current and float swiftly toward the sea.

He recovered about half his arrows—the animals in their death throes had mashed the other half.

Leaving the three skins to dry in the sun and be picked clean by small animals and birds, he now bravely ran through the heart of ripper valley toward the sea.

He found the other three carcasses near one another. He found a small log and floated it in the water. He tied the rippers’ tails to the log and pushed it through the current until he had it on the east side. There, he walked in the water, pulling it along until he came to their beach. He pulled the load as far ashore as he could so that the log was anchored while the carcasses were in the water. Already, silver shapes moved visibly about in the water, ready for feeding.

He pulled the hide from the buffalo carcass up on dry sand to finish its first curing.

Out of habit, he still looked over his shoulder every minute or two.

This time, it was not a ripper that came bounding toward him, but Maryan. She looked sleepy but rested. “I’m starving,” she said.

“We have some great beetles here.”

She made a face.

He sat in the water and carved some meat off the cubs. “Let’s go have us a steak dinner.”

She stood arms akimbo. “I was mad because I thought we missed that one.”

Alex laughed. He knew what she meant—that student who had taken samples from Alex and Maryan. “I hope old Alex and old Maryan enjoyed their dinner as much as we are going to enjoy this.”

“Wish we had a bottle of wine.”

He told her: “I saw fruit trees along the coast. If we can make salt from the sea water, I think we can make just about anything we want, including wine. Just not for tonight.”

“Aw darn.” She snapped her fingers.