But that didn’t matter. Females didn’t become hunters either.
With a lurch, she gulped in the parched air. The lush green grass had long since given way to brittle stalks and desiccated scrub. Sun's heat drove everything alive underground, underwater, or over the horizon. The males caught her attention across the field, each with a spear and warclub. Today’s hunt would be the last until the rain—and the herds—returned.
“Why haven’t they left?”
She kicked a rock and winced as pain shot through her foot. Head down, eyes shut against the memories. Even after all this time, the chilling screams still rang in her ears...
The People’s warriors had been away hunting when the assault occurred. Xhosa’s mother pushed her young daughter into a reed bed and stormed toward the invaders but too late to save the life of her young son. The killer, an Other, laughed at the enraged female armed only with a cutter. When she sliced his cheek open, the gash so deep his black teeth showed, his laughter became fury. He swung his club with such force her mother crumpled instantly, her head a shattered melon.
From the safety of the pond, Xhosa memorized the killer—nose hooked awkwardly from some earlier injury, eyes dark pools of cruelty. It was then, at least in spirit, she became a warrior. Nothing like this must ever happen again.
When her father, the People’s Leader, arrived that night with his warriors, he was greeted by the devastating scene of blood-soaked ground covered by mangled bodies, already chewed by scavengers. A dry-eyed Xhosa told him how marauders had massacred every subadult, female, and child they could find, including her father’s pairmate. Xhosa communicated this with the usual grunts, guttural sounds, hand signals, facial expressions, hisses, and chirps. The only vocalizations were call signs to identify the group members.
“If I knew how to fight, Father, Mother would be alive.” Her voice held no anger, just determination.
The tribe she described had arrived a Moon ago, drawn by the area’s rich fruit trees, large ponds, lush grazing, and bluffs with a view as far as could be traveled in a day. No other area offered such a wealth of resources. The People’s scouts had seen these Others but allowed them to forage, not knowing their goal was to destroy the People.
Her father’s body raged but his hands, when they moved, were calm. “We will avenge our losses, daughter.”
The next morning, Xhosa’s father ordered the hunters to stay behind, protect the People. He and the warriors snuck into the enemy camp before Sun awoke and slaughtered the females and children before anyone could launch a defense. The males were pinned to the ground with stakes driven through their thighs and hands. The People cut deep wounds into their bodies and left, the blood scent calling all scavengers.
When Xhosa asked if the one with the slashed cheek had died, her father motioned, “He escaped, alone. He will not survive.”
Word spread of the savagery and no one ever again attacked the People, not their camp, their warriors, or their hunters.
While peace prevailed, Xhosa grew into a powerful but odd-looking female. Her hair was too shiny, hips too round, waist too narrow beneath breasts bigger than necessary to feed babies. Her legs were slender rather than sturdy and so long, they made her taller than every male. The fact that she could outrun even the hunters while heaving her spear and hitting whatever she aimed for didn’t matter. Females weren’t required to run that fast. Nightshade, though, didn’t care about any of that. He claimed they would pairmate, as her father wished, when he became the People’s Leader.
Until then, all of her time was spent practicing the warrior skills no one would allow her to use.
One day, she confronted her father. “I can wield a warclub one-handed and throw a spear hard enough to kill. If I were male, you would make me a warrior.”
He smiled. “You are like a son to me, Daughter. I see your confidence and boldness. If I don’t teach you, I fear I will lose you.”
He looked away, the smile long gone from his lips. “Either you or Nightshade must lead when I can’t.”
Under her father’s tutelage, she and Nightshade learned the nuances of sparring, battling, chasing, defending, and assaulting with the shared goal that never would the People succumb to an enemy. Every one of Xhosa’s spear throws destroyed the one who killed her mother. Every swing of her warclub smashed his head as he had her mother’s. Never again would she stand by, impotent, while her world collapsed. She perfected the skills of knapping cutters and sharpening spears, and became expert at finding animal trace in bent twigs, crushed grass, and by listening to their subtle calls. She could walk without leaving tracks and match nature’s sounds well enough to be invisible.
A Moon ago, as Xhosa practiced her scouting, she came upon a lone warrior kneeling by a waterhole. His back was to her, skeletal and gaunt, his warclub chipped, but menace oozed from him like stench from dung. She melted into the redolent sedge grasses, feet sinking into the squishy mud, and observed.
His head hair was sprinkled with grey. A hooked nose canted precariously, poorly healed from a fracas he won but his nose lost. His curled lips revealed cracked and missing teeth. A cut on his upper arm festered with pus and maggots. Fever dimpled his forehead with sweat. He crouched to drink but no amount of water would appease that thirst.
What gave him away was the wide ragged scar left from the slash of her mother’s cutter.
Xhosa trembled with rage, fearing he would see the reeds shake, biting her lip until it bled to stop from howling. It hardly seemed fair to slay a dying male but fairness was not part of her plan today.
Only revenge.
A check of her surroundings indicated he traveled alone. Not that it mattered. If she must trade her life for his, so be it.
But she didn’t intend to die.
The exhausted warrior splashed muddy water on his grimy head, hands slow, shoulders round with fatigue, oblivious to his impending death. After a quiet breath, she stepped from the sedge, spear in one hand and a large rock in the other. Exposed, arms ready but hanging, she approached. If he turned, he would see her. She tested for dry twigs and brittle grass before committing each foot. It surprised her he ignored the silence of the insects. His wounds must distract him. By the time hair raised on his neck, it was too late. He pivoted as she swung, powered by fury over her mother’s death, her father’s agony, and her own loss. Her warclub smashed into his temple with a soggy thud. Recognition flared moments before life left.
“You die too quickly!” she screamed and hit him over and over, collapsing his skull and spewing gore over her body. “I wanted you to suffer as I did!”
Her body was numb as she kicked him into the pond, feeling not joy for his death, relief that her mother was avenged, or upset at the execution of an unarmed Other. She cleaned the gore from her warclub and left. No one would know she had been blooded but the truth filled her with power.
She was now a warrior.
When she returned to homebase, Nightshade waited. Something flashed through his eyes as though for the first time, he saw her as a warrior. His chiseled face, outlined by dense blue-black hair, lit up. The corners of his full lips twitched under the broad flat nose. The finger-thick white scar emblazoned against his smooth forehead, a symbol of his courage surviving Sabertooth’s claws, pulsed. Female eyes watched him, wishing he would look at them as he did Xhosa but he barely noticed.
The next day, odd Others with long legs, skinny chests, and oversized heads arrived. The People’s scouts confronted them but they simply watched the scouts, spears down, and then trotted away, backs to the scouts. That night, for the first time, Xhosa’s father taught her and Nightshade the lessons of leading.
“Managing the lives of the People is more than winning battles. You must match individual skills to the People’s requirements be it as a warrior, hunter, scout, forager, child minder, Primary Female, or another. All can do all jobs but one best suits each. The Leader must decide,” her father motioned.
As they finished, she as
ked the question she’d been thinking about all night. “Father, where do they come from?”
“They are called Big Heads,” which didn’t answer Xhosa’s question.
Nightshade motioned, “Do they want to trade females? Or children?”
Her father stared into the distance as though lost in some memory. His teeth ground together and his hands shook until he clamped them together.
He finally took a breath and motioned, “No, they don’t want mates. They want conflict.” He tilted his head forward. “Soon, we will be forced to stop them.”
Nightshade clenched his spear and his eyes glittered at the prospect of battle. It had been a long time since the People fought.
But the Big Heads vanished. Many of the People were relieved but Xhosa couldn’t shake the feeling that danger lurked only a long spear throw away. She found herself staring at the same spot her father had, thoughts blank, senses burning. At times, there was a movement or the glint of Sun off eyes, but mostly there was only the unnerving feeling of being watched. Each day felt one day closer to when the People’s time would end.
“When it does, I will confess to killing the Other. Anyone blooded must be allowed to be a warrior.”
She shook her head, dismissing these memories, focusing on her next throw. The spear rose as though lifted by wings, dipped, and then lodged deep in the ground, shaft shivering from the impact.
Her nostrils flared, imagining the tangy scent of fresh blood as she raced down the field to retrieve it, well beyond her previous throw.
“Not even Nightshade throws this far,” she muttered to herself, slapping the biting insects that dared light on her work-hardened body and glaring at the males who wandered aimlessly across the field.
“Why haven’t they left?”
Another curious glance confirmed that the group looked too small. She inhaled deeply and evaluated the scents.
“Someone is missing.”
Why hadn’t her father asked her to fill in?
Irritation seared her chest, clouding her thoughts. A vicious yank freed the spear and she took off at a sprint, wind whooshing through her cascade of hair. Without changing her pace, she threw, arm pointing after the spear, eyes seeing only its flight.
Feet pounded toward her. "Xhosa!” Her father’s voice. “I’ve been calling you.”
She lifted her head, chest heaving, lost in her hunt.
He motioned, “Come!"
What was he saying? “Come where?”
"Someone is ill."
It all snapped into place. “I’m ready.”
She knotted her hair with a tendon and trotted toward Nightshade, newly the People’s Lead Warrior. One deep breath and she found the scent of every male who had earned the right to be called hunter except Stone. He must be the one sick.
Nightshade nodded to her, animated as always before a hunt, and motioned. “Stay close to me.”
Nightshade’s approval meant no one questioned her part—as a female—in this hunt.
A deep breath stifled her grin. “I will not disappoint you, Nightshade.”
And she wouldn’t. Along with her superior spear skills and unbeatable speed, her eyes possessed a rare feature called farsight. Early in their training, Nightshade had pointed to what he saw as a smudge on the horizon. She not only told him it was a herd of Gazelle but identified one that limped which they then killed. From then on, he taught her hunting strategies while she found the prey.
Xhosa and Nightshade led the hunters for a hand of Sun’s travel overhead and then Nightshade motioned the group to wait while he and Xhosa crested a hill. From the top, they could see a brown cloud stretching across the horizon.
Xhosa motioned, “This is a herd but there are no antlers and the animals are too small for Mammoth.” A breath later, she added, “It’s Hipparion.”
Nightshade squinted, shrugged, and set off at a moderate lope. If she was wrong, the hunting party would waste the day but he knew she wasn’t wrong. Her father joined him in the lead with Xhosa and the rest of the males following. Nightshade chose an established trail across the grasslands, up sage-covered hillocks, into depressions that would trip those who didn’t pay attention, and past trees marked by rutting. At the end of the day, they camped downwind of the fragrant scent of meat and subtle Hipparion voices.
Sun fell asleep. Moon arrived and left, and finally, Sun awoke. Everyone slathered themselves with Hipparion dung and then warily flanked the herd. When they were close, animals on the edge picked up their scent and whinnied in fear, pushing and shoving to the center of the pack, knowing that those on the outside would be the first to die.
Xhosa pointed to the edge of the field but Nightshade had already seen Leopard, lying atop a termite mound, paws dripping over the sides, interested in them only to the extent they meant food. Xhosa imagined the People as Leopard would see them.
“We look benign, Leopard, with our flimsy claws, flat teeth, and thin hide, but we can kill from a distance, work together, and we never give up a chase that can be won. You, Leopard, can only kill when you are close enough to touch your prey—and you tire quickly.
“Who hunts better?”
Leopard answered by closing its eyes, rolling over, and purring.
The battle began and ended quickly, the hunters killing only what they could carry. They sliced the bodies into portable pieces and slept curled around each other in a copse of trees. When Sun awoke, they left for home, shoulders bowed under the meat’s weight, leaving the guts for scavengers. Xhosa hefted the carcass of a young Wild Beast to her shoulders. The animal had crossed her path as she chased a Hipparion mare and her colt. One swing of her warclub, the Wild Beast squealed and died. It provided more meat than the colt and would be a welcome addition to the People’s food supply.
Sun was almost directly overhead when her father diverted to a waterhole. The weary but happy group dropped the meat and joined a scarred black rhino, a family of mammoth, and a group of pigs to drink. Xhosa untied the sinews that held the Wild Beast to her shoulders and splashed awkwardly through waist-high cattails and dense bunchgrass. Broad-winged white-bellied birds screeched as they swooped in search of food and a cacophony of insects chirruped their displeasure at her intrusion. A stone's throw away, a hippo played, heaving its great bulk out of the water, mouth gaping, snorting and grunting, before sinking beneath the surface. Within moments, the air exploded with engaging dung smells.
Her feet burrowed into the silt as she pulled the tendon from her hair allowing it to tumble down, covering her back, too thick to allow any cooling breeze to penetrate but like Cat’s pelt, it kept insects from biting and warmed her in the rainy times.
Nightshade stood close by, legs apart, weight over the balls of his feet. One hand held his spear, the other his warclub. Even relaxing, he scanned the surroundings. When his gaze landed on her, there was hunger in his eyes.
Her breath caught. That was his look for females before mating but never for her. She flushed and splashed water on her head, enjoying the cool bite on her fevered skin, gaze drifting lazily across the pond. Sun warm on her shoulders, breeze soft against her body, scent of the People’s meat behind her, the whisper of some animal moving in the cattails—she wanted to burst with the joy of life.
Like that, everything changed.
“Big Heads,” she muttered and ticked them off on both hands. “Too many—more than our entire group.”
Her father had predicted trouble.
She studied the Big Heads, their swollen top-heavy skulls, squashed faces, brow ridges rounded over beady eyes, knobby growths under small mouths for no purpose she could imagine. Their chests were small, legs long, and bodies lacked the brawn that burst from every one of the People’s warriors, and their spears, unlike the People’s, were tipped with a rough-hewn stone about the size of a leaf.
She strode to her father, head throbbing, throat rough and dry. He acknowledged her presence by moving a hand below his waist, palm down, fingers splayed, but h
is gaze remained fixed on the strangers, thoughts unreadable.
After a breath, she motioned, also low to her body, “Why do they constantly grunt, chirp, growl, and yip?” No animal this noisy could survive.
Her father said nothing, calmly facing the strangers he considered enemies, arms stiff, spear down but body alert in a way he hadn’t been a moment before. Xhosa wondered if this was what her instincts had been screaming.
Slowly, the Big Heads confronted her father’s stalwart figure. One pushed his way through the group, muscles hard, piercing eyes filled with hate. Someone else shouted the call sign Thunder, making the male who must be Thunder snap a call sign—Wind—as though he’d eaten rotten meat.
“Those two must be the leaders,” her father motioned. “And brothers.”
Both were the same height with thick straight hair that hung past their shoulders. Thunder had a scar that cut his face, making him look resolute and intolerant. For the other, face smooth and young, the word ‘hopeful’ popped into Xhosa’s thoughts. Why, Xhosa had no idea, but something told her Hopeful Wind wouldn’t win this battle.
As if to prove her right, the Big Heads behind Thunder flexed their arms, waved their spears, and bounced to a rhythmic chant. Someone beckoned Wind but he walked away, head down.
A purr made Xhosa jerk. A hungry Leopard stalked the People’s meat. Xhosa started toward it, to protect it, when a scream punctuated the air.
Xhosa snapped toward the sound. One of the People's warriors clawed at a spear lodged in his chest, blood seeping between his fingers.
“They threw that all the way across the pond—Father, how can they do that?” No one was that strong.
“Run!" Her father bellowed.
Over her shoulder, Xhosa heard the pounding of retreating feet but she never considered it, not with the mass of bawling Big Head warriors plunging into the shallow pond, spears thrust forward, rage painting their faces.
Survival of the Fittest Page 2
