“I think I’ll pass,” John said.
The deer stamped a hoof. Was the animal upset with him? It looked almost comical, standing there looking cute and fierce at the same time. John stifled a chuckle. He didn’t want to offend it further. He enjoyed having the deer around as company.
He reached down and picked up one of the strange fruits to examine it. Turning it over in his hands, John realized that it wasn’t a fruit at all, but rather some sort of root. There was even a little patch of green attached to one end, the part of the plant that had been aboveground.
“I think I’ve seen these around here before,” John said.
The deer nodded.
“You’re telling me there has been food beneath my feet this whole time? I’ve been walking around on top of it?” John asked.
The deer hesitated only a moment before nodding again. John had the sense there was more to the story than that. There was something the deer wasn’t saying, or couldn’t say, since the only communication it seemed able to make was nods or shaking its head. He looked down at the odd root again. It didn’t look like food. It looked like a thick root.
“You sure this is food?” John asked.
The deer stomped its foot forcefully on the ground and glared at him.
“OK, OK, I get it! You’re sure,” John said. He stared dubiously at the root for another moment that stretched longer than the deer was happy with. It stomped a foot again, seeming anxious that he get on with it.
“All right, I’ll try it,” John said.
He took a small nibble from the root. It was bitter, a sharp flavor that made John’s mouth pucker. But inside the outer skin was a white root that tasted sweet. Sort of like the apples, the outer skin was different from the inside.
It seemed all right to eat, anyway. John took another small bite and stopped with that. He’d wait and see how he reacted to the strange food before he ate any more of it. Not that he thought the deer was leading him astray. After all, it had eaten some of the root. But better safe than sorry.
He went about his work for the day, noticing more of the plant as he walked about. John never paid that much attention to the flora he was stepping on. Food came from the trees, after all. Wood came from tree branches, and the vines for rope grew up the trees. The green stuff underfoot was just…there. Now that they’d been pointed out to him as a food source, he was seeing them everywhere.
By lunchtime, he had cut the logs for the house frame and begun lashing them together with water-root vine. When he was finished, those logs would form a box-like edging around which he planned to build his stone and mud house. But he was tired, his belly was empty, and it felt like time to switch gears to something else. He looked down at a little pile of the root-food he had gathered over the course of the morning’s work. Maybe there was a way to get them to taste better?
John took a few pieces of wood that looked about the shape he recalled his father using. He tied a little rope to either end of a stick, tight enough that the rope held the stick bent. Then using his stone knife, John dug a shallow hole into a log.
“Slot a stick into the hole. Run it through the rope. Now what?” John said aloud. He sat there staring at the contraption, trying vainly to remember what else he needed.
The deer came over and rolled one of the root fruits toward him. The root plopped up against his knee.
“Yeah, I’m trying to make them more edible,” John said. He picked up the root, turning it over in his hand. The cap for the stick! A chunk of this root would work just fine.
“Thanks for the tip,” John told the deer. The animal looked away quickly. He grinned. If it had been another human, he’d have thought his words embarrassed the animal. Was it the same for a deer? He had no idea what the differences in body language might be. Everything was a guess.
John sliced a chunk of the root free with his knife and placed it atop the stick. Pressing down on the chunk of root with the palm of his left hand, he grabbed the bowed stick with his right and began moving the bow back and forth rapidly. The string twirled the stick. Everything looked as he remembered.
He took some thin wood shavings and placed them near the groove in the wooden log at the base of his contraption. Then he went back to work, moving the bow back and forth as rapidly as he could.
It took a lot longer than his childhood memory said it had taken his father, but John persisted. Eventually, a thin streamer of smoke rose from the hole where the twirling stick met the base plank. John got excited at that point and pulled the stick away, hoping to see fire. But there was nothing, just a little darkening of the wood.
Disappointed, but certain he was on the right track, he went back to work. His arms got tired, and he switched hands. The next time the smoke rose from the hole, John didn’t stop. Instead, forcing the stick to spin back and forth more quickly. White smoke started to rise from the hole. John kept going, wondering how he would know when the smoke had turned into something more.
Then, all at once, there was a tiny glow from a bit of the wood shavings closest to the hole. It started as the tiniest ember, smoking and casting a dim light. John kept spinning, putting more effort into it. Another bit of the shavings caught the heat and began to light, and then a third.
He stopped his work, leaning forward to bring a little more of the thin bits of wood fluff toward the glowing embers. A wind sprung up behind him, and the embers glowed a bit brighter. Inspired, John blew a gentle breath over it. One went out. He breathed more gently, slowly pushing air past them. Another ember went out.
The third ember burst into a tiny flame.
Excited, John almost put the small fire out. He hastily brought more shavings in toward the fire. These caught easily, as well, and soon there was a pile of burning wood chips the size of his fist. He added sticks on top of the fire, slowly building it up.
“My father made a fire like this when I was a kid,” John explained to the deer. The animal cocked its head sideways like it was listening intently. “We had a big stone bowl, back then. He sliced up and cooked some apples in it, using the coals from the fire. Tasted great, but it was a lot of work, and he never did it again.
“The bowl was washed away in the flood along with everything else. But I figure I can try cooking these roots in the hot coals from the fire. Maybe they’ll taste a little better that way,” John said.
He ate well that night. The outer shell of the roots were singed and dark, but the stuff inside had taken on a fluffy texture and was sweet. It wasn’t as good as the cooked apples he remembered. But it was a close second.
He laid down to sleep with a full belly, a sense of accomplishment, and renewed purpose.
Fourteen
The bed of coals was still warm the next morning. John laid in additional wood, building the fire back up to cook more of the roots. He decided he wasn’t going to make a fire only once. He was going to maintain the thing for as long as he could. If it rained hard, and the embers died away, he’d build a new one. It wasn’t just the way cooked roots tasted better than raw ones. He drew a sense of deep satisfaction from having built the fire by himself. Now that he’d done it, he didn’t want that feeling to go away.
Watching the smoke from his breakfast fire trail into the sky made John think again of the smoke he’d seen before the storm. In the several days since the great rain washed everything away, he hadn’t seen a single stream of smoke mar the sky from anything except his own fires. If there was someone else out there capable of building fire, they hadn’t made one since. Were they still there? Had they, too, lost much in the flooding from the rain? Had they been injured by the flashes of explosive light? Maybe they needed help. He wouldn’t know unless he somehow got past that wall.
There was so much he didn’t know, but the deer had come from somewhere. The trail of smoke had come from somewhere. There was clearly a world beyond the one he knew. John felt more interested than ever in finding out the truth.
After eating, he set out for a walk along th
e wall. There was still a lot of work to do setting his home to rights, of course. The construction had barely begun. But curiosity burned in his mind even as the memory of his last attempt to climb the wall made him fearful to try again.
“I’ve learned a lot since then, though,” John muttered under his breath. “This will be different. I’ll be prepared.”
He eyed the route he’d taken on his last climbing attempt. There was a crack in the wall, which ran upwards a good distance. He’d used that space as a fingerhold more than once during the climb. But it hadn’t been enough. His fingers weren’t strong enough to support his weight without a better hold.
Maybe if he could wedge something into the crack? That wouldn’t help his grip, but it might give him something better to rest his feet on. The crack was narrow, barely the width of his finger in most places and tighter in others. Sticks wouldn’t support his weight, but if he could get stone to break apart into smaller chunks they might be both strong enough and slender enough to fit inside the crack.
John went back to the large flat stone where he’d constructed the axe. There were enough shards of rock to work with. He took a few of them and broke them against each other. One sliced thumb and a few bruised knuckles later, he had a handful of shaped stones that might do the trick. He slipped them into a woven grass bag and tied it to his waist with vine. Picking up a big, flat rock, he went back to the wall.
The first fragment didn’t fit the crack. The second fit, but shattered when John tried to hammer it in. The third went in. He stepped onto it gingerly, carefully shifting his weight. It held position, supporting half of his weight, and then all of it.
“Got it,” he muttered.
John glanced over his shoulder, full of the sense that someone was watching him. It was only the deer, observing him as it did. It had its head tilted sideways in a manner which looked thoughtful.
“Don’t suppose you have any advice?” John asked.
There was no answer, but John hadn’t expected one. He returned his concentration to the cliff in front of him. This next step would be the tricky one. Somehow, he needed to pound in the next spike while supporting his weight on the one already in place.
Two more shattered shards of rock later, he’d managed to get it nailed into place. But not without falling off the spike twice. That wasn’t going to work. Falling off when he was three feet up was one thing. Dropping when he was thirty feet was going to hurt.
The second spike was about three feet above the first. Using other foot and fingerholds, he clambered up and shifted his weight gently onto the rock. It held, supporting him as well as the first had. John took a deep breath to still his pounding heartbeat. He wasn’t that high, but it was going to get more difficult as he ascended.
He reached into the pouch to pull out another spike and realized it was his last one. He hadn’t made enough to climb all the way up, even without the breakage.
This was only a test run, he figured, to see if the method was even viable. But he’d hoped to get a little higher than nine feet.
It was a start. He reached back into the bag and pulled the flat rock back out. Carefully setting the spike into the crack, he tapped it home using the flat rock as his hammer. One strike, gently, then another. He’d learned to strike with just enough force to drive the spikes in, while using enough restraint to avoid shattering them. The third spike was almost in place.
The rock spike beneath his foot shifted. John reached for the rock face with both hands, dropping the flat stone to clatter its way to the base of the cliff. He reached into the crack, trying to take some of his weight off the spike beneath him. He wasn’t sure if it was coming loose or just shifting.
After a long moment, he eased his weight back onto the rock. There was a cracking sound as it snapped off, and he tumbled down the cliff. John’s knees, elbows, and palms slid against the rock face, tearing at his skin. He couldn’t stop the fall.
The ground rushed up, and he slammed into it feet first, tumbling into a roll with a yell of pain. When he came to a stop, he held himself still a moment, taking stock of his injuries. Nothing seemed to be broken, a fact he was glad of. But his palms were both bloody and raw. His knees and elbows were skinned and bleeding. His right foot was slashed, as well. He wasn’t sure when that last had happened, but it hurt worse than all of the other injuries combined.
John felt a touch against his back and looked over his shoulder. The deer stepped away from him. Had it nuzzled his shoulder? He rubbed the spot where he’d felt the contact. It had been something, but it felt strange. The deer had never come close enough to actually make contact before.
“I suppose I look like an idiot now, don’t I?” John said.
The deer nodded.
“Thanks for that. But you came from somewhere else, didn’t you?” John asked.
There was a pause, as if the deer was considering its reply before answering. Then it nodded again.
“That’s what I figured. If there is a someplace else, then I’d like to see it,” John said. “Not that this place is bad, mind you. It’s good, and I aim to make it better. But I’d like to see what else is out there. Meet the people living over the other side of this cliff. Someone is over there. I saw the smoke from their fire. If that was something else, well then, I want to know that, too.”
He thought about his reasoning for taking such risks. It didn’t make much sense on the face of it. There was food here, and plenty of it now that the deer had taught him about the roots. He had fire, so he could cook whenever he wanted to make it taste better. With the new tools and ideas about his home, he was going to build a house that was much stronger and better than the one his parents had lived in.
“This place has everything I need,” John mused, “but I want more. I want to see what else there is. Whether it’s better than this or worse, I don’t know. I just want to find out.”
He glanced back at the cliff again. Two of his spikes still jutted from the crack. The other had snapped off. He didn’t think that was going to be the best route to get out, after all. He’d fallen twice while trying, both times from a relatively low height. If he fell from much higher, it could kill him.
“Just have to find a better way,” John said.
Fifteen
The next day, John went back to work building his home. He had plenty to accomplish. The timber frame was lashed together with ropes made from the roots of water plants, but he’d only just begun setting the stones into walls, mortared together with the thick gray mud. Hauling rock was exhausting work, and while he had no shortage of exposed stone shelf in the wake of the storm, he began to worry he might not have enough loose rocks to finish the project. He scoured the entire world, grabbing anything fist-sized or larger that might find a place in one of his walls.
By the middle of the day, the walls were standing about knee-high, slowly rising around the timber supports. He left it to dry and went back to his fire, sticks in hand to rouse the embers back into flames so he could cook some more of the roots for lunch.
The thought of somehow breaching the wall had never been far from his mind. Even in the heat of hauling rocks and piling them into place, he pondered the struggles with getting over the cliff and what he might do better the next time. Because there was definitely going to be another attempt. John wasn’t giving up. He needed a better plan, that was all.
John passed by the tallest tree remaining in his world. It was almost half the height of the wall itself. All of the other larger trees had been blasted to bits by the flashes of light during the storm. He figured this one must have survived because of how close it was to the wall. He looked at the distance. It wasn’t very far. Could he use that as a platform from which to throw something over the wall? The cliff was too high for John to throw even a small rock over the top, but what if he could climb the tree and throw from the top?
He set aside the plans for lunch and decided to give it a try. Grabbing a round stone and sticking it into his pouch, he began as
cending the tree. After his attempts at the wall, this climb was easy. It didn’t take long to reach the upper branches, but where they thinned out, he moved more slowly. If he put too much weight on a thin branch and it broke…! Well, the ground was a long way below.
It took time, but he finally reached as close to the top as he thought he could safely climb. He positioned himself carefully, allowing plenty of room for his arms to move freely. Then he pulled the stone out and looked at it. It felt good in his hand. The distance to the top of the cliff didn’t seem so far.
John wound up his arm, swung it back over his shoulder, and sent the rock flying with all the force he could muster.
It flew upward, sailing toward the top of the wall. For a breathless moment, John wasn’t sure it would clear it. But then it vanished out of sight, gone into whatever lay beyond.
“Yes!” John shouted. “I’m just a stone’s throw from finding a way over this thing.”
Chuckling at his own joke, he climbed slowly down the tree. If he could get the rock over, then he could get something else over, too. He just had to build the right tool for the job. Something he could tie to the end of a rope that would hook itself on the top, so he could climb up.
John spent the rest of the afternoon experimenting on the device. He used a chunk of root the size of his forearm as the base for the thing, because it had grown with a sharp hook in its shape.
He reasoned that it would be best to latch on to something up there, whether another tree, the other side of the cliff, or a big rock, there had to be something.
To that root he tied more strong sticks with deep bends, so that no matter which way the hook ended up facing, it ought to be able to attach itself to something.
Then he needed rope, and not just a small bit. John knew he was going to require a lot of rope if he was going to hook the top of the cliff. More rope than he’d ever made before. He set about gathering vines from the surviving trees, heaping them into a pile in the river to soften. Once he had every remaining vine in the water, he started pulling up the water plants with their long root, which the deer had shown him. The root wasn’t as strong as the vines, but it was suppler. He used those smaller lengths to tie chunks of the vine together.
The Human Experiment Page 6
