The beast snorted, roared and made as if to charge, head down and pawing at the ground, but it kept pawing as its rear legs collapsed, and in a few moments its pained cries quieted to breathy, blood-foamed baying, and unconsciousness with death imminent if not accomplished.
What happened next shocked and revolted him. The natives swarmed in, carefully drew out the bone-tipped spears, and started lapping blood from the wounds. Okay, he’d heard of that, but watching it was disgusting, even if there weren’t potential diseases from raw cow blood.
They waved, obviously wanting him to participate. He panicked.
Barker said, “fake it,” and bent over. He came up with blood on his lips and cheeks. Well, Ramon had been covered in worse from animals and people, so okay. He could do it.
There was a warm iron aroma to the blood, which mixed with the scents of hide, dung and dirt.
Their literal bloodlust satisfied, they moved in for some butchery. They weren’t bad, but he could do better, so he did.
He needed to be cautious. These guys swung those flint knives around like they were trading cards, swapping between two or three different ones as they cut through hide, meat, tendon. They shouted to each other, joking and poking.
Once situated over the left foreleg, he drew out his Ka-Bar and started cutting. They seemed to understand it was a knife, a lot larger than theirs, and sharp, and didn’t get in the way.
“Don’t let them get hold of it,” Barker said.
“Yeah, they’ll keep it.”
“Or get hurt, or both.”
But the hunters seemed reasonably polite. They let him cut flesh. When he pulled out the saw on his Gerber tool to cut the joint, there were obvious ooh and aah sounds, but still no one got in the way. They seemed to recognize he knew his way around a carcass.
It was exciting, bewildering and creepy to be chopping up a feral cow amongst these people. He kept saying “Africa” to himself, but he knew it wasn’t Africa. Even the remotest Africans knew about steel knives. This . . .
He cut through ligament and had the leg loose. He held it up for whoever would take it, and someone did, hefting it like a barbell and shouting in triumph.
He went to work on the next leg, as Barker did one of the rear ones. Then he got filthy and covered in blood and grease hacking open the sternum and working up to the throat.
He was bloodied to the elbows by the time he got the cavity well open, and someone snatched the liver almost before he finished cutting it, the blood vessels discharging a gush of undrained fluid, dark and thick. Then he had the guts cut, and someone took those, draping them over and around his shoulders like a steaming gray snake.
He assumed those would get used as lashing or something. This was creepy.
He had to hack at the head and between the vertebrae. He wondered if they ate brains, and they did so right there, raw and steaming, followed by the eyeballs, and he almost vomited. Someone offered him a handful of gooey, dripping brains and he held up his hands for “no” and crossed himself. He hoped they’d see it as a spiritual gesture and Madre de Dios, he needed it.
Barker peeled skin back from muscle, and cut off a section of rib and filet. In a half hour, the entire beast was sectioned up and ready to carry back to the village. He took a full rack of ribs, which the natives apparently considered a low cut, and was quite happy. They could have the organs and brains. Ribs suited him fine. He was drenched in blood, goo, ichor and a little bit of shit. He hoped the troops appreciated the food. He’d worked for it.
Ashmi Wise didn’t know what to make of the visitors.
They had two women and eight men, so they acted like a hunting party, not settlers. Settlers would be couples with children. But they had no spears. They worked eagerly, but mostly at camp chores, like the old and young. They politely refused comfort. They wore lots of fancy robes and carried many items, so they were wealthy. They had at least two leaders and two shamans. They spoke no words.
“They must be from very far away not to know any words,” he said to Kotlra Far Eye.
“I think so. Brali!kny’s Band is a Moon west, by the Cold Sea, and they speak words. The vistors’ speaker shaman says they are from the far west, even farther than that, two hands of that distance.”
“That is a long walk. How long have they been walking?”
“I couldn’t understand. He does not yet have enough words. They are not like those other people you saw.”
“No. They had finely crafted sticks and stones, and small wolves.”
“These have no sticks, but very fine items.”
“I wonder what the items are. They don’t like to touch or share.”
“They are strange, but friendly, but also rude.”
“But they have items, yet seem poor. No spears. No dried food. Yet they have nice-nice bedding.”
“It looked like rolled up hides, of very soft leather.”
“Yes. No one has seen anything like it.”
“They are short and pale, as if ill. But they are not ill. They all have the same short hair, as if they have no need to style.”
“The women are beautiful. Even if pale. The one has the red hair the ancient ones were said to have. I would like to see her shape under the robes.” He gestured with his hands. “I think she is juicy.”
“She is. The one man has very dark skin, and then two look almost normal, but even smaller than the rest.”
“It is as if they are not the same people. They don’t even look like people, really.”
“Tell me again about their camp.”
“It is east, not west, a quarter-morning hike. Their lodges looked like great insects, standing on legs. I could see underneath and through them. The sides opened like wings and they climbed inside. They are taller than our lodges, but about as long and wide. They had two.”
“What were they made of?”
“I don’t know. They looked like stone. But they were too big to have been moved.”
“Strange. Could you guess when they were built?”
“I don’t know. How is the one doing with his words?”
“He learns fast, and makes marks on something like bark with leaves in it.”
“What else has he said?”
“I couldn’t say the leader’s name, it is silly sounding. He is titled Ell Tee. That means a leader of a band.”
“What is the speaker shaman’s name?”
“He is Dan Who Knows Speaking. But he doesn’t know much speaking. He is learning.”
“Here he comes, with Ell Tee.”
“Greetings, Dan Knows Speaking and Ell Tee.”
“Greetings, Ashmi and Kotlra. We have water.”
“Yes. Your water skins are nice clever. You should give us one.”
“Our spirit, the Sun Animal, refuse.”
“You should pray to him more, or find a better spirit.”
“We work more? Wood, stone, hide, water?”
Why would they want to work so much? They were not children or old. There were two hunting, that was good.
“No work for now. All is done. Who is the female with fire hair?” He had to point and shrug to be understood.
Dan Who Knows Speaking gave a name that sounded silly, and then said, “She is Jenny Who Leads . . . no word.”
“Tell about the word.”
“Fix . . . trouble . . . people.”
Trouble-fixer was a silly saying. “She is also a shaman?”
“No. People, trouble, hit, stop them.” He demonstrated a punch and a grab.
“Why you stop fighting when they have problem must fix?”
The short man shrugged. “Jenny Who Leads Fighting.”
“Why she lead fighting if she stop fighting? You make no sense.”
“Words behind words . . . broken.”
“You make no sense,” Ashmi told him.
Dan shrugged again.
“How your people trade mates?” Ashmi made a hugging gesture.
“No, no, Jenny not .
. . mate?”
“Why not female mate?”
“Her spirit, no.”
“Your spirits very trouble. You want find others. Who is other female?”
“Regina Leads . . .” he made motions of drawing.
“Marking?”
“Yes. Regina Leads Marking.”
“How many seasons is she?”
“Seasons? Sun?” he waved his hand along the sun’s path.
“Yes, sun turns. Nine seasons.”
“Sun turns, she,” he held up fingers. Ten and ten and ten and ten and five.
“How many?”
The visitor repeated his hands.
“Four tens and five?” He repeated it back. That was also silly. She was a young woman, her face was smooth, her shape was juicy.
“Yes.”
“You mean seasons, not turns.”
“No, four tens and five turns.”
“She can’t be that old. Perhaps two tens five?”
“No, four tens and five.”
“She also has no mate?”
“She has mate. Home.”
“Home is very far?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“She can mate here also.”
“No. None mate here.”
They were very upsetting. Fit men, unusual women, nice-nice items, but they refused to share anything, only offer simple work.
He couldn’t make them trade and swap. That would be rude. But they were rude.
Kotlra asked, “When will you move on?” Good. Yes. If they didn’t want to trade they should go away.
“Two-three days. Four?” he waved his hands flat, which seemed to indicate that was the longest.
Well, they could tolerate these strange people for four days.
He said, “Other visitors here four days. Less strange.”
Kotlra said, “I will talk to Jenny Who Leads Fighting myself.”
Sean Elliott was trying to track everything going on around him.
Oglesby said, “Sir, did you get that?”
He said, “I think so. He wants to flirt with Caswell.” That had the potential to be bad.
“I think he means more than flirting, but I don’t think he will be violent.”
“Hopefully. Caswell!” he called. She was in front of their lodge, with children watching her from a distance.
“Sir?” she turned and looked, and saw Kotlra heading her way.
“He wants to proposition you. Please be gentle with him.”
“Understood, sir. He doesn’t know better.”
“Very gentle. We need a couple more days.” He wasn’t sure how to diplomatically ask her not to clobber the poor savage, when she had a right to by her standards, and was vocal about it.
“I’ll try, sir, but there are lines I am not going to cross.” She sounded firm, bordering on angry.
“Of course. I don’t want you to violate your rules, just don’t hurt him if you can avoid it, and keep it minimal.”
“Will do, sir.”
Kotlra had reached her, and was smiling, hands open. He stepped closer, and she turned slightly, to use her shoulder as a block.
Oglesby said, “Ah, Caswell, they, uh, do it from behind.” He sounded embarrassed even mentioning it.
She nodded, and faced back, just as Kotlra reached out and caressed her. All he got was body armor, but she visibly tensed.
He stepped back.
But he resumed, with cooing sounds and reached out again.
She deflected his hand and said, “Nooo!” as if to a child.
He looked dejected, shrugged, and walked away.
Hopefully that was the end of that. But there were a lot of apparently single men, or mated men with open slots for more women.
Oglesby said, “I told them four days tops, sir.”
“Yeah, let’s keep that promise.”
“He mentioned some other visitors here for four days. It seems to be a good amount of time. Enough to rest, hunt, resupply, and move on.”
“Makes sense. We’ll stick to that, too.”
Alexander had her camera out. It wasn’t bothering the natives, probably because they had no idea at all what it was. He agreed with her idea. The more information they had, the better. Another local male approached her.
She was bent in a half squat, and she had a pretty good shape from that side, for an older woman, muscular and rounded. The local saw it, too, and had his hands free for action. And these people liked to touch and grope even in friendship.
Elliot was about to open his mouth, but the hand was already extended.
It never touched her. She shifted aside, turned, caught his wrist, said, “No!” sharply and shoved it aside hard enough he staggered a step. Whatever martial art she knew, she was decent.
Well, at least the locals were picking up that word, which wasn’t dissimilar from their “Ni.”
Off in the distance were shouts, and the hunting party appeared through the woods. They carried large chunks of something dead.
“Antelope!” Ortiz shouted. “A big one.” He fairly staggered under a rack of ribs, and the others carried . . . good God.
Watching them process the chunked animal was impressive, and revolting. They squeezed out the guts, leaving a pile of shit near the water’s edge. Then one of them shoved a hand inside, grabbed, pulled, and started turning them inside out.
“Sausage casings and water bags,” Barker said behind him. “Possibly gut rope as well.”
“It smells like blood and shit, and . . . rotten meat.”
“Yeah, that it does. We’ll be doing that for sausage casings and bowstrings. They like Ortiz. He sectioned it pretty thoroughly.”
“I’ve seen this animal before,” Elliot said. He kept tight control of his stomach and watched only the parts he could handle. It was unnerving to see so many guts laid out.
Barker said, “Saiga, I think.”
“How do they taste?”
Barker shrugged. “Like cow or venison, I guess.”
Ortiz knew how to help the cooks, who used a chunk of mostly clean rawhide as a prep area. Barker joined them, and Caswell and Alexander showed up with some wild onions.
Caswell said, “We’ll need to stay in touch to find edible plants, sir,” she said. “But these are good.”
They looked like tiny onions with big scallions on top, and likely were, but had a bit of garlic scent.
“Oh, shit, they have salt!” Spencer shouted. “God, yes, we need salt, eating, preparing hides, industrial use. We need that info. And it’s possible they’ll have coal.”
Trinidad asked, “Heating for winter?”
“No, I’m going to build a forge.”
“Hah. Do you know how?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Oh . . . excellent.”
That was good news, Sean thought cheerfully. A forge? Iron tools would make this a lot easier. The trucks only had a few.
The carcass bits got salted and herbed and cooked into an orgy of meat. Some was roasted, some grilled right on the coals, some on hot rocks, some in a depression in a hide, as a stew heated with rocks. That contained the blood, marrow bones and some of the organs. It looked revolting and didn’t smell much better. Elliott hoped to avoid that and eat the steaklike bits.
Other parts were completely wrapped in salt-filled leaves, probably for preservation.
Barker brought over a twig skewer of juicy meat, about medium, hot, and handed it over.
“Thank you,” Elliott said. He took it, blew on it, and cautiously bit.
That did not suck.
It was steak. It was tough and chewy, but it was definitely steak, and a decent cut. The blood, salt, fat and bits of herb made it into something quite enjoyable, even if it was a chore to chew.
Spencer had an MRE package discreetly open. One of the side items, not an entrée.
“Ah, shit,” he said.
“Spencer?”
“Yeah.” He held up the package.
In the
dim light, Elliott could make out, PATRIOTIC SUGAR COOKIES. Yeah, those things, shaped like little Statues of Liberty, flags and other stuff. The last thing anyone needed to see right now.
“Should I share them? I like sugar, but goddamn.”
“Uh, is it safe?”
“Small amount of sugar and starch. They’ll like it a lot. Shouldn’t cause any problems in small quantities.”
“Go ahead.” He wanted the packet himself, but understood Spencer needed to get rid of it, and this would help with diplomacy.
Spencer said, “Hey!” and motioned the chief. He pantomimed food to mouth and handed one over.
The chief took it, nibbled, and got wide eyed. Then he made “mmm” sounds.
In a few minutes, each of the main hunters, several senior females and the shaman had one each. He broke the rest into pieces and made sure each child got a nibble.
“Now they won’t leave me alone,” he said. “All gone.” He shook the empty package, wadded it up, and stuffed it in a case on his armor.
There was no formal fireside chat this night. The locals weren’t hostile, but were cool and uninterested. Apparently, romps with passersby and gifts of stuff were how their culture worked.
“Oh, yuck,” Ortiz said.
He looked over. A woman with a toddler looked like she was kissing the child. She was. Open mouthed. He was about to utter something himself when she pulled back.
Caswell said, “Pre-chewed food.”
“Uh, I guess that makes sense, but is that common?”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of it in our time, but I’ve heard of it.”
Wow. That was messed up.
Caswell echoed his earlier thoughts. “I mentioned exogamy, and trading gifts is a staple in most cultures that have anything. You notice they don’t really seem to have a concept of personal property, beyond which hut they choose and a favorite spear or bag. They share tools, the fire, each other.”
“It sounds very socialist.”
“It is, but not in a bad way. The problem comes when someone decides to stake out more material for themselves, and justify it.”
Spencer said, “As they will. I notice the chief has access to most of the women, even as trade goods.”
“They’re not property,” she argued. “They’re willing, because they’re not seen as property. It doesn’t last, but it needs to.”
A Long Time Until Now - eARC Page 9
