by David Boyle
“Play him?” Wheajo asked, an awkward tilt to his head.
“You really do need to get out more.” Hayden held the rod up while the fish made its run, reeling then and picking up line when the fish allowed. The next run was shorter, the line now and then bleeding from the reel while he worked the fish gradually to shore. Long and slender, the fish was the equivalent of a torpedo with teeth. “A fish on my first cast! Wow, fishing is never this easy.”
“Is the term ‘never’ not an absolute?”
“You’re determined to make this difficult, aren’t you?” Hayden pulled the pliers from his pocket tackle box. “So how about ‘used to be’? You know, back in the days where we came from?” He pried the hook out and booted the fish into the water.
“What is the purpose of catching the creatures if you subsequently release them?”
“To have fun, Wheajo. The casting, the hope that something will take the bait, and then the wondering what. And if fishing in a place like this doesn’t strike you as fun, don’t come back asking because I won’t waste my time trying to explain it.” Hayden undid the snap and replaced the lure he’d just used with a practice plug. “Here, this is my spare. Thing’s solid fiberglass, so it has to be old. It’s not a great pole… but better than nothing.
“There’s no hooks on this, so don’t worry about getting hung up. You get the hang of casting, you can clip the lure back on. You seem pretty bright. You get a fish… I’m guessing you’ll figure out how to take it off. And try not to get bit.” Mark was whooping it up, he and Charlie busy working a double-hitter, which almost never happened. Back home at least.
Hayden snatched his pole from along the bank. “Sorry Wheajo, but from here on, you’re on your own.”
Ron pitched the rat’s nest into the fire, then worked at retying the swivel while the line burned away—which was better done now as opposed to listening to Mark bitch later about burning plastic. Mr. Explorer had come through again, this time with fishing line. Last trip it was a pliers after a pike swallowed dipstick Wayne’s only spoon. And the time before when someone was short a tent peg, and Hayden had come up with a virgin birth extra. Is quite the crew, he mused, smiling at the way things had always somehow worked out. Trouble finding wood for the fire? Tell Bull and he’d find a tree to rip out of the ground. Pin a canoe in some god-awful piece of river? Ropes, brawn, and a bit of ingenuity would take care of that.
He slid down the bank, giddy yelps spilling along the river. Someone was having a good time. Yeah, if Mark or Charlie couldn’t kludge whatever they needed together, Hayden probably had it in his pack. And if not, they’d manage without it. On their own, his friends could be a little rough around the edges. But together? Hell, they could handle damn near anything.
Ron hiked upriver until he found a spot where the shoreline was wide enough that he wouldn’t snag a root. He flicked his rod at the river, his lure smacking the water short yards away. Not so late with the timing. The lure spun crazily on its way in. He untangled the line from the hook and tried again, his fuzzy-tailed spinner sailing well out into the river. That’s better….
The current straightened his line, and he started cranking, thereafter paying more attention to his friends than his line. The lure stopped, his rod bending steadily as he reeled. “That figures.” A snag on my second cast. He jerked the line to free it, and found himself gawking when the line pulled back! Something was suddenly very unhappy, his line buzzing from the reel. It was a strong, steady pull, and the thought that he had something bigger on than a blue gill brought a smile to his face.
The line sped from his reel, and then kept going as if it would never stop.
“Prentler!”
It was Wheajo’s second fish. Not big, but the thing had swallowed most of the lure. Twice he’d tried to grab it, and twice he’d been stabbed by a fin. The alien had it pinned under his boot, and to this point Hayden had managed simply to watch. But Ron sounded rattled, and while lately that wasn’t all that unusual, this time he looked as though he actually needed help. “How about I give you a hand with that?”
The alien fended him off. “Proficiency is attained through repetition. And unlike your friend, I do not require your assistance.”
Hayden raised a hand, “Hey, just offering,” he said, Wheajo still struggling to extricate the hook when he started alongshore. Ron waved at him to hurry.
“Looks like you tied into a good one.”
“No shit! And he’s taking all my line!”
“You did reset your drag, right? These aren’t crappies you know.”
“Son-of-a…!” Ron fumbled with the reel, found the dial, and gave it a turn. The rod bent with the added strain, the fish still running.
“Don’t quit now. Tighten it some more or he’ll be gone anyway.”
Ron increased the tension a fraction at a time, the line screaming with a tiny, high-pitched wail when the wind blew. The clicks slowed, and eventually stopped. “Thanks for the reminder. I forgot about the drag. Come to think, I might never have changed it before.” The fish wasn’t gaining anymore, but then, he wasn’t either. “Now what?”
“Gimme a break. Try being patient for a change.”
The rod rose slowly; Ron’s face pinched in knots. “At this rate? This is going to take forever.”
Hayden laughed. “That’s what happens when the fish are bigger than minnows.” He waved when Tony held up his latest catch. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You’ll get him eventually.”
The sky was darker, the rumbles becoming noticeably louder over the last fifteen or so minutes. “You still screwing with the same fish?” Mark asked, tracing Ron’s line into the water.
The reel buzzed briefly, a gray-green fin breaking the surface seconds later. “Except that you’d probably lose the fucker, I’d give you the rod seeing as you think this is so easy.”
“And I’d take it too, except that he wouldn’t be official then.” Mark gazed along shore. “With all the crap around here, you’d think there’d be something you could use for a gaff.”
Ron cranked his rod down. “A gaff?”
“Yeah, a gaff. With how big that thing has to be, you could break your line trying to beach it.”
Ron did a quick survey of his own. “After all this? No fucking way! Prentler, why didn’t you think of that?”
“That’s right. Blame me,” he said, right off spotting what looked like saplings nearby. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Mark, got your knife handy?” They hurried along shore, Hayden up the bank when he found a sturdy enough bunch of roots. Mark tossed him the sheath, Ron urging them to hurry while Hayden hacked a forked branch from a tree.
Swirls were blooming along the surface when Hayden came trotting back. “Took you long enough.”
“Uh huh,” said Hayden, wading out. “And I could let you try doing this yourself.” The water crept toward his knees, Hayden feeling his way deeper when a pair of protruding eyeballs kissed the surface. “You see that!?”
Ron had two hands on the rod. “Just get him already!” Hayden reached with his makeshift gaff, probing. “Now would be a good time.”
“Would you quit already! He’s got the muck all stirred up.” Hayden finally made contact, water sent flying when he hooked the thing’s gills. “God bless it! Stop with the splashing already!” he squalled, struggling with whatever it was as he backed slowly to shore.
“Don’t lose him!”
Hayden was drenched by the time he had the thing flopping on shore. “That could have gone better,” he said, flicking goo from his face.
“Congratulations McClure,” Mark snorted. “You just caught the ugliest fish on the entire planet.”
Eel-like in some respects, Ron’s motley green over yellow, single-finned fish had the ingratiating charms of a slug. Its flattened head was fully a quarter the length of its body, a spray of worm-like barbules hanging from its lower jaw. And above its still gasping mouth, a translucent rod-like appendage with a glob on the end t
hat easily could have passed for snot.
Hayden glanced over while rinsing his arms. “That was a lot of work to go through for nothing.”
Ron was examining the thing’s eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s just…. You’re not thinking about keeping it?”
“It’s the biggest fish I’ve ever caught. And yeah, I’m keeping it. Besides, anything this ugly has got to be real tasty.” Ron stared into the bulging eyes. “You my friend, must taste pretty good to somebody.”
Hayden had a squeamish look on his face when a screech nearby sent them recoiling against the bank, the three of them gawking as a pair of pteranodons sailed past. “You see how they were checking us out?” Mark said.
The reptiles banked, the big scimitar wings silhouetted against a darkening sky, white against gray, and headed back. Mark started up the bank, Ron and Hayden scrunched against the incline when the pterosaurs whooshed past just yards beyond the overhangs. Mark peeked around his arm. “Damn, that was clos—” The lip collapsed, and Mark tumbled in a flurry of dirt and pebbles into the river, a section of root poking from his fist.
“Quit screwing around!” Ron snapped, watching the leather-winged reptiles wheel deftly around.
Mark pulled a drippy cigar from his pocket. “Son-of-a-bitch! I only brought a handful of these…!”
Hayden was locked on the fliers. “Ah… now I got it. They want that fish.”
Ron blinked, then hurried over and grabbed a stick poking from the water. “Turn this puppy over to a couple of flying lizards?” he said, tugging. “They want my fish, they’re gonna have to fight me for it!”
Hayden didn’t know how to react. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I worked hard for this thing, and I’m not about to give him up,” said Ron, standing his ground. Staggered one behind the other, the pteranodons screeched past, flaring when he swung his muddy war club. “You got that right! And keep right on going….”
Mark did a double take, the underside of the wings too velvety smooth to be skin. “My eyes going, or are those guys covered in fur?” Hayden assured him it wasn’t his eyes. The reptiles continued on, apparently convinced by Ron’s bravado that they needed to search elsewhere for a meal.
“You look like Duchess after a day in the swamp.” Ron offered Mark a hand, sniffing. “Smell about the same too.”
Mark slopped mud from his hat. “Twice in one day,” he grumbled, staring at his pants. “I was thinking about getting a better look at the rapids anyway. Want to come along, Prentler? I’m not the only one who needs cleaning up.”
“Another time maybe. We get fatso here to camp, I should be good by the landing. You make it that far, watch you don’t get flushed downriver.”
“I’ll be careful.”
14
They were gathered around the Tripper when Mark strolled into camp carrying his socks and shirt. Charlie asked if he’d enjoyed his swim. “Yeah. And it’s a lot easier without shoes. Refreshing actually,” he said, stopping to flip his clothes over the line.
Tony had taken a picture of Ron with his fish, a handful of fillets sizzling as they discussed each team’s findings. Between not having seen any sign of animal activity, the fishing, and the ready access to both firewood and water, there was no opposition to calling the island home.
“Tony, you’ve outdone yourself. Again I might add.” Ron raised his beer. “My compliments.”
“Here here!” the others chorused in, heads nodding.
“Merci beau coup,” Tony said with a bow. “Thank you, gentlemen. You too, Wheajo. And there’s no need for applause.”
They pronounced Anthony Delgado World’s Greatest Chef, at the same time realizing that in every sense whatever they did would in fact be the World’s Best or Greatest. With sated appetites and an occasional honk to remind them where they were, they toyed with the notion of holding a Cretaceous Olympics. Everybody would win something. All they’d need were appropriate prizes.
Tony had a smoke while camp was attended to. Rocks found while fishing were situated around the fire pit. The woods nearby scoured for whatever dry wood they could carry, the twigs piled for starters, branches cut and stacked, and the bigger sections set aside for nighttime use. Charlie hacked down an additional handful of trees at the north end of the clearing, making sure the stubs missed earlier were trimmed flush to the ground. Between the wood scavenged from the forest and the trees cut from the clearing, their stockpile was easily capable of keeping the fire burning for days.
The wind picked up throughout the afternoon, the distant drums rumbling ever louder while the sky turned dark and brooding. With time to prepare and rain a near certainty, the tents were checked for drainage and trenches dug beside them to direct the rainwater toward the oaks bordering the river.
With the campsite still evolving, Wheajo focused on using the time to analyze the plants they’d gathered to determine which were esculent. Interested always in whatever he’d be cooking, Tony was quick to offer his assistance. Wheajo was equally accommodating, and explained in detail how the yaltok operated while performing his tests. Most of the plants were eliminated based on the presence of alkaloids, nephrotoxins, cyanogens, and other active chemistries, the remaining samples afforded qualified acceptance. While it was possible to determine which plants his physiology would tolerate, Wheajo was forthright about his inability to likewise determine if they or others would be similarly acceptable to humans. What was needed, he explained, was a means of establishing the limits to edibility for both species.
Tony recognized one of the samples in the book he carried but had seldom used. From his tent he retrieved his Field Guide to EDIBLE WILD PLANTS, and on page 158 found the picture, description, and instructions on how to cook and serve fiddleheads. While few plants existed that exactly matched their later counterparts, the book had the potential of a genuine Rosetta Stone. Containing not only physical descriptions of a wide variety of plants, it gave information on where to find them, how to prepare them, and often, as in the case of the fiddleheads, when the plants were no longer edible. It was a guide sure to prove invaluable in the upcoming days. They thumbed through it and found a rough match for another sample, and again, the match coincided with a sample previously given a qualified ‘okay’.
The field guide was not all inclusive, no single work of whatever length could do that, and to help fill the gaps Tony proposed that a portion of every foodstuff they possessed be tested, the results captured to create a database against which Wheajo could compare future samples. Odds were that plants would be found that didn’t correlate with anything in the book or what they had brought, and in these situations the alien volunteered to be their resident guinea pig. Tony wasn’t at all keen about the idea, but Wheajo convinced him he would apply judicious caution.
“I’ll be darn,” Tony said finally. “Systems analysis might have a place here after all.”
The forest swayed and clattered, booms carrying from beyond the ridge as they scurried to protect the meat they’d processed, the best of the remaining pieces of corythosaur wrapped in plastic and hauled into the tree near the landing in backpacks to await future smoking. The wind poured through the newly created hole in the canopy, electrified fractures soon shattering the sky.
Bits of green swirled across the campsite, fat droplets splattering the ground, workmen yet scrambling for cover when the downpour started in earnest. The rain sheeted across the forest, the fire sparking in protest as a million fingers drummed along the Tripper. And on and on, through dusk and into evening.
Mark made room for Wheajo and sat snacking a gorp bar while the alien assumed his Buddha-like pose. “What is it that you’re doing there, Wheajo? I mean, I’ve seen pictures of people and animals sleeping in some pretty screwy positions, but I’ve not seen any quite like yours. That just how you sleep, or is there more to it?”
“There is no simple explanation.”
Mark gazed past the mosquito netting to the alread
y growing puddles. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. I’m sure not going anywhere.” The forest flashed brilliant green, the sky crackling for long seconds before the booms sounded.
“Indeed.”
Wheajo explained that his home star was postulated to have encountered one of its galactic neighbors early in its history and at a time when life on Nyvra had recently invaded the land. While the effects on Ty had been inconsequential, the effects on his home planet had been catastrophic. All but the innermost planets had undergone profound orbital perturbations, with many hypotheses suggesting that Ty’s present retinue of seven planets had originally been ten.
Periodic glaciations entombed Nyvra and her sister planet Nyratyra over an estimated few thousands of kilarands. Life on Nyratyra had been virtually exterminated; the perturbations claiming fully 94% of the then extant plants and animals on Nyvra. The planets’ orbits recircularized over the eons that followed, the climate on Nyvra shifting gradually to near-original conditions, while on others it never recovered. The encounter had in every instance left a permanent legacy in the genetic code of every plant and animal in the Ty system, the vast majority of Nyvra’s survivors being those pre-adapted to cold and extended dormancy.
During the Reemergence, as the epoch immediately following the encounter was called, the species best able to take advantage of their earlier adaptations became preeminent. Many species remained enslaved to the yearly cycles, while others evolved beyond them. In the Grotky lineage, the karcharians were the first to do so. A violent and savage world similar to the one they presently inhabited, the ability to tolerate and eventually thrive despite the cold allowed them to exterminate two species following parallel evolutionary tracks. The Karpourii had appeared within a thousand kilarands thereafter, the various subgroups spreading across the planet during a period of episodic glaciations that blocked routes used for transits between continents. Two groups became isolated: one perished, and the other became the predecessors of the Grotky.
