by Anthology
“There are some odd folk tales told in this area,” Tormes continued. “Huge monkeys with spears, enormously strong wild men who kill cattle, that sort of thing.”
“Are you serious?” I exclaimed. “A lost tribe of cave men in southern Spain? This is not even a wilderness area. There’s little to hunt, apart from . . . well, okay, quite a lot of sheep and cattle.”
“I said we have evidence, not an explanation.”
I munched the last of my salad.
“I must get back to Els,” I said as I stood up.
“Marella and I are—were—having an affair,” Tormes suddenly but unashamedly confessed. “We were on a field trip, looking for excavation sites. When we found Els . . . well, our cover was compromised. Marella’s husband is a minister in the government, and the government cannot afford scandals in the current political climate.”
So there was no love child, but there was a sex scandal.
“Where do I fit in?” I asked.
“Els is to be made public. Very public.”
“She will be terrified.”
“You can make it easier for her by remaining her translator and companion. There will be a lot of money and fame in it for you as well. You need only do one questionable thing.”
“And that is?”
“Pretend to be Marella.”
I agreed. The story was very simple, and the most important part was already on videotape. I had supposedly contacted Tormes about doing voluntary field work at a site called the Field of Devils, just north of Cadiz. We met had six days earlier at the farm of a man named Ramoz, and I had been videoing for two hours when Els had first appeared.
“We are about to watch the most important part of the video that Marella shot,” said Tormes as we sat with Marella and Uncle Arturo in the darkened committee room. “A version has been made without the soundtrack. We shall say that you were inexperienced with the camera and disconnected the microphone.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because my voice can be heard,” said Marella icily.
The screen lit up, showing scrubby pasture and hills. It was fertile, windswept country and a bull was visible, grazing in the long grass. Suddenly Marella zoomed in on a group of people dressed in cloaks and carrying spears. They were stalking the bull. The scene might have been straight out of the Pleistocene had the bull not been wearing a yellow plastic ear tag.
The hunters worked as a team, and there were three men and a girl. We watched as they stripped off their cloaks, then approached the bull naked. Their hair was drawn back and pinned with feathers. The men positioned themselves in long grass and crouched down. The girl collected some stones, then cautiously approached the bull. She flung a stone, which went wide. The bull ignored her. She hit it with her next stone. It looked up, then returned to cropping the grass. The next stone struck the bull just above the eye. It charged. The girl dropped her other stones and ran for the ambush site. The bull slowed, snorted, and then returned to its grazing.
“They’re re-enacting a stone-age hunt,” came Marella’s voice.
“Why bother recording it?” replied Professor Tormes, disgust plain in his voice. “They’re doing so much wrong, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“But it’s a lot of fun,” Marella said as she panned back to take in the overall scene. “They must be actors, practising for a documentary.”
“Maybe. Their consistency people can’t be there, or they’d be screaming about the bull’s plastic eartag.”
“There are no camera crews yet, they must be practising.”
“Well as a re-creation of neanderthal hunting it has more holes than a block of Swiss cheese. I mean look at the girl trying to goad the bull into chasing her by throwing stones. It’s all wrong.”
“Why?”
“Neanderthals didn’t have projectile weapons.”
“But even monkeys throw stones.”
“Bah, that’s just behaviour learned from watching us humans,” scoffed Tormes. “Real neanderthals would drive the bull to the hidden hunters, not let themselves be chased. As for the spears! Neanderthal spears had stone tips; those are just pikes with fire-hardened points.”
I turned to glance across at Tormes. He was squirming in his seat.
“I presume that they cleared this with the man who owns this land—and the bull,” said his voice from the speakers.
“Well, yes. Ramoz is a bit excitable,” Marella agreed. “We should go down and warn them.”
“Not with that bull running loose and no fences to stop it.”
The bull looked up warily as the girl approached again, armed with another a handful of rocks. She shouted and waved. The bull stared at her. She flung a rock, hitting it squarely on the nose. The bull bawled angrily and charged, and this time it did not break off the chase as the girl fled. Although she was fast and had a good start, the bull closed the gap between them quickly as she ran for the ambush site.
“Well now what?” Tormes’s voice asked. “They can’t kill the bull—”
Even as he spoke, the naked three men erupted out of the grass and drove their spears into the flanks of the bull as it charged past them. Far from defeated by the initial attack, the animal turned on the hunters. Now two boys who had been hiding nearby ran up with fresh spears, and the leader worried at the bull’s face with his spear while the other two men attacked its flanks and hind legs. After suffering perhaps a dozen spear wounds the bull’s hind legs gave way, and then the end came quickly.
“I don’t believe this!” Tormes exclaimed. “That bull is part of a prize breeding herd.”
“Was,” said Marella.
We could now hear the tones of a cellphone as Tormes punched in the number for the police operations centre. He described what had happened, there was a pause, then he reported to Marella that there were no re-enactment groups or documentary crews in the area. On the screen, a hunter jumped on to the bull’s carcase and waved a spear high in triumph.
“The police said there’s a military helicopter in the area, and they’re diverting it to these GPS coordinates. That group is definitely illegal.”
“So Ramoz does not know that one of his stud bulls is the star of a documentary on neanderthal hunting?” Marella asked.
“Apparently not. The police said to stay out of sight until they arrive.”
“I’d better stay out of sight even after they arrive,” said Marella.
“Yes, your husband might not react sympathetically.”
“Pity. My tape could make the television news: the last neanderthals, arrested for poaching and taken away in a helicopter.”
“Your tape must vanish without trace, preferably into a fire.”
With the bull dead, several women, girls and children arrived at the kill. The hunters put their cloaks back on and sat down to rest. Using what appeared to be stone knives and scrapers the group began to butcher the carcase. They were efficient and skilled, and it might have even made a convincing picture had it not been for a woman with the cigar and the bull’s bright yellow eartag. The children started gathering wood, and presently the smoker used her cigar to start a fire. They began to roast cuts of the bull.
“I later found the cigar; it turned out to be a roll of leaves and grass used for starting fires,” Tormes explained to me.
“Els has told me she is a ‘hunt boy’, even though she’s a girl,” I explained. “Apparently boys began their apprenticeships as hunters by being decoys who lure dangerous game back to the tribe’s ambush.”
“That makes sense,” said Tormes. “There were several children in the tribe, but the only teenagers were girls.”
“Like in all societies, women could become honorary males in times of sufficient need,” added Marella.
From the speakers I could now hear the sound of an engine. The tribe suddenly grew fearful and huddled together. The engine stopped.
“The police?” asked Marella’s voice. “Already?”
“No, they were
sending a military helicopter,” explained Tormes. “Wait a minute! Someone might have called Ramoz to double check if he knows about those fools.”
There was a distant gunshot. The camera swept giddily up to the top of a ridge, where a figure was waving a gun and shouting.
“Ramoz,” said Tormes.
The farmer worked the pump action of his shotgun then fired into the air again. The camera swept back down to the carcase, but there was now nobody visible. Marella tracked Ramoz as he came running down, his shotgun held high. He reached the kill site, dropped his gun, waved his hands at the carcase, then at the fire, then at the sky. Finally he fell to his knees, clutching at his hair.
“He looks upset,” commented Marella.
“I hope those idiots stay hidden,” said Tormes’s voice quietly.
“Real risk of a homicide here,” agreed Marella. “Stay low. If he spots us he might think we were involved.”
“If he kills someone we certainly will be involved. I can see the headlines now: MINISTER’S WIFE AND LOVER WITNESS MURDER. Stay silent. I’m calling the police again.” There were more cellphone tones. “Cadiz, Tormes again. We have a dangerous situation. The farmer has arrived, armed with a shotgun. Yes, he’s really distraught. No, he’s hugging the head of the dead bull. The hunters have fled, but—”
At the edge of the screen the decoy girl stood up and waved her arms. She was again naked. Ramoz snatched up his gun and shouted something incoherent. The girl presented her buttocks to him. This was too much for the farmer. He levelled the gun and fired. The girl went down.
“Cadiz, we have a fatality!” Tormes cried.
Ramoz ran through the grass to where to girl had fallen. Suddenly spear-wielding hunters boiled out of their cover and lunged at him. The shotgun boomed one more time, then there were screams. The men stood over the fallen Ramoz, and their spears seemed to rise and fall for a very long time. The women and children arrived and gathered around the girl’s body, wailing.
“Cadiz, we have two down now, both presumed dead.”
Now there was the sound of another engine and the whirr of rotor blades, just as Ramoz’s head was lifted high on a spear point. The field of the camera suddenly gyrated crazily.
“Cadiz, tell the pilot to home on the plume of smoke from the campfire,” Tormes called above the sound of Marella retching. “No, that’s just the sound of my assistant being sick.”
Marella had dropped the camera, and the screen just showed out-of-focus grass. The video was stopped, and my uncle stood up.
“Nothing more of interest was recorded by Marella’s camera,” he explained. “The helicopter landed, and the crew found the mutilated body of Ramoz lying beside a naked girl. Luckily for her, the shot missed, but she hit her head on a rock as she stumbled and was knocked unconscious. There was no sign of the tribesmen who killed Ramoz.”
“I left the field at once, and drove back to Cadiz unseen,” said Marella. “The trouble is that dozens of people have now heard replays of the phone call where you can hear me vomiting and José talking about his assistant.”
“I was taken out on the helicopter,” said Tormes. “Carlos, we can say that you panicked about being left alone with the killers still loose, so you fled the scene.”
“Two guards were left there, but they were wearing camo gear and were not easy to see,” said Marella.
“It is a lie, but no harm is being done,” said Uncle Arturo.
I nodded, but said nothing. In a year or two he would suddenly be given some very significant promotion. It was the way of the world.
“Everything that the Rhuun used or wore during the videotape we have just seen was just dumped,” said Tormes. “They stripped naked and fled.”
“Presumably wearing jeans and T-shirts,” said my uncle.
He started the tape again, and a scatter of stone axes, spears, scrapers, and pelt cloaks appeared on the screen, marked off by police cones and crime-scene tape. The scene switched to an archaeological dig, showing a very similar scatter of stone tools.
“This has happened before, here,” concluded Tormes.
“What has?” I asked.
“I am open to suggestions,” said Tormes.
The video ended with footage of Els waking up in the clinic, and of three burly orderlies having a great deal of trouble restraining her. The heidelbergensian girl was at least twice as strong as a modern man. She could win an Olympic medal for weightlifting, I thought, but would she be banned for not being human enough? The others now left, and I sat watching replays of the extraordinary video to fix the story in my mind. As my uncle had said, it was a lie without victims. I made a necklace of paperclips as I watched. Presently Marella came back.
“I have come for the tape,” she announced. “Seen enough?”
“I have a good memory,” I replied. “It’s in the job description for a linguist.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts and strutted around the table, looking down at me haughtily. I knew what she was going to say.
“I should have had the credit for that video,” she said.
“That credit comes with a very high price tag,” I replied.
“True, but I have lived in my husband’s shadow for too long. Being part of this discovery will bring me fame, and I will be part of it. The story will be that I came to the clinic with a headache, saw Els being restrained, and was told by staff that she was just a badly deformed girl. I noticed that she had a very strange language, so I contacted some experts at a university.”
“Better than nothing,” I said.
Suddenly Marella sat on my lap, put her hands behind my head and stared at me intently. There was neither affection nor lust in her expression, but in mine there was probably alarm. She jammed her lips against mine, then pushed her tongue between my teeth. After some moments she pointedly bit my lip, then stood up and walked back around the table again, her arms again folded.
“I can do anything to you, Carlos, remember that.”
Els was strong, Marella was powerful. I had not taken Marella sufficiently seriously, but, like Els, I had never met anyone like her. She removed the cassette from the video player.
“Try to cross me, try to rob me of my role in this discovery and I shall produce this, the original tape, sound and all. Remember that.”
She left. Like Samson, she was both powerful and vindictive enough to destroy everyone concerned with Els, including herself. Power is a product of our civilization, but one can have it without strength. Suddenly I felt a lot closer to Els.
I got no sleep that night, which was taken up with learning my role as Tormes’s supposed volunteer, and learning my lines. A press release about Els had been prepared and distributed by Marella, who was very good at publicity and knew all the right contacts. Just before dawn I looked through a clinic window, and was immediately caught by the beams of half a dozen spotlights. Security guards and police were already holding a line on the clinic’s lawns. Tormes came up behind me.
“There is to be a press conference on the lawns,” he said. “The Cadiz authorities want a share of Els before she is taken away.”
“Professor, the very idea of a press conference is a quarter million years in her future!” I exclaimed. “What do they expect?”
“You can translate.”
“No I can’t. I can barely communicate—”
“Well try! Els is a star. Already we’re getting offers for movie contracts and marketing deals.”
“Marketing? For what? Stone axes? Or maybe hide cloaks?”
“Carlos, use your imagination: She came a quarter of a million years for Moon Mist fragrances has been suggested—”
“Tell me you’re joking!” I cried. “I can’t permit this.”
“You have no choice. You signed a sworn statement that you were my volunteer assistant, and that you shot the video of Els’s tribe killing Ramoz and his bull. Now get her ready to be a media star.”
“How?” I demanded. “She could—
she will—get violent.”
“So? Good television.”
A pinpoint of hate blazed up within me. He was powerful, but he had no strength. He could hurt Els, and I was her only defence. I could hear the distant crowd like the rumble of an approaching thunderstorm as I stepped back into the walled garden. Els called to me, then ran up and took my hands. She pressed them firmly against her breasts. I managed a smile. This was a obviously a bonding gesture, meant to remind me of the pleasures of staying with her. She was strong, yet powerless . . . and had neither strength nor power. I presented my necklace of paperclips to her, but was not surprised that she was more perplexed than delighted. She had no concept of ornamentation at all. Her hairpin feathers were functional; they merely kept hair out of the way during the hunt. I put the necklace around her neck. She scratched her head.
“Har ese,” I said, lacking any words for lucky or charm. Good hunt. To my surprise Els suddenly smiled broadly.
“Di,” she replied, then added “Carr iyk har.”
A couple more questions revealed that although har meant “good” and ese meant “fight or hunt”, when said together and quickly they meant “luck in hunting or fighting”. So, the Rhuun had a concept of good and bad fortune, yet there were many other things for which Els had no words. Metal, wheel, god and press conference were all unknown concepts for her. I heard the approach of the helicopter that was to whisk us away to Madrid. There was certainly no heidelbergensian word for that. The sound made Els fearful, but I held her hand.
“Els, Carr rak,” I explained. Els and Carr are going to flee. She immediately brightened at the prospect. “Hos,” I added. Follow and pointed to the door.
“Thuk ong,” she said fearfully. Death cave. To her the interior of the clinic as a dangerous cave.
I tried to explain that she was about to see frightening things, but that they would not hurt.
“Carr lan?” she asked.
Lan meant both help and protect.
“Carr lan,” I replied, but I knew that I had a problem.
