Then they round the final corner, and he can see his cabin down the street, but Fanny Alice slips on the ice. As she falls to the street, she loses her grip on him and stops her steady stream of incantations. Just like that, the protection or charm or whatever it is has been broken, and he hears the shouts and cries of the prehistoric hunting party as they suddenly appear behind him. Samuel reaches down and hauls Fanny Alice to her feet, and they are running again, luckily avoiding the oncoming spears — spears? where did they get spears? — that clatter to the road on either side of them. And then he is inside his cabin and reaching up onto the shelf to pull down the mammoth tooth.
Fanny Alice has for some unknown reason stayed outside, and he tries to pull her in with him, but she pulls harder, and he finds himself standing on the porch, spear point and molar from a long-dead mammoth in his right hand, a lady of the night at his side, and an advancing horde of primitive men and women coming down the street, prepared to kill him and probably to eat him as well. He giggles, prompted by the absurdity of the situation and by a feeling of absolute mental and physical exhaustion.
Fanny Alice stares at him for a second, then takes the molar and puts it down on the street. Then, with the cavemen less than one hundred feet away and their spears quite obviously being prepared for more deadly throws, she grabs Samuel’s hand and pulls him until he is standing over top of the tooth. She takes the spear point from him and once again cuts his hand with it, then shakes the resulting blood over top of the tooth. The blood that misses it stains the snow and ice it sits upon.
Samuel hears a strangled cry from the oncoming tribe, and although he never saw his face in his vision, he knows that this must be the shaman, and he also knows that the shaman is aware that what Fanny Alice is doing will have its desired effect. An effect the shaman probably doesn’t want, judging by what little Samuel can see of the look on his face and by the tone of his voice.
The others in the tribe react almost instantaneously, arms up and ready to throw their spears to finish this once and forever, but before they can do so the tooth is suddenly gone and Samuel realizes he can no longer see the cavemen. Instead, the only thing he can see is the large, smelly, hairy rear end of a very large mammoth.
No, scratch that. Several very large mammoths. Lots and lots of very large mammoths.
He jumps backward and would have fallen if not for tumbling right into the arms of Fanny Alice. The mammoths, every one of them, recognize the smell of the creatures who took away their young one all those millennia ago, and with trumpeting and a cataclysmic stamping of feet launch themselves toward them, bent on retribution. Samuel can’t see them, but he assumes that the entire tribe of cavemen turn and run. By the time the mammoths have disappeared from view, the streets are completely empty.
Samuel looks at Fanny Alice, and he can tell by the look on her face that she feels every bit as bewildered as he does. One, maybe, but an entire herd…! A question comes to his lips even as he knows she wonders the same thing: “What do we do now?”
Eight Weeks Later
Springtime in the north. Things still green up slower here than they do anywhere civilized, but Samuel wouldn’t have it any other way. The team sent from Edmonton arrived at the same time as the reporter from the Globe, having taken a train from Skagway after discovering that they needed to go through Vancouver. Time was wasted by both parties because of this, but knowledge of geography this far north is not the strong suit of most people who live in more temperate climes.
Of course they were all angry, even furious, when they arrived to discover what had been done to the body of the baby mammoth. The men who had been sent by the museum were especially furious at such a waste, while the reporter had gotten over his initial displeasure when he realized that there was a new and very different story in all this.
But moods changed when Samuel told them all that there was now a herd of woolly mammoths currently living only a few miles out of town, followed for the moment in their circuit by a freshly minted Paleolithic tribe of undetermined origin, some fifty strong. Very quickly more telegrams were sent out, and word came back that scientists and reporters were coming from all over the world, as well as Canadian Government officials who needed to deal with the situation of all these refugees from another time.
As for Samuel, he hopes that, once the caribou come through, the cavemen will abandon their attachment to the mammoths and move on to follow those much more plentiful and easy-to-kill animals. And then there’s their obsession with Samuel: twice now they’ve stalked him through the streets of Dawson, and twice now one of the woolly mammoth aunties has come to his rescue, all of this to the consternation of the other citizens of Dawson.
It’s not the attempts to kill him with spears that he minds so much as it is the smell of the mammoths that lingers on his clothes and in his hair.
Beneath the Skin
Michael Skeet & Jill Snider Lum
Hirota Satoshi rolled over, became aware of the green smell of new tatami, and was, for a moment, completely lost. Where’s the blood? he thought. It had been all over his fingers, but when he tried lifting his hands something held them.
Then he smelled sandalwood and the delightful pulse-quickening tang of a woman, and the bad dream receded into shadows and was forgotten.
He felt his mouth curve up. Forcing an eye open, he confirmed that the sun had not yet risen. The futon was soft and warm. So: he still had no idea where he was, but it was a good place; that much was certain. He rolled onto his back again. His leg brushed against silk.
“Hirota-san?” The woman’s voice was low and flowed sensually over the syllables of his name. The sound brought memory — and desire — back to him in a wonderful rush.
“Good morning,” he said, reaching for her, questing through layers of silk and — what was she wearing? — until he was stroking soft skin. “Dawn isn’t here yet, Akemi.”
“Then we don’t have to get out of bed yet,” she said. “It isn’t as though I need to be back in the women’s quarters before dawn. Or ever again.”
The pleasure in her voice made his heart beat even faster. “Prince Isao was a fool to give you away,” he said. “What could he have been thinking?”
“I like the way he thinks, Hirota-san,” said Akemi. “And I definitely like—”
“I can think of several ways to finish that sentence, none of which involve the prince.” Satoshi slid his hand along the curves and planes of her as best he could through the maze of fabric, until his searching hand encountered a breast. “So why not let me do the thinking for us both, for at least a while longer?” He brushed the tip of a finger across her nipple.
“As you wish, my lord.” He could hear her smile as she reached for him.
“Why are you still here?” Masa glared down at Satoshi, shifting in the saddle as if insulted by the fact that he couldn’t pace while on horseback. “You are supposed to be meeting Prince Isao this morning.”
“The old man won’t be awake yet, Masa. They do things differently in the capital, Elder Brother.”
“My name is Masahiro,” Masa said. “I am the head of the family and your sworn lord. You will treat me with respect, Satoshi. How many times do I have to remind you?” He glared, his face reddening. “My patience with you will not last forever.”
When will you learn that I’m still on your side? Satoshi thought. He didn’t want to fight, though, especially not after such a lovely night. So instead he bowed his head, saying, “I’m sorry, Masahiro — Hirota-san. I’ll go and wake the prince. You have a safe journey back to Ikewara. I’ll send messengers to let you know how Hideki and I are doing.”
“You should have left him in Ikewara. Hideki is a disgrace to his family, to his swords, and to our clan. To say nothing of the negative influence he has on you.”
Satoshi pulled his kimono tighter around him. It was cool this morni
ng; he wanted tea — or, better still, warm sake. “I was always under the impression,” he said, “that I was the bad influence on him. That’s what his mother says, anyway.”
“She does? I will have her punished for the insult to the family.”
Satoshi sighed. “Masahiro, I was joking. You don’t have to punish anybody. Arai-san has the utmost respect for you, as does her son. We all respect you.” Even when you’re a fool — which is more and more often, these days. Satoshi bowed his head again, hoping he looked appropriately cowed and respectful.
He was saved further annoyance and embarrassment by the arrival of Masa’s escort: a dozen mounted samurai, all armoured, and their bearers. Satoshi knew that some thought it in poor taste to wear armour on the road, or indeed anywhere other than a battlefield, but the roads weren’t safe — in his twenty years he had never known a single month in which there hadn’t been fighting somewhere as the clans struggled for ascendancy — and the roads around the capital were especially bad.
“You see?” he said. “Now you can set out for home without delay.” Satoshi smiled.
“Very well. Now get yourself to the prince and earn that gift he sent you yesterday. Find out why he’s complaining and why the taxes he owes aren’t being paid. Resolve the situation so you can get back to Ikewara as soon as possible. This isn’t a holiday.” Masahiro scowled — at Satoshi, at the cold, at the entirety of creation, perhaps — as he kicked his horse into motion.
“A holiday?” Satoshi looked beyond the guesthouse, to the capital huddled below these hills, and tried to count the burned-out shells of temples and homes destroyed during the latest round of fighting. “He thinks I’m going to enjoy this?”
“Your brother is an unhappy man, I think.”
Satoshi turned. Akemi had appeared behind him. She had come so quietly he hadn’t even heard the sound of her wooden sandals on the frozen earth. “Masahiro has a lot to think about, perhaps too many responsibilities,” he said, resenting a little the uncontrollable urge to defend his brother. “The role of daimyo is a difficult one.”
“All true,” she said, her voice soft and low, pitched for him alone, “but he should still show you more respect than he does. Command and leadership are more effectively exercised without arrogance.”
He stepped back from her. “Akemi,” he said, “my brother is evidently not the only unhappy person this morning. Is something bothering you?” Then he realized what might be upsetting her. Why can’t life ever be simple? he asked himself. “Is it something to do with the prince? Is there something I need to know about?” It was ridiculous to be so infatuated so quickly.
“No, there is nothing to do with the prince,” she said. “It’s interesting, though, that you thought I might be unhappy. Most men don’t notice their women. I think I would be wise to keep my thoughts to myself, if I’m to continue being your concubine.” She smiled, but something in the way she showed her teeth made Satoshi shiver with more than the morning’s cold. Looking down, he realized that he’d crossed his arms to protect his belly.
“Oh, Hirota-san,” she said, laughing. “You don’t have to fear me. I’m not spying for Prince Isao; and any way, nobles like him have no power, not over samurai. Remember — your brother called Isao-sama to account, not the other way around.”
“All true,” he said, liking the boldness in her that would have bothered some men. “And yet, I still have the strongest sense that I should keep some parts of myself safe from those lovely, sharp little teeth.”
She laughed again, and this time her smile was of such genuine delight that he was soon laughing with her. “Will you accompany me to the prince’s mansion this morning?” he asked. She wore multiple kimonos, but she wasn’t really dressed for travel. He hoped she wouldn’t make him wait too long.
“No, I would only be in the way. I will be of more use to you getting this house into suitable condition, should you wish to entertain or should a second meeting with the prince be necessary.” Satoshi grinned, pleased that she had anticipated his wishes — well, his brother’s orders. Left to his own desires, Satoshi would have been happier meeting the prince in a warm, cozy tavern beside the river or on the Philosopher’s Path. But Masa had insisted on a demonstration of the family’s prestige and power — such as they were. Hence his moving into the shogun’s guesthouse, scarcely used in the years of the shogun’s retirement from earthly concerns. This being the case, though, who better to have as a mistress of the guesthouse — in all senses of the word — than this beautiful former possession of a prince of ancient lineage? How lucky had he been that Isao had sent her to him the day before — presumably as soon as the older man had learned it was Satoshi, and not Masa, he’d be dealing with — and, even more, that she had been so taken with him? I wonder what he sent Masa.
“I have to agree with you,” he said. “Not that you would be in my way, but that someone does have to take this place in hand.” He checked the sun’s height. “And I have my own challenge. I have to wake Arai-san.”
“No need. Arai-san is here, and with sustenance.” Satoshi turned from Akemi to find Hideki standing in an open doorway, a flask of steaming sake in one large hand. “I bought this on Philosopher’s Path,” he said. “It’s better than what was here. I had to sign your name for it—” he waved the paper he held in his other hand “—but I’m good for it.” He tucked the paper back inside his kimono; when his hand emerged again it held two cups. “We want to be fortified for our day’s work, brother.” Stepping down from the house, he filled a cup and handed it to Satoshi. Then he filled the second cup. “To your good health, brother.”
“And yours.” Satoshi drained his cup. “An auspicious start to our journey.”
“Please don’t make it too auspicious.” Akemi’s expression was not friendly, and for a moment Satoshi was concerned. Then he relaxed, realizing that Hideki was the object of her displeasure. Hideki prompted that response in many people, especially women. Sometimes people — Masa, for instance — responded that way even though they knew Hideki well, knew of his loyalty, his cleverness, his tenacity. “Prince Isao may not have much power,” Akemi said when she saw Satoshi looking at her, “but he prides himself on his manners. You will not impress him if you arrive at his mansion drunk before mid-morning.”
“Never fear, my lady disdain,” Hideki said with a conspiratorial grin. “It takes much, much more than the contents of this tiny thing—” he waved the flask “—to get me drunk. This is just a little something to warm our journey.”
“Speaking of which,” said, Satoshi, “it’s time we began it.”
“It’s prettier in the hills,” Hideki muttered. “We should have made the prince come to us. Better still, we should have stayed in Ikewara. The sake there is so much better than this slop. I wouldn’t feed this to fish.” He drained his cup.
“There are plenty of burned temples and homes in the hills, too,” Satoshi said. He called on Amida Buddha as they passed a giant bird’s nest of blackened posts and timbers. A ragged old peasant picked over the ruins. “I wish the shogun was stronger.”
“The way your brother is strong?” Hideki flicked his reins, evidently anxious to put the ruined temple behind them. “If you think your life is busy now, Satoshi, imagine what it would be like with a bigger Masahiro passing judgment over every aspect of it. Chaos may be bad for some people, but it makes it a lot easier for those like us to enjoy ourselves undisturbed.”
Mention of his brother brought something to the fore of Satoshi’s mind. “Tell me,” he said, “has anything struck you as unusual or odd about this tax problem of the prince’s? Taxes are paid in rice, and while we don’t know the prince at all I’m pretty sure he—”
He didn’t finish. The capital and its early morning quiet vanished; Satoshi found himself, sweaty and bloodied, standing in a field of golden rice. A man knelt before him, head lowered. The man’s r
ight arm ended at the wrist in a dripping, dirt-encrusted stump. Satoshi tasted blood; a katana flashed — his own, he realized — and the stranger’s head fell among the rice stalks. Satoshi reached down, grabbed the blood-spattered hair…
“Hey, brother! You’ve cut yourself!”
Satoshi found himself back in Heian-kyo. On the ground. Hideki was looking down at him; so was his horse, and the latter wore an expression suggesting amusement.
“Did the horse throw me?” That would be deeply embarrassing.
“No,” said Hideki, lifting him up — when had his friend become so strong? — “nothing so entertaining. You just slumped forward, then slid off the saddle. Must have hit the stirrup on your way down.” That explained the blood, at least. Satoshi touched his forehead. The wound, just above his left eye, felt enormous, which meant it was probably no bigger than a grain of rice. “I think you were under a spell there,” Hideki said.
“It was my nightmare,” Satoshi said. “I woke suddenly, before dawn, but by the time I was awake I couldn’t remember what it was that had frightened me. But this was it.” He shook his head. “I know it.”
“What did you see?” Hideki helped him back onto his horse, looking at him very closely.
“I don’t want to talk about it. What I want to do is go back to the guesthouse and get cleaned up.”
Late as they were in arriving at the decaying mansion Prince Isao called home, Satoshi and Hideki still had to wait an insultingly long time, sipping weak tea, while the prince had himself dressed to receive them. Masahiro would have barged in on the old man after the first cup of tea, Satoshi knew. I can afford to wait, he thought.
He was on the verge of changing his mind about waiting when he and Hideki were finally ushered into Prince Isao’s presence. The prince wore the full regalia of a member of the kuge, the hereditary nobility that had ruled the empire hundreds of years ago. If the prince thought overmuch of how he and his class depended utterly on the samurai who had displaced them, he showed no sign of it as he gestured his visitors to sit.
Tesseracts Twelve: New Novellas of Canadian Fantastic Fiction Page 4
