Analog SFF, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  The clans painted each other's faces in red ochre and white ash for Mahouh's funeral dance. When all were done, Great-nonna Eyeyo gave a gruff harrumph, and all of them, from the matriarchs down to the youngest calves, still holding their mothers’ tails, began circling in a ring so large that it had to go around the far side of the waterhole before coming back to Mahouh's body. They swung their heads from side to side as they went, moving with short, shuffling steps, kicking up dust that hung red in the dull light of the fires. Pain shot through Boumee's injured legs with every exaggerated shift of his weight. Mahouh's great-great-aunt broke from the circle and walked past his still form, running her trunk over him from his brow to the base of his spine. Her sisters followed, each one rejoining the circle when they had done, then Great-nonna Eyeyo and Aamanang and the matriarchs and elders of the other clans, and so on, from oldest to youngest of every clan.

  When Boumee's turn came, he approached the corpse gingerly, dreading the feel of cold, stiff skin. He let out a small cry when he had done, shaking his ears vigorously as he re-entered the flow. Nonna nudged him with her tusk, but not ungently.

  "Little Tum,” she said.

  Aunt Narraar's words rang in Boumee's head as he continued around the circle. What cost, for a war between peoples?

  How many more funerals? he thought. How many more if we make war?

  His path took him to the outer edge of the circle, as those younger than he were coaxed inward to take their turns. Boumee noticed the ape, lying on its side where Boumee had left it. Its small monkey features were unreadable, in the shifting of light and shadow, but its eyes glittered as it watched the dance.

  There was a better way than war, Boumee was certain.

  He waited, fidgeting and impatient, occasionally shooing small vermin away from the ape, while a belated evening meal was finished and the clans gathered around to sleep, the adults forming loose rings with calves in the middle. In the morning, most of the senior aunts from all the clans, along with Aamanang and the other bulls, would be setting out in search of the apes.

  When all was still, and moving as silently as he could, Boumee picked up the ape. It gave a weak cry of alarm, then stilled as he cradled it with his trunk and snuck off into the darkness. Boumee circled wide around the camp until he crossed the path of the apes’ flight the day before. He followed the scent, bending down awkwardly every now and again to bring his nostrils close to the ground. His ears strained for any inkling of a threat, or disturbance from the camp to indicate his absence was noticed. In the distance, a lion roared.

  The scent continued in a straight line across the savannah. Boumee's wounded legs throbbed with the strain of walking. The injury in his side re-opened. He felt thick blood or pus trickling down his ribs.

  He smelled smoke, and paused to set the ape down while he cast about for the source. He spied a flicker of red, a distance off and away to the left of the direction he was tracking. Near the river, Boumee thought, but some way along the bank from where his clan had camped before Mahouh's death. Another clan? he wondered. Or was it?

  Boumee dithered only a moment before scooping the ape up again. He left the scent trail and set out towards the firelight.

  He slowed as he drew nearer. The wind told him that the fire's keepers were indeed apes, their scent a curious mix of carnivore and harmless monkey. Almost certainly they were the same group who had attacked Mahouh—to whom the injured creature lying limp on his trunk belonged. Those he had driven away must have taken a switchback route to their camp, to give them time to see any predator that found their trail.

  They do not know that there are others who do not fear fire, Boumee thought. Otherwise, they would have kept their camp dark.

  Boumee moved stealthily between moonlight and shadow. The ape he carried tried to call out, but it could make only a feeble croak. Its kin remained unaware of Boumee's approach until he stepped into the light of their campfire. Males shouted in surprise and scrabbled for weapons. Females shrieked, smaller than the males, with pendulous teats on their chests. They grabbed squirming infants and older juveniles and carried them to the far side of the fire.

  A pair of males advanced on Boumee, waving flaming torches. Boumee set down the injured ape. He flared his ears and stood his ground, his attention divided between these two and the others fanning out to either side.

  One of the torchbearers lunged directly at Boumee's face. Boumee whipped out his trunk and slapped the burning branch from the surprised ape's grasp. The others froze. Boumee picked the torch up, then flipped it over and stubbed out the flames in the dirt.

  Gently, he nudged the ape lying at his feet with the tip of his trunk. Slowly, he stepped back. The apes stared. Boumee retreated a few more paces.

  For a time, the apes did not move.

  Then the foremost male took a step forward. When Boumee made no threatening gesture, he took another. Suddenly, a female gave a cry and broke from the fireside. It dashed past the hunters, dropping to the ground with a wail to embrace the injured ape.

  The hunters looked up at Boumee. Their round faces seemed solemn. Boumee lifted his trunk to his forehead. After a moment, the nearest hunter copied the gesture with a forelimb. Several of its fellows followed suit.

  Slowly, Boumee retreated into the night.

  There were people standing in the dark, their faces still painted in funeral ochre and white.

  With a bellow, Aamanang charged him.

  Shocked, Boumee raised his tusks in hopeless defense. The impact drove him from his feet. He fought to get up, but the larger bull caught his trunk in a powerful grip and threw Boumee onto his side. Boumee kicked frantically as Aamanang lunged, tearing open his shoulder with a tusk. He screamed.

  Great-nonna Eyeyo crashed into Aamanang's side, staggering him. Nonna and Aunt Narraar followed, driving Aamanang back. He trumpeted in rage.

  "Enough,” Great-nonna boomed.

  Aamanang bellowed, his musth brought to a frenzy by combat and the smell of blood. Boumee could hear the apes shrieking. With an effort, he got himself up onto his knees.

  Great-nonna pulled hard on his ear. “Fool of a calf."

  "They understand,” Boumee said, trying to rise. “We do not need to make war."

  "It is not about understanding, young Boumee,” said Great-nonna, softly.

  Boumee twisted to follow her gaze. The apes clustered around their campfire, weapons pointed fearfully in all directions. People loomed at the edges of the light. Boumee knew, then, with sick horror: this was not to be a brutal lesson, the survivors to carry word that people were dangerous and not to be attacked. This was an extermination, and it would not end here.

  "But they are people,” he said.

  "People that eat meat,” said Great-nonna.

  Aamanang blared a charge. The attackers surged inwards. The apes screamed and scattered, trying vainly to evade swinging tusks and stamping feet. A person crashed through the fire, sending sparks flying up into the night. An ape cartwheeled through the air, broken limbs flailing, and bounced along someone's back before tumbling back into the melee.

  Aunt Narraar returned and wrapped her trunk around Boumee's to help him up. He put his foot down gingerly. The fresh wound in his shoulder was excruciating, but the leg held his weight.

  "We must be certain,” said Great-nonna.

  Boumee turned away from the slaughter.

  * * * *

  Dawn broke as Boumee hobbled down to the river. Antelope and zebra bobbed their heads nervously: drink and look around, drink and look around. Hippos flicked their ears, their eyes and nostrils the only other parts of them visible above the surface of the water. Vultures circled down out of the sky to the ruin of the ape's encampment.

  Boumee wished he could shut his ears to the carrion-eaters’ squabbling. He stood in the shallows to suck up a trunkful of water and sprayed it over himself. He felt queasy and lost, his thoughts scattered and disjointed.

  A bull hippopot
amus decided it had had enough of him and surfaced to belch a challenge, yawning its oversized jaws to show him its tusks. Boumee threw a rock at it. The hippo belched again and rushed up to the shallows. Boumee stood his ground and threw another rock. The hippo stopped short, its blubbery hide quivering as it belched and yawned. Boumee regarded the dumb animal in exasperation, then turned around and limped back out of the water.

  "Boumee!"

  Ush and his mother approached, his little sister breaking into a gallop as she called out. He raised his trunk to touch hers, then tug her ear. He wanted to cry like a calf.

  "Boumee! You are hurt more!” Ush exclaimed.

  Uthathm arrived and bustled about. She made him kneel while she chewed grass to make poultices for his injuries.

  "It is not deep,” she said, examining the gash Aamanang had put in his shoulder. “It will heal, but scar."

  When she'd done, she shuffled with the contents of the carrying dish she'd brought, then scooped it up between tusks and trunk to set it in front of him. Boumee smelled ripe fruits.

  "I thought that you would not want to come back,” she said. “You are Boumee, and grown."

  I do want to, he thought. But his mother was right in her oblique way. It was doubtful Nonna would let him back, even if Aamanang did not attack him on sight, no matter what Great-nonna Eyeyo might say. And Boumee did not even know that Great-nonna or Aunt Narraar would argue his case, anymore.

  "There is a pounding stone, flints, and a cutting stone in the bottom,” his mother said, nudging the bark dish with her foot. She stood in front of him and regarded him with uncommon directness. “Ah, Tum.” She was silent a moment, then: “I am sad."

  "I am afraid,” he replied, standing gingerly.

  "Yes."

  Boumee looked at his little sister, leaning against their mother's leg and worriedly sucking the tip of her trunk.

  "I wish that you were not going,” Ush said.

  "Silly. I am a bull,” he replied. “This day was always going to come."

  "But not on your own."

  He stroked the fuzzy hair on top of her head.

  "Will you come back?"

  His eyes strayed to their mother.

  "One day,” she said. Her trunk touched Boumee's on top of Ush's head. “If a lion spoke, would you trust it? If it said that it would not hunt Ush, could you believe it?"

  Ush looked up at them, from one to the other.

  Uthathm released him.

  "We must return. Come, Ush,” she said to Ush as she turned away.

  Ush dithered, her stubby trunk reaching uncertainly.

  "Go,” he said.

  With a plaintive cry, she spun and hurried after her mother. Boumee watched as she caught hold of Uthathm's tail and fell into step behind her, half turning to jog along crab-wise every now and then to look back at him. Boumee watched until they were small in the distance, then painfully stooped to slide the carrying dish onto his tusks with his trunk.

  He limped slowly along the riverbank, away from the camp of his clan.

  The whooping and yapping of impatient hyenas caught his attention. A pack of them had something caught up a thorn tree. Boumee peered into the sparse canopy.

  He loosed an angry trumpet as he lurched into a crippled gallop. The hyenas scattered, giggling in fear.

  Boumee approached the tree. Three apes clung to the branches, a male and two females. One of the females clutched an infant to its chest. The male had the broken shaft of a stick weapon in its forepaw. Its torso was bloodied, the sparse hair matted red-brown. They stared at Boumee with their wide monkey eyes.

  Lions that speak, he thought. He could not see it in them. Monkeys.

  "You are safe,” he said.

  No sign of comprehension touched their faces. Were these all that escaped? Boumee thought it likely. Something bothered him about the way the infant lay in its mother's grasp, utterly still.

  It was dead, he realized.

  What story would they tell when they found others of their kind? What would the reaction be? He imagined hunters gathered around a campfire, the female holding out its dead infant, “What if it was yours?” A dominant male would follow, shouting and beating its chest in the way apes did, a mimicry of Aamanang's posturing.

  What if it was Ush? And Boumee's mother swaying over her?

  Could Boumee change the story? Slowly, he raised his trunk and touched his forehead.

  After a moment, the childless female lifted its forelimb in imitation. The others remained motionless. He wondered if this was the one who'd grieved over the injured ape he'd returned. He couldn't tell. Did it recognize him? Boumee had no way to know that, either.

  He backed away a short distance and set down his carrying dish. He beckoned for them to come down. “You are safe. I will not hurt you."

  They stayed in the branches, staring in silence.

  Boumee took a few fruits out of his basket and put them at the foot of the tree, then backed away again.

  He watched them for a while, but the apes didn't shift. Boumee went back to the tree and picked up a yellow marula fruit. He offered it to the female who'd returned his wave. The male gave a cry and stabbed at his trunk.

  Boumee pulled away. He paused, considering, while the male gabbled angrily and shook its broken weapon. Boumee coiled his trunk, then tossed the fruit up to the female ape, who caught it deftly.

  The male lunged. The female shrieked and tried to beat it off. They scuffled, and the female lost its balance on the branch and fell, landing heavily.

  Slowly, watching the male, Boumee moved over to the fallen female and extended his trunk.

  The female lay for a moment, panting. Then it reached up a forepaw and helped itself stand. The two in the tree shouted. Boumee ignored them, watching the one on the ground while he backed away.

  Holding its gaze, he slowly turned to pick up his carrying dish and leave. The female ape scurried to gather up the rest of the fruit.

  Boumee heard the patter of footsteps, coming after him.

  Copyright © 2011 Ian McHugh

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Short Story: THE WOLF AND THE PANTHER WERE LOVERS by Walter L. Kleine

  Some bedfellows are even stranger than they look. . . .

  Ace Craddock leaned back in his chair on the sagging veranda of Slow Eddie's Last Chance Saloon and Hotel. Ira and Silas, the two old-timers he was jawing with, not only didn't know they were his marks, they wouldn't even know they'd been marked and taken by poor “sickly” ol’ Arnold Craddock when he left town on the Monday stage.

  "Purty sunset, ain't it, Arnold?” said Silas, with a hidden chuckle.

  The chuckle alerted Ace, telling him he wasn't the only one playing games in this town. “Sure is,” he said, dutifully looking down Main Street, squinting into the soft glare of the huge orange ball hanging above the hills. He saw the reason for Silas’ chuckle.

  A wolf and a panther strolled past Widow Mullins’ little slumping-in-the-wind shack, Parson O'Grady's church and parish house, and the Wells Fargo stage stop, straight toward Slow Eddie's like two old lovers come to town for an evening of fun, sport, and amusement.

  The great, grizzled gray wolf looked older, and maybe wiser, than the hills. The panther, bigger than any mountain lion had a right to be, was in the prime of life, her coat more golden than sunset.

  They passed women and children on the warped board sidewalks. The children waved. Their mothers smiled indulgently.

  Ace stared, slack-jawed, like the city slicker he was supposed to be. Some old carny lived here, probably Silas. The geezer must have trained the animals just to have something to do; something he could use to spook tenderfoots, like Ace pretended to be.

  Best watch out for Silas, Ace told himself. Carnies knew cards.

  Because he knew they expected him to react, Ace scrambled to his feet, wicker chair overturning behind him, right hand clawing awkwardly for his six-gun. He was faster than most gunslingers west of the Missis
sippi, but was no more about to let them see it than he'd let himself get hanged for shooting some mark.

  "Easy, young feller.” Silas’ hand clamped on his with strength surprising for an old man. “Easy now. I know it ain't, uh, you know, usual, exactly, but them there's old friends. No need to worry yore head about ‘em. Jus’ don't get in their way when they've had a few. Siddown, now. You don't want to be rude and act like they was somethin’ odd, do you?"

  Pressure urged his gun hand gently but firmly down. He let the gun slide back into his oiled leather holster and righted his chair.

  "Them there's Lupe and Kitty,” said Ira. “Thought they'd show up tonight."

  "Yup,” said Silas.

  He'd play their game, Ace decided, feeling his blood race with the joy of meeting a real challenge. Who'd have thought he'd find it in Wiggin's Creek, Population 76?

  "Fine-looking couple, Silas,” he said with the practiced sincerity of a lifetime lived by controlling cards and marks.

  "Shore are,” said Silas. “Why, I remember when they first showed up. Winter of ‘66 it was, snow like nobody ever seen, stock dyin', food runnin’ out, couldn't get to the ranges, ride outta town and like as not you'd never come back. Not alive you wouldn't. You'd get found in the spring, if the wolves left anything anybody would know was you."

  The wolf and panther reached the saloon and climbed the rickety steps.

  "Howdy, Silas. Howdy, Ira,” said the wolf, his voice a deep bass, gravelly like some old cowpoke who'd smoked too many cigarettes and swigged too much bad whiskey.

  "Howdy, stranger,” said the panther in a honey-smooth purring contralto. She looked at Ace with the amused stare of an overgrown housecat that knew it was about to be fed. “Fixin’ to stay a while in these here parts?"

  So Silas or Ira was a ventriloquist animal trainer. Ace worked carnies when he was a kid. Deal me in, whichever one of you it is, he thought.

  "I'm just staying a few days, ma'am,” he said, courtly as if addressing the parson's wife, “Name's Arnold Craddock. I'm taking the Monday stage to San Francisco. This here's a nice town. Good folks here."