Cretaceous Dawn

by Lisa M. Graziano

  Julian’s hand went to his watch pocket. It was empty. He frantically slapped all his jeans pockets, knowing the compass wasn’t in any of them, knowing that it lay in bits and pieces in Dr. Shanker’s palm.

  There was a hush as first Yariko, and then Dr. Shanker, realized what it was.

  “Look for the magnet,” Julian said. “Is it there?”

  It was not in Dr. Shanker’s hand, although Julian insisted on taking the pieces and looking through them for several minutes. He dropped to the ground and began feeling around in the leaves and soil. “We’ve got to find it,” he said. “We can reconstruct it. The card’s broken but we can make another . . . even a crude one, with just the Cardinal points. . . .”

  But although he and Yariko both searched the area, sweeping the ground with Julian’s pocket knife in hopes that the tiny magnet would stick to it, they found nothing.

  They stood and looked at each other. Julian had an overwhelming feeling of failure, as if he’d done something terribly wrong.

  Then Dr. Shanker laughed. “Who needs a compass? We’ll navigate by the sun and stars. I know a few tricks for finding a rough latitude—and so do you, Whitney. I saw you yesterday, eyeing the sun’s altitude. We’ll be all right. I didn’t trust that little gadget anyhow.”

  Julian realized he was right. The compass was convenient, but not decisive. Strangely, Frank was the only one who remained concerned about its loss; perhaps he was beginning to believe in their real situation. Certainly he hadn’t turned on his radio yet that morning.

  “How do you find the sun’s altitude?” Frank asked. “That could tell us something of where we are.”

  Julian stretched an arm out toward the ocean horizon and closed one eye. “See my fist? I rest it right on the horizon—convenient that it’s ocean—and the top, at my thumb joint, is roughly ten degrees above the horizon.” He placed the other fist on top of the first. “Now I have twenty degrees. The sun is very roughly at twenty-two degrees, I’d say.”

  “What does that tell us other than the time of day?” Yariko asked, trying her own fists.

  “It’s a three-part equation, with one unknown,” Julian explained. “Simple for a physicist. It’s September second, right? So the sun is nearly halfway between its most northern point—our summer solstice—and its most southern point, which is our winter solstice.

  “We’ve picked an easy date, anyway. We’re clearly in the northern hemisphere and at noon today we’ll see just how far north of the sun we are. Then we’ll know our latitude, possibly within five degrees.”

  “We just moved sixty-five million years in time, and you think it’s still September second?” Dr. Shanker snorted.

  Julian shook his head impatiently. “It has to be,” he said. “Or pretty close to it. I’ve been watching the sun. If we’re anywhere near Creekbend, then the time is early September. Or would be if months were recorded around here. . . .”

  “Whitney,” Dr. Shanker said, “can the lecture. I want to know what we do now. Form a scouting party, before we begin the journey in earnest?”

  “Breakfast,” Frank said.

  They looked at each other helplessly. Julian had a sinking feeling as he realized that each and every meal would pose the same problem. They couldn’t expect to knock birds down with rocks every day.

  But Frank already had the solution. “Tubers,” he said, producing a fistful of pale roots that resembled over-large parsnips with feathery greens sprouting from their tops. “I pulled a few up during the night; they were digging into my back. They taste like a mix of carrot and radish. A bit tough, but that could be fixed by a little roasting.” He began scraping together kindling for another fire.

  “You ate them? Without knowing if they were safe?” Yariko sounded aghast.

  “Certainly,” Frank replied calmly. “After studying them a bit. I’ve had to forage on strange plants before, you know. Roots are much less likely to contain poisons than leaves. Always go for the roots, if in doubt.”

  “Well, you’re still alive, so we might as well dig in,” Dr. Shanker said. “Whitney, how about a piece of your compass face? We could ignite a leaf with that bit of glass, now the sun’s up.”

  The tubers when heated on a flat rock were almost sweet, very sticky, and quite filling. Julian’s spirits rose again. This wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, he couldn’t remember having a more satisfying breakfast in a long time. He carefully did not mention the craving for coffee, and nobody else seemed willing to either.

  They discussed the morning’s exploration. Clearly, they needed to see what was immediately to the west, and make a plan for beginning their thousand-mile trek. Equally clear, though unspoken, was the fact that Frank wasn’t going anywhere for a while, and nobody was sure what this might mean for their chances. Yariko voiced the opinion that after they explored a bit Frank should direct them in work parties geared toward basic wilderness survival. Julian wondered if she was only trying to keep Frank’s spirits up; there was after all no point in getting settled in their present location.

  They drew straws, or rather twigs; Julian and Dr. Shanker were chosen as scouts. Yariko would remain with Frank, and he would keep the gun. Dr. Shanker wanted to take it, if only to keep Frank from shooting the returning scouts by mistake, but Frank wouldn’t give it to him.

  “Please, be careful,” Yariko said, as the explorers turned to go. “Don’t leave Frank and me all alone—I mean forever.” But she looked at Julian rather than at Shanker.

  Julian selected stout walking sticks to beat aside the brambles and the two set off along the edge of the trees, Hilda trotting at their heels. The sun blazed across the sea, sparkling over the waves. Julian saw a grim humor in exploring the Cretaceous landscape armed with knobby walking sticks; but he didn’t laugh. Near the water they saw one set of five-fingered tracks, with the trail of a heavy body between them, but no crocodiles appeared.

  Not far down the beach a stream emerged from the forest. They decided to follow it back to its source. It was easy to track, a trough of mud snaking through the twigs and dead leaves of the forest floor. It led directly west, into the woods.

  They plunged into the cooler shade of the trees. There was no sound but the crunch of sticks underfoot and the hissing of the surf, rapidly fading as they walked deeper into the forest. A few flies buzzed about, attracted no doubt to the smell of sweat. By late morning the birds were silent, resting from the heat, and there was no sign of any large animal. Hilda nosed along behind them, panting.

  Despite the popular myth, the Cretaceous flora was not dominated by giant ferns. In fact, ferns were quite rare. Julian had already noted that most of the trees were in the laurel family, although there was no laurel per se. He now saw magnolia, and a scattering of ginkgos. The fan-shaped leaves of the ginkgos fluttered in the slight cross breeze, and the ground was carpeted with yellow leaves from the previous year. Dried and partially decayed nutshells crunched and crackled underfoot, sending up a slightly rotten odor. A patch of nettles grabbed at their clothes and stung the backs of their hands. Already the air was too warm.

  They had not gone far when Dr. Shanker stooped to look at something in the dead leaves. Then he stood quickly and pointed. “Whitney. Is that what I think it is?”

  Julian stooped also, and lifted a whitish object. He held it out on his palm. It was a two-inch tooth, curved and tapered, blunt at the tip from wear. “What did you think it was?” he asked.

  “I think it belonged to a carnivore,” Dr. Shanker said. “Something must’ve died here.”

  Julian studied the tooth closely. “Carnivorous dinosaurs shed their teeth all throughout life and grew new ones—hence the jagged appearance of their dentition.”

  “Can your dental expertise tell you what animal it’s from?”

  This tooth was very distinctive, and Julian had recognized the genus immediately. “See the serrations?” he said. “They’re exceptionally large and hooked, along the front and back edge; a structure unique to Tro
odon.”

  “Large or small?” Dr. Shanker asked.

  “One of the smaller carnivores.”

  “Small!” Dr. Shanker looked over at Hilda. “I used to think her teeth were big. This animal must be five times her size, to have a tooth like that.”

  “It isn’t. It’s smaller than us, in fact.” Julian pushed the leaves around a bit but saw nothing else interesting. “Probably just the size to hunt puny animals like us,” he added. “They’re thought to be intelligent, and to hunt in packs.” He spoke lightly but he shuddered as he let the tooth fall.

  Dr. Shanker only grunted and tightened his grip on the walking stick. They continued into the forest, peering nervously through the trees; but the silence remained unbroken. They tried hard to keep track of the sun and keep as straight a line as possible.

  As the ground became wetter, the character of the plants changed. Ferns grew in patches, and moss clung to the stones and to the trunks of trees. A few close relatives of the sycamore appeared, and their spiky round catkins lay scattered over the ground. Lianas hung from the branches.

  Here they saw their first forest vertebrate: a snake about a foot long and the width of a pencil, which quickly slithered away. Julian was not much worried about snake bites, because he knew poisonous snakes had not yet evolved. The tiny, black-and-white flies were of greater concern, swarming up from the mud and biting at the backs of their necks. They picked handfuls of ferns from the bank to swat them away.

  “Hunting in packs—just like these damn flies,” Dr. Shanker growled as he slapped his neck. Then he pointed to something. “Hey Whitney, there’s a rock sitting on top of another one. Think it’s from your rescue party?”

  Julian scowled. He didn’t like being the butt of sarcasm; it happened too often in his life.

  The mud became a small stream. Hilda, walking happily in the cool water, suddenly froze with one muddy paw raised.

  “Hilda! What is it?” In normal life Dr. Shanker hardly paid attention to Hilda’s frequent pauses. Things of interest in the dog world rarely mattered to him. Now, however, he seemed to lean on her keen sense of animal life.

  In response the hair on Hilda’s back rose and a low rumble came from her chest.

  “Do you see anything?” Dr. Shanker whispered.

  “I see a fallen branch.” Julian cautiously pointed.

  “Hilda doesn’t care about branches. She’s not dumb.” As he spoke Hilda slunk toward the opposite bank, her ears back and her head low. Dr. Shanker reached for her collar but she slipped past him and scrambled up the muddy slope.

  “Don’t follow her,” Julian said, clutching at Shanker’s sleeve, but he pulled away and sloshed after her.

  “Hilda!” he said, in a half whisper. “Come back!”

  She had already slunk into the thicket and disappeared, and he pushed aside the vines to peer after her. He was silent a moment, and Julian waited anxiously, ready to run for a tree. Then Dr. Shanker said in a normal tone, “Whitney, take a look. It’s dead, whatever it is.”

  Julian climbed the bank beside him. In the darkened cavern beneath the trees something lay sprawling on the soil. There was very little smell of decay. Hilda circled, growling.

  It might have been a large lizard, or a small dinosaur, and Julian held his breath and stepped closer for a better view. He prodded the thing with the walking stick and turned it over a few times. A cloud of flies went up with an angry buzz. The head was gone and the scrawny neck flopped about as the body was turned. The hind limbs were much longer than the forelimbs, well muscled, hinged like the legs of an ostrich; one leg had obviously been feasted on. But the most gruesome part was the belly. It had been torn open, as they saw when Julian flipped the animal over.

  Dr. Shanker wrinkled his nose and stepped back as the pile of intestines was revealed, covered with soil and bits of leaves. “What a way to be killed,” he said. “Why wasn’t it eaten?”

  “I’m not sure,” Julian said, also stepping back. “It may not have died right away. It may have tried to keep up with its herd, and the predator gave up, or lost it.” He decided it was a bipedal animal, though it may have gone down on all fours now and then. From the tip of the tail to the tip of the neck it must have measured five feet. “I can’t tell the species. The teeth would have clarified everything, but without them. . . .”

  “You mean the thing could’ve run with its intestines hanging out?” Dr. Shanker sounded horrified. “Well, let’s move on. Some scavenger might come along, and I don’t want to be here.”

  They turned away.

  Finally they reached more open water: a sluggish, oily stream passing between high mud banks. Right at the bank stood three gray old conifer trees of staggering size. They were so close together that a small animal must have carried the seeds to that location and left them, a few hundred years earlier. Julian studied them a moment and decided they were in the cypress family, some close ancestor of Taxodium distichum. More to the point, they were the largest trees anywhere nearby.

  Dr. Shanker looked up into the trees also, as if studying their height. He paced around them with his arms folded. “Taller than all those sycamores, anyway,” he said.

  “Real sycamores haven’t evolved yet,” Julian said. “These are in the same family, but—”

  “Evolved be damned,” Dr. Shanker interrupted. “I’m calling them sycamores. You’re lighter,” he added, before Julian could volunteer. “Ready?” He cupped his hands as a stirrup.

  Julian opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it again. He looked up at the enormous trunk seeming to disappear into the sky, and shrugged. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be out of reach of Troodon, anyway. Keep a good lookout down here.” Stepping into the proffered hand, he balanced against the shaggy bark and strained to reach the first large branch.

  It was too high. He wobbled on his one foot, scrabbling at the bark. “Give me a boost,” he cried, and with his gymnasium muscles Dr. Shanker launched him upward so violently that his brains were almost knocked out against the limb.

  The climbing was easier from there up. Branches jutted out of the trunk at regular intervals like spokes, although they were angled downward so that Julian had to cling tightly to avoid sliding off and crashing to the forest floor. After a few minutes of careful and slow progress he came out through the tops of the “sycamores” and vines, hot, scratched, and dazzled by the sunlight.

  Dr. Shanker was a distant dab of color all but hidden by the intervening branches. “What do you see?” he called up.

  “Nothing yet.” Julian continued to climb. He thought he was about fifty feet up when he stopped. The tree continued on perhaps twice as far as he’d climbed; but even so the breeze was already alarming. At every puff the tree seemed to sway, and Julian’s stomach jumped.

  He shifted his grip and found a comfortable place to stand. Then he looked around.

  The view was fantastic. Looking east he saw the tumbled green masses of the sycamore forest spreading out like a shaggy rug beneath him. Here and there through gaps in the canopy he caught the glitter of water. Beyond the forest lay a dark green strip of the laurel-like trees and beyond that, perhaps half a mile away, lay the beach. He could see a shimmering line of white where the waves came in, and then the vast quiet blue of the sea.

  Since Julian already suspected they were still in South Dakota, probably in Creekbend itself, it was not hard for him to decide what he was looking at. At a guess without waiting for the noon sun he had put their latitude around forty-five degrees north, and the panoramic view now confirmed his suspicions. At this geologic time a vast seaway covered the central part of the continent, stretching north to south, connecting the Arctic Ocean with the Gulf of Mexico. Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana—all were under the Niobrara Seaway. A few million years earlier, and the Dakotas would have been submerged as well; but the inland sea had been drying up for some time now.

  Three days ago, or sixty-five million years into the future, however one lo
oked at it, the land below him had been dry and rocky, cut by roads and sprawling cities, blanketed with smog, smelling of car exhaust, littered with the bones of extinct animals. Now Julian looked out over thick green forests, mist rising in the morning heat, a crystal sea lapping at the shore, a blue sky with hardly a cloud. He was so entranced that he clung there for ten minutes, staring, scuttling from one side of the tree to the other, taking in all the incredible unending wilderness.

  “Hey up there! Anything to see?” Dr. Shanker’s patience had given out.

  “Trees. Lots of trees. And the beach, and the sea. It’s spectacular,” he shouted back.

  “Whitney!” Dr. Shanker bellowed; Julian grinned as he imagined Shanker pacing in fury down below. “I don’t care about the damn beach! Turn around and look west!”

  Julian turned gingerly around, put his arms around the rough trunk, and eased himself over to a branch on the other side. A piece of bark went in his eye and he blinked furiously for a minute, afraid he would lose his grip and fall. When his eye cleared he raised his head to look and gave a shout at what he saw.

  They were on an island.

  To the west lay a strip of water separating them, by perhaps a mile, from what looked like the mainland. He strained to see what he could on the far shore, but he couldn’t make out any detail. The land was green, thick with trees. There appeared to be a cleft in the shoreline that might correspond to the mouth of a large river, but he could not be sure.

  For a moment his heart almost failed him, and he closed his eyes in denial. An island. How much worse could their luck have been? Here was an obstacle before they even began. A mile’s width of open sea might as well be an impenetrable wall.

  Finally Dr. Shanker’s voice boomed up from below. “Whitney! Hey up there! Come down now! Don’t hog it all!”

  Julian sighed, and began to pick his way down again.

  Dr. Shanker took the news calmly. “Well, let’s go have a look at the other side,” he said.

  Continuing downstream they soon reached the western edge of the island. The stream emerged from the forest and disappeared into a soggy delta speckled with ferns and bushes and swarming with flies. Being less than eager to slog through the mud and the flies, especially in the staggering heat of direct sunlight, they stood in the shade at the edge of the forest and looked out.