The Last Neanderthal

by Claire Cameron

  Cautiously, he tracked the smell until he saw a body that was much like his. It had a long, slinky coat and spots that perfectly blended in with the mulch of dead leaves and downed logs in the forest. A female leopard had come onto the land. They saw each other and both crept closer. She rushed at him and they had a brief scuffle. He tore a small rip in her ear near the tip, but soon they decided it best not to test each other further. That became the beginning of a sexual interest and the accompanying hunger.

  When Girl got within sight of the crossing, she had a brief thought about the leopard. She wondered where he was and if he was tracking her. But the leopard wasn’t following Girl to her family’s land. He and the female leopard were already there.

  Girl heard a sharp shout. It echoed on the rock cliffs of the crossing, a disorienting boom and vibration, and she couldn’t tell what kind of beast had made it. The hair on the ridge of her spine stood up. She lifted her top lip to feel. The disturbance of the air was strong. There had been a struggle. It came from the camp.

  Approaching slowly, creeping, Girl made her way. She knew all the trees here, which to climb and where the good rocks were hidden, but it didn’t feel like advantage enough. She clutched her spear; the worn groove in her armpit throbbed. The smell of blood was thick in the air. There had been a fight and there was still a warm body moving.

  She crept up close. In a fight, she needed to be present with her senses turned outward. Rational actions have constraints. Instinctive actions happen fast. She tapped into the unthinking part of her mind. She was close to the camp, the fire there was still smoldering. She knew the leopard would know where she was. She couldn’t see him yet, but she could feel his heat. She could smell him in too many places, like he was more than one. She strained for the slightest sound. Nothing.

  To provoke a movement, Girl let out a yowl. She stamped her feet and waved her spear in the air to make her body look as big as it could. But there was no rush of air. He didn’t scare. He didn’t run off. Where was he? She spun on her heel in a desperate search. Before her mind could provide the answers, he burst out from a branch behind her. She turned with only enough time to catch a glimpse of flattened ears and bare fangs.

  The crows startled from their branches then. They had come after the first fight to watch for the moment they could pick at the bones, but that screech let them know it was too soon. With a series of caws, they flapped hard to get some distance.

  The leopard was on her chest. Girl hissed and spat and gave a screech that rushed from her lungs. The cat held fast, his claws hooked in Girl’s cloak; teeth searched for purchase on her neck. She let out a low moan, the sound of fear boiling up in her blood. The fire inside her chest felt low. For a moment, the ground tugged at her. She could collapse under the weight of the cat’s body. She could lie down in the dirt and slip through to the other side of it. The death would be quick. With her cheek against the cool earth, the cat would pierce her neck with his fangs. He would cut off her air and she would fall away. Her meat would go inside the cat and take his shape. She would no longer be part of the family.

  “Aroo!” Her eyes snapped wide open. It was Big Mother. She wasn’t on the ground, but she was somewhere nearby. The sound echoed from so many warnings through her life. It was the sound of encouragement and pride. It was the sound of the family. Girl knew that she must fight. She swerved with the large cat clinging onto her back by his claws. She turned her spear out to catch him in the ribs with the end. With a crunch, the shaft connected. The leopard yelped and fell.

  With narrowed eyes, the female, who had been interrupted at the start of her feast, watched from a tree with ire. A rock whistled by and nicked her ear, so she crouched closer to the branch. She measured Girl’s strength and health, afraid of the upright body. It was of a kind she had rarely seen before. Loose skin hung around the shoulders. The fur was mottled in patches. The leopard’s ears flattened as she felt both attracted to and repulsed by what she saw. She pushed aside her usual fear of the unknown as a larger force swelled inside her body. She wanted to eat and mate. She hunched, flexed her claws, and waited until the upright was close enough for her to pounce.

  Girl staggered, pulled her body up straight, then tucked in her spear to be ready for the next attack. Cold ran along her spine. A growl came up in her throat; eyes wild and the hair on her back erect, she signaled her intent to fight. The spear was part of her body, like an arm that extended her strength. She shrieked and spat, pulled her lips back, and grimaced at the cat.

  The male leopard pounced again, trying to push Girl closer to where the female waited in the tree. He sprang. She watched the long, white fangs come toward her neck, the spotted body in the air, claws out to grab her. Girl thrust her spear sideways. The shaft caught the cat in the mouth. He clamped down and they both fell. There was hot breath. Claws raked and tore through her cloak to her skin. They swiped at her face and chest. The air was full of scowls and yelps, and a clump of fur was in her mouth and grit between her teeth. She wrenched the spear to the side and thumped the cat’s head against the dirt. His jaws let go and he pulled back again.

  Girl scrambled to right herself, but his fangs were almost immediately in her face, like he was intentionally driving her back. She was looking down the cat’s throat now, no time to get the spear around in front of her. She threw her left forearm up and he clamped down on the bone of her arm. She thrust at his side with the pointed stone of her spear, again and again. He huffed through his nose with each stab—hot breath with the tang of blood—but the jaws stayed clamped and he snapped his head to the side. Their bodies rolled. Her shoulder strained at the joint. It felt like the gristle in her arm wouldn’t hold. She curled and got both feet between them. She kicked out. It was enough to release his teeth. His eyes went wide in surprise and a loud mewl came out of his mouth. He leaped back.

  All sides of Girl’s body felt exposed to the air, bleeding. There was no family to watch her back. She didn’t know where Big Mother was. She pulled her bloody arm close to her body. Meat hung loose; skin dangled. The thought of lying down flicked at the edges of her brain, but the blinding-hot pain felt too much like sun. The cat was hunched over and recovering and would soon be on his feet and only one quick pounce away. There was more blood on her. She knew in an instant that only one of them would live. Some meat would get to eat.

  The taste of rock and fur and earth was in her mouth. The bad arm dangled. She had only one arm, one try. The cat’s eyes flickered. He was fur and muscle and force. Her spear was aimed toward him. She held it strong, but too much blood dripped. Her movements were slow. The cat’s eyes flashed onto the tip of her stick. The air between them thickened and their movements slowed. He jumped, but to the side of her spear. One beat of the heart and she had missed stabbing the stone tip into him. The spear glanced off his head. There was no second move.

  The leopard got his claws into her cloak and dug them in. That was when Girl felt the second cat. The weight of the female cat thumped against her back and cleared up Girl’s confusion. She had never known a lone leopard to fight like this. A cave lion might take on the family, but not a lesser cat on its own. There were two cats, a mating pair. They both grabbed at her cloak with their claws and hung on. One thing went through Girl’s mind like a burst of light: She was the eaten.

  Elastic Band

  On Friday night, Simon and I joined the team sitting around the campfire. Most of them would take a break for the weekend and go into town. The next day was my last at the site; Simon and I would drive back on Sunday. He and I sat together on a bench. He rubbed my shoulders while looking around the ring of faces, the people he had heard so much about. Andy gave out beers and one of the students pulled out a flask. It was passed around, each person happy to share the spout, eyes bulging at the burn. Simon took two swigs. I waved my hand and gave the flask to Andy, who had some room in his Dr Pepper can and made a show of tipping in the whiskey. This instantly united those around the fire in a collective “E
ww.” He passed the flask to Caitlin. Her hand darted to cover her tea mug. “I should get to my car before I lose the light.”

  “I’ll walk you.” Simon stood up. He seemed glad to be her escort, maybe because he knew that I’d relax once she left.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, Rose,” she said, pressing a cold hand on my shoulder, acknowledging our final handover meeting.

  I nodded good night.

  Simon led Caitlin down the path from the camp to the rough parking lot. The rest of us watched them walk away. After a pause, Michael, an intern and the youngest on the team, stifled a laugh.

  “Let’s just say she’s not one to let up on her regime.” Andy tipped his can and nodded to Michael. The others felt bold enough to giggle.

  “I don’t think we should laugh at Caitlin,” said Anais, a postdoc whom I admired. “She’s rigid for a reason.”

  “What’s that?” Andy asked, always willing to do my dirty work.

  “She had a breakdown in Kenya.” Anais looked to me. “We all know that, right?”

  “I know her only professionally,” I answered.

  “I heard about it,” Michael chimed in. “Like, she was out in the field for a long time and lost her shit.”

  Anais put her hand on his arm and gasped in reproach. “Michael.”

  “What, isn’t that true?” Michael swiveled his eyes around to me, the acknowledged boss. “Oh, shit, Rose. Sorry, did I piss you off?”

  “I’m hardly that delicate, Michael. But thanks for your concern.”

  “I didn’t mean to tell her secret—”

  “Everyone’s history is their own business.”

  “—or make you mad, especially when you’re pregnant.” Michael continued to dig himself into a hole. “I mean, it’s just that I shouldn’t…you’re pregnant…sorry.” He stumbled. “You still walk faster than me.”

  “Yeah.” I shook my head at him. “And I have larger breasts.”

  “I wonder, is a breakdown why she stopped working in the field?” asked Andy. “I read her book about the gibbon study. It’s out of date but really good. Before Kenya, she was at the top of her game.”

  Anais leaned forward awkwardly, her face filled with shame. “I feel terrible, like I just outed her mental illness or something.”

  “We all have a past.” Andy shrugged kindly at Anais.

  She raised her can. “Cheers to that.”

  Simon’s face appeared in the ring of the fire just as the flask was going around again. “What I’d miss?”

  After an hour spent on lighter subjects, the team left the camp to go back to town. Andy, Simon, and I had agreed to stay in the canvas platform tents for the night to leave enough space in the apartments for everyone else. There was some objection to a pregnant woman sleeping in the camp, but I waved it off by telling them I found the cots comfortable. They weren’t, but I couldn’t quite bear to leave the site.

  I crawled into my cot soon after. Andy and Simon stayed up long into the night. As I fell asleep, I heard Andy’s voice by the fire talking about Patricia, Patricia, Patricia. His wife. All I could think was that he barely ever mentioned her to me.

  The next morning, I woke up feeling confused and thirsty. Had I been at a wild party the night before? Yes, but I hadn’t been drinking. It was my last day on the site. Simon and I would drive back to London soon. Panic set in. My mind leaped into action, but my body failed to follow.

  I tried to sit up but soon realized that I was stuck in the low camp cot. Simon was asleep on the other one; I would have squashed him if he had tried to wedge himself into mine. Andy must have slept in the other tent. I decided to leave Simon be so that I could check the site before he started herding me toward the car. I rubbed my left hip. My tendons were loosening to make room for the baby. And then there was the matter of my lips. They were swollen and cracked. A large, crusted flake of skin jutted up from my bottom lip to pierce the top. This area was hot in the summer, but just then conditions reminded me of my time in the Gobi. I had never felt so parched.

  I didn’t need a biology degree to know that I had not had enough water the day before. The issue was that each mouthful of water reminded my bladder that a small infant was sitting on it. And since I couldn’t pee near the site, I had to spend precious time lumbering out to the latrine. My solution was to limit my water intake—not too much, as I was aware of what the baby needed, but enough. Low on water, my body had diverted resources to the baby to ensure it was healthy, which was a good decision. Or so I tried to tell myself. My body had a clear purpose—to grow a child—but it suddenly seemed at odds with the rest of me. Weren’t we, my body and me, one and the same?

  I grabbed the metal edges of the cot with both hands, pulled my knees over, and rolled off carefully so that I wouldn’t wake Simon. As I stood, the weight of the baby moved along a nerve with a sharp pinch. My breath caught, but I’d managed to relieve the pressure on my left hip. All my things were in their proper places—my work clothes hung on nails banged into the wood tent frame, my trusty laptop sat under a dust cover on top of my cluttered desk, my tool belt with the waist extension waited for me on the floor—but there was a difference. I wouldn’t be using these things anymore.

  There was a wooden crate beside my cot with a water bottle, still cold, judging by the droplets of condensation. It was evidence of Andy. I reached out an aching arm, grabbed it, and chugged. If I hadn’t fully appreciated him before, I was completely devoted to him by the time I drained the last of it. Also on the crate was a plastic Tupperware container, sealed to keep out rodents. It held an apple, a granola bar, and a small square of chocolate. Andy’s long marriage had trained him well. He had a wonderful way of sensing and anticipating my needs. I looked to the bed at Simon, rumpled in sleep. Though our relationship was close and comfortable, we had each stayed fairly self-sufficient. If I was hungry, I got food and ate. I expected him to do the same. Neither of us wanted it to be any other way. But chocolate? Andy had a nice touch.

  I couldn’t hear the clink of breakfast dishes or smell the coffee warming on the camp stove, but I soon remembered it was Saturday. I sat and rubbed my hair, which was thick with dust and seemed to have flattened on one side during my sleep. I glanced at my phone. It was 9:00 a.m. After eating, I heaved into action. Was it possible to dig just a little more today? I had marked a specific plot around the cervical vertebrae, where there was the imprint of an object that might have been handmade. I was burning with curiosity about it. I knew one more day of digging was not enough to make much progress, but nothing in my career so far had felt possible. My willingness to trample whatever doubts lay in my path had brought me this far. I wanted to know what the object might be. In a stiff waddle, I made my way to where my clean trousers were folded and waiting.

  How had I become so pregnant overnight? I stuffed my sausage legs into my work trousers and tugged on the elastic that I used to secure the rivet on the fly. I had rigged the band to bring the two sides as close together as possible. As I stood to pull the pants closed, the elastic band snapped against my fingers and flew off. I looked around for another band but couldn’t find one. The fly of my trousers gaped open.

  I had made a decision long ago that I would never cry at work. While tears are a natural reaction to adversity, I believed crying played into negative assumptions about a woman’s ability to cope with difficult situations. Through all the trials and tribulations that came with an academic career, I had not shed a tear. Not when I was at a site in Turkey and a large pallet slipped from a truck and broke my foot. Not when one of the outside examiners on my dissertation tried to set me back two years by refusing to accept new dating methods. Not when I was publicly mocked at a big conference by a prominent academic (“You sound like you would like to get up close and personal with one of your Neanderthals,” he had remarked during the Q&A session), and not when the room had erupted with nervous laughter and the comment achieved its intended effect of discrediting everything I had said. I t
ook it all on the chin.

  I did not cry at work until I was unable to find a second elastic band to fasten my trousers. That triggered the silent sobs. I managed to bite my lip and not wake Simon, and I hoped the tears would go unnoticed, but then I heard footsteps outside.

  “Rose?”

  I paused, sniffed, and bit down harder on my lip.

  “Rose?”

  Andy. At least it was Andy.

  “Hello. I’m looking for one Dr. Rosamund Gale?”

  “Hi, Andy,” I said weakly.

  “Wha…” Simon rolled over.

  “Are you up?” Andy asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Did you eat?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Don’t get me started about your mom. She’s called twice.”

  “Where am I?” Simon sat up, startled.

  I didn’t want Simon to stop me from digging, and I quickly set myself straight, wiped my eyes on my sleeve, and jammed my feet into my boots. I grabbed my tool belt with one hand, bunched the fly of my trousers with the other, pushed through the tent flap, and launched outside to see Andy. He looked surprised by the sudden burst of activity and instinctively stepped back. “Rose?”

  “Got any bungee cord?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “I’m going to need it. I just have one more thing to do at the site.”

  “I was coming to get you, Rose. Caitlin’s here.”

  “Where?”

  “I know—surprise!” He pointed toward the site. “She went up already.”

  “Without me?”

  “She assumed…you were asleep, judging by the snoring.”