Isle of Woman (Geodyssey)

by Piers Anthony

But even as he fell, Blaze was lifting up his shaft to try to fend off just such an attack. The jaws closed on the wood instead of his body. But the striking forepaws caught his jacket, their claws sinking through it and into his flesh.

  He got his legs under him and heaved himself up, violently, knowing that he would be finished in a moment if he did not get away. The shaft shoved broadside at the animal’s body and head, preventing the head from getting into striking position. The claws ripped out of Blaze’s flesh but retained their hold on his clothing. As he struggled free, the stitches gave way, leaving the bulk of the jacket to the cat.

  And now the cat made its mistake. It thought it had hold of Blaze, and when he pulled away from his jacket, hauling the shaft with him, the cat chomped on the jacket. Cat and jacket rolled on the ground in a fierce fight.

  Blaze turned, swung his shaft around, and oriented the end on the struggling mass. “Hey, tuskface!” he called again. “Over here!”

  The cat was already realizing that something was amiss. It withdrew its claws, got its footing, and crouched, ready to pounce. It opened its mouth—

  And Blaze rammed in the pole. This time he scored. It entered the cat’s mouth just as it was opening and the body was launching into the air. The cat’s own leap carried it onto the shaft.

  The shock almost jarred the shaft from Blaze’s hands. But he secured his grip and shoved forward as hard as he could. The pole did not actually go down the cat’s throat; it jammed against the back of its mouth. But its somewhat sharpened point was lodging in something, and the cat was in trouble. It clamped down on the pole, reflexively, trying to bite it, to destroy it. Instead of being smart by scrambling back as fast as it could.

  Blaze kept shoving, and the cat kept biting. Then the shaft wedged in a little more, getting past some kind of barrier, and the cat was in worse trouble. Now it tried to retreat, but couldn’t hold its footing. Blaze just kept jamming the pole in until the cat screamed once more and collapsed. Something vital had been punctured.

  He kept the pole lodged as he got his knife and cut across the cat’s throat. This time the cut was effective, and the blood flowed out. The cat was done for.

  Blaze stepped back. He had won, but as much by luck as planning. He hoped he never faced such a challenge again.

  Now he felt more tired than ever. The fatigue that had been masked by his desperation had returned with full force. But he couldn’t rest yet. There might be other predators coming in.

  He staggered out and fetched wood. He brought it back to the two carcasses as darkness closed. Without the immediate threat of the cat he could range farther, and get enough to last the night. That was important, because already the chill of it was setting in.

  He took the added precaution of harvesting all the tall grass he could, in a circle around the site. It would help start the fire, and extend it some, but that was not his reason. He wanted to prevent the fire from spreading, when he slept. Because a fire out of control would be as bad a threat as the tusked cat had been.

  He made the fire, keeping it small. It was mostly for warmth, and partly to warn away other animals, and partly to signal the People, if they came during the night. He doubted that they would, but they might, if they were sure of their way. A large enough party, with torches, could travel well by night, because then the air was cool.

  When the fire was right, he sat down by it, really appreciating its warmth. There was something about a fire that fascinated him, no matter how many times he saw it, and that also comforted him. How often he had lain with Bunny by the fire, having sex with her there. She was twenty-nine years old now, beyond her youth and full sex appeal, but he still found her satisfying. How he wished she were here with him now!

  He slept—and dreamed instead of another woman. He did not know her name or tribe, but he knew her nature: she was a fire tender, loving the fire for itself. She was his own age, and beautiful and ardent. His dream woman. He had always dreamed of her, even before mating with Bunny. Her eyes were green, like his, and she had burn scars on her fingers, and there was something wrong with her cheek. She was insatiably curious, wanting to know all about everything. He had never met such a woman, but had always longed for her. In fact he had acceded to mating with Bunny because her green eyes reminded him of that phantom woman he loved. Certainly Bunny was good enough for him; in retrospect he concluded that she was the best of all the women he had encountered. He would have congratulated himself on the wisdom of his choosing—except that she had chosen him. But she could not compete with his oddly imperfect fantasy woman. He felt guilty about that, but it was so.

  He woke, finding the fire dying into embers. The feeling of the dream woman grew stronger. He added wood and shaped up the fire so that it burned better, and the image of the woman faded. She was a creature of the dying fire, somehow, not of life.

  As dawn came, so did the People. There was a cry as they spied him. Stone was there, with four hunters. They had traveled by night, perhaps sleeping during part of it, so as to arrive in time to hunt the camels.

  Now they stared at the two carcasses, amazed. “And you said you weren’t a hunter,” one said.

  “Well, I couldn’t wait for you,” Blaze replied, smiling. “And I had to set an example for my son.”

  They laughed, knowing that it had required skill and determination to accomplish what he had, but mostly luck. It would do.

  “I knew you would do it,” Stone told him. “And so did Mom. She said you wouldn’t let a camel get away.”

  The hunters smiled to themselves. They would be the last to deny it. They had women and children of their own.

  Thus seeming plenty quickly became scarcity, as one species after another was hunted to oblivion. Mankind showed no judgment and no restraint. Mastodons, giant beavers, horses, camels and saber-toothed cats joined many species of fish and birds in extinction. What seemed so wonderful to a tribesman—the finding of a small surviving herd of camels—was actually another step in the impoverishment of the variety of species on the continent. But this was only the beginning. It is possible that this destruction of potentially useful species accounts for the Western failure to domesticate animals such as horses, camels, and elephants that contributed so much to mankind’s power in Eurasia, and thus left the tribes of the Americas vulnerable to conquest. The dog was domesticated, but little else.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  TOWN

  Ten thousand years ago, in the mountains of the region known as the Fertile Crescent, mankind was beginning to utilize wild grains such as wheat and barley in a more thorough manner than before. This was not a sudden change; it took time to shift from the primary dependence on hunting and gathering to actual cultivation. Nevertheless, as this supplementary source of food proved to be reliable, so that fewer people died of hunger, the residence of the communities using it expanded. Indeed, agriculture was to make possible an enormous increase in human population. Soon the hunter-gatherer cultures were being crowded out of their ranges, much as the Neandertals were crowded out by the moderns.

  Thus came into being what we call the Natufian culture, a precursor of what is called the Neolithic Revolution. The setting is the Levant, where full language may have evolved 30,000 years before this. The town is an outlying province not far from Jericho of biblical fame, perhaps the world’s first full city.

  CRYSTAL was outraged. “Something’s been eating my flowers!” she cried. “See, they’re chomped off, down low on the stems.” She pointed the damage out to her mother.

  Ember nodded in that parental way she had. “Perhaps an ox.”

  “But, Mother, there’s no hoofprint!” Crystal protested. She was fifteen, and knew what was what. She had guarded these flowers, pulling out encroaching weeds, so that when they bloomed she could pluck them and take them in to beautify their home. She had always had a taste for beauty, whether in flowers, paintings, or in stories.

  “Perhaps rats,” her mother suggested. Her cheek was t
witching just a trifle, which meant she was up to something.

  “They are chewed off too high,” Crystal said, fathoming the error.

  “You must post a discouraging spell,” Ember said.

  Crystal considered. She was not at all certain of the efficacy of spells. Certainly none she had tried had worked very well. But she was untrained in them. “Do you think the priestess would come out and do a spell?” she asked.

  Ember smiled. “She might, for you.”

  The girl reconsidered. The priestess might indeed to it, but not for mere flowers. Spells were reserved for important things. So she would have to see to this herself. “I’ll come out tonight and guard them,” she announced. “Because in one or two days more will be ready to bloom. After that it won’t matter.”

  Ember shrugged tolerantly. “Do as you wish. Check with your father first. But now we must harvest some barley.”

  They got to work, picking the small ripe seed heads and collecting them in their baskets. They had to harvest only the uppermost seeds, because the ones below were unripe and not suitable. Crystal shared her mother’s acute direct vision, so was good at this. It was tedious work, but they made it fun by singing as they labored, with the other women joining in. They developed some really nice harmonies, so that Crystal was almost sorry to finish.

  They brought their baskets in to the pounding women, who used their skill with wood mallets to beat the grains separate from the tough husks. Each family’s basketful was done separately, and the grain returned to that family, with shares taken out for the pounders and for general use. The pounders, male and female, were so skilled that it was better to have them do it, and yield the shares, than to try to do it oneself.

  She did check with Scorch when they returned to the town. He was as usual tending the central hearth. Each family hut had its own small hearth, of course, but it was sometimes more efficient to roast acorns and large carcasses on a big one, then share out the portions. Hunters had brought in a gazelle, which was now slowly cooking; there would be satisfaction tonight. However, ordinarily the communal hearth was maintained simply as the eternal flame, the source of all other fires in the town. Ceremonies were held around it.

  Her father glanced at her in that way he had. “You are insatiably curious, Crystal, just like your mother,” he remarked. “One day that could get you into trouble.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child!” she retorted, though she knew the remark was well intended. “I’m a woman. Just like my mother.” She inhaled to make the point.

  “Indeed you are,” he agreed, casting a frankly assessing gaze across her torso. “Your mother was younger than you when I first mated her.”

  He had turned it on her. “Well, I just haven’t found a man as good as you,” she said, trying not to flush with mixed pleasure and chagrin. If she got much older without finding a man she liked, she might have to visit the big town of Jericho where there were many more men. But she detested big-city ways; those folk thought they were better than small-town folk, ludicrous as that was. “So is it all right if I go out tonight?”

  “I will go with you,” he offered.

  “No! I want to do it myself. I’ll take a spear and a knife. I can handle the kind of animal that eats flowers.”

  He nodded, resigned in much the way of her mother. “You are grown. If you can face the darkness alone, we must let you.” But he looked uneasy about it, and she knew that he would be watching out for her, listening in case she should scream in the night.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said, and kissed him. She had almost always been able to get her way, if her desire was basically reasonable.

  He returned to his work without comment.

  That evening Crystal went out to the edge of the barley field, where her chosen flowers grew. She did it under the cover of the last remaining daylight, knowing that the night marauder would not be close then. Of course it might not show up this night, either, having already gotten many of the flowers. But if it did, she would be ready for it. She hoped. She had a short wood spear, a small stone knife, and her hollow bone firepot and unlit torch.

  She made a nest for herself in the nearby tall weeds and settled down for what she feared would be a long wait. She was well garbed, because it would get cool in the night. Her woven shawl covered her body from shoulder to knees, and her gazelle fur skirt covered all of her legs and feet when she settled down. The firepot was covered so as to give off no light and so little smoke as to be unnoticeable, but it was warm, and helped heat the air under her skirt. She should be comfortable.

  Now she had to be absolutely quiet. She could sleep if she wished, but had to be ready to wake the moment there was the sound of any creature approaching. Her eyes adjusted to the light of the half-moon, so that she could see well enough. If the animal proved to be big, like an ox, she would jump out and frighten it, for they were timid creatures despite their size. If it turned out to be small, she would try to spear it, though she was only a girl and not well versed in weapons. Either way, she would discover what it was, and give it a real scare. For she had a device that should be effective against even a carnivore: her firepot. Both her parents were fire workers, the one for the village, the other for the home. They had taught her the use and control of fire. So she could quickly produce her glowing punk and touch it to her torch and make a blaze of light.

  Time passed, and the sounds of the night came. Some were all right, like the chorusing of frogs and crickets; in fact she wanted those sounds near her, because their absence would signal her presence to the animal. Others made her nervous, like the rustling of what might be a snake. Probably it was just a rat, though. She also saw a large bird swoop silently by, perhaps an owl. But there were no sounds of heavy treading, such as a grazing animal might make.

  Soon enough it got dull, then downright boring. Without realizing it, Crystal drifted to sleep. But she had the sense to remain still and quiet.

  She woke soon; the moon had not moved far. There was heavy motion in the field! It was coming toward her. Her ploy was working. She felt under her spread skirt, making sure of her torch and firepot, ready to bring them together. But not till she knew just what kind of creature she was dealing with.

  The tramping of feet came closer. She didn’t dare turn her head to peer directly, lest that motion make her visible. Unfortunately her peripheral vision was poor—just like her mother’s. But in a moment the animal would come into her line of sight, and she would know.

  Then the moon moved behind a cloud, and the darkness closed in too thickly to give her the necessary view. Oh, didn’t that douse her fire! She could still hear the animal, but couldn’t see it in the gloom of the ground.

  Still, she could tell where it was by the sounds, and the loss of moonlight also made her invisible to it. She could light her torch the moment it chomped her flowers, and illuminate the marauder. So the moon really didn’t matter. She was going to give that creature one big surprise, and it probably would never bother her flowers again.

  It kept coming closer, tramp, tramp. She tried to figure its size and species by the pattern of the footfalls, but couldn’t; they were irregular, and the thing paused often, perhaps sniffing the air. She knew that animals had keen noses, but the human smell here wouldn’t tell it anything, because the flowers were right by the path they followed to reach the barley field. That always smelled of human.

  Finally it was right there, so close she heard its breathing. She could see only a vague hulk, a darkness against the darkness. It loomed over her flowers, and she heard a stalk being crunched.

  It was time to act. She thumbed the cover off her firepot and poked the head of the torch into it. Then she brought both out and blew. The torch flared to life. “Ha!” she cried, thrusting the blazing brand forward.

  There stood not an animal but a man. His mouth was open with surprise. Then he reacted in the manner of a hunter: he leaped forward, bringing his spear to bear.

  Crystal screamed and tried
to scramble away. But she was sitting cross-legged on the ground, and couldn’t move well until she got to her feet.

  Then the man was on her, his arm bearing her back. The torch flew from her hand. Crystal screamed again and tried to push him off, but his hand caught her cape at her chest and shoved her down again as he brought his spear around. She felt his strength, and knew that she had no real chance. He was going to kill her.

  The realization had a peculiar effect on her. She became passive, her fear fading. It was as if she were already dead, so it didn’t matter. She was beyond pain or caring.

  Then he paused. The hand moved at her chest, pressing her breast beneath it. He had discovered she was female. Men didn’t usually kill women. Not right away.

  That snapped her out of her stasis. She inhaled, so as to scream again, but he moved his hand up to cover her mouth. She thought to bite his fingers, but hesitated; that might only make him react in fury, and then he would run his spear through her after all. So she waited to see what he would do, before deciding what she would do.

  He pondered a moment, then came to a decision. He got to his feet, and hauled her to her feet. Was he going to rape her? Now she could scream, but still she hesitated. She wasn’t sure why.

  He bent and put his shoulder to her stomach. Then he heaved her up like a log, draped across his shoulder, so that her head was halfway down his back and her legs dangled down his front. He tramped back the way he had come, carrying her.

  She thought once more of screaming, and once more did not act. She knew this was crazy. The man was hauling her away from the town, to who knew what fate, yet she had stopped protesting. Her mind was coming to terms with the situation. She realized that he had been as surprised as she by the encounter. First he had sought to kill her as an enemy; then, realizing that she was a woman, to silence her; then he had decided to take her home. Maybe to ask his mother what he should do with her.