by Jack L Knapp
Weaving additional fibers and long leaves between the knotted strands improved the bag’s ability to carry small objects. The resultant hybrid was stiffer, as much basket as bag. Needing both, I made another fishnet bag and this time wove extra strings through the mesh, producing a kind of coarse ‘cloth’. A drawstring closed the top and attached the bag to my belt.
Travelers need to carry stuff, but when you find something useful you have the problem of how to transport it. My hands had to be free for carrying my spear and only a few items would fit into my pockets. Bulging pockets might hamper my movements, and that could be fatal.
Everything had to pass a needs test. Can I carry this with me, perhaps for long distances, and not be exhausted at the end of the day? Will it be helpful in the future, or more of a hindrance now? Most things got left behind.
Even so, a flexible basket-like container now hung over my left shoulder, along with the net bag I’d tied to my belt. I held a wooden spear with a fire-hardened point ready in my hand, the club hung at my belt as did my knife and axe. The system wasn’t comfortable, but it worked. I got used to the annoyance because my situation improved with every tool or weapon I made.
#
I’d been working and traveling each day since arriving on Darwin’s World. My current location was pleasant, my traps and hooks were set, so I decided this was a good place to rest and think.
Somewhere out there were other humans. Some had come from my time period, according to what the Futurist had said, some might be slightly more primitive or more advanced. Did all of them get the same equipment as me? It wouldn’t make sense to limit one person and give another more; survival turns on such small differences.
What would the harvesters have sought among potential transplantees?
The primitives of Pleistocene Earth had required thousands of years to develop civilization and science; the harvesters had probably selected people from my timeline because we already had an evolved approach to thinking but might still have the capability to exist here. It would be easier for us to survive without civilization than it would be to educate ice-age humans to fit into a modern civilization. And people from my time still had the kind of curiosity and ambition that the Futurist’s sought.
As for me, in addition to what I’d had on arrival, I had gained a lot more confidence. I had not only survived, I was thriving. I had advanced from rabbit to at least the level of coyote, a predator of small game and scavenger. The spear, club, and net bag made a lot of difference, the cords and traps being at least as valuable as anything else I’d made. They kept me fed without having to always depend on hunting and gathering.
What solution had the Futurists found for transplanting women? They historically lacked the strength or speed of men. They might have stamina, and certainly had other qualities, but if they’d been dropped alone and almost weaponless, they’d have had little chance of surviving. Would women have been transplanted as male-female pairs, or had the Futurists found a different arrangement?
I felt good about how much I’d accomplished. The war club felt comfortable in my hand, the haft balancing the stone head well. The spear was less useful, but I would make a better one later with a stone point.
A light rain began falling, but it didn't concern me; I had shelter to keep the rain off and a comfortable bed of leaves. The fire provided comfort as well as protection.
Meantime, a fish splashed in the stream as it struggled to escape one of my lines.
I hurried to the stream and grabbed the cane pole. A heavy fish, if determined enough, might pull the pole out of the bank; if it did, my supper would be gone. I leaned over the stream and reached as far up the pole as I could to get a better grip, then pulled. The fish tugged back and I felt a sudden twinge in my lower back as something popped loose.
The muscles of my lower back were cramping by the time I finished cleaning the fish. I gimped my way back to camp, then gathered as much wood as I could.
The pain came in waves, leaving me gasping and sweating after each spasm. I didn’t dare lie down, I might not be able to get back up.
I cooked the buffalo-fish, a quick task and not well done but good enough considering. Finally I sat down under the oak tree and ate some of the fish. Leaning back very carefully, I tried to give my lower back as much support as I could. The pain subsided, but every time I moved to put more wood on the fire a spasm wrenched my back.
I was in serious trouble.
Between recurring attacks, I dragged up more wood. The spear was my crutch; it was fortunate that I didn’t have to use it as a spear, because I doubt I could have.
The cramps soon became almost continuous, waves of pain followed by panting relief, then pain again. I held onto the tree during the attacks and waited them out.
Reaching for that buffalo-fish might well have killed me.
I would have laughed if I hadn’t been hurting so bad.
Chapter 4
Time was not on my side.
The pain would pass, eventually; but until then, the fire was my protection and I had to keep it burning. Fuel was plentiful, but gathering it wouldn’t be easy. I couldn’t bend, lift any substantial weight, or even drag the bigger pieces back to camp. I had already picked up everything nearby.
Even more pressing, I had only a little food on hand and I couldn’t get more until my back recovered. Without food, I would soon begin to weaken.
Living a primitive, subsistence life is only fun when someone else is doing it.
#
During that night and the next day, I ate sparingly and drank rainwater, captured in my turtle shells. I pissed near the lean-to; it might repel animals, and lack of sanitation was the least of my worries.
Grasping a branch, I hung by my hands for a time to see if whatever had popped loose in my back would pop back in. Maybe it helped.
That second day was pure agony, there’s no other word for it. The spasms left my back muscles sore, and still they continued. The pain began, muscles would begin to cramp, then seize up for long moments before finally relaxing. Each episode left me sweating and gasping. There would then be a short pause, perhaps a minute, sometimes ten minutes, then the cramps would start again. The soreness got worse, making the spasms even more painful.
I held onto my tree when I had to, hung from the branch when I could, and toughed it out the rest of the time.
Between spasms, ignoring the pain as best I could, I put a little wood on the fire.
During the brief, chill showers, I let the cold rain drip onto my back. I was desperate enough to try anything.
I learned what misery and pain were.
I endured.
#
The spasms lessened during the third day, intervals between cramps lasting longer. I had slept for brief periods, but now got more sleep as the pain lessened. I had been on my feet for the entire time, even while I drifted in and out of sleep, and I was exhausted.
But I had survived.
Even while I was nearly helpless from the pain, still I had somehow kept the fire going, creeping out to drag in more fuel whenever the fire burned low.
It had been three days since the injury, three days I never want to relive. I survived not by cunning, stealth, and knowledge but by pure dumb luck and determination. The luck part was because the worst of the storm held off for two days, and by the time it finally arrived, I’d begun to recover.
On the fourth day, driven by thirst, I was able to use the spear as a crutch and stumble to the stream. The sky was still overcast, thunder grumbled in the distance.
Hanging onto the spear, I slowly crouched, bending my knees, favoring my sore back. Dipping up water with my turtle shell, I drank. I did it again, then once more.
After drinking, I made my slow way back to camp.
Rain was falling in earnest by the time I got there. I huddled under my lean-to, trying to stay warm while listening to water drops hiss on my fire. I salvaged some of the burning sticks and brought them under the sh
elter. A turtle shell, placed upside down over the flames, added more protection. My fire endured, just as I had.
Damp wood steamed near the fire; by the time I added it to the flames, it was dry enough to burn.
The spasms stopped and the worst of the soreness left my back while I sheltered from the storm. I was hungry, cold, damp, there was still residual soreness, but those things would go away as soon as I could begin foraging.
That Futurist may not have done me a favor by putting me here.
There was no letup in the rain that day. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, drops pattered around me where they dripped through the trees. I was cozy under my shelter despite the lingering pain; I was damp, but the fire warmed me. My shelter didn’t provide much of an advantage, but sometimes it doesn’t take much.
The rain stopped during the night. As soon as it was light enough, I sloshed and slipped down to the stream. The river now extended past its banks. The poles and gorge-hooks I’d set out before my injury were gone, washed away.
I drank some of the river water, despite the muddy color, before looking for my traps. But they were washed away too.
How far would the river rise? If the storm was the remnant of a hurricane, flooding would extend for miles inland. The dying storm might also spawn tornadoes, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near one of those.
The clouds hid the sun so that I no longer had a good idea of directions, but by heading upstream I would be moving north more or less. Going downstream, south, would put me where all that water was going, maybe into more storms, so upstream it would be.
My fire had finally gone out, drowned by the rain.
I had the Futurist-provided weapons, plus the club, spear, and bags I’d made. In the bag I had some small bones and several hanks of string. There were three turtle shells under the lean-to for cup and cooking pot.
These were all that remained of the tool kit I’d assembled. Not much, but more than I'd had when I arrived here.
I looked around, making sure I’d forgotten nothing, and headed upriver.
#
Despite the flooding, there were still berries and edible plants around. I ate while I walked north.
My back muscles loosened up, the pain subsided. Muddy ground slowed me from time to time, but I kept moving; there was no other choice.
Until now, I hadn’t been seeking people, but now I would keep going until I found them. Having companions to turn to in time of need was clearly a survival measure.
Two days later, still following the river, I changed course to the west. The skies cleared, the ground dried, the flood subsided. Three days later I located a shallow ford and crossed the river.
I wove strings to replace what I’d lost, then assembled them into thin ropes to replace my lost snares. Traps I assembled from materials I gathered each night.
Ground-level vegetation soon changed and the forest became more open. I decided I was now in what would have been Texas on Earth Prime, west of where Arkansas and Louisiana bordered that state and possibly as far north as the border with Oklahoma.
Memory, real or implanted, told me there were likely remnant glaciers farther to the north, bordered by wide permafrost expanses south of there. Ranges of steep mountains bordered the permafrost belt.
The Ouachita Mountains, lightly weathered in this time, would be a major barrier to any northward movement. There was nothing north of them that I wanted to get to anyway; people would likely be south of the mountains and west of the great forest belt, extending all the way down into what would be Mexico on Earth Prime.
#
I was now at least a hundred miles north of where I’d been transplanted, probably more. The river was behind me, so I headed due west. Traveling got easier as the forest thinned more.
I still had to be cautious. Snakes were around. I’d eaten some, including poisonous varieties, but I avoided thick brush and snakes don’t hunt in the open. Something had screamed off in the distance one night, a cat most likely. Panthers, what farther west would be called a cougar, were known to be in this area, and wasn’t there an American cheetah too? The animal wasn't really a cheetah, more of a cougar but built along the cheetah’s body plan. Coyotes yipped daily but no wolves howled.
Had the Futurist dropped me into relatively-benign territory, so I could adjust to my new life?
#
The net bag became a small backpack after I added shoulder straps. I was now making rope from tall grasses as well as from fibers from leaves. There were more berries, too. I ate them regularly and only the occasional bout of light diarrhea kept me from eating more.
My strength had fully recovered and I had gained back the weight I'd lost during my period of fasting. I was eating two meals a day now and snacking while I walked. I stopped every afternoon, built a fire using the coals I carried, put up a lean-to and put out traps. I also set hooks and fish weirs whenever possible.
I ate what I caught or went hungry, but that rarely happened.
Even so, my dreams were often about what I’d lost. A thick, rare steak; I could almost taste it. Lobster, dripping with butter; eggs, potatoes, and bacon, bread from a French or Italian loaf, German brotchens or Italian rolls, layered with cheese and cold cuts or spread with a thick layer of butter and jam...
I was ready when I spotted the deer.
He, for the head had small nubbins of antler covered with velvet, had come to the stream to drink. His front hooves were in the fresh mud, the rear hooves on the dry area just off the stream’s bank.
That small circumstance cost him his life. Bad luck for him, good luck for me.
His head came up at some tiny sound, or possibly he spotted my movement. But his front hooves slipped as he tried to turn and my hard-thrown spear took him just behind the ribs. The buck humped his back, floundered for a moment, then finally lunged for the bank. Too late; I was close enough by then and the stone club was in my hand. I swung as hard as I could for the area between the antler buds above his eyes.
My aim was slightly off. My movement, the deer’s movement, it made no difference; the stone club-head crushed the deer’s skull. He dropped in his tracks, quivered slightly and kicked his hind legs twice.
Riches! In my situation, that’s what the deer represented.
The spear was undamaged when I removed it from the carcass.
I set up camp a few yards from the deer, building the fire somewhat larger than I usually did. The lean-to could wait, and today I wouldn’t need to set out traps. Even with the fire for protection, the spear remained within my reach while I field-dressed the deer. The spear might be needed again.
Cutting carefully to avoid nicking the bladder or intestines, I opened the body cavity and soon had the entrails out. I saved the heart and liver, then dumped the rest in the stream. The guts would attract scavengers. The lower legs went into the stream too; there was little meat on them anyway, and the scent glands above the joint of the rear legs give venison an unpleasant taste. I split the breastbone and pelvis, then spread the carcass open to cool.
I left the butchering task long enough to put up my shelter and gather wood, then returned to the deer.
I made a rough job of skinning the animal, rolling the carcass in order to cut through the skin over the backbone. He was smaller than I might have expected, about the size of a domestic goat, so handling the weight wasn’t a problem.
I wasn’t slavering, not quite, but there was a suspicious amount of saliva in my mouth!
There are two long muscles along an animal’s backbone, the backstraps. They’re called filets or loin if the animal is a cow. Whatever they’re called, they’re tasty, and I craved the fresh meat.
I left the meat piled on the skin and dragged that to my fire. A scavenger would now have to face the fire as well as a desperate human with a spear before he could steal my meat!
The flames died down and a nice bed of coals formed while I butchered the carcass. I soon had two skewered chunks of backstrap sizzling as the
fat dripped over the coals.
While the meat cooked, I built a drying rack to preserve the rest before it spoiled. It was finished by the time my steaks were ready.
I stuffed myself; there’s just no other word for the appreciation I gave that slightly-charred-on-one-side venison. My stomach felt uncomfortably full, a sensation I’d not felt since the Futurist dropped me here.
The heart and liver, cut into manageable pieces, replaced the chunks of backstrap on my skewers. I let them cook while I sliced the remaining venison into thin strips, then laid them on the rack. The fire’s coals I raked apart to spread the heat evenly. Small hardwood twigs plus green chips hacked from an oak tree provided extra fuel and smoke. I saved the liver and heart, well cooked and wrapped in large oak leaves, for breakfast.
It would take a day for the deer meat to dry into jerky, a welcome addition to my load when I resumed traveling.
#
The landscape became thin forest with occasional large clumps of oak, beech, and hickory so I was able to see farther. I felt safer and moved faster. The deer convinced me that I could find game and dine well in this new terrain.
Watercourses became smaller and less numerous as I continued on, but small streams were found at the bottoms of most hills. I also found springs, a feature not found in the deep forest.
There was another reason I had been happy to see the deer. They require salt, so somewhere around would be a salt lick. I could also see numerous animal trails; these marked preferred travel routes, and in those well-traveled trails I would set snares.
I was sitting on a fallen tree, resting while eating some of my venison jerky, when I spotted a thin tendril of smoke rising from beyond a hilltop a few miles ahead.
#
A dozen men lounged in the shade of a huge oak tree. They wore breechclouts and moccasins of soft leather. One, somewhat better dressed than the others, wore a scarlet-died headband made of deerskin. This one sat apart from the others, the leader or commander of the band.
