Lewis & Glark | Time Traders | Book One | Chapter 15
“That’s my side of the story. The rest of it you know,” Lewis concluded.
He held his hands close to the small fire sheltered in the pit he had helped dig, and flexed his cold-numbed fingers in the warmth.
From across the flames of the fire, Glark’s eyes, too bright in a fever-flushed face, watched him demandingly. The three of them had taken cover in a cave surrounded by the massed remains of an old avalanche. Maarn was off scouting in the gray drizzle of the day, and their escape from the village was now some forty-eight hours behind them.
“The spherical ship is from another world,” Glark stated. He had been delirious and uttering nonsense yesterday, but today his head seemed more clear and focused. “We had suspected that might be possible. But there is no record of off-worlders arriving here on Telaan Six as early as that. That ship and the aliens you describe — who they are, where they came from — are unknown to us in the modern day.”
“If a ship like this, and possibly others, crashed on this planet,” Lewis pondered, “I don’t understand why there aren’t traces of them in our own time.”
“Because that wreck you explored was embedded in a glacial era,” Glark replied. “Do you have any idea how long ago that was, counting from our own time? There were at least three ice ages here on Telaan Six — and we don’t know which ones the Ones have been to. That age began about a million years before we were born, and the last of the ice drained from the continent some thirty-eight thousand years ago. That pre-dates most sentient beings here, except for an extremely small population of the first natives clinging to a few warmer fringes of wilderness.
“This Boreal age is remote enough,” Lewis said. “I can’t imagine being here when there was literally nothing.”
“Agreed,” Glark replied. “Climate geographical changes all altered the face of the continents over that many centuries. So, in terms of the aliens — even if many of their ships crashed here for some reason, they would all have been ground to bits by ice flows, buried miles deep in quakes and tectonic plate shifts, or rusted completely away generations before the first really intelligent beings arrived to wonder at them. We don’t know if there’s more than one crashed ship at the time you traveled to. If there are, what do you think drew the aliens to Telaan Six?”
Lewis realized that this was the first time Glark had asked for his thoughts or opinion on anything. He was usually the one with all the info and experience and was giving it to Lewis. Maybe Glark had a newfound respect for him, since he had gone back in time further than anyone that was part of Operation Retrograde ever had, and had seen things they had never seen.
Lewis realized that his pause might be confused for intentional dramatic effect. But he was honestly trying to not let the opportunity go to waste, to think of something smart to say.
He dug down deep into his memories of primary school Telaan Six history class and was glad that there was something there to mine.
“The Vielians once had a well-traveled trade route to Ophan,” Lewis said. “Alyne Age traders opened up roads down into Africa. The Mowans knew Nicha. Then came an end to each of those empires, and those trade routes were forgotten. To our Borealean ancestors of the Mid Ages, Nicha was legendary, and the fact that the Vielians had successfully sailed around the Cape of Corona was unknown. Suppose our alien voyagers represented some star-born confederacy or empire which lived, rose to its highest point, and fell again into planet-bound barbarism all before the first of the Telaan Six natives painted pictures on cave walls?”
“Impressive, Freeman,” Glark replied. “ I had no idea you knew so much about Telaan Six history.”
“I’m more than just a pretty face and a fashion icon,” Lewis replied with a smile, motioning to the metallic silver suit he was still wearing.
Glark let out a loud belly laugh. It was the first time Lewis had ever seen him in such a jovial mood.
“I must have been paying attention more than I thought,” Lewis continued. “I definitely never thought that any of that stuff would be useful to know. But here we are.”
Glark returned to the subject at hand. “Or maybe this world was an unlucky reef on which too many ships and cargoes were lost, so that our whole solar system was avoided, removed from the routine trade routes. Or they might even have had some rule that when a planet developed a primitive race of its own, it was to be left alone until it discovered space flight for itself.”
“Right,” Lewis replied.
Glark’s suppositions made good sense to Lewis. It was easier to think that the aliens were inhabitants of another world than to think their kind existed on this planet before his own species was born.
“But how did the Ones locate that ship?” Lewis asked.
Glark groaned as he shifted his massive body so that the flames of the fire reached his other side. He was feeling better, which was a good sign. But his shoulder was still in rough shape. He had popped a pain capsule he had retrieved from his belt, but he was still in considerable pain.
“Unless that information is on the drives we were able to bring back, we might never know,” Glark said drowsily. “One guess. The Ones have been making an all-out effort for the past hundred years to open up Bleria. In some sections of that huge country there have been massive climate changes almost overnight in the far past. Molloths have been discovered frozen in the ice with half-digested tropical plants in their stomachs. It’s as if the beasts were given some deepfreeze treatment instantaneously. If the Ones came across the remains of an alien ship in their excavations, remains well enough preserved for them to realize what they had discovered, they might start questing back in time to find a better one intact at an earlier date. That theory fits everything we know now.”
“But why would the aliens attack the Ones now?” asked Lewis.
“They might not like the idea of pirates looting their ship,” Glark replied, his eyes closing.
Lewis had many more questions that he wanted to ask. And he had enjoyed his conversation with Glark, having proved that he could contribute useful information and ideas. But he knew Glark needed rest, and decided to refrain from bothering him any more.
He smoothed the fabric of the metallic suit on his arm, that material that somehow kept him warm without any need for more covering. If Glark were right, on what world, what kind of world, had that material been woven? And how far had it been brought that he could wear it now?
Suddenly, Maarn slid into their shelter and dropped two dead hares at the edge of the fire.
“How goes it?” Maarn said quietly.
Lewis leaned in, picked up one of the hares and began to skin it.
“Decent,” Lewis replied.
“How far are we from the river? And do we have company?” Glark asked, his eyes still closed.
“About five miles, if we had wings,” Maarn answered in a dry tone. “And we have company all right, lots of it.”
That brought Glark up, leaning forward on his good elbow.
“What kind?” Glark asked.
“Not from the village,” Maarn replied, frowning at the fire to which he added a handful of sticks. “Something’s happening on this side of the mountain. It looks as if there’s a mass migration in progress. I counted five family clans on their way West, all just this morning.”
“The village refugees’ stories about demons and fire might send them packing,” Glark mused.
“Maybe,” Maarn replied. “The sooner we head downstream, the better. And I really hope the whale will arrive on schedule. We do have one thing in our favor. The Spring floods are subsiding.”
“And the high water should have plenty of raft material,” Glark said, laying back again. “We’ll make those five miles tomorrow.”
“Five miles in this country is a pretty good day’s march,” Lewis observed.
“I will make it,” Glark promised, and both listeners knew that as long as his body would obey him he meant to keep that promise. They also knew the futility of argument.
Maarn sat down by the fire. Lewis, having cleaned and spitted the hares, swung them over the flames to broil.
The three finally had more than a handful of grain for a meal, for which Lewis was grateful. They were able to get some sleep, and Lewis had only been awakened once by a small family clan that quietly passed lower on the slope, long after he had put their fire out. He was sure they were no threat, so let them pass without alerting Glark or Maarn.
Glark proved to be right on two counts. They did make the trek to the river the next day, and there was a wealth of raft material marking the high-water level of the Spring flood. The migrations Maarn had reported were still in progress, and the three hid twice to watch the passing of more small family clans.
Once, a small tribe of mostly wounded men marched across their route, seeking passage across the river.
“They’re in bad shape,” Maarn whispered as they watched from behind a growth of tall grass.
They watched the men huddled along the water’s edge while scouts cast upstream and down, searching for a sandbar. When the scouts returned with the news that there was no way across to be found, the tribesmen then sullenly went to work with large, broad knives to make rafts.
“They’re’ on the run,” Glark offered, resting his chin on his good forearm. “These people aren’t from the village. Look at their black clothing and the paint markings around their eyes and cheeks. They’re not like Ulffa’s kin either. They don’t seem local to this area.”
“Reminds me of something I saw once,” Maarn replied. “Animals running away from a forest fire.”
“Ones sweeping them out?” Lewis suggested. “Or the aliens?”
“I wonder if it could be,” Glark whispered, with a shake of his head and a frown. “The Machete.”
“The machete,” Lewis replied, “like the knife?”
“No, the people,” Glark clarified. “They turned up in prehistory about this period, invading from the East. They were known for their swift and brutal movement through new territories, and for their equestrian skills in taming and riding wild horses and zebrelles.”
“This far West?” asked Maarn.
“We don’t know too much about the Machete, except that they moved West from the interior plains. Eventually, they crossed to the continent. They are considered to be ancestors of the Filts who also had a strong equestrian heritage. But in their time, they were a brutal, tidal wave.”
“The sooner we head downstream, the better,” Maarn said restlessly, having heard enough of large knives and brutal tidal waves.
They knew that they must keep to cover until the tribesmen were gone. So they lay in hiding another night.
The next morning they witnessed the arrival of a smaller party of black-clad, painted-face people, again with wounded among them. At the coming of this rear guard, the activity on the river bank was a frenzy.
The three men out of time were doubly uneasy. They didn’t just want to cross the river. They had to build a raft which would be water-worthy enough to take them downstream — to the sea if they were lucky. And to build such a sturdy raft would take time, time they didn’t have.
Maarn waited only until the last tribal makeshift raft had shuttled the last of them across the river, and they had all disappeared into the forest beyond, before he plunged down to the riverbank. Lewis was right behind him.
Since they lacked even the stone tools of the tribesmen, they were at a disadvantage. Lewis found he was hands and feet for Glark, working under the his close direction. Before night fell, they had a good beginning on a sturdy raft, and two sets of blistered hands, as well as aching backs.
When it was too dark to work any longer, Glark pointed back up toward the path they had followed to get down here. Marking the mountain pass was a light. It looked like fire, and if it was, it must be a big one for them to be able to see it from this distance.
“Camp?” Maarn wondered.
“Must be,” Glark agreed. “Those who built that size fire are in such numbers that they don’t have to take precautions.”
“Will they be here by tomorrow?” asked Lewis.
“Their scouts might,” Glark replied. “But this is early Spring, and foraging for food for that many people and animals can’t have been easy. If I were the chief of that tribe, I’d turn aside into the meadowlands we skirted yesterday and let their herds graze for a day, maybe more. On the other hand, if they need water — ”
“They will come straight down this way,” Maarn finished grimly. “And we can’t be here when they arrive.”
Lewis stretched, grimacing at the twinge of pain in his shoulders. His hands smarted and throbbed, and this was just the beginning of their task. If Glark had been fit, they might have acquired a couple of large logs for support and drifted far downstream to hunt a safer place to build their raft. But he knew that Glark wasn’t in any condition for that effort.
Lewis slept that night mainly because his body was too exhausted to let him lie awake and worry.
Roused in the earliest dawn by Maarn, they both crawled down to the water’s edge and struggled to bind stubbornly resisting saplings together with cords twisted from bark. They reinforced them at crucial points with some strings torn from their kilts, and strips of rabbit hide saved from their kills of the past few days. They worked with hunger gnawing at them, having no time now to hunt.
When the sun was well in the West, they had a clumsy craft which floated sluggishly. Whether they could successfully steer it with improvised wooden poles and paddles, they wouldn’t know until they tried it.
Glark, his face flushed and his skin hot to the touch, crawled onboard and lay in the middle, on the thin heap of broad ferns they had put there for him. He eagerly drank the river water they carried to him in cupped hands.
Maarn shoved off and the bobbing craft spun around dizzily as the current pulled it free from the shore. They made a brave start, but luck deserted them before they had gotten out of sight of the spot where they embarked.
Striving to keep them in mid-current, Maarn poled furiously, but there were too many rocks and snagged trees projecting from the banks. Twice, the branches of a large, fallen tree snagged the raft, holding it and twisting it around. But it soon came free, and the raft followed the current out toward the middle of the river.
“Get back closer to shore!” Lewis shouted the warning moments later. “If we get going too fast, we’re going to hit something and this whole thing is going to break apart!”
Glark, lifted his head once or twice, but remained silent, grasping the slats of the raft tightly as it bobbed up and down in the swift current.
The raft seemed aimed straight at a mass of twisted roots, and Lewis was sure if they struck it, they would not have a chance. He pushed down with his own pole, but it didn’t hit bottom. The pole in his hands plunged into some pothole in the hidden riverbed. Maarn cried out as Lewis toppled into the water, gasping as the murky liquid flooded his mouth, choking him.
Dazed by the shock, Lewis struck out instinctively. The training at the base had included swimming. But to fight water in a pool under controlled conditions was far different from fighting death in the strong, unrelenting currents of an icy river.
Underwater, Lewis had the glimpse of a dark shadow. Was it the edge of the raft? He reached for it desperately, skinning his hands on rough bark. It was the tree roots.
He blinked his eyes to clear them of water, to try to see. But he couldn’t pull his exhausted body high enough out of the water to see past the screen of roots. He could only cling to the small safety he had won and hope that he could rejoin the raft somewhere downstream.
After what seemed like a very long time, Lewis wedged one arm between two water-washed roots, sure that the support would hold his head above the surface. The chill of the stream struck at his hands and head, but the protection of the alien jumpsuit was still effective, and the rest of his body wasn’t cold. He was simply too tired to pull himself up and free, and to put any trust in the chance that he could pull himself up and over the large mass of roots and make it to shore through the gathering dusk.
Suddenly, a shock jarred Lewis’ body and dislodged the arm he had thrust into the roots. He let out a loud cry of agony.
He spun around in the water and grabbed onto the large log that had crashed into him. Holding onto the log, he found that luck was on his side. The tree roots diverted the log away from the strong currents in the middle of the river toward the calmer side.
When he felt his feet touch the soft bottom, he let go of the log. He floundered — his arms half reaching, half paddling — in a mass of reeds surrounded by stale-smelling mud. Like a wounded animal, he trudged through the ooze to higher land, coming out on the riverbank and next to an open meadow flooded with moonlight.
He collapsed there, waterlogged, breathing heavy. And discouraged that after reuniting so unexpectedly with Glark and Maarn, he was again alone.
For a while he lay there, his cold, sore hands under him, plastered with mud and too tired to move.
The sound of a sharp barking aroused him — an imperative, summoning bark, neither belonging to a spider-wolf nor a wild fox. He listened to it dully and then, through the ground upon which he lay, Lewis felt as well as heard the pounding of hoofs.
It was the sound of hoofs. Horses or zebrelles from over the mountains, which might mean danger. His mind seemed as dull and numb as his hands, and it took quite a long time for him to fully realize the menace those animals might bring.
Getting up, Lewis noticed the winged shape of a bird sweeping across the round disk of the full moon. There was a single despairing squeak out of the grass about a hundred feet away, and the winged shape arose again with its prey in its talons.
Then the barking sound again — eager, excited barking.
Lewis crouched back on his heels and saw a dim light moving along the edge of the meadow where the band of trees began. He knew he had to head away from the light, back toward the river. But he had to force himself. What would happen if the dog sniffed him out?
Having returned to the riverbank he had just climbed out of, Lewis miscalculated and tumbled back, rolling down into the mud of the reed bed with a squishy splash. Wearily, he wiped the mud from his face. The log that had saved his life was still anchored there, the current having rammed it through the reeds and further toward the sand.
Across the meadow, the barking sounded close, and now it was joined by a second canine yelping.
Lewis wormed his way back into the cold water between the reeds and behind the log. His few poor efforts at escape were almost half-consciously taken. He was too tired to really care now.
Moments later, Lewis finally saw the source of all the barking. A dog ran across the edge of the riverbank. It was then joined by a larger and even more vocal canine.
The dogs came within meters of Lewis, who wondered dully if the animals would see or smell him first. Had he had the mental and physical strength, he would have pushed himself away from the log and taken his chances back in the open water. But now he could only lie where he was — behind the log, in the shadows of the reeds — which may or may not be enough cover when men with torches arrived in the meadow in front of him.
Lewis was mistaken, however, for his previous movement through the reeds had liberally smeared his metallic suit and face with dark mud, giving him better cover than any he could have wittingly devised.
Though he felt naked and defenseless, the men who trailed the hounds from the forest into the meadow, thrusting out their torches to light up the whole area, saw nothing but the log wedged against a mound of mud and the bed of reeds.
Into the meadow came a procession of people, horses, dogs and transport droids — like the ones he had seen in the scene from his room at the base, following the attack of the spider-wolf. It was obvious that this group had the means to defend themselves, and therefore felt no need to keep quiet. The noise of people talking, dogs barking, and horses and droids clomping, was so loud that Lewis didn’t have to worry about being quiet.
But a new fear struck him. What if this group decided to make camp here in the meadow? What would he do? He couldn’t advance into the meadow for fear of being discovered. He couldn’t move up or down the riverbank as the reeds ended on both sides and he would be propelled into the open too close to their camp. And he couldn’t take his chances by returning to the river. He was exhausted, and didn’t have enough energy or stamina to combat the strong currents of the water without being dragged under, or thrown into more roots or logs or rocks.
And it wasn’t an option to stay put. If he fell asleep here in the shallow water and mud amongst the reeds, he would either drown, or be thrust awake choking on water, which would alert the tribe of his existence.
It was then that luck paid him a second visit.
Lewis heard a voice rise above the din in the Boreal tongue. Reacting quickly to the words, the whole group of people, beasts and machines filed from the meadow back into the trees, onto the continuing trail they had arrived on.
Reluctantly, still barking, the dogs were the last to leave. They circled the meadow and riverbank one last time — one stepping onto the sand and coming within two meters of Lewis — before they headed out of the meadow and away down the trail.
Lewis, with a little sob, crawled limply out from behind the log, through the reeds, toward the edge of the meadow, collapsed in the sand, and fell asleep.
© 2024 Zen Brazen — All rights reserved
Based on Andre Norton’s Time Traders (public domain)
