Lewis & Glark | Time Traders | Book One | Chapter 16
Lewis recognized the thin strap of leather wrapped around the piece of sapling even before he touched it. That knot was tied by Maarn. As he sat down weakly in the sand and mud, nervously fingering the twisted strap, staring vacantly at the river, its turbulent surface glinting in the sun, his last small hope died.
The raft must have broken up. And there was a chance that neither Glark nor Maarn survived the disaster.
Lewis Freeman was alone, marooned in a time which was not his own, with little promise of escape. That one thought blanked out his mind with its own darkness. What was the use of getting up again, of trying to find food for his empty stomach, or warmth and shelter?
He had always prided himself on being able to go it alone — had thought himself secure in that calculated loneliness — ever since he knew that he couldn’t count on his mother or brother to be there for him or take care of him. Now, that belief had been washed away in the river along with most of the willpower which had kept him going downstream along the side of the river these past two days.
Until now, there had always been some goal, no matter how remote. Now, he had nothing.
Even if he managed to reach the mouth of the river, he had no idea exactly where the rendezvous point for the whale was located. That information was held by Glark and Maarn, who he had little hope of finding before the whale arrived on its routine stop. Also, the whale might have already come and gone by the time he reached the ocean. All three of the time travelers might have already have been written off, since they had not reported in.
Lewis pulled the thin leather strap free from the sapling and wrapped it in a tight bracelet about his grimy wrist for some unexplainable reason.
Worn and tired, he tried to think ahead. There was no chance of contacting Ulffa’s tribe again. Along with all the other woodland hunters, they must have fled their village. There was barely any reason to move forward, and absolutely no reason to go back.
The sun was hot. Insects buzzed in the reed banks where a green sheen showed. Birds wheeled and circled in the sky, their cries reaching Lewis in hoarse calls of warning.
He was still plastered with patches of dried mud and slime, the reek of it thick in his nostrils. Now Lewis brushed at a splotch on his knee, picking loose flakes to expose the alien cloth of his suit underneath, seemingly still pristine and unaffected by the mud.
Lewis suddenly felt the urge to be clean again. Wading into the edge of the river at an open spot, he stooped to splash brown river water over his body and then rubbed away the resulting mud. In the sunlight, the metallic fabric had a brilliant glow, as if it not only drew the light but reflected it. Wading farther out into the water, he began to swim, not with any goal in mind, but because it was easier than crawling back to land again.
Using the edge of the downstream current to supplement his skill, Lewis watched both banks. He couldn’t really hope to see either the raft or indications that its passengers had made it to shore. But somewhere deep inside him, he had not yet accepted that Glark and Maarn could be gone.
The effort of swimming broke through that fog of inertia which had held him since he had awakened that morning. It was with a somewhat healthier interest in life that Lewis came ashore again in a small and seemingly secluded inlet angling back into the land. Believing that he was well sheltered, he stripped naked, hanging his metallic suit and waterlogged boots on a branch in the sunlight, and letting the heat of the day soothe his body.
A raw fish, cornered in the shallows and scooped out, furnished one of the best meals Lewis had ever tasted. He had tried nigiri once — at a fancy restaurant with a friend who ended up betraying him in the end — and had really liked it. This fish was fresher, the flesh melting in his mouth with every delicious bite.
When he had had enough to eat, he had reached for the suit draped over a tree limb when the first and only warning that his fortunes had once again changed came, swiftly and silently.
One moment the willows had moved gently in the breeze. The next, the tree jolted, and a spear was sticking out of it a meter from his head. Lewis, clutching the metallic suit to him with a frantic grab, skated about in the sand and fell to one knee.
He found himself completely at the mercy of the two men standing on the bank above him. Unlike Ulffa’s people or the Boreal traders, they were very tall, with dark skin and heavy braids of dark hair with feather headdresses. Their leather tunics hung to mid-thigh above leggings which were bound to their limbs with painted straps. Bracelets of copper and bone ringed their forearms, and necklaces of animal teeth and beads displayed their personal wealth.
Their expressions were made even more startling and threatening due to the fact that their eyes had no irises.
Lewis couldn’t recall having seen their kind during his briefing at the base. He was unsure if they were a people native to Telaan Six, or were off-worlders who had immigrated here.
The first spear had been a warning, but a second was held ready. Lewis dropped his metallic suit and raised his hands in surrender.
“Friend?” Lewis asked in the Boreal tongue.
Traders often traveled far and came in contact with a variety of races and people. There was a chance they had had contact with a Boreal tribe at some point.
The spear twirled, and the younger stranger effortlessly leaped down the bank and picked up the suit Lewis had dropped, holding it up while he made some comment to his companion. He seemed fascinated by the fabric, pulling and smoothing it between his hands.
Lewis wondered if there was a chance of trading it for his own freedom.
Both men were armed, not only with the spears, but with long-bladed daggers and axes hanging from their belts. When Lewis made a slight effort to lower his hands the man before him reached to his belt ax, growling what was plainly a warning. Lewis blinked and stayed still, realizing that they might well knock him out and leave him behind, taking the suit with them.
Finally, they decided in favor of including Lewis in their loot. Throwing the suit over one arm, the young stranger caught Lewis by the shoulder and pushed him forward roughly. The other man grabbed the boots hanging from the willow tree.
The pebbled beach was painful to Lewis’ bare feet, and the breeze which whipped about him as he reached the top of the bank reminded him of his ordeal in the glacial world of the distant past. It was cool here, but thankfully not the frigid, bitter, deadly cold of that place.
Lewis was tempted to make a sudden dash back toward the bank and dive into the river, but it was too late. The man who was holding the spear and his boots had moved behind him. Lewis’s wrist, held in a vise grip at the small of his back, kept him prisoner as he was pushed some twenty or thirty meters down a wooded path into a clearing.
Three shaggy zebrelles grazed there, their bridle reins gathered into the hands of a third man.
A sharp stone half buried in the ground changed the course of the day. Lewis’ heel scraped against it, and the resulting pain triggered his rebellion into explosion.
He threw himself backward, his bruised heel sliding between the feet of his captor, bringing them both to the ground with himself on top. The young stranger expelled air from his lungs in a grunt of surprise. Lewis whipped over, one hand grasping the hilt of the tribesman’s dagger while the other, free of the wrist-lock, gave a quick and hard chop to the man’s throat, sending the man and the metallic suit he had been holding to the ground.
Dagger out and ready, Lewis faced the other men in a naked half crouch. They stared at him in amazement, but readied their spears too late. Lewis placed the point of the dagger at the throat of the now coughing man whose throat he had chopped. He spoke the language he had learned from Ulffa’s people.
“You strike, this one dies,” Lewis said in his most threatening tone.
They must have read the determined purpose in his eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, the spears went down. Having gained so much of a victory, Lewis dared more.
“Take,” he motioned to the three zebrelles, “take and go!”
For a moment, he thought that this time they would meet his challenge, but he continued to hold the dagger above the throat of the man who had stopped coughing and was now moaning faintly.
“And leave the boots,” Lewis added, content to press his luck as far as he could.
The other man tossed the boots on the ground. Holding the bridle rope of his zebrelle, he mounted, waved the third man up also, and both of them rode toward the path at the edge of the clearing. As they disappeared into the trees, the third man gave a devious look back at Lewis that suggested that this confrontation wasn’t over yet.
The younger tribesman on the ground was slowly coming around as Lewis pulled on the metallic suit. The tribesman’s hand flashed to his belt, but the dagger and ax which had once hung there were now in Lewis’ possession. He watched the tribesman carefully as he finished pulling on his boots.
“What you do?” the young man said in the speech of the forest people, distorted by a new accent.
“You go,” Lewis said pointing to the third zebrelle the others had left behind. “I go,” he motioned to the river. “I take these,” he touched the dagger and the ax.
“Not good,” the young man scowled.
Lewis laughed, a little hysterically. “Not good you,” he agreed, “good me!”
To his surprise, the tribesman’s stiff face relaxed and gave a bark of laughter. He sat up, rubbing at his throat, a big grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“You hunter?” the young man asked, pointing Northeast to the woodlands fringing the mountains.
“Trader, me,” Lewis replied.
“Trader,” the young man repeated. Then he tapped one of the wide metal bracelets on his wrist. “Trade, this?”
“That, and more things,” Lewis replied.
“Where?” the young man asked, puzzled. “Why you here?”
“Ride river water, like you ride,” Lewis answered, pointing to the zebrelle. “Ride on trees, many trees tied together. Trees break apart. I come here.”
The conception of a raft voyage apparently got across, for the young man was nodding. Getting to his feet, he walked across to take up the bridle rope of the zebrelle.
“You come camp. Foscar chief. Tulka take you,” the young man said.
Lewis hesitated. This young man Tulka seemed friendly now, but would that friendliness last?
“I go down water. My chief there,” Lewis replied. He still had no idea if continuing downstream would lead him to Glark and Maarn, or what state they were in. But he was resolve in heading toward where he was most likely find them, or a clue about where they were.
Tulka stood scowling by his zebrelle, pointing to the East with a dramatic stretch of the arm.
“Your chief there!” Tulka replied. “Your chief speak Foscar. Say he give much these — wrist metal, good knives, axes — get you back.”
Lewis stared at Tulka with a new understanding. Was he talking about Glark? Was Glark in Tulka’s camp with the chief Foscar, offering a reward for him? But how could that be?
“How you know my chief?” Lewis pressed.
Tulka laughed, but this time derisively.
“You wear shining skin,” Tulka replied, mounting the zebrelle. “Your chief wear shiny skin. He say find other shiny skin — give many good things to man who bring you back.”
Shiny skin. The metallic suit from the alien ship. Could he have been spotted by an alien as he left the Ones’ outpost? But why were they searching for him, alerting the natives in an effort to locate him? What made Lewis Freeman so important that they must have him? He only knew that he was not going to be captured if he could help it, that he had no desire to meet this “chief” who had offered treasure for his capture.
“You will come,” Tulka declared. With a snap of the reins, he and his zebrelle lunged forward toward Lewis, who stumbled backwards. He swung up the ax, but it was a weapon with which he had had no training and was too heavy for him.
As his blow met only thin air, the broad shoulder of the zebrelle hit him, and Lewis went down, avoiding by less than a hand’s-width the thud of a hoof against his skull.
In an instant, Tulka landed on him, crushing him flat on the ground. A fist connected with his jaw, and everything went black.
Lewis found himself draped face-down over the back end of the zebrelle, which moved with a rocking gait. Blood rushed to his head, the pounding of which hurt and kept him half dazed. He tried to squirm free, but realized that his arms were behind his back, fastened wrist to wrist, and that his body was tethered to the back of a crude leather saddle. He could do nothing except endure the discomfort as best he could and hope for a speedy end to the gallop.
Around him then passed the cackle of speech. He caught short side-glimpses of another zebrelle matching pace to the one that carried him. They then swept into a noisy place where the shouting of many men made a din. The zebrelle stopped and Lewis was untied and pulled from its back and dropped to the dirt ground. He looked up, blinking dizzily, trying to focus on the scene around him.
They had arrived in Tulka’s camp. A collection of hide tents served as a backdrop for the dark, long-haired giants, men and women, who now gathered to view their new captive.
The circle around Lewis broke, and those gathered stood aside for a newcomer.
Lewis had believed that his original captors were physically imposing, but this one was their master. Lying on the ground at the chief’s feet, Lewis felt like a small and helpless child.
Foscar could not yet have entered middle age. His leather tunic was more elaborate than those of the others in the tribe, as were the copper bracelets and necklaces made of animal teeth and beads. A necklace made of spider-wolf teeth was a stunning object. The muscles which moved along his arms and across his shoulders as he leaned over to study Tulka’s prize were impressive.
Lewis glared up at him, that same hot rage which had led to his attack on Tulka now urging him to the only defiance he had left — words.
“Look close, Foscar,” Lewis declared in the tongue of the woods hunters. “Free me, and I will do more than look at you.”
Foscar’s eyes widened and he lowered a fist which could have swallowed in its grasp both of Lewis’s hands, wrapping those great fingers around Lewis’ arm and drawing the captive to his feet — with no sign that his act had required any effort. Even standing, Lewis was a good half-meter shorter than the chief. Yet he put up his chin and eyed the other squarely, without giving ground.
“Yet still my hands are tied,” Lewis declared, with all the taunting inflection he could summon. His reception by Tulka had given him one faint clue to the character of these people. They might be brought to acknowledge the worth of one who stood up to them.
“Child — ” Foscar replied. The chief’s massive fist shifted from its grip on the shiny fabric covering Lewis’ arm to a flat palm across his chest and back. Lewis swayed back and forth at the touch, which was a little awkward and too familiar.
“Child?” Lewis said with a short laugh. “I be no child, Foscar. Ask Tulka. His ax and knife — they were in my hand. A zebrelle Tulka had to use to bring me down.”
“Sharp tongue,” Foscar commented, regarded him intently and then grinned. “Tulka lost knife and ax? Annar!”
Behind Foscar, a member of the tribe stepped out from the group.
Annar was shorter and much younger than her chief — but still slightly taller than Lewis — with a girl’s toned slimness and an open, good-looking face. Her eyes were bright, her gaze on Foscar with a kind of eager excitement. Like the other tribesmen, she was armed with a belt dagger and ax. Since she wore a smaller version of the necklace made from spider-wolf teeth, Lewis thought she must be a relative of the chief.
“Child!” Foscar clapped his hand on Lewis’ shoulder and then withdrew the hold. “Child!” He indicated Annar, who reddened. “You take from Annar ax and knife,” Foscar ordered Lewis, “as you took from Tulka.”
Foscar made a gesture, and someone cut the rope from Lewis’ wrists.
Lewis rubbed his numbed hands together to regain circulation. Foscar had stung his young follower with that contemptuous “child”, so the girl would be eager to match all her skill against the prisoner. This wouldn’t be as easy as his taking Tulka by surprise, Lewis thought. But if he refused, Foscar might well order him killed and be done with it.
Lewis had chosen to be defiant. He couldn’t retreat now, and would have to do his best to defeat the girl.
“Take ax and knife,” Foscar repeated the basic rules of the contest. He stepped back, waving at his gathered tribe to open out a ring encircling Lewis and Annar.
Lewis felt a little sick as he watched Annar’s hand go to the handle of the ax. Nothing had been said about Annar’s not using her own weapons in defense. But Lewis discovered that there was some sense of sportmanship in the tribe, after all. It was Tulka who pushed to the Foscar’s side and whispered something which made Foscar roar bull-voiced at Annar a word that Lewis didn’t understand.
Annar’s hand came away from the ax handle as if that polished wood were white-hot. Annar had to win now for her own pride’s sake, and Lewis felt he had to win for his life. They circled warily, Lewis watching his opponent’s eyes rather than those half-closed hands held at waist level.
Back at the base, Lewis had been matched with Glark, and before Glark with a collection of tough-bodied, skilled, and merciless trainers in unarmed combat. He had beaten into his bruised flesh knowledge of holds and blows intended to save his skin in just such an encounter. But then he had been well-fed, alert, prepared. He had not been knocked silly and then transported for miles slung across the hindquarters of a zebrelle, after days of exposure and mental and physical stress.
It remained to be seen — was Lewis Freeman as tough as he always thought himself to be? Tough or not, he was in this until he won — or dropped.
Comments from the gathered tribe aroused Annar to the first definite action. She charged, stooping low in a wrestler’s stance, but Lewis squatted even lower. His hand flicked to the churned dust of the ground and snapped up again, sending a cloud of grit into the tribesman’s face. Then their bodies met with a shock, and Annar sailed over Lewis’ shoulder to skid along the earth.
Had Lewis been rested and focused, the contest would have ended there and then in his favor. But when he tried to whirl and throw himself on his opponent, he was too slow.
Annar wasn’t waiting to be pinned flat. She lunged and her hand shot out to catch Lewis’ leg just above the ankle. Lewis obeyed his training, falling easily at her pull, and landed on his back at her feet. Annar, disconcerted by the too-quick success of his attack, was unprepared. Lewis rolled, escaping her follow-up lunges and grasps, and delivered several body blows, striving to serve Annar as he had Tulka.
Lewis took a lot of punishment in those next moments, though he managed to elude Annar’s choke hold, which he knew the other was laboring to subdue him with. Members of the gathered tribe shouted their word for “neck”, a word Lewis was grateful that he knew. He made sure to evade any move Annar made toward his head and neck that would speedily crush him into submission.
Clinging to the methods he had been taught, Lewis fought on. Only now he knew, with a growing panic, that his best might not be good enough. He was too spent to take Annar down.
Unless he had some unexpected good luck, he could now only delay his own defeat.
When Annar had maneuvered close, as her hands grasped viciously at his head, Lewis did what he had never thought to do in any fight — he snapped wolfishly, his teeth closing on the flesh of her arm. When she screamed and pushed herself away from him, she fell backwards onto the ground, holding her bloody arm.
Lewis risked everything on a last gamble. He rushed Annar, wrapped his arm around her neck, and fell backward, the weight of her body falling on top of his. There was a gasp of hot breath in his face as she squirmed and tried to free herself from his grasp. Her movements became less and weaker as the moments passed, until her arms went limp and she went still.
When he knew she was out, Lewis pushed her body off onto the ground.
As Annar slowly regained consciousness with some weak breaths and movements, Lewis unceremoniously ripped her knife and ax from her belt and threw them on the ground beside her. Then, Lewis surprised himself with a final, defiant act.
Stumbling to his feet, locking his gaze on Foscar, he expressed all his frustration and exhaustion — with his situation, his life, his loneliness, his loss of Glark and Maarn, everything — in a primal scream unlike any he had ever uttered before or imagined possible.
With that, Lewis sat and fell back onto the ground. He had won the contest, was thoroughly, physically and emotionally spent, and had little concern about what happened next.
© 2024 Zen Brazen — All rights reserved
Based on Andre Norton’s Time Traders (public domain)
