Lewis & Glark | Time Traders | Book One | Chapter 18
The preparations for Foscar’s funeral went on through the night. A wooden structure, made up of thin tied logs dragged in from the forest, grew taller beyond the big tribal camp. The constant crooning wail of the women, and several men, from the hide and branch tents produced a murmur of sadness and grief throughout the camp.
Lewis had been tied up and left under guard where he could watch it all, a torture which he would earlier have believed too subtle for Annar. Though the older members of the tribe assumed minor roles among the tribe, because Annar was both the only child and surviving relative of Foscar, she was in charge of the coming ceremony.
Foscar’s own zebrelle was brought in and tied up near Lewis. The beast was to be sacrifice number two. Where Lewis was to be the former chief’s dog and servant in the afterlife, his zebrelle would presumably shuttle him wherever he needed to go.
While Lewis didn’t believe in any of this nonsense, he had studied many of the tribes from the Boreal time, and had a knowledge of and appreciation for their beliefs. Who wouldn’t want to believe that their loved ones, or themselves, continued on beyond their mortal lives, and experienced glory, dignity and happiness forever? But even though he was still young, Lewis had learned long ago that just because you believe something, doesn’t make it true.
Foscar, his best jewelry and weapons near his feet, lay waiting on a large pile of logs, branches and brush built to hold his deceased body. Nearby squatted a man who Lewis presumed was the spiritual leader of the tribe, shaking his thunder rattle and chanting in a voice which approached a shriek.
This wild activity might have been a scene lifted directly from some stream stored back at the base. It was hard for Lewis to remember that this was reality, that he was to be one of the main actors in the coming event — with no timely aid from Operation Retrograde to snatch him to safety.
Sometime during that nightmare he slept, his weariness overcoming him. He awoke, dazed, to find a hand roughly grasping his braids, pulling his head up.
“You sleep,” Annar barked. “You do not fear your fate, Foscar’s dog?”
Groggily, Lewis blinked, looked up at Annar. Fear? Sure, he was afraid. Fear, he realized with a clear thrust of consciousness such as he had seldom experienced before, had always stalked beside him, slept in his bed. But he had never surrendered to it, and he wouldn’t now if he could help it.
“I do not fear!” he said, throwing that declaration into Annar’s face in one hot boast.
“You not speak so loud when fire bites you!” Annar spat. Yet in her eyes, Lewis saw a reluctant recognition of his courage.
Her words rang in Lewis’ head. Up to that moment, he had kept alive a poor little glimmer of hope. It is always impossible for a man to face his own death honestly. He always continues to believe to the last moment of his life that something will intervene to save him. But time was running out. Who or what could possibly save him from his impending death?
Two tribesmen led Foscar’s zebrelle to the mound of logs and branches on which his body lay. The beast went quietly, until a tall tribesman struck its neck with an ax, and the animal fell. It was a gruesome scene, its blood pouring out onto the dirt. The zebrelle kicked and brayed until it was struck silent by a second blow to the head.
The tribe’s spiritual leader then moved close and danced around Lewis, a hideous figure in a skull mask and curled fringes of dried snakeskins swaying from his belt. Shaking his rattle, he squawked like an angry cat as they pulled Lewis toward the stacked wood, where he stumbled and nearly tripped over one leg of the dead horse.
It was then that Lewis had a revelation.
He recalled the flames in the meadow grass — following the escape from the aliens at the One’s outpost — which had burned the zebrelle but not him. His hands and his head would have no protection, but the rest of his body was covered with the flame-resistant fabric of the alien suit.
Could he do it? Would the suit save him from being burned to death? There was a slight chance, he thought, as they pushed him, hands tied, onto that mound of stacked wood, about an arm’s length from Foscar’s body.
Annar stooped at Lewis’ feet, bound his ankles with rope, securing him to a large branch at the base of the pile, and then stepped away.
The tribe circled around the pyre at a safe distance. Most of the members of the tribe were looking past Lewis at the body of their fallen chief. Those that found Lewis’ gaze had various expressions. Some looked at him with agitation, as the foreigner in their close-knit clan, while others looked at him with compassion and gratitude, as the dog-servant that would be attending to Foscar in the afterlife.
Building up the confidence he would need to make this work, Lewis stared back at each of them with the confidence of one without a care in the world — of someone who knew they weren’t going to die today.
Annar and five other tribesmen approached the pyre from different directions, torches aflame.
Lewis watched those blazing knots thrust into the brush below and heard the crackle of the fire. His eyes, hard and measuring, studied the flash of flame from dried brush to seasoned wood.
A tongue of yellow-red flame licked up at him. Lewis hardly dared to breathe as it wreathed about his feet, the rope around his ankles smoldering. He was glad then that they hadn’t removed his boots, which were made from the same material as the suit. Without the boots, with bare feet, it would have been a different story and he would have been screaming in agony by now.
The insulation of the suit and boots didn’t cut all the heat, but it allowed him to stay put for the seconds he needed to make his escape spectacular.
The flame had eaten through his foot bonds, and yet the burning sensation on his feet and legs was no greater than it would have been from the direct rays of a bright Summer sun. Lewis moistened his lips with his tongue. The impact of the heat on his hands and face was different. He leaned forward and held his wrists to the flame, taking in stoical silence the burns which freed him.
As the fire curled and the bonds fell from his wrists, Lewis leaped through that curtain of fire, protecting his bowed head with his arms as best he could. But to the gathered members of the tribe, it seemed he passed unhurt through the heart of a roaring fire.
He kept his footing and stood facing that part of the tribal circle directly before him. Among them was Annar, who stood motionless with a look of amazement on her face.
Lewis heard a cry from the group and a blazing torch flew through the air and struck his side. Although he felt the force of the blow, the burning embers and bits of flame slid down his thigh and leg, leaving no mark on the smooth shiny fabric of his suit.
The tribe’s spiritual leader suddenly appeared before Lewis, shaking his rattle and speaking in tongues. Lewis struck out — first slapping the rattle from the man’s hand, then the sorcerer himself out of his way — and stooped to pick up the smoldering torch which had been thrown at him. Whirling it around his head, though every movement was torture to his scorched hands, it came back to life. Holding the fire ball front of him as a weapon, he stared directly at the men and women before him, who backed away.
The simple torch was a poor defense against spears and axes, but Lewis didn’t care. He put into this last gamble all the determination he could summon. He knew that to those gathered, the man who had breached a column of fire without apparent injury, who appeared to wash in tongues of flame without harm, and who now called upon fire in turn as a weapon, was no man — but a demon!
Lewis opened his arms wide, the torch in one hand, and went for it.
“Today, before your eyes, you have seen an amazing thing,” Lewis yelled over the crackle and pops of the roaring fire behind him. “Before you, I am Lew, a demon born from the fire!”
At those words, the wall of people wavered and broke. Some screamed and ran, some shouted at each other and at Lewis.
“You must find another to go with Foscar into the afterlife,” he continued, “for I must return to my home, thousands of years in the future! I will leave now. If you follow, I will return with an army of fire demons that will come and find you, and kill you all!”
It was a little harsh. But Lewis knew that his words must be clear and threatening if he had any chance of leaving the camp alive. He decided to end his speech on a line from one of his favorite streams as a kid. It was childish gibberish, but he hoped it would come across to those members of the tribe still listening as some mysterious declaration in an alien tongue.
“Blick block, gally who!” Lewis yelled with the most crazed expression he could muster. “Doop, dap, pally poo!”
With that, Lewis stepped forward. His nonsense words and movement sent many more away from him, screaming as they ran, in pure terror. No one threw a spear or struck with an ax, knowing that such a feeble act would have no effect. It would not only anger this powerful demon, but risk the coming of more demons to the tribe.
As Lewis moved forward, he locked eyes with Annar. He could almost see a glimmer of doubt in her expression, a look that maybe she was being played and deceived. But having studied the cultures and people of this time back at the base, Lewis knew that demons and gods, as well as rituals and superstitions, were very real to these people. Annar may have her doubts. But Lewis hoped — and counted on the fact — that she wouldn’t do anything to further upset Lewis, and risk a rain of demon-wrath upon her people.
Lewis walked on — a man possessed, looking neither to the right or left — past Annar, and past other men who could have easily flattened him, unopposed.
He walked steadily toward the edge of the camp. When he came upon two smaller fires, meant of cooking food and warmth, he did not turn aside. Holding the torch high, he strode through the heart of the flames, risking further burns for the sake of the show, and a safe, clean escape.
The tribesmen melted away as he approached the last line of tents, with the open land beyond. The zebrelles of the herd, which had been driven to this side to avoid the funeral pyre, were shifting nervously, the scent of burning making them uneasy.
Once more, Lewis whirled the dying torch about his head. Recalling how the aliens had sent his horse mad, he tossed it behind him into the grass between the tents and the herd of zebrelles. The tinder-dry grass caught on fire immediately and sent most of the beast running away. Now if anyone tried to ride after him, they would have trouble.
Lewis walked across the meadow at the same even pace, never turning to look back.
His hands were burned and in pain. His hair and eyebrows were singed, and a finger of burn ran along the angle of his jaw. But he was free. After the show he had put on, he was confident that Foscar’s men wouldn’t be in any haste to pursue him.
Somewhere ahead was the river, which ran to the sea. Lewis walked on in the sunny morning while behind him, black smoke raised a dark beacon to the sky.
Afterward he guessed that he must have been lightheaded for several days, remembering little except the pain in his hands and the fact that it was necessary to keep moving. Once he fell to his knees and buried both hands in the cool, moist earth where the thread of a stream trickled from a pool. The muck seemed to draw out a little of the agony while he drank with a fever thirst.
Lewis seemed to move through a haze which lifted at times during which he noted his surroundings, was able to recall a little of what lay behind him, and to keep to the correct path. However, the gaps of time in between were forever lost to him.
Once, he stumbled along the banks of a river and confronted a bear fishing. The massive beast rose on its hind legs, growled, and Lewis walked by it uncaring, unmenaced by the puzzled animal.
Sometimes he slept through the dark periods which marked the nights, or he stumbled along under the moon, holding his hands against his chest, whimpering a little when he would stumble or slip. Once time, he heard singing, only to realize that it was he himself who sang hoarsely a melody which would be popular thousands of years later in the world through which he wavered.
But always, Lewis knew that he must go on, using that thick stream of running water as a guide to his final goal — the ocean.
After many days, those periods of mental clarity grew longer. He dug small shelled things from under stones along the river and ate them. Once, he clubbed a hare and feasted. He sucked birds’ eggs from a nest hidden among some reeds. He ate just enough to keep his gaunt body going.
Lewis didn’t know just when he realized that he was again being hunted. It started with an uneasiness which was different from his previous fever-bred hallucinations. This was an odd, inner pulling. A growing compulsion to turn and retrace his way back toward the mountains to meet something, or someone, waiting for him back in the direction from which he had come.
But Lewis kept on moving forward, constantly fearing and fighting sleep. For one time, he had sat down to rest and fallen asleep — and had actually awakened on his feet, heading back as if that compulsion had the power to take over his body when his waking will was off-guard. He had stood there in the middle of a field, still and quiet, for many minutes before he used every drop of determination he had to turn his body around and move forward, back in the right direction.
So he rested, but he dared not sleep, the desire constantly tearing at his will, striving to take over his weakened body and draw it back.
Lewis then believed that it was the aliens who were trying to control him, although he had no idea why. If the members of Foscar’s tribe had been following him, that would have been easier. He could hide, evade them, take steps to lead them in the wrong direction. But if the aliens were doing something to hijack his mind, and get him to return to the One’s outpost — that was another story, and a much harder predicament to escape from.
As the banks of the river were giving way to marshes, Lewis had to wade through mud and water, detouring around the deep, boggy sections. Great clouds of birds whirled and shrieked their protests at his coming. Sleek water animals paddled and poked curious heads out of the water as this two-legged, shiny thing walked mechanically through their green land.
Always that pull to turn and go back was with him, until Lewis was more aware of fighting it than of his movement and surroundings.
Why did they want him to return? Why didn’t they follow him? Were they afraid to venture too far from where they had come through the time transfer? The unseen pull which was tugging at Lewis didn’t diminish as he put more distance between himself and the mountain valley.
He could understand neither their motives nor their methods. But he could continue to fight.
Lewis found an island in the middle of the endless bog large enough to lay down on, knowing that without sleep he wouldn’t make it through the next day. Then he slept, only to awaken who knows how long later — cold, shaking, and afraid — shoulder deep in the surrounding water. He climbed out of the water back onto the small island.
He quickly lapsed into a deep doze, and awoke to the morning cries of the birds. The morning was cool, but he was warm inside the suit. And it was then that the realization came to him —
Could the strange metallic suit be responsible for the mental and physical pull the aliens had on him? If he were to strip, leaving the garment behind, would he be safe? Would the overwhelming desire and obsession with turning around and heading back leave him?
He tried to force pull the fabric across his chest, forcing open the zipper, but it wouldn’t yield to the slight pressure which was all his seared fingers could exert. So, giving up for now, Lewis continued on his way forward, hardly caring where he went or how.
The mud plastered on him by his frequent falls was some protection against the swarm of insects his passing stirred into attack. However, he was able to endure a swollen face and squinting eyes, being far more conscious of the wrenching, unrelenting pull within him than the misery of his worn and burned body.
The character of the marsh began to change once more. The river was splitting into a dozen smaller streams, shaping out fanlike. Looking down at this from one of the marsh rises, Lewis felt a faint surge of relief. Such a place had been on the map Glark had made them memorize.
He was close to the ocean at last, and for the moment that was enough.
A salty wind cut at him with the force of a fist in the face. In the absence of sunlight, the clouds overhead set a winterlike gloom across the countryside. To the constant sound of birdcalls, Lewis tramped heavily through small pools, beating a path through tangles of marsh grass. He stole eggs from nests, sucking his nourishment eagerly with no dislike for the fishy flavor, and drinking from stagnant ponds.
Suddenly Lewis halted, at first thinking that the continuous roll of sound he heard was distant thunder. But the clouds overhead were massed no more than before and there was no sign of lightning.
He realized moments later that the sound was the pounding of surf. He was near the ocean!
Willing his body to run, Lewis weaved forward at a reeling trot, pitting all his energy against the incessant pull from behind. His feet skidded out of marsh mud into sand. Ahead of him, were dark rocks surrounded by the white lace of spray.
Lewis headed straight toward that spray until he stood knee-deep in the curling, foam-edged water, and felt its tug on his body almost as strong as that other tug upon his mind. He knelt, letting the salt water sting every cut, every burn, sputtering as it filled his mouth and nostrils, washing from him the mud and slime of the boglands.
It was cold and bitter, but it was the ocean. Against all odds, he had made it!
Lewis Freeman staggered backward and sat down in the sand. Glancing around, he saw that his refuge was a rough triangle between two of the small river arms, littered with the debris of the Spring floods which had grounded here after rejection by the sea. Although there was plenty of material for a fire, Lewis had no means of kindling a flame, having lost the flint all Boreal traders carried for such a purpose.
He lay back on the cool sand, his self-confidence restored to the point where he dared once more to consider the future. He watched the swooping flight of gulls drawing patterns under the clouds above. For the moment he wanted nothing more than to lie here and rest.
But he didn’t surrender to that urge for long. Hungry and cold, sure that a storm was coming, he knew he had to build a fire. A fire on shore could provide him with the means of signaling the whale, on the slight chance that it hadn’t made its routine stop and gone already.
Lewis got up and began to explore, threading a path in and out among the rocky outcrops.
Exhausted and close to collapse, he came upon a hollow between two windbreaks, within which was a blackened circle of small stones holding charred wood, and some empty shells piled nearby. Here was unmistakable evidence of a camp. Lewis thrust one of his tender hands carefully into the black mass of the dead fire. To his astonishment, he touched warmth. Careful not to disturb those precious bits of charcoal, he dug around them, then gently blew into what appeared to be dead ashes.
The response was what he had dared to hope for — a faint orange glow.
From a pile of wood that had been left behind, Lewis snatched a small twig and held the end of it against the glowing coal. He watched as the twig caught on fire.
With his stiff, clumsy fingers, he fed that tiny blaze, bit by bit, until he had a real fire. Then, leaning back against the rock, he watched it and felt its warmth.
It was now obvious that the placement of the original fire had been chosen with care, for the rocky outcrops gave it shelter from the wind. They also provided a dark backdrop, partially hiding the flames on the landward sides but undoubtedly making them more visible from the ocean.
The site seemed perfect for a signal fire. But by who, and to signal what?
Lewis’ burned hands shook slightly as he fed the blaze as he considered the possibility. Maarn, or perhaps both he and Glark, had survived the breakup of the raft, after all. They had reached this point — abandoned no earlier than this morning, judging by the life remaining in the coals — and put up the signal. Then, just as arranged, they had been collected by the whale, by now on its way back to the operation’s hidden, temporary outpost.
With that realization came another. If all that was true, there was no hope of any pickup for Lewis now. Just as he had believed Glark and Maarn dead after he had found that thin leather strap — that he realized now had been burned and fallen off his wrist in the pyre fire — so they must have thought him finished after he had fallen off the raft in the river.
His heart sank. He was just a few hours too late.
Lewis folded his arms across his hunched knees and rested his head on them. Unless they sent the whale back to scan the area, and unless he could manage to stay alive for who knows how many days or weeks longer, there was no possible way he could ever reach the outpost or his own kind ever again.
Thousands of miles lay between him and the temporary outpost in this time.
He was so sunk in complete despair that it was a while before he was aware of being free of the pull to turn back, which had long haunted him on his journey. But as he stood up to feed the fire, he got to wondering. Had those who hunted him given up the chase? Since he had lost his own race with time, he didn’t really care. What did it matter?
The pile of wood was getting low, but he decided that didn’t matter either. Still, Lewis got to his feet, and made the effort to gather more. Why should he stay here by a useless beacon? But somehow he couldn’t force himself to move on, with his hope and motivation being so depleted.
Dragging the sun-dried, bleached limbs of long-dead trees to his half shelter, he piled them up, working until he laughed at the barricade he had built.
“A siege!” Lewis declared to no one, speaking aloud for the first time in many days. “Attack if you dare. I’m ready for you!”
He pulled over another branch, added it to his pile, and kneeled down once more by the flames.
With the oppressive pull gone from his mind, Lewis was able to sit for a while, calm himself, and kindle some basic thoughts about what he should do next. Based on his studies, he knew that there were fisherfolk to be found along this coast. Tomorrow when he was rested, he would head South and try to find one of their primitive villages. Traders would be coming into this territory at some point. He could make contact with them, and harbor the slim chance that he would come across a time agent from the operation.
He would also have to ditch the metallic suit and boots — hiding it away for some time when he might need its protective qualities again — and construct a new kilt, tunic and leather boots, appropriate for the time and place.
But these sparks of interest in the future died almost as soon as they was born. What if the operation had written him off as an acceptable loss, a necessary casualty. They wouldn’t come looking for him. The operation would refocus and continue without him. To be a Boreal trader as a time agent for Operation Retrograde was one thing. But to live the role for the rest of his life was something else, a terrifying proposition.
Lewis stood by his fire, staring out to sea for a sign that wasn’t there.
Then, as if a spear had struck between his shoulder blades, he was attacked. The blow wasn’t physical, but was an internal, searing pain in his head, a pressure and force so terrible he couldn’t move.
He knew instantly that behind him now lurked the ultimate danger.
© 2024 Zen Brazen — All rights reserved
Based on Andre Norton’s Time Traders (public domain)
