by Ron Rayborne
They began their ascent. In a minute’s time, Tom was huffing, but he felt good. He stuck his thumbs under the shoulder straps of his pack and took it one slow step at a time. All the while, the sound of the river and its swirling mists charmed him. Tiny droplets of water clung to them. Once, he surprised a small grazer of unknown derivation hidden in the dark, tangled growth next to the torrent. Evidently, his clumsy steps were unheard. It jerked, then quickly bounded away. Little gave no chase, letting it go free and unmolested. She was tiring a bit from the hike, or saving her energy for wiser pursuits, something more her size and which she had a better chance of catching. Good, thought Tom.
Up they climbed, Little showing less fear of the river now. They came to a small rivulet that had carved its own tiny canyon, three feet across and as deep. Tom stopped, then walked to the edge and jumped, easily clearing the ditch. Little held back, though. Tom called, but she wouldn’t jump; instead she walked along it a way until she found a narrower gap. This she jumped and ran back to Tom’s side.
“Good girl!” he complimented. There were other such rivulets and offshoots to cross, each which added their waters to the whole, and she became more daring in her negotiations of them. On one particularly deep gully, however, having jumped, she slipped on the other side, and then was hanging onto the bank with her front paws, crying and trying desperately to pull herself over. Tom dove and grabbed her by the scruff, drawing her up. She cried piteously at that, perhaps reminded of punishment she received from mother when she’d done something wrong. Grab and toss. No real harm was meant of course, or incurred, but she’d learned its significance all the same. Tom held her close, his face buried in that thick, tawny-red fluff. Silly girl.
Still higher they climbed, Tom inhaling and exhaling rhythmically with each step, every so often stopping for a rest. At those times, he’d turn to look at the land, now far below, and, taking it all in, reveled in its phenomenal beauty. Upwards were areas of flatness, and he noticed that there the river would slow. At the third such flat patch, there was a large tree that had fallen across from one bank to the other. Between was a gulf of eighteen or twenty feet with rushing, foaming water just below. He’d spotted it because the growth on either side had been cleared and scores of hoof steps in soft mud converged on it. Plainly, it was being used as a bridge by other Barstovian fauna. There was a problem, though. Poison oak, for now Tom was well familiar with its look, was growing from the descending sides of the steep banks. It had grown up and partially around the log on both ends, tossing about in wind and spray being generated by the force of the river.
“This is where we cross,” Tom shouted. Little looked dubious. He turned to consider the P.O. again. He couldn’t get across as it was, and that left him with no other choice than to try to remove it. Then he remembered that he had some cutters in his pack. He dropped it and dug into the small side pocket where they were, then walked nervously out onto the log a ways. A long stem of the green misery whipped menacingly in front of him. He grabbed it with a gloved hand and pulled toward him. It smacked his face, the drops of water on it running coldly down his neck.
“Oh that’s lovely,” he muttered, shaking his head. Fitting the cutters around the stem, he snipped it and dropped. In a second, it was out of sight downstream. This, Tom continued to do, bit by bit, until he was past this first load. He knew he’d have to wash his face, hands, and gloves when he was through.
He began walking across to the other side. In the middle, though, the deafening roar, the wind and wet, gave him a case of vertigo. Though broad, the wood was slick and he slipped, his heart leaping in fear, but he was just able to catch his balance before going over.
“Jeez!” he exclaimed, cursing. “Be careful!”.
Tom continued to the other side and repeated his pruning of the poison oak there, enjoying several more personal encounters. He turned then to go get Little. There she was, sitting at the end of the tree by his pack, waiting for him to return. Tom thought about calling her to come, but loathed the idea of her falling in, so he headed back to fetch her. Reunited, he surveyed his handy work. A nice, clear path, he hoped the other animals appreciated it. He slid the pack on, then stooped to pick up Little, groaning under her weight.
“This is where we go across, and you don’t give me any trouble, all right?” he asked her. Little’s eyes were wide with apprehension, which didn’t help Tom’s confidence any. Holding her tightly, he began to walk. Almost immediately she squirmed. Tom tried to hold on, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“Be still!” he shouted, but holding a wriggling aelurodon while trying to cross a raging river on a slippery log was too much for him. Soon she was out and on the ground. Tom let out a volley of expletives. He reached to scoop her up again, but she jumped back and hustled just out of reach.
“Okay then, you want to stay here, be my guest!” Tom bellowed, his voice barely audible above the thundering din. He turned and walked slowly back across to the other side, feeling bad for having shouted at her. Reaching it, he looked back, hoping to encourage Little across. She wasn’t there. Oh no, he thought. He called out, but she failed to appear. Angry and frustrated, Tom made to head back once more. He supposed they’d have to find another way. Stepping out onto the log again, he walked most of the way across, when something caught his eye. He looked down and behind himself. There was Little, following him. She’d already come across hard on his heels and had made it to the other side. Probably she was wondering why he wanted to go back yet again. “Oh my god!” Tom said, exasperated. Then, rolling his eyes, he turned around. Little pivoted and walked deftly across. On the other side he shook his head, smiled, then laughed. Probably she’d seen his close call before and was not about to let him carry her.
Emerging from the trees, Tom saw a pond a hundred yards off, walked over, stripped and scrubbed his clothes with sand, then wrung them out and tied them to the back of his pack. After that, he stepped in and gave himself a sand scrubbing as well. Hopefully it would be enough to remove P.O. oils. His other clothes from earlier were dry by now, so he donned them, thinking what a lot of trouble all of this was. Truth was, though, he was loving this journey, every delightful, miserable minute of it. And he never forgot what and who it was for. Julie. She was ever in his mind.
Tom could see that there would be other rivers to cross. Most of the large ones seemed to run down, then south, eventually ending in faraway deltas, bays and estuaries around the top of that huge inland sea. He still wondered about it.
Chapter 18
For days they walked. Days on days. And the days became weeks. Over hill and dell they went. They forded rivers and streams, always brimming with fish. Picked their way along the sun-dappled shores and inlets of lakes and tarns. Scooted timidly across the sheer face of towering cliffs when the alternatives were worse. Pushed through tall grass and stiff thicket — lush, verdant growth that half-buried trees — and drier lands. If not for the journal, he’d have lost track completely. As the weeks dropped away, each of them was changing. Tom had stopped shaving his beard and combing his hair. It now ranged wild as the land around them, constantly tousled by the wind. He was also growing stronger, his breathing easier. His cough had vanished. The skin on his face darkened and his confidence increased, the set of his eyes now a little less fearful, a little more sure. He’d never felt better.
Little, too, was changing, and the rate amazed Tom. She had trebled her weight, constantly on the chase after ground squirrels. He suspected, though, that, with her increasing mass, she would soon lose her acrobatic edge and would have to begin hunting larger prey. Still, like her human, she was growing surer and more serious. When she barked at the large herbivores blocking their path, it now seemed to be less of a playful request and more of a warning. It alarmed Tom when she began to bite the running flanks of much larger beasts, and he worried about the possibility of a kick.
There was something else that Little began to do which annoyed him. As each day wore on and grew
hotter, she would simply stop at some point under the shade of a large tree and refuse to go on. The first time this happened, Tom did not notice until he heard her bark and turned to find that she was sitting down a hundred yards away, ears pointed forward toward him. Her first two barks he’d missed, having gotten into a bit of a walking trance in the dripping heat. He called her, but she wouldn’t budge. He wondered if something was wrong and tread back, but, having inspected her, found nothing. So he turned to continue and called her, checking to see that she was following. Still she sat, unmoving.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Tom exclaimed. “What is it?” At this, Little lay down, mouth opening in a wide grin. Actually though, it was more of a pant, her sides heaving rapidly. Tom wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm, unknowingly smearing dirt across it. Ah, so that’s it, he thought, she needs a break. He looked out under the boughs of the massive oak. Waves of heat were radiating upwards from the ground in the exposed areas. The cooling breezes of the morning had changed to hot gusts. Okay, he thought, let’s take one. At this, he brought out the water and gave some to Little. They both drank readily.
Ten minutes or so later, he said, “OK, all rested?” He reached over and pat her on the head. She was still panting, but he was impatient to continue. Tom stood and re-donned his backpack. “Let’s go, girl,” he said. Still, she lay immobile. He frowned and repeated himself. Little’s reaction was to roll over on her side, eyes half open, but still watching him. Tom shook his head. He knew that trying to carry her was out of the question. “Hey, who’s the master here?” he said aloud. Her eyes closed.
Tom sighed. Then he swung his pack back off and again sat down. “Alright, I suppose you know this world better than I do.” He plumped the pack like a pillow and lay down next to her. In a minute, he was out.
When he woke, the sun was high in the sky and hot. Little was still snoozing, now laying on Tom’s other side. He drifted off again.
In all, they slept on and off under that tree for four hours. When finally he roused, Little was standing at the edge of the great oak’s shade, looking out. It didn’t seem quite so hot now and Tom sat up, to be greeted by a wagging aelurodon. She licked his face, adding to the smears of dirt that were accumulating there. His hair, too, was dirty and stood out in all directions. He felt hungry and thirsty. Then he noticed that there was a furry form lying in the grass nearby. Little bringing home the bacon. Home, he thought. Home is where the heart is.
He walked over to it. It was larger than a squirrel by several times. A rabbit. Good, Tom thought. He cleared the ground bare of grass and leaves, things that might catch fire, and then built one. When it was going, he set to skinning the animal, an unpleasant job. Finding a dropped branchlet, he speared and roasted it in the blaze. Fortunately, the boughs of the tree were high, so no spark alighted. Ten minutes later, the hare was cooked and they ate it eagerly. Little finished up by easily crunching and swallowing the bones. Nothing was wasted. When they were done, they headed to a stream of water and drank deeply. At least the water was still cool.
With the drift of time, Tom and Little fell into a routine: a couple of hours before noon, Little would decide that they’d gone far enough and would sit under a tree and bark until Tom noticed, then he’d walk back and there they slept or hung out until the stifling, tropical heat dissipated somewhat. They made up a bit for this loss by hiking on into the evenings when there was enough moonlight to see the plains ahead.
A couple of incidents along this stretch of the journey marked it indelibly on Tom’s mind. The first was as they were walking through a dry canyon, its steep sides closing in, then falling back as they went. From the walls he sometimes saw fossils jutting out, strange skulls, leg bones, etcetera, and sometimes pieces of petrified trees, ferns or other plant life. At one point, in a pile of rubble near the bottom, were a bunch of them all jumbled up. A portion of the hill had slid off and with it went the fossils. What animal they once belonged to he couldn’t tell, but it reminded him of Julie, and how thrilled she would have been to find them were they still back in the future. That’s not what made the canyon walk so memorable though. It was the rattlesnake bite.
As they were moving down the path, suddenly he heard an odd, unfamiliar, clattering sound, not unlike a maracas. Tom continued on without giving it much attention, dulling thinking that it was pebbles dislodged from the embankment above spilling down. Then he felt a swift jab at his foot. Immediately he looked down to see a large snake recoiling. It had struck hard and was readying itself for another go. Tom jumped and danced away just as it struck again, hitting only air. He almost lost his balance on a rock. Little made to lunge at the thing, but he grabbed her just in time. When they were a safe distance away, he examined his shoe. Two puncture holes near his ankle. Luckily, they’d not penetrated to his skin. But as his shoes were low topped, he thought about what a close call it was.
The other incident, which he less fortunately experienced the full brunt of, was after they had made their way out of the canyon. They’d been running low on water and needed a refill. Spying a spring and large pool, they made straight for it. It was perhaps two hundred feet from the mouth of the ravine. Milkweed plants were growing in the area around the pool and were being visited by butterflies. There was another, less cordial insect, however, that made calls on the plant; they were big, iridescent black with orange wings. Tarantula Hawks; wasps a good three inches in length. The same wasp he’d photographed that day when he first emerged from the forest. This time he did not see them. Little did, though, and kept her distance, woofing lowly.
Walking to the spring, Tom bent down and began to drink from the cool water bubbling up from below. On a hot day, it was so refreshing. He slaked his thirst, but wanted more. Moving to a better angle, he again rested on his hands and bent to drink. Alas, this time one hand, his left, came down directly on top of one of the big black wasps. It, too, had been drinking. He felt a little lump there, but gave it no mind. A second later, there came a hard, sharp, electric pain of such intensity that Tom jumped backwards, falling on his rear. Reflexively, he leaped up and ran fifty feet away, then stopping, looked at his hand. A sizable red swelling in the center of his palm throbbed. He held onto the stung hand by the wrist with his other and bent over double, placing both hands between his knees, all the while howling in agony. It hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced. A few minutes later, the pain was mostly gone. Still, he’d never forget it.
They were making about ten miles a day walking the rocky foothills, the broad slopes and the shallow canyons that made up this long, low range that ran to the South. When the going got too rough due to choking growth, steepness or cliffs, they’d head back down to the valley. If there had been a single discernible trail the whole way Tom thought they could have done more, but often the one they were on would either peter out or begin a gradual swerve one way or the other. More often than not, Tom discovered that they had gotten off track and had to find another route. Finally, he decided that it might be best to climb to the top of that hilly range where he could get a good view of the way forward.
That little diversion cost them three more days, as what appeared insignificant from a distance, ravines, bluffs, over and undergrowth, usually turned out to be full-fledged obstacles. Halfway up, Tom cursed his decision to do it and almost decided to head back down to the valley. Then, gritting his teeth, he’d look at the top of the rise, still miles of hard hiking distant, but seeming closer than it was, and push his doubts back down. Once they made it to the top, the way ahead looked like it would be fairly clear and level, at least that was his impression from there at the bottom.
Yet, unlike the valley, the vegetation on the upper slopes was tighter and in many places, rampant, even impenetrable. Still, in the areas where the trees opened up, he could see much farther than he could down in the vale.
The nights, though, were something else. Soon as the sun began to go down in the West, the shadows would blend together and the f
orest close in. In the forest the darks were darker, the sounds closer, and Tom discovered that it frightened him. It wasn’t like sleeping on the open prairie at night bathed in moonlight, voices dissipated rather than concentrated. Though the plain could be hair-raising as well.
Just a week previous, he awoke to a slight noise, perhaps a twig being stepped on, and discovered a herd of Zygos quietly browsing the leaves from acacia trees nearby, the small copse of arbors he’d chosen for his hammock attracting them. The closest of the group was no more than twenty feet away. They were enormous, powerful brutes, yet, in the wan moonlight, he saw that they were also capable of the most delicate of proboscidean maneuvers, picking just the leaves they desired. They were also extremely adoring of their young, indulging and enduring their mischievousness with aplomb. Fortunately, so quiet were they that Little, lying next to him, slumbered on. And so, Tom watched them, gray in lunar lamplight, until finally sleep overtook him. In the morning, they were gone.
Here, on the other hand, the forest was dense and there were all kinds of creepy sounds around. Most unnerving was the stealthy note of nocturnal prowlers. Sometimes Little would begin to growl at the darkness, at something Tom couldn’t see, and he’d reach out to try to calm her, whispering, fearful of attracting a carnivore looking for an easy meal. Occasionally, there’d come a sudden crashing through brush racket that sent his heart racing. He did not sleep well.
Yet, when the dawn sun rose, and birds sang out, Tom often found his fears evaporating. At times during the daylight hours, Little would slip away, which forced him to wait, as he didn’t want to lose her. So he’d explore a bit. Invariably, five or ten minutes later, she’d return with lunch in her mouth.