Opalescence

by Ron Rayborne

  On the third day of climbing, toward the late afternoon, they finally made it through the forest. Now they stood on a grassy mountainside that swept up at an angle to the top. Tom figured it would take half an hour to reach it, about how long he thought they had until nightfall. All the same, he was worn out and debated spending the night here. It was pleasant, extremely so, he thought, with a warm breeze and a commanding view of the valley below, all the way to the sea and the islands beyond. A large, white moon had risen early, and in spite of his ever-present sense of urgency and worry for Julie, Tom felt a joy he’d not known before. Maybe it was his relief at finally being out of the foreboding forest. Maybe it was his increasing sense of confidence and accomplishment, that he was actually surviving, and, in fact, doing reasonably well, so far at least, in this most wild of worlds.

  There, spread out before them, beneath the mountain range on which they stood, was a scene of profound beauty. Even Little seemed awed as she stood on a boulder jutting out over a drop, her fur wind-blown, a look of serenity on her face, of maturity and utter confidence. To be sure, she was still a pup, but she had put on weight rapidly in the last two months, having gained perhaps thirty pounds from constant hunting. He guessed her weight now to be about forty or fifty, and it looked like pure muscle. He walked toward her and she turned her head to regard him with a look of somberness approaching the wolfish. The inherent nobility of the canine clan. He thought, as he began to stroke her, that she was growing up fast, seemed to understand the nature of the journey they were on, though he realized that that couldn’t be the case. She’s going to be formidable, he knew, the best companion he could possibly have asked for. She returned her gaze to the valley.

  Tom sat next to her on that boulder jutting out over the drop, his legs dangling. Though it was grassland to the rise behind, here and there were still areas of forest, and above that, the stars were beginning to show. Below, as the night wore on, the moon was making its own showing, reflecting off the waters of a large lake, its end dammed up by Umbogaulus, a Barstovian beaver. Around them a chorus of crickets sang, and Tom, on his board piano, played in soft accompaniment. In spite of his troubles, Tom felt at ease. Laying his instrument aside, he withdrew the opal to look at it. Beautiful. Muted colors scintillating there. Benevolent. Mysterious.

  My dearest Julie. How do I write this? How do I describe the indescribable? You were so right (of course!) about this world, about this time. And I am captured! It fills me, fills every part of my being. Every sense. Every day that goes by, I love it more.

  I never knew. Never knew how wrong our world was. How enslaved we were. Never knew there could be such beauty, such delight. Such freedom, such peace.

  It’s not complete, though. There is something missing. You. Where are you, my love? Please be safe and know that I am coming. Your husband is coming.

  July 20, Year 1.

  Tom awoke expecting to find that Little had supplied him his usual warm fare, and indeed there were several small mounds in the grass nearby. He walked to look at them and frowned with disapproval, then took out the P.I. and snapped a picture. “Paraneotoma,” it said, then “Wood rat.” Tom grimaced. Even with his newfound omnivory, he couldn’t bring himself to eat a rat.

  He looked around for his aelurodon, but she was nowhere in sight. “Little,” Tom called out. “Little One.” Still no show. Oh well, he knew that she was likely around somewhere, checking out the place. Tom arose, stretched, and rolled up his sleeping bag, finally tying it to the top of his pack. There was a cool, crisp breeze, something he’d noticed nearly every morning, and it carried a lovely scent of pine, redwood and other evergreen foliage. He walked naked to the promontory he and Little had spent the last evening upon, looking out at that moonlit landscape. Now it was brightly lit with warming sun. A new day. Gorgeous. Inviting. The wreckage of the future an eternity away. He couldn’t decide which view was better, evening or morning.

  Tom became aware of another fragrance now. He looked around and found the usual abundance of flowers in the grass. Little bees were already hard at work, buzzing from floret to floret. He bent to smell them, walking about, investigating here and there, sticking nose into this or that blossom, each with a subtly different hue of scent. And yet, though sweet, none of them was the source of the delicious aroma he now sensed.

  A liquid sound nearby, a faint babbling, gurgling, within the trees. Water running over rocks, the rill, though now only a fraction of the mighty river it would become. A few arbors with sun shining through them, barely concealing the vista far down in the great valley. He approached happily, the scent increasing until he was upon it. Small native pollinators were already busy insuring the continuance of both species, plant and bee. A symbiotic relationship. It was a shrub with thick leaves and delicate pink-white bell-shaped flowers. Manzanita. Others, already pollinated, had grown red berries. Irresistibly, he picked one and popped it into his mouth. Without chewing, he rolled it around upon his tongue. An apple cider tang, light and tart, touched his taste buds. He bit down gently and found a seed within. The tangy portion was the thin outer shell around it. Tom got an idea and picked bunches of them.

  He carried them back, retrieved his collapsible pot, then sat on the grass and began to crack the skins from of the berries. They flaked off readily. These he put in the pot. When he had enough, Tom added fresh water from the stream. Then, clearing a small site and gathering some stones, he started a fire and placed the pot on top of the stones. In short order the water began to boil. He removed the pot and set it on the ground to cool.

  Something rustled in the bushes a short distance away. Tom looked, expecting to see Little. Instead, a tall form walked tentatively out through the growth, small head held high and proud. He drew in his breath. The animal’s ears were forward, but sometimes turned to the various notes of the glen, the chirp of songbirds, the plash of water, the whisper of pine. Though there were bits of dry leaves clinging to its thick, wavy fur, it had an air almost of aristocracy. But not the haughty nobility of human invention. Tom recognized it as the splendid camel Aepycamelus, and guessed it stood maybe ten feet high. It looked heavy and strong. Its fur was a creamy white with brown tinting.

  Out it walked, sniffing the air. It strut a few paces, then bowed its head to eat some grass, as if sampling it for fitness. Tom wasn’t sure it saw him, if so, it gave no indication. When it had emerged perhaps twenty paces into the glen, other forms appeared behind it. Two more Aepys, smaller by half than the first. Its young. They stepped out hesitantly, carefully. Finally, out came mother, smaller than dad, but just as noble, all four now sniffing the air.

  When they were all out, a strange thing happened. The father began to walk toward Tom. It stopped to within four paces. Tom’s heart beat hard in his chest. He wondered if he should jump up, shouting, and send them packing. But he didn’t; instead he simply stayed put. Father now bent down to sniff at the pot where the berry tea was cooling, then walked two more steps and sniffed Tom, first his head, then shoulder. He felt the large animal’s soft, moist muzzle touching his skin. Then the camel lifted its head as if in thought, or perhaps it heard something, but with eyes on either side it was hard to tell what he might be looking at.

  Little, carrying another animal, walked out of the brush and paused. She dropped the catch on the ground and surveyed the situation. Tom was afraid that she would burst into a run, causing a general panic that might get him trampled. Instead she sat, mouth closed, and gazed at the huge beast with, he thought, respect. Unusual for her. The big male again dropped its head, touching Tom’s cheek. Then it softly nibbled with its thick lips. A quivering feel that tickled. The human was afraid that he was about to be chomped, but no. Maybe it only wanted to taste the salt on Tom’s skin. Little was on alert, but made no move, merely staring solemnly.

  After a bit, the Aepy simply walked off in a measured, dignified manner, followed by the rest of the family. They disappeared into the brush and were gone. Tom let out his breath. I
t was an experience that he would not soon forget.

  Little picked up her kill and came to her master, dropping the carcass in his lap, and proceeded to sniff his face and body as well.

  “What am I...” Tom said, pushing Little’s bristly muzzle aside, “the local olfactory delight?” He stuck his nose near an armpit, sniffed and withdrew. “Whew! What’s the attraction anyway?”

  He looked now at the kill, another rat. “Where are you finding all these things?” he asked her. “No offense, but I’m going to go ahead and abstain for now. You can have it.” Tom lifted the creature from his lap by the tip of its bare tail and held it our for his aelurodon. She looked at it, then at him, without comprehension. Finally, ever so delicately, she took the rodent from his hand, backed up a couple of paces, then lay it on the ground, glancing at her human once again as if to make sure that he was indeed allowing her this exquisite treat. When he didn’t object, she set to its rapid disposal. Tom grimaced. Looked like he’d be eating vegetarian this morning. Fortunately, he had a supply of plums and avocados from below that he’d been carrying tied to his belt. It added to the overall weight, but it was a necessary addition.

  He thought of Julie. “She’d love you, too,” he said to Little. At that, his smile disappeared and he got up and retrieved the P.P., found a shady spot so he could see the screen clearly, and switched it on. Each time he did this, he worried that his signal would be picked up by Jaqzen as well. Tom was loath to give away the fact that there was another human present, knowing that, without the element of surprise, he might not be able to catch the big man off guard should it come to that. Forewarned is forearmed.

  The screen resolved, and he turned up the resolution as usual, and as usual, he fretted during the moments it took for Julie to hear the beeping and turn on her PinPointer likewise. As expected, Jaqzen’s red dot flashed his location, now 637 miles away.

  Beep. A green flash.

  Beep. Beep. His heart leapt. She was 609 miles from him, as the crow flies. With all the stops and starts it was a paltry improvement. The problem was that, while in actuality they’d travelled much farther, it hadn’t been a direct route. They’d been heading east, south-east to attain the rise and there’d been a lot of backtracking and detours. But they were closing the distance. He knew that she must also see his blue dot on her screen, was, even now, looking at it. How he longed to reach through the void and touch her, how maddening that he couldn’t.

  Green switched off, and so did he. Twenty-eight miles were all that there was between Julie and Jaqzen, between her and who knew what. Again, Tom wished for her safety.

  He strode to his pack and loaded everything in, careful to make sure that nothing would jab. Yesterday he’d apparently been less careful and some item dug in his back for an hour before he took the pack back off in frustration and found that the shovel had again gotten wedged between his water bottle and the inside of the pack, next to his back. Though this part of the ruck did have thick padding, yet, even with that, the hard rubbing was irritating.

  After tying on the bag of fruit, he, as usual, lifted with strain, bending over to heft the whole thing up and on. He pondered afresh if there might be anything he could do without, but could think of nothing. He guessed that to a real backpacker he’d look a sight, carrying all this weight around. They’d probably laugh at his impracticality. In the Miocene world, though, he didn’t have the luxury of having his supplies delivered to him at strategic points along the way.

  Looking off through the trees, he could make out the ridge top not more than a half-hour distant, followed it with his eyes. He wanted to see the other side of this high-ground; thus, that was the way they’d go. And so, off they set.

  They walked at a gentle angle that would bring them to the rise. It was easy enough to simply step over the little stream now. He realized, as they climbed, that the temps at this altitude were cooler than those below. But that would make sense, he supposed.

  When he reached the crest, Tom gasped. The land on the other side was much more elevated than that to the west; after a short dip past the rise on which they wandered, it then sloped gradually upwards in modest undulations and random hills all the way to the horizon, East, North and South. An angled highland, lush, green and grassy, dotted with small groves of deciduous trees and larger areas of evergreen forest. In barer locales, here and there, were vents and geysers pumping steam into the sky, and pockets of hardened, black crusts where lava had flowed in years past. If enough time elapsed between flows, the land was reclaimed by luxurious mounds of grass. He consulted the PinPointer. This was the Mehrten Volcanic Plain, it said. Southeast, a rare prominence jutted from this more or less smooth highland: Sierra Buttes, 6,000 ft. That made it double the height here on the crest, according to the altimeter.

  Not just the occasional lava, sundry rivers flowed here as well, down the highland’s long, flattened length, then, abutting the rise, formed pools and small lakes with stunning views of the bottomlands.

  “A Mio-scene!” Tom declared.

  On the other side of these, streams continued through gaps in the bank, then down the long route westward to again form lakes, larger now, or join together into wide rivers. From there, it was on to the Temblor, the name the P.P., and he now remembered Julie, had called that inland sea.

  The areas of deciduous and evergreen trees on the uplands surrounded bodies of water, as if there had once been lots more here, but then they’d receded to these oases when the climate, or maybe the land itself began to change. Or maybe it was overgrazing. Besides grass and patches of forest, there was not much vegetation in the majority of the open space between oases. A precursor to a dry future? Later, as the northern Sierras rose, land eastward would become a full-fledged desert, adding to the Great Basin. But for now, the land was high and he could see from where he was that these lochs were large. They’d be here a good while longer.

  Lingering in the general periphery of the lakes was a variety of mammal fauna, especially horses, but camelids looked abundant as well, and, slowly plodding in small herds near the forest margins, the mammut, Zygolophodon. Yet, as he scanned, he saw what looked like another kind of elephant, similar, though not exactly the same. The tusks were different. He’d seen them just once before, at the beginning, hauling down branches and rolling trees. Now, they were standing ankle-deep in water exuberant with growth.

  Tom swung the P.I. to his eyes from where it hung around his neck and zoomed in on one. He snapped the pic and back came the reply: Gomphothere. They seemed to be keeping their distance from the comparably sized Zygos. The one he focused on was pulling at a tough bunch of sedge-like plants, or maybe it was vine, half as tall as the elephant itself. Whatever it was, it had a solid grip. Even so, the Gompho finally ripped it out, banged it on the ground to remove the dirt and shoved it in to its open mouth. Then, noticing movement, Tom saw that there were other Gompho heads protruding just above the tall grass. They’re fairly well disguised in there, he thought. He counted seven of them.

  There was yet another surprise. A group of primitive Rhinoceros. Tom could tell by the general body shape, and of course the horn, though it wasn’t very big. Still, there was no mistaking. The P.I. called them Teleoceras, and there were a lot of them. They seemed to like hanging out in the rivers and their inlets to the lakes. Except for the elephants and the smaller, faster animals, the other fauna seemed to be keeping their distance. A little off to the right of the group of Teleos though, was another kind of rhino. Long-legged. At first Tom thought they were more Teleos, but then noticed the lack of a horn. Aphelops. Perhaps shyer, they apparently preferred the cover of the woodland edge, but were drawn by the company of their braver cousins. Tom wondered why he hadn’t seen these rhinos on the seaside of the range.

  Something loping along, bounding south, toward the forest, through wary herds that moved out of its way. Tom zeroed in. A carnivore. Ursavus, an early bear. Three species names popped up - the P.I. couldn’t determine which it was - br
evirhinus, pawniensis and primaevus. Evidently the beast was too remote to make a precise identification.

  It was an immense pastureland, Tom concluded, reflecting on the tranquil vista. Ideal for the animals living there.

  To the South now, the prominence of the true mountains was more apparent. These projected far above the western lands. They were purple with distance and height, looking both foreboding and majestic. Just below them, on the seaside, dark clouds clung as if caught in the mountainous grip. It was raining. Quick, jagged flashes of light met the earth, while great slanting curtains of water fell from those clouds in motion so slow he could barely see them moving, to the waiting land beneath. Again he wondered about them. The map indicated that they were the Sierras. The northern corner of the inland sea didn’t look more than maybe fifty miles away from them, if that.

  On the left side of the mountain range, the land looked mostly bare and dry. True desert. Then he noticed something else, something he’d not discerned before. On the very tops of those mountains, there was white. He looked again, refocusing the binocs, followed the ridge as far as he could see. For a good long way, yes, there was white capping it. His creeping smile broke into a wide grin. SNOW!

  “Ha, haa!” Tom shouted. “Look at that, Little. SNOW!” Little looked in the direction her human pointed, but seemed not to understand. Tom tried to do a bit of a jig, but with all his gear it was awkward. “What a world!” he shouted.

  He looked down again, southward, and, visually following the range to sea level, saw that there would be hills and valleys, grassland and woodlands, numerous deep canyons and great rivers to cross. Many flowed to that inland sea, a huge marine embayment, which, from this height, looked not too far away. So then, he conjectured, it must be a mixed salt/freshwater body. Brackish. What kinds of animals live in water like that?