by Ron Rayborne
When twilight came and the sky turned violet, he stopped. He was amazed with what he’d been able to do in a few hour’s time. The stars shone brightly and the milky way reflected from the sea. Waves lapped rhythmically like the heartbeat of the earth, and windy gusts blew, as was usual here. The forest looked especially dark in contrast, even seeming to spook Little, who, sensing something there, gave a sudden loud, strange bark that startled Tom. He jumped.
“Holy ... Don’t do that!” he chastised. Still, she looked into the ebony jungle behind and to his right, growling deeply, ears pricked at a certain point. Tom strained to see and hear, but saw nothing. It wasn’t the first time she’d scared the bejeezus out of him, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. All the same, he was glad he had her. He thought that he would not sleep that night, yet, soon as he lay upon the soft, warm sand he was gone.
He slept deeply until Little woke him up with her nervous growling. She lay with her body pressed against his as if for protection, and when she growled he could feel it. He decided to get the flashlight and have a look, but, shining it toward the forest, still saw nothing. When she continued her performance he turned irritably on his side and, grumbling, went back to sleep.
In the morning, Tom found that Little was now on his other side, placing him between her and whatever it was that had been upsetting her. “Thank you,” he said disgustedly. He decided that before he did anything else, he wanted to go have a look and see if he could find out what it was that had so disturbed her. He got the gun, not wanting to be unprepared, just in case, then made his way toward the river. They had to push their way through and around various trees and understory, finally scooting across a narrow wedge of sand past a sharp corner of granitic rock that angled to the sea. The last remnant of an ancient mountain, its sides were covered in ferns and lichen. Waves broke at their feet, tossing eel grass to and fro, then it was over to the other side.
For the first time, he saw the full width of the river. But it wasn’t the waterway that most interested him. Standing as he was just the other side of the sill, Tom looked upriver to a rather amazing sight. Lining the banks on both sides and within the wide river itself were hundreds, perhaps thousands of huge creatures, animals he’d not seen before. Now on the other side of the old mountain, he could also hear them, gronking, for that is how the noise they made appeared to him. There were gronks all up and down the two banks, and it was loud. He marveled that he’d not heard them before. There was also fighting within, thrashing so severe that he could not see the participants for all the whitewater. The flow that ran beyond them was red. Little stayed behind him.
Intrigued, Tom took out his trusty P.I. and snapped a picture of the closest specimen, a mighty beast that slept on the bank not a hundred feet away. Paleoparadoxia, it said. Gazing at a safe distance through the binocs, he first noted their bodies, gray on top, fading to whitish with gray circles beneath. This animal had countless deep gashes on its sides. When it opened an eye, he noted that it appeared cloudy. Probably blind, at least in that eye. Doubtless from fighting. On its far side were numerous smaller Paleos, which, Tom guessed, were its harem, and some young.
Judging their size to be too heavy to be very quick, Tom thought he should go and take a closer look. Firmly, he told Little to sit and stay put, but he did not think she would be hard to convince. She wasn’t, though she was agitated at his departure, eyes staring hard at him, ears attentive.
Tom turned and walked toward the big Paleo, camera at the ready. He did not think the gun would be needed. Little commenced an annoying whine, and Tom turned and shushed her quietly as he could. He noticed, as he advanced on the creature, that it had a large square head with short, but sharp tusks. As it breathed, a whitish sort of bubbly foam came and went from its nostrils. It also had enormous, inward turned front feet with individuated digits. In between was webbing, which likely turned its feet into effective paddles in the water. Behind was a tiny tail, for which he could see no practical purpose.
When he was almost upon the snoozing clan and looking down at the camera to set it for some pictures, one of the brood opened an eye. Maybe it was the snap of a twig under Tom’s foot, or maybe simply chance. Immediately, it began to make little gronking sounds. Tom looked up. Then others in the group started to call out. In rapid succession, the clamor moved down the bank, as more of the Paleos opened their eyes and began to gronk. Tom stuck his fingers in his ears. He still wanted to get his picture, and fumbled with the camera with one hand while plugging his ears with a finger and an upraised shoulder.
The monstrous brute that he’d been sneaking upon lifted its massive head, not knowing what was causing all the commotion. Blind in its right eye, it had not seen Tom walking slowly up to photograph it. It looked out across the river, then swung its head left. Seeing nothing to warrant such an uproar, it looked casually to the right. It was not blind in its left eye and now it saw Tom.
“Hey!” Tom said with a wave, then he snapped a picture. For a moment, the brute did nothing, taking in this unknown form standing before him. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” the biped offered. In reply, the brute blasted Tom with a gronk so loud that it almost knocked him backwards. “Whoa...” he said, stunned. That’s when it happened.
In a flash, the animal lifted its immense bulk from the ground and was running at him.
“Yikes!” Tom yelled and ran in reverse, almost falling. Nevertheless, the creature was very fast and would soon have him. Losing a second to turn, Tom ran for all he was worth. It wasn’t easy on the sand though, and the animal gained on him. When it was about to crush him under its locomotive-like momentum, Little flew by in the opposite direction, coming up behind the Paleo. Viciously she bit at the brute’s hindquarters, barely penetrating the thick skin. It was enough, though, to halt its progress. It turned to face the Aelurodon, but seeing Tom sprinting to the point, she jumped over the Paleo’s head, across its back, and tore off after her human.
At the corner, Tom shot a glance backwards. Little was right behind him, while the big Paleo had ceased its pursuit and stood looking in their direction, mouth open and drool spilling onto the ground. Its sides heaving from the exertion, it remained where it was to make sure the intruders were going. Quickly, yet gingerly, so as not to jab himself, Tom stepped past the rock, followed by Little, then swiveled to peek around the corner once again. The brute stood, still looking around him, then turned and strut-waddled back to its place near the females, tiny tail in the air, triumphant. Reunited with them, it let out another loud Gronk.
The sight of that huge butt wagging back and forth suddenly struck Tom, in his adrenaline charged state, as funny. No, it was hysterically funny, and retreating safely to his side of the point, he began to laugh out loud. He laughed long. He laughed away his tension, and when he was done, wiping the tears from his eyes, Tom felt better. He’d needed that.
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” he said to Little, “we can’t go across the river. Out to sea it is, then!”
Having gathered the necessities for building a raft, Tom was eager to get started. Wisely, though, he knew that they should eat first and did just that, downing a variety of fruit and eggs. Little wandered off to find her own breakfast.
Now, placing all of the thin logs side by side, Tom decided which should go where. From the first, he laid them butt end to head to try to keep the whole as square and even as possible. No one layer cheapie this, he would make two layers for extra floatation potential.
It went fairly quickly. The first set of logs he cut to roughly 7 x 7 feet. These he lashed firmly together with the vine, weaving it in, out and around each log. When he ran out of “rope” he’d get more and continue from a couple feet inside the previous tied section. As there was no dearth of vines, he attached continuous lengths from one end to the other. Then he pulled on the logs to test their strength. They held fast. He lifted one end to check its overall sturdiness; it was solid. So he started another group of logs next to the first
and tied them the same way. In a short while, it too was done, then, struggling, he lifted it and lay this group in the opposite direction to the first, looping vine through the ample gaps between logs to secure them. Again he lifted from a corner. It was heavy, but sound. Tom thought about putting on a third and final floor, but then decided against it, reasoning that any more, and the bulk might be an impediment to easy sailing.
Ah, yes, the sail, he thought. What could he use? He remembered the thermal blanket. He’d not employed it since arriving, as the nights here were not cold enough require it. Now he opened it and stretched it out upon the ground to check its size. Coincidentally, it was also 7 X 7 feet, thin and light, yet tough. He wondered what it was made of. Surely its designers never imagined that their blanket would serve instead as a Miocene sailcloth. Choosing a thin, straight log, three inches in diameter, Tom grabbed the chert piece he’d used earlier and scraped the trunk clean of bark until only the smooth wood beneath showed. This he jammed in a space between the two layers all the way through to the ground beneath. He pushed it a bit further, then straining, lifted one corner and rested it almost upright on another timber. He tied the bottom of his mast pole to those around it tightly as he could, threading braided vine through the gaps, attaching it strongly and pulling the rest through the floor. He then set the raft back down and again tied the pole off topside. It was firm.
He found another pole, straight, but that angled in at six feet, cutting off the end just past a bend where a large, sturdy knot had formed. This he hewed to a long sharp point. Tom then carved a corresponding hole in the mast pole that he could set the point in. It balanced there. He lifted and banged it down a few times to test for solidity. It was sound. Removing it, he now found a couple of thinner poles and joined the three at their ends, thus forming a triangle. This part was not nearly as strong as the rest and Tom swore as he tied and retied, again and again, trying to make it stronger. Still it flexed too much, but there was nothing else he could think of to do. He didn’t think the pieces would come undone, but he still did not like the feeling of instability. Finally, he found a bunch of straightish branchlets, and with more vines, tied them at the corners. That made it stronger. Lastly, he tied a piece of rope at the bottom of the mobile pole, above a cut-off branch and circled the mast with it, wrapping it below another cut-off branch on the mast’s opposite side, then tied again. He heaved now up and down. Solid. Good. He swung the mast frame around and was satisfied that it would move freely, but not come easily loose. He hoped it would be sufficient.
Next, Tom got the sail and tied it (or tried to, for the wind threatened several times to blow it into the trees where he’d never be able to reach) first to the top of the movable pole at a juncture of a small trimmed off branch, then to the bottom at a similar juncture. The sail flapped madly in the wind and he wrapped it around the pole, tying it temporarily there for safe keeping, lest it be torn to shreds. He’d wait to attach the sail to the other poles when they were on the water.
It was time to devise the rudder. He chose from among piles of driftwood at the margins of the river and the sea on their side of the jut of rock, old wood that had been planed by the pulse of the tide and time. Finding a suitable subject with a broad bottom - the rudder, and long, narrow handle - the tiller, he attached it just loose enough that it could turn either way and thus help to steer the craft.
The last thing he needed to do was to make himself an oar in case the sail was lost. It would have to be stouter than the palm frond. For this he selected a comparable piece of driftwood. Even so, it would be a last, but lame resort, for he knew it wouldn’t work well on the raft. He lashed it, and his backpack, securely to the deck.
The sun had advanced across the morning sky and now stood at ten degrees from perpendicular. Tom sat in the warm sand and looked at his creation with satisfaction. He was hungry and wolfed down more star fruit, then decided to gather as much as he could for the voyage. He hoped it would be uneventful. Now that all that was left to do was to launch, Tom began to feel a disquiet about it. He looked out to gauge the calmness of the surface waters. Thanks to the wind, there were small whitecaps far as he could see. Not good sailing weather, he intuited, especially for a greenhorn like himself. Should he wait to see if it quieted down some more? He thought about it, then resolved to wait another hour.
Chapter 26
In an hour, the water had indeed calmed a bit, and, heart pounding, Tom determined that it was time to go. He figured that they had a good eight hours until dark. Surely with a nice aft wind they would be at the other side in no time. And so, again loosely tying their craft to the palm, he pushed it into the surf. She floated and rocked nicely with the waves. Tom flushed with involuntary pride, then, up to his waist in water, clambered up and on. There was no overturning as with the “canoe” previous. He sat, and, as there were two layers, the top of the raft stayed dry. Tom smiled and nodded to himself.
“Not bad, eh?” he said to Little. She stood back, up to her chest in the tide, and watched without reply. “Well ...” Tom said, looking around again at the raft, “let’s go!” The girl splashed out to him, now swimming at his feet. “Come on!” her human urged. Yet, though she tried to climb up, she could not; instead she dog-paddled and whined. “Oh, do I have to lift you up here?” Tom asked. He slid back into the water while still holding onto the mooring rope with one hand. Bending down, he got his other hand and arm under her and lifted. “Sheesh!” he said. She was heavy! “You’re going to have to help me now.” Little got her front feet on the deck and tried vigorously to pull herself up. Meanwhile, Tom boosted, struggled and grunted with effort. “What the heck have you been eating, girl, rocks?” he said.
Finally topside, she was a happier girl and her tail stood upright in joy. Then she barked and shook, sending ten thousand droplets to the four corners. Tom, tired from the strain, climbed aboard with difficulty. He rested on his back a minute, then sat and looked once more at the craft. Except for being slightly lower now, it looked none the worse for their combined weight. Okay.
Releasing the rope, Tom carefully stood and unfurled the sail. Again the wind wrenched it out of his hands, but he quickly seized it, and, with a small piece of vine, tied it at the bottom outward point of the triangle. They had their sail! He then attached another length there for control, which he held on to. It worked; almost immediately she began to push back onto the shore. Hurriedly perching behind, Tom pulled on the vine. The entire raft turned with it — the wrong way, though. He let loose some vine, the mast swiveled and the sail filled, turned the tiller the opposite way, and like a miracle she was heading out to sea. Tom beamed.
“What a super job you did, Little!” he said, facetiously. Little stood stiff, but excited and barked her unique aelurodon bark. She barked, and then barked some more. Tom laughed.
They were moving at a spanking fine pace, now a couple of hundred feet from shore. Presently, he saw where the great river flowed into the sea, and its numerous denizens, still cavorting and fighting. Looking down the far side of the river, an area earlier shielded from his eyes by rocky outgrowth and vegetation, he saw that the numbers of Paleos increased along the bay and into the distance, a remarkable sight! He also discovered, now that he could see it, that their sanctuary was actually part of a huge, semi-deep estuary, as abundant sand was obvious below the surface, having been transported by the river all the way from the mountains. That same flow was now helping to speed their voyage.
Tom played the rudder right and left to get a grasp of how to maneuver the thing, found that turning it too far was not a good idea, the sailcloth threatened to tear and the craft to upend in the waves. However, if he turned just enough he could go right or left. So turning the tiller gently to the right pushed the whole raft left at an equally gentle pace. It was like having a steering wheel! He thought that the best thing, then, was to make a long swing, an arc, toward the far shore, now probably more than eight miles distant.
He looked back again t
o find, with amazement, that the land they’d left was now probably a half-mile behind them. It wrapped around a peninsula, then receded northwest. A thin stretch of beach and breakers was still visible, and behind it, a long bank of trees that appeared impenetrable. Tom marveled that they’d come through such a deep forest. Framed as it was by the blue of sea and sky, it was a lovely tropical vista.
“Hot dang!” he said, remembering a phrase from an old television program, circa 1950s, far in the future.
A side effect of the wind was a constant spray of water on them, he could taste the salt in it. Knowing that much of this water was fresh, coming from the mountains, the presence of salt betrayed another source as well, and he looked west, following the land to their right with his eyes. From his low perspective, he could not see the Pacific, especially as there was a nebulous, ill-defined, snowy white mist that shrouded it in secrecy.
“Fog!” Tom said in delight. In the world of man, fog increasingly became smog. An ever-present, disgusting brown haze that held pollution close to the lungs.
When their pace began to slow a bit, Tom judged that the great river was losing its energy. Soon they’d be going wholly on wind power. He thought that they’d now gone about a mile. Looking south, Tom had a new idea. Instead of simply making a beeline for the far shore he’d seen before, why not just continue on in this way? They certainly were making good time!