Opalescence

by Ron Rayborne

  One occasion that Tom remembered with particular fondness, was the time they happened upon a huge, hanging honeycomb, full and dripping gooey golden goodness. It was while they were still in the forest, before their sea crossing. He’d been in a funk for several days about the journey in general and all the hurdles they faced, when, hearing a loud buzzing, they found it. Five feet long by three wide, it was swarming with thousands of bees, yet these bees were non-aggressive and paid no mind to the small animals that eagerly nibbled cone and lapped honey that had fallen to the ground. As Tom watched, a chunk of comb suddenly detached and swung loose, dangling. Gobs of amber sweetness plopped down on the heads of the diners below, who then cleaned it, each from the other. Before the comb touched the ground, Tom walked over, and, with nervous eyes on the oblivious bees, gently took hold of it and pulled slightly. Then he had it, honey coating his hand and dripping into Little’s mouth. To be sure, they came across other hives and sampled other honeys, but this one cheered his soul when he needed it most.

  As Tom closed in, doubts had begun to creep into his mind. What if he’d had the big man all wrong, had prejudged him out of jealousy? Maybe Jaqzen’s brusque manner was simply impatience with the pettiness of a husband overly concerned about his wife. After all, he had bigger things to worry about. And there could be a logical explanation for why they’d failed to reappear when they were supposed to. It was entirely possible that some technical glitch somewhere had marooned the two back in the Miocene. Probable even. Still, how to explain the fact that Julie and Dietrich had been separated all this time? Whatever the case, he shouldn’t go in with guns blazing. Find out first what had happened, get the facts. Yet, though his logical mind entreated, his gut told him that his mind was wrong.

  He knew he was finally getting near when the unmistakable signs of humanity, of Jaqzen, began to appear. Garbage and destruction. It was a shock at first, and Tom stood dumbfounded as he stared down at the crumpled pack of cigarettes on the ground. Then he noticed the Cosoryx head lashed to a tree. It was destroyed, obviously Jaqzen had taken out his rage on the thing. There was a blood stained note crudely scrawled in gore beneath.

  You were warned

  The carnage looked recent. The ape-man was here, and knew Tom was too.

  There was another Amphicyon battle they’d witnessed one evening while sitting atop a low hill. Tired after a long day’s trudge, something caught his eye, something out on the dry grasslands. Dust being whipped up. It spun high and dispelled in the air. Below it was movement. Rapid. Running. An Aepycamelus loping with one of the great beasts in hot pursuit. Oh no, thought Tom. Not them. It was clear that the Aepy would be caught as it was no match for the Amp’s much greater speed. When the carnivore was almost upon it, though, the camel made a quick turn to the right while the brute went past. The Aepy continued on in its path, hastening fast as it could, but the Amp came back again at full charge. Its speed was mind-boggling, the power in its pumping legs was evident, almost catlike.

  It was a terrifying scene, especially for Tom, who had a natural aversion to violence. He braced for the worst. But not all fights are predictable, and when the Amphicyon sprang, claws bared and fangs ready, the very instant before it was to land upon the camel’s back, an amazing thing happened. The Aepy kicked.

  The timing was perfect. A second sooner, or later, and it would have been all over. Any other day, and it would have been all over. But not today. The camel’s rear feet caught the Amp, one in the chest and the other in the face, twisting it abruptly to the side. Tom heard the kick, a moment afterwards. Then the Amp went down. It stayed down, and would not be rising, its neck broken. The Aepy continued to lope for a way, but seeing it was no longer being pursued, stopped. It stood for a time then, mouth open and tongue lolling, while it caught its breath. Then, slowly, redeemed, with one last look at the Amp, it walked away toward the lengthening shadows of a hill that angled up between the savanna and a wood. A lowland species, Tom thought, its fur was shorter and darker than those he’d seen back in the nascent Sierras. Reaching the point, other Aepys strode out from the trees to meet it. Its harem and young. It had lived, lived to love another day and pass its genes on to one more generation.

  Now as he stood looking down at the plastic wad, at the horrible head of the Cosoryx, his blood hot with fury, Tom remembered the Aepy. Would that he’d be so lucky. He picked up the trash, a feeling of horror in his gut. Horror at what could, would happen, if people like Jaqzen were to travel back in time. Heaven into Hell.

  Pulling a fire stick out, he lit the trash, watched it burn until it was nothing but ash. The same as he’d done the rest of the waste he’d carried. When the item was used up or broken it was his disposal method of choice. He always waited until only ash remained. Then he’d stand and walk away. In this way, one by one, Tom was shedding the last residues of man.

  From this point on, Tom’s bearing changed. Gone was the casual comportment he’d settled into these past months out of ignorance of the full situation. Time, it seemed, had dulled his memory. Ambling through paradise in a world to oneself, a person could forget his mission, the reason he was here, the reason others had sacrificed their lives for him. The message on the tree brought it all back in a flash. Suddenly, realizing what Julie must have endured, the fear, the exhaustion, the pain of loss, filled Tom with guilt. He could have come sooner, should have. Now, though, was not a time to rush.

  As they walked, Tom kept a sharp look out, eyes penetrating the mists and shadows of the forest that fell on either side of them, ears listening for the slightest hint of aberration, something out-of-place. Even Little sensed that the air had changed. Maybe it was the lack of birdsong, the unusual silence that often presaged disaster, eerie quiet, as if the world were waiting for it to happen.

  A strong smell of ammonia. Strange. Little investigating, hackles raised. They were walking down a narrow path, perhaps twenty feet wide. The previous day, standing on top of a bluff, Tom had spied this trail. Bottomlands, thick, heavy jungle dominated here. Yet, running down the middle of it was a ribbon of bare land, well trod, a natural path. Looking down, he could see the tracks of many different animals, especially the heavy Zygos. And there were Jaqzen’s, large, like the man. Tom compared his foot size, was shocked by the difference. Soon enough, though, the Zygos would obliterate them.

  Trees had been felled by the mammoths and the gomphos, forcing Tom and Little to climb over or go around. In time, the proboscideans would thin the forest, and, with the help of horses and other grazers, in addition to the changing climate itself, aid in the spread of grasslands, especially on the Great Plains.

  From Julie’s beacon pattern, Tom had deciphered her technique. Unless she changed it, he knew about where she would be the next time she signaled. Then she’d turn to find him there, and, at last, after fifteen million years, they would be reunited. That day was tomorrow.

  First, though, he’d have to meet Jaqzen. Much as he tried not to let it, apprehension crept into his thoughts. Though he’d toughened over the past months, still, Tom doubted that he was a match for the Neanderthal. The man was obviously psychotic. Likely, he was prepared and waiting, had worked jobs like this a hundred times before. Piece of cake, he could almost hear the ape-man say. But maybe that was his weakness. Overconfidence. He noted the cigarettes. Must have brought quite a stash; how had he gotten them past the people at the Institute? With some help, possibly. He wondered what Jaqzen’s lungs looked like, about the shape he was in. Perhaps not as good as a year ago.

  Tom looked over at Little. Almost full-grown, she now weighed a hundred and seventy pounds. A hundred seventy pounds of fearsome power. Fast and strong, when she hunted now, she went after larger game, pulling them down and ending the chase quickly. Suffering was minimal, though he would never enjoy watching it. In the meantime, he’d become well acquainted with Luisian, non-meat, fare, and had begun to switch back to a mainly vegetarian diet. But not completely. Eating with Little was a bond he’d not bre
ak.

  They were as one now, Little and her human. Knew each other’s quirks and way of thinking — when one was happy or angry; when a situation called for speed or stealth; when to take the low path rather than the high one. Tom knew that he could count on Little’s help should it be required. That she too was a killer, would act in a second at his barest call. Two against one, they would prevail.

  He couldn’t do it. He’d not risk her life to save his own. This was something he had to do by himself. And when it was over, should he die, he knew his companion would protect Julie.

  Thus Tom ruminated, as his foot touched the thin, nearly invisible wire, almost setting it off. Little was behind, guarding his rear, growling her low, deep growl, hackles up.

  When his other foot pushed hard against the metal line though, Tom looked down, saw it, then up again at the sound of something coming fast at them. A shape, large and heavy, square with pointed stakes, was whooshing rapidly. Without a thought, Tom dived for Little, knocking her down and past. The square side of the death machine slammed into him, but the stakes missed. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground in a heap, pain shooting through him as the swinging trap swayed back and forth until finally gravity brought it to a halt.

  Little, whining, rushed to her human, not comprehending. She jumped on and licked Tom’s face, ears flattened in a way that spoke of acquiescence, fearful of reproachment.

  Slowly, Tom straightened, and sat, grunting with pain. With one hand he clutched his stomach, the other he put on his faithful companion, glad to see that she was unhurt, then turned to look at the hanging contrivance. So, Jaqzen had set a trap. It hadn’t worked though; they were still here. Just. It was his backpack that had borne the brunt of it. Nevertheless, he’d had the breath knocked out of him.

  Still sitting, Tom slung the pack off and looked at it. A rip along the width. It was high enough, though, that nothing was coming out. It could be repaired later. But the pack was wet. He opened it to inspect the inside. The water bottle was smashed and was now rubbish. Tom considered it grimly. Well, they still had the skins. Pulling other things out, he saw no further damage. Then he opened the pocket that contained the PinPointer.

  “No,” Tom said as he removed it. It was now in pieces, one falling from his hands to the ground trailing wires. It would never work again.

  Seeing that, Tom felt a devastation he’d not ever known. “God, NO,” he repeated, his hands shaking, then he let out a roar.

  Stay calm, Tom told himself, just gotta stay calm. And alert. Nothing’s changed. After reloading the pack and picking himself up, he and Little continued on. It had now been an hour, and no more traps. Maybe that was it, he hoped, Jaqzen’s best shot.

  Tom knew that he had but one chance at this. He was heading to Julie’s north-easternmost post, the one closest to him. She’d been doubling up on her beacons, had made the circuit and was due to arrive there again. The last time she called from it, two weeks ago, he noted the location. Yesterday he decided to double-check the distance. There were now 42 miles between them and it.

  He concluded that she’d been making these calls precisely at noon, or around 12:00 PM. He assumed that based on the position of the sun. It was near zenith. She’d have a chronometer and was likely timing her signals by it. And while he knew he shouldn’t, he returned her signal; he wanted to make sure she knew he was approaching and would wait for him. Now he was glad he did.

  He needed to guesstimate how far he and Little traveled since then. To do that, he had to know what the time was when he stopped last night and started this morning. He shook his head, unsure. Then he tried to think what time of year it was. As things were pretty uniseasonal in the mid-Miocene, it was hard to tell. Still, he thought that it was just past winter. He based this more on a hunch than anything else. The past several months, things had been slightly cooler than before and now they were heading toward a bit warmer. March? What time does the sun set in March? He guessed about 6:00 PM. They’d stopped at sundown. Six hours of hiking then? From an earlier calculation some time previous, when he’d played with the pedometer, he tagged his average walking miles per hour at 2.5. So at 2.5 miles an hour, they had gone roughly 15 miles. This morning they started out again at sunrise. He guessed that the sun rose at 6:00 am.

  Tom looked at the sky. The sun was a few degrees before noon. Maybe 11:00. Five hours had elapsed since the morning. 12.5 miles. Adding the two, he came up with 27.5 miles since Julie called. He had 14.5 miles to go. It was a lot of guesswork, so the margin for error was high. Tom prayed that he wasn’t too far off.

  If there were no other setbacks, and if he pushed himself, Tom thought they could make it to Julie’s general signaling area just about an hour before sunset. She’d show up tomorrow and he’d look for her. But there were so many doubts.

  A small deer. It was pinned to a tree, speared by a long shaft that was sent hurtling toward it after the poor animal found another of Jaqzen’s trip wires. Its head down, blood dripping from its mouth, it was dead, having inadvertently sacrificed its life to save them.

  They walked on for another couple of hours, stepping over two more traps, while the forest drew in closer to the trail. Trees towered above, casting it in ominous shadows. Foreboding. Anxious, gun in hand, Tom peered into the wood, expecting Jaqzen to jump out at any minute.

  In her school days, Julie had once been assigned to read and compare two stories, Young Goodman Brown by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and How to Tell a True War Story by Tim O’Brian. Stories that dealt with shadows and imagination. With nature and nightmares. She’d written an essay about it, and now Tom remembered it. He’d read it that day back at their apartment. Back while he waited for her return. It seemed a world away.

  At first she was puzzled by it, this comparison, then slowly it began to dawn on her.

  “I was suddenly struck with the realization that both stories seem to be revealing, via their disparate plots, the same very interesting thing. A base alloy of the human mind. It has to do with unconscious and instinct. It also has to do with fear and our genetic history. One could perhaps reduce it down to strict zoophobia (fear of animals) and nyctophobia (fear of the dark) and try to treat these (separately or together), but that would not explain their origins.

  “What am I getting at? Simply this. Humanity’s 10,000 year separation from nature (we’ve been here much longer, but it was at about this point that we began to segregate ourselves away from other species and live citied lives) has had long-lasting and profound negative impacts on its psyche. We continue to confuse nature, dark and mysterious, with evil, and still lack understanding on the underlying cause for much of our fears and prejudices. But could these fears and prejudices, which have given convenient excuse to many to clear-cut forests, pave over wild lands, and even hunt species to extinction, actually be based on ‘genetic memory’ and encoded in our DNA? A memory that stretches back millions of years to a time when survival in nature was a continual, often frightening struggle? An open question, but judge for yourselves.

  “Let us first compare how nature is treated in both stories. Hawthorne wrote of Goodman Brown on his way to meet the devil,”

  He had taken a dreary road, darkened by all the gloomiest trees of the forest which barely stood aside to let the narrow path creep through, and close immediately behind. It was all as lonely as could be; and there is this peculiarity in such solitude, that the traveler know not who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and thick boughs overhead; so that with lonely footsteps he may be passing through an unseen multitude.

  “And now this from How to Tell a True War Story in a description of the Vietnamese jungles,”

  So what happens is, these guys get themselves deep in the bush.... And I’ll tell you - it’s spooky. This is mountains. You don’t KNOW spooky till you been there. Jungle, sort of, except it’s way up in the clouds and there’s always this fog - like rain, except it’s not raining - everything’s all wet and swirly and tangled up and you ca
n’t see jack, you can’t find your pecker to piss with. Like you don’t have a body. Serious spooky. You just go with the vapors - the fog sort of takes you in.... And the sounds, man. The sounds carry forever. You hear shit nobody should ever hear.

  “Already one begins to see how, in both narratives, the mere presence of the natural world, its benign features amplified and transformed by the imaginations of the characters involved as night approaches, is influencing their perspectives. Were it broad daylight at the local city park, the eerie conclusions they draw, really the basis for both stories, would have been different. So are these really stories that perhaps say more about our fear of nature? Let’s continue. From Young Goodman Brown,”

  The whole forest was peopled with frightful sounds - the creaking of the trees, the howling of the wild beasts, and the yell of Indians; while sometimes the wind tolled like a distant church bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar around the traveler, as if all nature were laughing him to scorn.... “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Roared Goodman Brown when the wind laughed at him. “Let us hear which will laugh loudest. Think not to frighten me with your deviltry. Come witch, come wizard, come Indian powwow, come devil himself, and here comes Goodman Brown. You may as well fear him as he fear you.”

  “This may seem an inconsequential point, until one realizes that many terrible acts have been committed throughout history based solely on superstition and fear. One might also wonder how many forests have been razed, how many mountains leveled, how many species driven to extinction merely because of some gut-level fear of them — the darkness, those howls, almost demonic at night, bears and lions which must kill to eat and to feed their young. And is it just such an unreasoning terror these tales betray? The answer is important, for the life and health of a world is at stake.