He leaned over the other reeds. Some of them made different tones, and he was curious why. Each reed, he discovered, was segmented into sections. The final, broken section at the top was a different length in each. It seemed like the length impacted the tone.
But some of the reeds seemed to make different tones, even though the lengths were the same. He checked one of those. It had a crack in the side, running down to a small hole. Did that impact the noise the reed made?
John sat back down in the sand, examining the length he had broken off. He blew into the top again, taking a measure of the sound it made. Then he took the sharp rock he wore around his neck and carefully bored a small hole about halfway down the reed.
He blew into it again. The noise sounded different. He couldn’t be entirely sure, but it sounded like it had changed just a little. John put his finger over the hole to close it again and blew once more. The note his reed produced was much more like the first sound again.
Excited, he blew into the reed, placing and removing his finger over the hole. The sound it made changed with each movement of his finger! He was making music. It wasn’t much. Two notes were more than one, something, but not as much as it could be.
“Not enough to impress her, though,” John said.
No, it wasn’t even close to the complex melody of Dana’s song. It wouldn’t be enough to make her take notice, and he wanted badly to get her attention somehow. John thought that if he could just make this reed somehow produce music that was close to as complex as the song Dana had sung, he might be able to get her to talk to him again.
He bored another hole in the side of the reed, wondering if he could get more complex notes by adding additional holes. But he was too hasty in the process, overeager to finish. John put too much pressure on hit cutting rock, and the reed split.
“Damn,” he said, tossing the broken reed into the water. “This isn’t getting me anywhere!”
He really ought to get back to building his shelter. That was work which needed doing, and it wasn’t being accomplished by sitting around playing with reeds by the river. Or he could be gathering food, his stomach reminded him as it grumbled noisily. There were many productive things he could be spending the waning hours of the day doing. His fire was most certainly out by now. He’d have to restart it from a spark. John knew he had done it before, and could do it again, but he still groaned at the thought of the work involved.
That would be a task for tomorrow. For today, he was more concerned with his new guest. And in music. He broke off another piece of reed and started work on boring a hole into it. This one had a narrow gap near the top. When he blew into it, the sound was even more pleasing. John cut one hole without issues, and the tone changed again just as it had on the other reed.
He set about cutting the second hole, careful this time not to break the fragile material. The second hole complete, John blew into the reed again. A third note appeared.
John played his finger over the holes, fiddling with the sounds it made as each hole was covered and uncovered. He had four notes, now. Each one sounded a little different.
There was space on the reed for a third hole. Did he dare to carve it? If he broke this reed, he’d have to start from scratch again. He checked the sun, already beginning to set. There probably wasn’t time for it tonight. He’d have to rush in order to gather some food for dinner.
John knew he probably ought to wait until tomorrow to work more on the reed, but he felt an intense need to continue for as long as he could. He was onto something special with this work. It felt right, deep inside him, to do this. He didn’t entirely understand why, but John went with his gut and ever so carefully began cutting the third hole.
It was painstaking work in the fading daylight. He didn’t want to mess the reed up, and was aware the other holes had probably already weakened it. Just a little bit too much pressure and he would snap the thing. But he persevered and finally blew reed dust away from the spot to reveal a small hole.
“Yes!”
He blew into the reed. It gave him another note. He had multiple notes, now. He could change the tone of the reed by quite a lot just by covering or uncovering the holes. The sounds he was making were discordant, even annoying to his own ears. Nothing like the singing! He’d have to learn how to put the notes together in a way that sounded good.
“This is going to take a lot of work, isn’t it?” he muttered to himself.
The first stars were beginning to show in the sky. It was time to get some food and prepare for sleep. John was tired. The ordeal, the changes, everything he’d been through during the day dropped on him like a pile of boulders. Still holding the reed, he went back toward his lean-to. Tomorrow, he’d figure out how to play the thing. Tomorrow, he would learn how to make music.
And maybe then Dana would come to watch him instead of the other way around.
Twenty-Eight
John tried through the morning to get the little reed to make notes for him. It was making high-pitched sounds all right, but it was like annoying noise to his ears. The sounds weren’t pleasant like Dana’s singing. They were a riotous cacophony instead. It was obnoxious, and he was the one making the sounds in the first place!
He certainly couldn’t entice Dana to spend time with him with that sort of music!
Disgusted, John set the instrument aside. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than worry about this.”
John set about rebuilding his fire. It had gone out completely. The last embers were still warm, but there wasn’t enough heat to catch the tinder alight, even when he blew on them. He pulled the bow and plank out from where he’d stowed them in his lean-to and went about the laborious process of making a fire.
It seemed like building the friction for a few sparks went more quickly this time. Maybe he’d gotten the knack of it, or perhaps it only felt easier because this time he knew for certain it would work. Whichever was the case, John soon had a tiny flame, to which he fed more wood until it was a comfortable blaze.
Then he went back to examine his mine. Escape had been his main priority before but, somehow, the need to explore felt less urgent. John chuckled to himself. Of course it did! The mystery he’d been hoping to explore—what was on the far side of the wall—had been replaced by a far more compelling mystery right in front of his face. Or across the river, anyway.
Who was Dana? She upset the natural order of things. Everything in his world had a purpose and a reason. Water flowed from the wall, down the river, and tumbled over the edge into the ravine. The trees grew, and food came from them. Things remained the same. There was an order to them. People simply did not appear.
Even as John had the thought, he knew it was wrong. He was trying to establish in his head an order that didn’t exist. Those birds had appeared at the same time as Dana. They could perhaps have flown over the wall. But the deer didn’t have wings. Where had it come from and, as importantly, where had it gone? What about the flashes of explosive sky-light? John had never seen anything like them before. Thinking back further, there was the berry-bush his mother had eaten from. The one John was convinced had killed her.
There had never been a bush like that in his world before that day. At the time, John had figured they’d missed it until it grew the bright red berries. But now, he wasn’t so sure. He suspected that, like all these other things, it had appeared out of nowhere.
It was a frightening thought. The world that John had always assumed had an order, stability and structure, all of a sudden did not. In his mind, it was dangerously unpredictable. If anything could happen at any time, was there any point in trying to prepare?
John looked at the stone and timber shelter he was making. It would hold against the torrential rains once it was finished. Nestled into the shadow of the wall, it ought to be safe from destruction by the sky-light.
But what was to stop flames from shooting out of the ground next time instead of the sky? If friendly animals like the deer could arrive in
his world, and then vanish again, what was to stop something else from coming? John racked his brain, trying to remember the tales his parents had told him of animals. He didn’t recall a lot of details, but he was certain they’d said some types of animals would hunt and even eat humans. If one of them arrived in his world, he was ill-prepared to defend himself.
Dana was better prepared against such an event already. That pointed stick she’d been carrying was a good idea. Then a grim thought: if the birds had followed her here, could a more dangerous animal follow, as well?
“No sense borrowing trouble,” John said aloud, as much to reassure himself as anything else. But he went back into the shelter and grabbed his stone hatchet, tucking it into his rope belt. Just in case, he thought. The stone edge wasn’t very sharp, but if it would chop logs, he figured it could hurt an animal, too.
If the world was unpredictable, then he would have to be ready for whatever it threw his way. Survival meant being able to adapt quickly to the changes and overcome each obstacle as it appeared.
The tunnel was almost a complete loss. More than half the distance he’d dug had collapsed in on itself. The shovel was nowhere to be seen, either. He must have lost it in the cave-in. John went to the mouth of the tunnel and looked inside. Sweat poured from his head at the thought of going in. John’s heart hammered in his chest. He forced himself to duck and take one step into the dark space.
Immediately, the sense of being buried alive came back. He was there again, the sand pouring in, piling against his limbs, pinning them to his sides. The dirt rushed down and covered his mouth, his nose. It was only a memory, but it felt so real! John collapsed against the floor of the tunnel, then scrambled backwards into the light. He was light-headed, dizzy, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The reaction didn’t begin to abate until he was clear of the trench completely.
John lay back against the cool grass, the sensations of being buried alive gradually fading. He sucked in deep gulps of air, grateful for each one. The feeling had been so intense, so real! It had felt like the actual cave-in. As if his memory had dredged up the recollection of the event, triggered by the action of going close to the tunnel, possibly even the thought of going in.
“Not going to be doing more digging for a while, I think,” John said to himself once he was able to speak again. He was shaken. What sort of weakness was this that he couldn’t make himself go back to finish the job? He knew that with some work he could shore up the sides and prevent another collapse. But there was a part of John that was utterly terrified of the idea.
He managed to sit up, his hands trembling with the effort of keeping himself together. John glanced back at the tunnel, and the feeling of being trapped, buried, and dying started to come back again. He quickly looked away. What was wrong with him? He didn’t understand the intensity of the memories or the emotions that swept over him.
John’s gaze passed across the little flute, on the ground nearby. He’d set it down while he’d worked on the fire and forgotten about the thing. Now, his mind latched on to it like it was a lifeline. John hauled himself back to his feet and picked it up. The reed felt light in his hands, but it was something different to focus on, a new place to put his concentration.
Anything was better than the memory of the tunnel. Even the bad notes he could eke out of the flute were better than that. Besides, who knew? Maybe with a bit more practice he would do better. John decided to leave the relative shade of the wall behind him and set out for the sandy riverbank. It had always been his favorite spot to relax, and he needed that more than ever.
A little while later, he fiddled with the flute, trying—vainly—to match the three-note trill of a bird perched upon a reed in the river. No matter what he did, he couldn’t quite hit the same sounds as the bird. John swore that every time he thought he was getting close to mimicking the bird, it changed its song. It was the only possible answer. He’d been sitting here how long?
John checked the placement of the sun. A while, anyway. His talent for making bad music seemed to be only exceeded by his ability to get himself into trouble.
The sound of water splashing caught his attention. John looked up. Ripples crisscrossed the water’s surface, but he didn’t see what the source might have been. The bird was gone. Did the things swim? John stood and looked into the water. He caught sight of something moving there, a brief flash of sunlight glinting beneath the surface of the water that was gone a moment later. Must be the birds could swim as well as fly. Long moments passed and the bird didn’t resurface. Just how long could one hold its breath?
Then John heard another sound that made him forget about the bird entirely—Dana was coming to the river. He snatched up his things from the ground and turned to make his escape into the woods without even thinking about it. No sense annoying her by being there when she arrived.
John had almost made it back into the shadows of the trees when he heard Dana’s sharp cry of pain.
Twenty-Nine
John whirled toward the scream. He couldn’t see Dana anymore. She was close to the water, judging by where her cry had come from, but she was hidden in the reeds. She sounded terrified and in pain, but he couldn’t see what was going on. John dropped his flute on the beach and broke into a run toward her. She might not welcome him interfering with her again, but he couldn’t risk not coming to her aid if she was in trouble.
As confusing as she was, Dana was also the only other living human John knew of. He wasn’t about to let anything happen to her.
He splashed through the shallow river, pushing himself through the water as fast as he could. Dana gave another sharp cry from just outside his sight. There was no doubt in his mind now. She was in trouble. What sort he didn’t know, but he pushed through the thick reeds to help.
John wasn’t sure what he had expected to see, but it wasn’t the tableau that revealed itself when he finally broke through the vegetation. Dana lay on her back, halfway in and out of the river. Attached to her leg was—something. A green animal with a bumpy hide, about as long as one of John’s legs. It had powerful looking jaws that had latched onto Dana's right leg. John could see the thing’s sharp teeth tearing into the skin of her shin. The mud beneath her was red with blood.
One of Dana’s hands was tangled in the grass, fighting to keep her on the shore. Her other hand still grasped her spear. She was jabbing ineffectually at the creature, but it wasn’t letting go. If anything, it was thrashing about, trying to drag her away from the shore. As John approached, she slipped deeper into the water. If it was able to pull her out of the reeds, she might drown. The river was fairly shallow, but it wouldn’t take much.
“Hang on!” John shouted. He rushed in.
“Get it off me!” Dana said, her voice shaking. She dropped the spear, struggling now with both hands to keep the beast from dragging her away. She couldn’t find a good grip, and it was slowly pulling her down.
John came up beside her. He grabbed the creature’s jaws with both hands, intending to pry them apart. With a grunt of effort, he flexed his arms, struggling to pry the thing from Dana’s leg. But the jaws were too strong. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t force it loose.
It continued to thrash and drag, an inch at a time. In another minute, she would be struggling to keep her head above water.
The axe! John reached down to his side. It was still tucked into his rope. He yanked it free, almost dropping it into the water in his haste. He eyed the creature warily as he stepped close enough to swing, but it still seemed entirely focused on Dana.
John raised the axe and brought it down on the thing’s back. The blow glanced off, barely scratching the animal’s thick hide. He hammered home another blow, but the stone blade wasn’t sharp enough. His hits weren’t having any effect!
“Soft belly!” Dana gasped out.
“You’ve seen these things before?” John replied. He swung at the back another time, but it was like he was a fly to this thing. Dana nodded. Her face was pale, he
r hands scrabbling in the mud for any sort of purchase, but finding none, she was losing the battle to stay above the surface.
“Flip,” John said.
“What?”
“Flip. Roll over.”
Dana’s eyes widened, but she understood. She pushed off hard against the mud heaving her body off to her left side, gasping in agony as the jaws dug into her leg, but it was enough. Her weight and momentum sent them both over. Dana was face down now, her head mostly underwater. John had only moments left.
But the creature was belly-up. Moments were all he needed. He brought the axe up again, and brought it down with every bit of strength he could manage. This time, the axe bit into the thing. Blood splashed. He’d cut something important inside it, and the animal thrashed around. Bubbles streamed from near Dana’s mouth. She was still underwater—it hadn’t let her go!
He lifted the axe and brought it down again, and then a third time. Each cut slashed open a new section of the animal’s belly. Finally, it let go of Dana’s leg and pushed itself weakly into deeper waters. John let it go and dropped the hatchet, reaching down with both hands to help Dana up out of the water.
She took in a deep, gasping breath as her face came into air. She was shaking, and couldn’t stand on her own. John helped her out of the water, back to the shore. She lay there, sucking in deep breaths for a few moments.
John staggered alongside her, his own breath ragged. He kept a careful eye on the animal. It had settled to the bottom a short distance away. He’d hurt it badly, and he didn’t think it would come after them anytime soon, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
“Thanks,” Dana said.
“What was that thing?” John asked her, still watching the creature.
“My people called them gators. Big lizard. I guess you didn’t have them here before either?” she asked.
The Human Experiment Page 11