* * *
The mood lightened considerably while they walked. Telling the students about his misfortunes was ultimately cathartic for Endicott. Now someone from the outside finally knew what had happened to him and his friends, his colleagues. Their conversation turned to the nature of the world around them. Spencer, in particular, began asking questions of his new hero, the man who’d managed to survive here alone and unaided for so long.
“We’ve nevah seen one of those yet,” he observed, pointing to the ‘pig,’ “It looks like some kind of cynodont.”
Endicott gave him an interested look. “You’re very perceptive, young man.” They hiked for a few minutes, reaching the top of a bluff, where Endicott then turned to address Spencer once again, “I’m intrigued. Just how is it that you can identify a prehistoric creature such as this? Are there others back at the dig site, paleontologists perhaps, who’ve taken an interest in this island?” His last question was directed at all three of them. The request seemed important to him. He stopped walking, expecting an answer.
“Nope,” Spencer said with pride, “I just know this stuff from readin’ 'an doin’ my own research.”
“Impressive, impressive indeed.”
The trail abruptly branched to the east and wound through several switchbacks up a steep, rocky slope. Endicott grunted with the effort of carrying his heavy quarry uphill. At the top, he spoke, “Spencer, my lad, you’re observation is spot on. This is one of several species of cynodont that inhabit this part of the island. Most are herbivorous, like this fellow here, and at least one type is carnivorous. You saw a specimen try to take this kill from me.”
“It did look pretty fearsome,” Jack offered.
“They most definitely are. I refer to them as ‘lizard wolves’, or simply ‘LWs,’ as they seem to serve the same purpose here as do modern wild canines such as coyotes and wolves. Their amphibious/reptilian ancestry is obvious when one considers their morphology, but they also have characteristics indicative of their mammalian progeny. Did you happen to notice the whiskers on the snout of that LW?”
“I couldn’t see past its teeth,” Jack laughed.
“A point well taken; their dentition is indeed formidable. What are perhaps more interesting, however, from an evolutionary standpoint, are the unmistakable presence of small amounts of fur, and an uncanny sense of smell. Their olfactory capabilities are nothing short of amazing. A bleeding wound can draw them from a considerable distance, a quarter mile or so, maybe more if the wind is favorable. ‘Land sharks’ might be another appropriate nickname for them.”
Spencer was absolutely enthralled with Endicott’s accounts of the island’s fauna. His own readings and research into the fossil record of the Triassic meshed perfectly with what he was hearing from this man. “Are they primarily hunters or scavengers?” he asked.
“A bit of both I’d say. Again, the moniker ‘lizard wolf’ fits them to a tee. I often see them feeding on carrion, but they’re quite proficient at taking small prey. In fact I suspect they fill the important ecological niche of controlling the population of small herbivorous cynodonts—the early Mesozoic equivalent of the relationship between foxes and hares.”
“Aren’t you worried they might come after you?”
“I suppose somewhat, yes, especially if I have a major cut or a large open sore. Like I said, the scent of blood can draw them from far away. Ordinarily a single individual will shy from a full grown human, but all bets are off if he’s bleeding. Blood lust imbues them with a fantastic instinctive courage. They can be extraordinarily dangerous in that sort of scenario, especially if there’s more than one of them. Like their modern canine counterparts, they’ll sometimes travel in groups of two or three, and they’re smart enough to coordinate attacks. What has saved poor Loren Endicott’s bacon on many occasions is the noise they make. You heard it—that high-pitched grunt sound. One always knows when they’re nearby.”
“You’d think they’d learn not to do that,” Spencer reasoned, “I bet it scares off a lot of their prey.”
“One would think so, yes,” Endicott agreed, “but evidence suggests they don’t hear well. From the small auditory openings in their heads—ears, if you will—and the internal arrangement of bones in their skulls, I believe that these cynodonts, both predators and prey, have poor hearing. Theirs is a silent world; virtually all their sensory input comes from sight and smell.”
The trail veered to the north. As they contoured around a small hill, there appeared a cluster of boulders near the top that had been turned into a dwelling. Strong ‘bamboo’ logs were strategically placed between some of the rocks and also across the tops to enclose the structure. Large leaves belonging to a vine-like plant brought up from the river bank were interlaced with conifer boughs to create a thatch that lined the roof and sides. It was a well-designed and well-constructed abode, capable of keeping its occupant safe and dry against whatever challenges Mother Nature had to offer.
“Make yourselves at home.” Endicott pointed to several rustic ‘bamboo’ chairs and a table as they entered. “Sit wherever you like. I’ve got to skin this pig, dispose of the guts and cook him before it gets dark. It won’t take long.”
None of the students were much interested in sitting around. They all accompanied Endicott to a clearing fifty yards from the dwelling where there was a large rock set up as a butcher’s block. Drawing a large folding knife from his belt, Endicott made a careful incision between the animal’s hind quarters. “It’s like carving up any large game,” he noted as he worked. “The principal things to watch out for with these guys are the musk glands. Puncture those and you ruin the meat.”
Endicott worked with an efficiency and precision borne of considerable practice. In minutes he’d disemboweled his kill and carefully flensed its hide, intact. Jocelyn was surprised that he wanted to save the animal’s skin given their imminent rescue, but decided it was being done out of force of habit. The good Doctor was apparently still in survival mode. Tossing the head and the lower portions of the limbs in with the entrails, he harvested two tenderloin strips from along its back and stripped slabs of shoulder meat for what he called ‘pot roasts.’ He then wrapped the edible portions in the hide for transport back to the shelter and stood back to appraise his handiwork.
“Now it’s time for a little show,” he said with a grin. There was a twinkle in his eye as he gathered the detritus of his labors and beckoned the students to follow him to the edge of a deep cleft in the hillside, another fifty yards further away from his shelter. A trickle of water gurgled through the ravine, barely enough to supply the few ferns and stunted ‘bamboo’ that grew there. “Allow me to introduce you to Moe, Larry and Curley.” With that, he flung the guts into the gorge, sat down and waited.
The two boys eagerly anticipated what was to come. Jocelyn, however, shivered when she thought of the dangerous creatures about to pass so close by. Within minutes they heard the characteristic soprano grunts of approaching lizard wolves.
“That’s Moe,” Endicott remarked excitedly while pointing to the largest of three animals that sauntered up the stream. Heads moving back and forth, up and down, noses sampling both air and soil, the pack homed in on its evening meal.
With quick, savage lunges the three carnivores attacked the remains of the cynodont carcass. Powerful jaws ripped chunks of flesh from the pile, and the crunch of bone reverberated eerily off the walls of the gorge until absolutely nothing remained except red stains on the rocks. It was a feeding frenzy comparable in intensity only to the boiling of an Amazon pool inhabited by crazed piranhas.
“Awesome!” Spencer noted when it was over.
Endicott smiled. “I knew you’d be impressed.” He again pointed to one of the creatures as it moved away. “That one’s Curley. You’ll note he’s missing his right eye. And see the scars on his cheek? At some point he either got in the way of one of his hungry associates, or he attacked something that put up a terrific fight. The smaller one with lighter spots is Larry.
I believe she’s a female because of her size. It’s really tough to determine gender among these brutes.”
Joselyn had seen enough. Lizard wolves gave her the creeps. She couldn’t understand the interest exhibited by her male colleagues; it seemed excessively primitive, and it made her uncomfortable. “Can we go now?”
“Girls!” Spencer chided.
“I just wanted to give you an indication of the fate one might expect if one isn’t careful out here,” Endicott said dismissively. “Normally lizard wolves won’t venture up to this altitude—not enough food here I suppose—but those three hang around perpetually. They’ve been regular diners at ‘chez Endicott’ for several months now. Smart little buggers they are, 250 million-year-old moochers.” He shouldered the cynodont hide stuffed with their upcoming dinner and led the way back to the hut.
The roof of the structure had a trap door which the professor opened. A ring of soot surrounded the hole indicated its purpose. He then got down on his knees and carefully brushed aside the top layer of ash in the centrally located fire pit to expose coals left over from the previous fire. Grabbing a handful of dried moss he expertly nursed the new fire along. Soon there was a roaring blaze that cast warm shadows on the walls.
Twilight had brought with it a chill, and the fire lent much appreciated warmth to the evening. They weren’t high enough to experience the low temperatures of the distant mountains, but it was significantly cooler here than in the river valley. The increased altitude didn’t alter the humidity though, and the setting Sun left the still air clammy and uncomfortable. Jocelyn noted that Endicott didn’t possess anything in the way of warm clothing, and asked him how he’d coped in winter.
Her host shrugged as he skewered slabs of cynodont tenderloin onto a stout stick and suspended them over a fireplace now glowing with hot coals. “I told you earlier that I have no idea what day it is, and the only way I have of knowing what month we’re in is by the lengths of shadows of certain vertical posts I’ve been using as crude sundials. Part of what depresses me about this prehistoric prison is the lack of seasonal change. Aside from the fact that the Sun doesn’t come up for months, one wouldn’t know it was winter. The monotony of a climate like this wears on you. Day after day, month after month, nothing changes. The geothermal springs and vents, most of which lie far to the south and west, inject a constant supply of heat into this huge, bowl-shaped caldera, turning water to steam which, when it hits the cold air on the other side of the mountains, turns to cloud. Those constant clouds effectively insulate the valley, keeping conditions the same, day after bloody day.”
“That’s why the satellite images don’t show anything but cloud?” Spencer observed.
“Precisely. Even in our modern technological society, the details of what this place is like, here under all these clouds, have remained a mystery. Actually, mystery isn’t the proper term. I suspect nobody’s ever really thought to explore this island. It’s fairly small, as islands go, terribly remote, and it’s far enough from the ice pack that no humans or polar bears can walk to it. Although it’s readily accessible by sea, the caldera rim presents an imposing rampart, one sufficient to discourage all but hardy, properly equipped mountaineers from venturing forth. And what possible reason would compel a climber to visit this place—to gain access to a supposedly steaming volcanic cauldron high above the Arctic Circle, in the middle of nowhere?”
“We did it,” said Spencer.
Endicott gave him an icy stare. “Yes, you certainly did. And look where it got you—me as well. We both found the most promising access point to the interior, that small beach and the weak, broken ridge that has eroded just enough to entice one to hike in and explore. This island is like the Greek isles inhabited by sirens, those sultry beings who beckon the unsuspecting and curious to explore their charms, only to lure them to their deaths.”
Jocelyn shivered. Whether it was the chill or the nature of the conversation she couldn’t tell. She found Endicott’s mood swings unsettling. Most of the time he appeared to be perfectly normal—at least as normal as could be expected for someone who’d been through such a harsh period of exile. He was a strong man, not just physically, but capable of dealing with, and overcoming, the hardships he’d faced. Stubbornness and a determined will had put him in this hut, where he lacked nothing essential to life; food, shelter and warmth…he had what he needed. But there was something else, perhaps the lack of human contact, that had instilled in him this disturbing erratic attitude. He definitely harbored an enormous sense of abandonment at having been marooned here. The thought of his exile made him despondent, but when he was reminded of the accident that cast him into this world, and the real or perceived lack of a successful rescue attempt, it had made him angry. The most innocent of questions seemed suddenly to trigger his ire, and she could tell he fought to control himself, to avoid a transition into rage.
Jocelyn had friends at school who used drugs. No high school in the country was immune to the problem. She’d borne witness to similar mood swings, especially among football players who took anabolic steroids. “’Roid rage” is what they called it. It often affected them badly enough that other students openly shunned them. Jocelyn regarded those players with a mixture of revulsion and pity. It both fascinated and appalled her to see what people would do to their bodies in desperate attempts to win glory and recognition for doing nothing more than playing a game.
Endicott, however, wasn’t on drugs. He had lived for the past year about as far from a pharmacy as one could get. Jocelyn attributed his behavior to either the stress of his exile or to some sort of brain imbalance—schizophrenia perhaps.
Regardless of the cause, she felt he wasn’t a stable man, and that made him a dangerous man. Jack and Spencer didn’t see it. To them, Loren Endicott was someone to be admired for his cleverness, knowledge and perseverance. That was true, of course, but they couldn’t also see the dark side, the inner turmoil lying beneath the tough exterior, the curse that made him a tragic figure.
It was easy to lose track of time in the everlasting twilight of summer at high latitudes. Jack’s stomach growled as the scent of almost fully cooked cynodont steaks assaulted his nostrils. He had no idea of just how late it was nor did he care. He was famished. None of the students had had a proper meal in over three days. In an attempt to take his mind off of food, he looked around Endicott’s dwelling and his eyes settled upon the spear the Doctor had used to kill tonight’s dinner. He walked over to pick it up and returned to sit by the fire.
The weapon was robust and extremely well made. Its shaft was about six feet long, strong and lightweight, made of a stout piece of the ubiquitous ‘bamboo’ with which they were so familiar. The end of the piece had been split to accept the crown spike of a cycad tree; tightly wound animal sinew held the blade firmly in place.
Endicott noticed Jack’s interest in the object. Setting the steaks onto a crudely constructed table to cool, he said, “That pike’s kept me alive in more ways than one. Food and protection are what life is about in this land. Maintaining a supply of cynodont meat and keeping lizard wolves at bay would have been nearly impossible without it.”
“You did a good job,” Jack said admiringly. “This cycad tip is as hard as hickory, and sharp too.”
“I carved an edge onto it and filed it sharp using an abrasive rock. I then hardened it carefully over a fire,” he said with pride. “Believe it or not it’s the only tip I’ve used. Several times I’ve lunged and accidentally driven it into the ground, but it never broke. That wood is a better quality material than many modern synthetics. Those cycad trees have been of great importance to me.”
“They’re real important to those dragonflies too,” Spencer quipped.
“Ah, so you’ve noticed that have you? Well, here’s something you haven’t experienced.” Endicott pulled several flat objects that looked like thick tortillas from a pouch made of cynodont hide and handed one to each student. He then grabbed one for himself, took a bite, an
d beckoned the others to do the same. Jocelyn nibbled hers and nodded approvingly. “So, tell me what you think,” her host asked.
“It’s really tasty,” she replied, “sort of like bread with a flavor that reminds me of—it’s hard to describe—kind of a carrot-potato blend, almost like a soup.”
“’An it’s sweet,” Spencer added, “has a high sugah content.”
“There’s a pith layer in the crown of the cycad,” Endicott explained, “right below where the point projects, and under where the seeds grow. It’s very much like the modern bread palms they have in Africa. Although I’ve never tried those, I daresay they can’t taste much better than this. Mashed up with a bit of water, I knead the pulp and bake it to make these.” He indicated what the students held in their hands. “Obviously it yields a delicious and very important source of carbohydrate to one’s diet. And that’s not the end of it,” he added with a smile, “The cycad seeds provide me with something much more delectable, my most important discovery to date. I found that when you rinse off the objectionable goo that attracts those pesky dragonflies, the small, black seeds are most useful. When dried and roasted they may be steeped to yield a delightful beverage, one very similar to coffee.”
Endicott’s last statement caused Jocelyn to draw a breath. She was about to say something, but suddenly thought better of it and held her tongue. Instead, she commented on the weapon in Jack’s hand. “What I find interesting is the wood you used to make the shaft. There’s something familiar about it, but I can’t recall what it is; it looks sort of like bamboo, but I’m virtually certain it’s not.”
“Well now,” the question brought approbation from Endicott, “you’re quite the botanist, Jocelyn. Most people would not have noticed the odd nature of this plant. You’ve undoubtedly noticed them growing almost everywhere. They’re called horsetails, and the varieties on this island I’m fairly certain have been extinct elsewhere on Earth for 100 million years or more.”
Eviskar Island Page 18