by Lin Carter
Finding a jungle aisle, Jorn picked up his pace, breaking into a long, loping stride that he could hold for hours, if necessary, without flagging.
But it was not his intention to attempt to return to his homeland of Thandar alone and empty-handed.
Not while Darya his princess was lost, accompanied only by the old man.
He intended to search every square foot of the jungle until he found them, whether alive or dead.
* * * *
Darya and the Professor did not go very far into the jungle before they became hopelessly lost. They paused to rest beside a pool of calm, clear water whose source was a rocky spring. Fanning his perspiring brow with his sun helmet, the Professor sagged limply onto a fallen log while Darya began searching along the margins of the pool.
“Whatever are you looking for, my dear?” the Professor inquired, after a time. The jungle girl showed him a handful of flat, smooth stones she had selected out of the mud.
“Indeed? And of what use to us are those pebbles?” he asked.
I have already described the one-piece, abbreviated fur garment that was Darya’s only attire, with its brief short skirt covering her upper thighs. Well, she reached down and pulled the fur aside, revealing a long leather thong bound snugly about her upper leg—and revealing quite a lot of naked, curvaceous leg at the same time.
The Professor flushed, and hastily averted his gaze, trying to remind himself that the innocent jungle maid had never learned the puritanical trait of shame at the exposing of her bare body. To her way of thinking, her body was young and healthy and in no wise ugly or deformed: why, then, be ashamed of it or strive to conceal it behind thick garments?
Ignoring the Professor’s flush of outraged modesty, the girl untied the thong, revealing a crude sling.
“Like this,” said Darya, fitting one of the smooth stones into the thickest place in the thong. Then, whirling the makeshift sling about her head, she loosed the stone with a practiced flip of her hand.
The flat stone whizzed through the air, striking the trunk of a nearby tree with much the impact of a bullet. Indeed, the flat edge of the stone remained imbedded in the hard wood until Darya pried it loose, showing it to the Professor.
He pursed his lips in a silent whistle of approval.
“David and Goliath, eh, my dear? Remarkable!” he wheezed.
The savage girl, of course, did not understand his Biblical allusion; but she sensed the approval and admiration in his voice, and smiled.
Then she sobered, looking wistfully back along the way they had come. Her perfect breasts rose and fell in a deep, disconsolate sigh. It did not take a mind-reader to ascertain the direction of her thoughts.
“You are thinking of Eric, are you not, my dear?” murmured the old man sympathetically. “Indeed, I am, too…I fear that we shall both miss the dear boy…ah, if only he had not turned back to delay the pursuit, he might be standing here with us now…and I, for one, would feel a lot more secure, I can assure you! Your skill with the sling is remarkable; but it will hardly serve to halt a charging dinosaur—”
“The men of my people have slain a goroth with such, ere now!” the girl informed him with flashing eyes, lifting her small, stubborn chin challengingly.
A goroth is an aurochs, and an aurochs is a prehistoric bull. The feat which Darya described was a remarkable one.
The Professor nodded. “I am quite impressed, my girl…but nonetheless, let us hope the larger saurians do not stray into these portions of the jungle—eh? What are you doing now—?”
His voice rose to a treble, for without a sign or word the jungle maid had reached up and slipped the strap of her brief fur garment off one rounded shoulder; the garment dropped about her waist and she shrugged out of it with a lithe twist of her flawless hips. Beneath the furs she wore nothing at all.
“Really, my dear young woman, what do you think you are doing?” the Professor gasped, blushing scarlet to the tips of his ears and hastily averting his eyes from the tempting expanse of bare girl-flesh so artlessly exposed to his gaze.
“’Darya shall bathe now,” said the girl, gesturing at the pool.
“Really! You might have asked me to turn my back!”
“Why?” the jungle girl asked, frankly curious, glancing down at herself as if to see what had alarmed the old man. The women of her tribe were accustomed to wear brief fur or hide garments for the sake of comfort, rather than modesty; and, for the life of her, the girl could see nothing wrong with the nudity of her flawless young body.
The Professor uttered a strangled croak, and hurriedly turned his back upon the scene. Shrugging with a little humorous frown, as if to say that she would never understand the ways of these strangers who wore so much clothing, the girl turned and slipped into the pool. Dunking herself to the shoulders she bent down, scooped up a double handful of the wet sand from the pool bottom, and began to scrub herself clean of the dust and stain of the long overland trek, while the Professor, his back stiff and the tips of his ears glowing scarlet, resolutely kept his back turned on this idyllic and innocent scene.
* * * *
But other eyes were riveted upon the scene, and they belonged to a tall man whose muscular body was stretched along a low branch which extended partway across the clearing.
The man was Fumio. He had fled with the others, but, doubling back, had striven to catch up with Eric Carstairs, the Professor, and the woman he desired. To find me separated from the other two was to Fumio an unexpected stroke of good fortune. And to find the naked girl bathing, while he was able to look on from a place of concealment, was to his thought a delightful opportunity.
Cold eyes glowing with lust, he gloated upon the sleek, wet body of the naked girl as she innocently exposed her bare breasts and thighs to his lascivious gaze. For very long had the chieftain Fumio lusted for Darya the gomad and yearned to take her for his mate. Only her father, the High Chief of the tribe, resisted his overtures: Tharn of Thandar was in the lusty prime of his manly strength, and required no mate for his daughter in order to secure the peaceful succession of the office into which his stalwart and iron strength had elevated him years before.
While he lived, Tharn could rebuff Fumio’s suit, as Darya had begged him to do. The High Chief was sensible of the strength and war-skill of the tall chieftain. But he doted upon his daughter and her wish was his law; so long as Darya did not wish to mate with Fumio, Tharn did not intend to force her to do so. Time enough to settle those matters when he was grown old and long past his prime.…
A man as strong and handsome as Fumio becomes accustomed to having his own way. To be denied the object of his desires only fed the flames of his lust, until that object grew into an overwhelming obsession with Fumio. Many and lovely were the young women of Thandar: but for Fumio, there was only one woman, and she remained cool to his advances and well beyond his reach.
But now she was well within his reach; now they were alone and in a hostile wilderness, with the rest of their fellow captives scattered afar. There was no one near to see or tell if Fumio should dare take the Chief’s daughter against her will, no one but one old man whom Fumio could break in half with his bare hands.
An unholy fire kindled in his cold gaze as Fumio, trembling with desire, caressed the nude, glistening body of the young girl with his gaze, lustfully drinking in her naked beauty.
At last he could withstand the temptation no longer. Soundless as a great cat, the savage warrior dropped from the tree branch to the ground. One powerful hand whipped out, catching the old Professor across the back of his head with a cruel, cowardly blow that toppled the older man forward into unconsciousness.
Then, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, Fumio sprang upon the girl as, humming a careless tune, she splashed cold water over her long, glistening bare legs. Seizing her with one strong arm ab
out her slim waist, he dragged the shocked girl out of the water and flung her down upon her back in the long grasses.
Then he fell upon her, crushing her flat, crushing her soft mouth beneath his own in a long, ravenous kiss—
* * * *
It had puzzled me, when the Apemen forced me into one of their dugout canoes and cast off hurriedly, why they made no attempt to recapture their escaping prisoners, who surely could not have gone far. The apprehensive glances they cast down the shore, however, told me all: they feared that the pursuit which had for so long followed in their tracks was now close at hand.
It also puzzled me that One-Eye made no attempt at reprisal for the whipping I had given him. I believe now that the brutish wits of the Apemen were befuddled by the pummeling I had dealt him, and he had yet to figure out just what had felled him. Anyway, he was more afraid of the force of warriors he suspected to be at his heels, than he was interested in knocking me about. So into the canoes we went.
By the time we had reached the midpoint of our voyage and the shores of the island of Ganadol could dimly be glimpsed through the thick mists which cloaked the primeval sea, I understood the answer to the first puzzle.
I had been baffled by the reasoning of the Apemen…why they had been content with my capture alone, rather than pursuing the other fleeing captives. Eventually, as I saw them double back farther down along the shore, I understood their plan. The Neanderthal men might be slow and sluggish of thought, but their little brains were wily and cunning. They assumed—rightfully, as it turned out—that, once assured of their freedom, the Cro-Magnons would seek the edge of the sea of Sogar-Jad and follow it down the coast to their own kingdom of Thandar.
By beaching their dugout canoes below the point to which the escaping captives could have come, the Apemen planned to wait in ambush, hoping to recapture their captives.
It was not a bad scheme at all.
But something intervened.
Our first glimpse of “something” was a sudden turmoil is the slimy waters of the Sogar-Jad; the waves broke, seething, as a snake-like head as big as a rain barrel broke above the surface. The Apemen gobbled, pointing, eyes wide with naked fear.
“Yith! Yith!” they yelled in a fearful wail.
The flat-browed head rose on the end of a long and seemingly endless neck which upreared far above us, swaying snakily against the steamy skies of Zanthodon.
I couldn’t blame them for squalling. For the yith of the Sogar-Jad was a monstrous plesiosaur![1]
As I sat there in the dugout canoe, frozen with astonishment and awe, the enormous aquatic reptile overturned two of the dugout canoes with his vast flippers. The Neanderthal men fell, squalling fearfully, into the sea. Then the beast turned to survey our craft, squinting down with hungry eyes. White foam sheeted before its breast as the plesiosaurus headed straight for us.
Our canoe wobbled unsteadily, as Fatso sprang to his feet, mad with fear.
I tensed: with my hands bound behind me, I was bound for a watery grave, without the slightest hope of survival. A vision flashed before my inward eye as the yith bore down upon us: the fine-boned, flawless face of a beautiful young girl with long, sleek hair like ripe corn and huge, luminous eyes of April blue—
Behind me, Hurok grasped my wrists. The blade of a flint knife sawed through my bonds. “Save yourself if you can, panjan,” he grunted.
My hands free, I sprang lithely to my feet.
Swifter than thought, I reached out, plucked my automatic from the waist of Fatso’s hide garment, clenched the barrel between my teeth, and jumped feet first into the waters of the sea!
I went down like a stone, then rose to the surface with a kick of my booted feet—
Whipping the water from my eyes, I stared up—
Into the jaws of Doom!
CHAPTER 12
I FIND A FRIEND
Treading water furiously, I reached up and snatched the automatic from between my teeth. I had been so briefly immersed beneath the waves, that it seemed unlikely to me that the gunpowder could have become too wet for the gun to fire; but I was about to find out—
Pointing swiftly, I fired in the very face of the monster reptile.
It was a lucky shot, and caught the plesiosaur full in one glaring eye. That eye vanished in a splatter of snaky gore; braking with a backwards flip of his flippers, the sea monster gave voice to a piercing screech of fury and pain, and, turning, dived beneath the waves again to assuage his hurt in the cool depths.
His plunge had overturned the canoe from which I had just dived into the sea. A floundering form broke the waves, arms waving wildly. I recognized him—it was Hurok, the one Neanderthal more friendly and chivalrous than his fellows, the warrior who had cut my hands free. He sank with a gurgle and I knew at once that he was unable to swim.
I shall never quite be able to explain my next action, even to myself; but it all happened so swiftly that rational thought played little part in the decision, which I reached by sheerest instinct.
I waited until he rose floundering and roaring to the surface again. Then I swam over to him and knocked him senseless with a good hard right to the jaw!
Well, there was nothing else to do: in his mindless terror, a drowning man will get a stranglehold on a would-be rescuer and drag him down to death with him.
Then I turned the unconscious Apeman over until he was floating on his back. Catching his heavy jaw in the crook of my arm, I struck out for shore as best I could. I have always been a good swimmer, but that was the most grueling ordeal any swimmer could ever have endured. Not only was I encumbered by my breeches and boots—but the Apeman I was towing along must have tipped the scales at three hundred pounds, dead weight. Also, I could scarcely breathe, with my automatic still clenched between my teeth.
How I ever made it to the shore is something I have not quite decided, myself. Suffice it to say that, after an interminable battle with the slimy waves of that steamy sea, I found myself lying face down in wet, sticky sand, with the undertow of the sea pulling at my legs as if trying stubbornly to suck me back into the clutch of the waves again.
Not far off, Hurok lay like a dead thing.
I lurched to my knees, dragged myself and the Apeman farther on up the beach, before collapsing again.
Then, utterly exhausted, I slept.
* * * *
When I awoke, I rolled over onto my back and squinted up into the sun, trying to estimate exactly how much time had elapsed while I had been unconscious. Then I remembered, ruefully, that here in Zanthodon there was no sun, and it was forever impossible to measure time. I could have slept an hour or a year, for all that I could ascertain from the heavens.
My clothes were dry, however, and so was my hair; so it would seem I had slumbered for at least two or three hours. I sat up, stiffly, and looked around me.
Hurok squatted on his hams, hairy arms propped on hairy knees, regarding me with a fathomless expression on his homely visage.
I grabbed for my gun, then drew back my fingers sheepishly. For the Neanderthal man had not moved nor flinched.
Neither did he say a word.
I looked beyond him, sniffing the air. A tantalizing aroma of cooked meat drifted on the sea wind.
A hole had been scraped in the sand of the beach. Therein a pile of driftwood had been touched afire, and the carcasses of two plucked seafowl had been spitted on sticks and were toasting over the snapping flames. I had not known there were actual birds in Zanthodon until that moment, but the pile of feathers was unmistakable.
“Why did you not attack me and slay me while I slept, Hurok?” I asked curiously. “For I have been given to understand that there is perpetual war between your kind and my own.”
“Hurok does not know,” he said in his slow, deep voice, and within his murky little ey
es a gleam of thoughtfulness flickered. Then, after a moment, he attempted a question of his own.
“Why did you save Hurok from the death-of-water?”
I shook my head with a helpless grin. “I’m not entirely sure! I guess, because you cut my hands free just before I jumped, and gave me a chance to fight for survival…why did you do that, anyway?”
He shrugged, a ponderous heaving of furry shoulders, but said nothing. His long gaze was steady upon me, and there was some unreadable emotion in his dull gaze.
“How did you slay the yith?” he asked after a time. “It was like thunder from the sky. Are you sujat, Black Hair? Hurok thought you merely a panjan, but no panjan commands the thunder…”
I understood the meaning of panjan, which was what the Apeman called the Cro-Magnons: the word meant something like “Smooth-skin.” The plural was panjani. But sujat was a word new to me, and I was eager to add it to my growing vocabulary.
Hurok shrugged helplessly when I asked him to define the word, and searched for a way to describe what the term meant.
“The great beasts are sometimes sujat,” he said in his slow, dull way. “And storm and flood and fire.
Sometimes when Hurok sleeps he enters the sujat country…”
I gathered that the word was used for all inexplicable and mysterious phenomena, especially the convulsions of nature, but also dreams, if that is what he meant by his nocturnal journeys.
In other words, the supernatural! He had asked me if I were a ghost, a devil; or, perhaps, a god.
I sat up and began removing my boots to pour the sea water out of them. I set them near the fire to dry out.
“In the first place, old fellow, I doubt if I killed the plesiosaurus. I knocked out an eye, merely wounding him. But anyway, I am certainly no god.”
“How did Black Hair do it, then?” he demanded, reasonably. I showed him the automatic.