A Long Time Until Now

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Spencer and Barker changed back to setting poles again, with Dalton and Ortiz and a bunch of natives.

  He yelled down, “Hey, next time we need to drag the dead a bit farther away, hooah?”

  Barker climbed up the rise at the bottom wall and looked.

  “Holy fuck, yes.”

  “Want me to shoot or scare them off?”

  Spencer also took a look, then the LT climbed up the ladder.

  Elliott said, “No, not for now, they’re . . . mostly done. Definitely next time, though. Then there’s the ravens and buzzards.”

  “And ants,” he said.

  Martin Spencer was twitchy with the mixed camp. He expected the Neoliths to come back in supplication or force. They and the Urushu might fight each other, or the Neoliths might attack someone in rage or desperation.

  Or if he was lucky, they might just run away.

  But the burly little bastards were good at setting poles, and a couple of them had learned shovel and axe. They really liked the tools.

  With Oglesby translating, they asked about the magic material.

  “Heh. Simple steel. Tell them it’s special ochre treated with magical fire and lots of prayer.”

  “That’s actually pretty close, isn’t it?”

  “As close as I can get to explaining to a primitive with no modern terms. It almost feels like I’m giving scripture.”

  Oglesby said, “Well, I don’t have many of their words myself. Their language is more structured than the Urushu, and that actually makes it harder. I’m using babytalk as it is.”

  “Hooah.”

  One of the badly wounded Neoliths died that night. His shoulder was too damaged, and he’d kept bleeding and possibly gotten infected.

  Oglesby translated, “They want to carry him home, but aren’t strong enough. They would like to grant us safe passage.”

  “Can they guarantee it?”

  “No.”

  “Then no. But any who are fit to travel can do so, and either drag him on a hide or bring back five to help.”

  After some back and forth, two of them decided to limp their way home.

  Trinidad said, “I’ll overwatch them for about a mile. Just to make sure they’re safe from predators.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Keep me covered from on top. I can run fast if I have to.”

  Martin knew he’d never have the courage to volunteer for that. He liked staying near the rest, still dreading a reversal that would leave him stranded.

  “Stout man. Half a mile. It may help; it’s a good gesture.”

  “Hooah.”

  That evening, a party of ten came back, and removed the body, as well as three well-eaten ones. Oglesby expressed that the spirits allowed and encouraged the fair treatment of brave warriors, and that exposure was considered honorable in these conditions. He didn’t sell it well, but the Neoliths seemed scared of their magic weapons and weren’t disposed to trouble. That was apparently why they hadn’t come back yet.

  The walking prisoners all went with them. Two with bad legs stayed, and two fit ones stayed with them. They worked as requested and didn’t cause trouble. They built their own wickiup, very similar to the Urushu one built near it, just outside the east wall. Hell, it was similar to the Lapp tents, the tepee, and a dozen other cultures. Pile up sticks, wrap in hide.

  By the end of the week, the wall was done.

  Elliott seemed much stronger. He’d been quiet and alone for a couple of days, but apparently the challenge of bridging the stream got his brain moving. As to the mercy killings, he’d never mention it to anyone. Even the three who came back didn’t have details, though he suspected Caswell and Dalton had guessed. Oglesby he wasn’t sure about.

  “What I want to do,” Elliott said, pointing at his laptop screen, “is drag two good-sized logs across, touching. We’ll dig them in and set them with a box of rocks. That might need more timber as reinforcement. I want it about eighteen inches above the water. We’ll bevel the bottom of the pickets and set them through. If it looks like we’ll get flooding, we’ll cut a hole above the cross timbers, too. But in both cases, small enough it’s hard for someone or some beast to crawl under.”

  “A box culvert.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You could have just said that, sir,” he grinned. “But the explanation does help. What about a bridge right behind it, as a firing platform?”

  “Yes, that’s on the blueprint, too,” Elliott said, pointing at his screen.

  “Hooah, sir. I’ll get the peasants working.”

  The Urushu changed every couple of days. They built a second hide-covered wickiup inside the wall but across the stream, and it became a de facto embassy. Alexander and Caswell moved into the tepee with the men. It made sense with the chill anyway. That freed up their hooch as a recovery room for anyone Doc worked on.

  Devereaux fixed a couple of broken bones, occasional animal tramplings, infected cuts, torn nails. The Urushu took a beating even with thrown spears. But they appreciated the help, and brought hides, edibles and game.

  Martin and Barker moved more into supervision, with Dalton, Oglesby and Ortiz handling labor with the locals. He’d select trees and rocks, they’d work, he’d help. Up above, Alexander covered everyone as her foot healed, switching off with Trinidad.

  “This amuses me, man,” Felix said. “And ought to piss me off.”

  “What?”

  “I went back fifteen thousand years to become a TCN Escort.”

  “Yeah. That you did. Better than being a corpse.”

  Martin Spencer stood and stretched his spine. The work never stopped. Nor was it easier in gore-tex and liner.

  There was regular frost on the ground before the wall was finished, but it was ready for winter. The digging was a little harder, but the post holes were neater from the chill. Another small gate was installed, big enough for a person with a bundle of stuff, or an animal.

  It was 12 December when the last pile dropped into a gap, then had to be hammered and shoved and pried into place.

  “Watch fingers!” he shouted, as Trinidad stood atop the scaffolding and stamped it in place. It slid inch by inch until flush.

  Then Trinidad tied it in place with bark, and hammered a peg in to set it, as Barker did the same near the ground. Dalton had two of the Neoliths shovel dirt into the hole and stamp it down.

  They stood back.

  The wooden culvert spanned the stream. The wall followed it, and now connected to the far side, at uphill and downhill. They had a solid defense on four sides. They were done.

  Elliott said, “We’ll want to build a diversion in front of the main gate so no one can charge through. Just a few feet. Zigzag.”

  Done, until the next stage. Then the next . . .

  “Can it wait until springtime, sir? We need a shit ton of firewood and smoked food before it really gets cold.” Snow was blowing from a gray sky.

  “Yeah, I agree. Is that secret juice of yours good for a toast tonight?”

  “It’s consumable, sir, but it’s sour. If you’re used to muddy French wines, it’s drinkable. For most people, it’s rough. But I don’t mind decanting some.”

  “What proof?”

  “Probably like any strong wine. Fifteen to twenty.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Hooah, sir. And we have ribs for dinner. It calls for beer, but we’ll see what we can do.”

  He raised his voice, “Dog off, motherfuckers, it’s chow time. We’re done.”

  Everyone stretched, cheered, smiled, shook hands and wiped brows. You could overheat even in winter.

  The cooler was in the back of the smoke hut, out of sight, though Barker knew it existed. As everyone gathered around the fire, he went to get it.

  “You’re pulling it?” Barker asked.

  “I am. Celebration.”

  “Awesome.”

  He carried the cooler out on his shoulder, and set it down carefully to avoid disturbing sed
iment.

  “This is something I’ve been working on,” he said.

  Alexander said, “Oh, my gods, is that beer?”

  “Wine.”

  Ortiz said, “Wine?”

  Then everyone was talking about it. So much for a dramatic presentation.

  “Well, it’s a mixed fruit wine. The local fruit is quite tart, and so is this. But it’s safe to drink and it’s alcoholic.”

  “Are we serving the Urushu?” There were three in camp. One lightly injured, two escorts.

  “If they wish. They can share a cup, or do they have their own?”

  “Carved wooden bowls.”

  “Bring them out.”

  Caswell had taken it on herself to learn a few words, and went to get them. The one limped slightly, supported by the others, and joined them at the fire.

  Martin unscrewed the lid carefully, and Barker handed him a canteen cup. He lowered it, let it fill, and started pouring as everyone ran up to shove cups at him.

  One cup each shouldn’t be too debilitating, and he wasn’t going to serve Oglesby, up top, until his shift was done.

  Everyone else being served, he raised his canteen cup and said, “To Lieutenant Elliott for his design. To Barker, and, I guess, me for heading up the operation. To the rest of us for laboring on it. And to our guests, for invaluable help.” He tilted his cup in toast to them, made eye contact, and sipped.

  It was tart, sour, cool in temperature but warm in sensation, and full of sediment. He wasn’t a heavy drinker but no lightweight. Two swallows in, though, he could feel the buzz.

  Dalton said, “Dude . . . Sergeant . . . hot damn, this is good.”

  “It’s passable.”

  “Given you had nothing to work with, it’s good.”

  “Thanks. Well, if anyone wants to consecrate a little in a bottle, you can use it for Communion.”

  Ortiz said, “Thank you. That’s very decent of you.”

  “Not a problem. Alexander, do you need a little for ritual?”

  “A little. Yes. And a little more.” She held out her cup. She was smiling and a bit loopy.

  The Urushu seemed to know it was an intoxicant, and grinned and cheered. He knew they smoked a couple of things, and used mushrooms. There was some kind of plant fungus they used as well, but mostly the shaman types. He had no idea if they had beer or wine, but they were willing to join in the ritual and seemed appreciative of being included. And they had caffeine.

  Elliott said, “We’ll still need sentries. Animals are mostly excluded, though wolves could get in under the culverts or gates. We have hostiles, and even if we work things out I don’t trust them.”

  There were “Hooah”s of agreement.

  “But this is a hell of a lot more secure. You all did well. Thank you.”

  Spencer took that opportunity to say, “Now we need smoked meat, dried fruit and lots of firewood to last the winter. Looks like we’ll be stuck in the tepee. In spring we can work on cabins.”

  He served a second cup each. They were big cups, and everyone was well-tipsy or fuzzy by the time it was done. That would leave enough for Christmas, and he’d top the batch off with whatever they had to stretch it.

  It would be nice to make some barrels and work on bigger batches of both wine and beer. Eventually. For now he was going to sleep.

  He’d just ignore the pain in his guts that the acidic beverage exacerbated.

  And take a hot wash.

  Bob Barker was glad to be along to help this group. He’d rather not be here, but since he was, at least everyone pitched in. What they didn’t know about food, though, would kill them. If it weren’t for Caswell, he’d be doing nothing but food prep.

  Some of what he wanted would have to wait until next year. He’d not had time to look for rice, for example. He did have some cattail flour, made from both heads and stalks. Now he heard there was, in fact, rice here. He wanted to work out a trade deal on that.

  While warming up sidemeat for breakfast, he heard Alexander behind the tepee.

  “Good Cal!”

  “What?” he asked.

  The cat came trotting into camp, head high, holding a kid in his jaws, its neck snapped. This he delivered to the front of the women’s hut.

  “I think he likes you,” Ortiz said.

  “He can hunt!” she exclaimed. “He’s healed. Well, get it gutted. I’d say drag the liver through salt, wave it over the hot fire, and let him have it as his share.”

  Ortiz cut the throat over the pudding pot, zipped the abdomen, pinched and pulled the guts and tossed them into the waste basket, and started pulling out organs. He was pretty good with animals, Bob reminded himself. The group wasn’t entirely reliant on him and Caswell.

  Cal came over and nosed around, inspecting the proceedings. Alexander pulled the scorched, crumbly liver off the rock and held it out for him to sniff.

  It took only a moment for him to decide it was some kind of feline candy, and bat the chunk from her fingers. He dove on it and guzzled it down, then came back for more.

  He purred in a loud rumble, and seemed to be comfortable with people nearby, as long as they didn’t touch him.

  That was awesome. They had a mascot, and he was a hunting little beast. Hopefully he’d get tame enough to pet. It would be nice to have something warm to cuddle occasionally.

  Spencer dragged kid tenderloin through salt and spice, let it sizzle on the rock, then picked it up and started chewing.

  “We should keep this cat,” he said.

  “That’ll taste better after it ages. We should save it for dinner.”

  “Okay. I wish it was fat enough for gyros.”

  “Next year. Which brings up what I was thinking. I want to trade with the Urushu. Give them some bacon and if you don’t mind, some wine. Get some rice for the winter. What do you think, LT?”

  “God knows I could use a slice of toast,” he said. “If we can spare it, go ahead. But cut a good deal. It’s bacon, man!”

  “Yeah. Oglesby, can you help?”

  “Sure. Those rice cakes were good. Do you want the recipe, too?”

  That would give them two recipes for cakes. A good start.

  “Eventually. Tell them we want to gift them a joint of bacon, and would like to get some rice.”

  Oglesby jabbered to the Urushu, who pointed and gestured and made enveloping motions. It had something to do with quantities.

  He noticed they had loose moccasins on their feet, fur wrappings on their lower legs, longer breechcloth/kilts, and longer shoulder wraps. One of them pulled on a conical fur hat. The clothing was very crude, but certainly warm. They were gearing up for winter, too.

  They agreed on a backpack full of rice, which seemed a decent deal. They’d need a couple more. He wanted to lay in supplies fast. It was sprinkling snow again.

  “I want to get some birds, since they seem to have traps. Wish we could have traded earlier, but first we had to have something we could trade.”

  “They’re curious about the cat,” Oglesby said.

  Alexander said, “If it won’t freak them out, tell them I’m a witch and can sometimes—stress the sometimes—make animals respond.”

  Dalton said, “So, I can’t talk about Christ, but she can talk about being a witch. Got it.”

  “I’m not offering to teach them anything or conduct any rituals,” she said. “It just explains the cat.”

  Caswell was there, too.

  “There’s a difference between saying you have a belief, and trying to bring others to yours. She’s not offering to teach them how to domesticate anything.”

  “She might as well call herself the shaman. But I’m not allowed to discuss salvation.”

  “With good reason. As soon as men decided fighting was the way to settle problems, and went all brute strength, patriarchy started and equality took a bite it’s still recovering from.”

  Dalton said, “That’s women’s fault.”

  “What?”

  Yeah, w
hat? This needed popcorn. Damn, he missed popcorn.

  “Women do the agriculture. That meant more food, more people, but then they had to fight over the prime land as numbers grew. It’s even referenced in Genesis. Adam and Eve had no problems in the Garden. It was when they left and had to work agriculture that things were tough. Look at who attacked us.”

  Spencer arrived at a run.

  “Aaaand this conversation is over. Go to your corners,” he ordered.

  “But—”

  “Go. Chop wood. Stand guard. Kill something edible. Move.”

  The parties wandered away, leaving the cat to crawl into the shadow of the women’s hooch with a chunk of roasted kill. He seemed uninterested in politics. Smart cat.

  The Urushu knew some argument had happened, but not what.

  Oglesby said, “I told them it was a debate over what foods we should prepare for winter. They recommend smoked antelope. That ugly one that may be a saiga. They say liver and brains are very good together.”

  Ack.

  Spencer said, “Yeah, I know that’s ideal nutrition, but oh, my fucking God, no. I’ll need to be starving before I do that. Actually, if we get to fat starvation, we’ll gladly do that, and hate ourselves while we do it.”

  Bob said, “I’ve eaten stuff like that. It won’t kill you. It isn’t very interesting, though.” At least as far as they knew, mad antelope disease wouldn’t be a problem for them. He hoped.

  “I can eat anything,” Spencer said. “Doesn’t mean I want to. I’m almost tempted to ask them for some of that weed they were smoking.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Drug use? Unknown drug use? And that would be the day we get back, and they’d drug test us to find out why we’re telling such a bizarre story.”

  “Is it worth losing your pension to get home?”

  With a shrug and thoughtful look, and a hand through his half-shaggy beard, Spencer said, “Well . . . yes. But I’d like to not become an addict. Cigarettes were bad enough.”

  “Yeah. How long had you smoked?”

  “Age fifteen to twenty-three. I’m glad to be done with it.”

  “I’d like to carve a good peace pipe. But I think they’ve only got diluted pot and whatever that other stuff was. Anyhow, what do you have for today?”