Once he had finished butchering, he turned his attention to the joint of venison, now scorched crisp on the outside but moist and succulent at the centre. Wolfing the meat greedily from the bone, chewing and smacking with gusto, he dined; then he rounded out the repast with roasted roots and swamp greens out of the ashes, and deep draughts of cold water from a vessel he had made of river clay baked hard around tight-woven basketry.
After drinking, he laid the basin on the bed of coils to boil the remaining water. Into it he scraped those brains that remained in the antelope’s cloven skull, along with as much of the spinal cord as he could pluck from the vertebrae. He had already peeled tendons from the animal’s legs and back, to save as valuable bindings; the bones and skull he stacked beside the fire to dry. At length, taking up the gazelle’s hide and a digging stick, he walked down to the river.
The skin was far too fresh to be processed, but delving into the muddy sand near the eddying currents, he unearthed the roebuck hide that had lain there for several days. It was adequately decomposed, the hairy outer skin beginning to slip away from the tough inner hide. Wrinkling his nose at the stench, he dragged it out of the hole and buried the fresher skin in its place.
A few paces downwind of his camp, he stretched the hide over a stream-worn nubbin of pine log. Using a deer rib as a draw-knife, he carefully scraped away the hair and loose skin, a slow process that took him well into the afternoon. When he had finished and disposed of the scrapings, he bore the limp hide back to the fire.
The deer brains had long since boiled and now waited in a steaming broth into which he lowered the hide, stirring it through the slurry with a stick. He removed the vessel from the fire and set it aside, knowing that the salty brains would bleach and preserve the skin overnight. In the morning, if he wished, he could rub and stretch it dry, then smoke it over smouldering willow wood to cure it further and stain it a deep brown hue.
From such prepared skins, he knew how to make strong garments: buskins, blouse, and breeches that would protect him against night chills, sharp foliage, and insect stings. More important, he now possessed tough thong for binding his weapons strongly and for fashioning game traps. He even had fabric for sacks and canopies.
As his wealth increased, he would be able to live more comfortably, he foresaw, but there would always be one limit: he must either be able to carry his belongings with him, or else provide for their safety in his absence. Caches of food and skins would ever be prey to roaming predators and scavengers unless he could secure them in some safe, inaccessible shelter or lair.
Having gorged himself at midday, he did not feel like eating a heavy supper. He contented himself with munching tree nuts and small, tart fruits he had gathered up in his makeshift basketry. The smoked and partially dried meats from the afternoon he wrapped in leaves and buried under heavy rocks as sunset approached. The twilight hour he spent in front of the fire, splitting and grinding one of the gazelle’s tough ankle bones into a well-shaped awl. Then he retired to bed.
His sleeping place lay along an arching rock face that rose near enough the fire to catch some of the heat and reflect it downward. The camp was well above the water, escaping the worst of the river’s cold and damp; and Conan’s blanket of woven rabbit skins gave him more protection as it grew longer day by day. Even so, he kept a large supply of firewood within reach and awakened periodically to feed the fire when its flames would die and the night’s chill begin to close in. This he did as much for the protection the fire offered against night-stalkers, both animal and supernatural, as for the warmth of the flames.
It was in deepest night that the sojourner’s dimmest and most formless fears would begin to take shape. Alone in darkness, with only the flickering outlines of stones and bones near at hand—and beyond, the ghosts of looming trees—lying chill against hard, uneven earth, Conan would wonder about the reality of it all. This timeless, soulless wilderness, this sudden and total break with his past, did it bear any true relation to the world of toil and human vainglories he had left? Did it really lie on any map of the Hyborian kingdoms?
Or had he, once he abandoned himself to the down-rushing currents of the underground river, passed much farther out of human ken, into some land beyond earthly borders and time? Had he fallen back into the primal days of the world’s youth? Or had he in fact died, and been swept off to some underworld or celestial paradise?—an afterlife that tight-lipped Crom, the god of his Cimmerian fathers, had given his worshippers no inkling of? Was he now expected to correct or atone for sins and infelicities' of his earthly days before facing the stem judgement of the gods? Or must he contemplate each mistake of his past in a sort of feral, endless purgatory? If this life, or illusion, stretched on to infinity, what could he accomplish during its span? Would he be able to endure it long—alone— without slipping into madness?
Here lay the gateway to vast, mystic recesses of the soul.
Some men, and some women too, might carry such musings very far indeed, using them to conjure up whole cosmogonies of spirits and demons, giving their fears tenuous but terrifying substance. Yet Conan’s natural reaction when faced with such imponderable questions was to cling to the familiar, to anything vivid to the senses, to anything tangible and known. And so, as on many previous nights, it was with fond thoughts of the past—memories of pliant Zamoran dancing-maids and of pungent Aquilonian ale— that he slipped off to sleep.
By sunrise, he was stiff and chilled, dull and groggy, yet eager to start his limbs working and generate internal heat. The fire had not quite died, so he warmed himself with the task of fanning and stoking it back to a lively flame.
Then he went to check his fish trap. The funnel-mouthed corral of poles he had driven into the sandbar at the foot of the isle had snared one trout—a medium-sized fish, too large to wriggle out through the fence and too young to leap over its top. It was enough for breakfast. Conan, not inclined toward a frigid morning dip, did not bother to tickle up any more fish. This one, spitted and toasted over hearty flames, was as satisfying as any two of its predecessors eaten raw and cold.
With meat and other foodstuffs in ample supply, Conan decided to use the morning to complete the exploration of his islet. His recent hasty survey, made by climbing to the highest point of the stone outcrop, had revealed a granite dome well above tree level, with stone hummocks falling away steeply to the pools and rapids of the river below. Thick underbrush filled the hollows and crevices where trees could not grow, and so he had left several likely spots for a later and more leisurely visit. His current site at the base of the rock, though comfortably close to wood and water, was too openly accessible for his liking.
Girding his rabbit-skin clout about his waist—and taking up knife, hatchet, and spear, since one could never be too well-armed—he started up the mound behind his camp. The way was easy, treading along bare rock shoulders and leaping from outcrop to outcrop. That was one thing he liked about the place: a man could make his way from the crown of the island down to the waterside, day upon day if he so wished, without leaving any visible sign or track. So it was with fire-smoke, too—Conan’s experience had taught him that smoke kindled on such an airy height would soon dissipate and be far less visible than any that rose up out of the windless well of the valley floor. He had as yet seen no sign of human presence, but if man was here, he wanted to know so before being found.
Partway up the mound lay a couple of likely spots: shallow clefts that might conceal a camp. He saw where, if brush was carefully cleared, access could be restricted. Snares and dead falls might be installed to further discourage surprise by prowling marauders, or at least to give warning. The views of valley and hills the sites afforded were splendid and commanding. Even so, Conan decided that both clefts were still too exposed.
Very soon he neared the summit, without finding what he sought. The whole island was, after all, only a hundred strides across, so its possibilities were limited. He would be better off shifting camp frequently about the c
ountryside, travelling light... but then, for the first time, he noticed a sloping, brushy terrace on the steeper stream-ward side of the mound.
The place had its advantages. For one thing, the sharp drop-offs immediately above and below made it highly defensible. Angling his way down across sloping granite, Conan found the shelf deeper than it first appeared, receding under an overhang of black, lichen-stained rock. The outer court was a mass of shrubs rooted in gravel, tough and harshly weathered; a series of jagged rock ledges along the cliff led him deeper into a more sheltered platform— and further yet to a dry, sandy gallery that would surely be safe from rain and winter snowdrifts. The place narrowed almost into a cave... especially just there, where a massive roof slab had tumbled down in some past aeon, creating a dark, triangular niche in the cleft’s dimmest recess.
Too late Conan saw his mistake. His glance came to rest on white wreckage strewn before the opening—a ghastly litter of cracked, crushed bones—but by then, a maddened, thunderous roar already hammered at his ears. The cave-bear came tumbling forth out of the impossibly narrow crevice, forcing before it a wave of its own musky stench.
It was an incredible creature, swelling as large as a small cottage, its bristling fur shading from blood-caked brown to hoary silver, its face a flaring, slavering mask of hungry ferocity. The beast roared again, exposing hands-breadths of dripping yellow fang; this time the noise in the enclosed space was so dreadful that it stabbed Conan’s ears and shook the stone underfoot, threatening to bring more of the low roof crashing down.
A few backward steps gained Conan nothing; the bear only lumbered forward and reared up taller, as high as the rock ceiling permitted. The monster was frenzied, outraged at finding an intruder so near its lair. Doubtless, as the sustained, echoing pandemonium of snarls and squeals in the cavern now told, it was protecting a sow and new cubs in the cavern behind it.
The place was a trap for fools, Conan saw. Clearly, everything that had drawn him here, the bear also found attractive. He should have foreseen this. In his readiness to foil predators, he had walked straight into the fangs of one of the largest and most fearsome ones he had yet seen.
He must not give ground too easily; to do so only allowed the beast freer movement. Conan dismissed the notion of turning and fleeing across the steep, precarious granite. Over open ground, no earthly creature could outrun one of these agile, muscle-slabbed behemoths; but here in the uneven cleft, Conan’s smaller size was a temporary advantage. Darting forward with spear raised, he stabbed the creature in the back of one forepaw.
The bear’s wrath at this was terrible to see. The outpouring of noise and foul carrion-breath smote Conan in the face, and a swipe of the beast’s sickle-shaped claws pelted and stung the warrior with broken bits of a woody shrub that grew in close on one hand. The snarling face surged forward—but then, darting angrily after a wave of Conan’s spear point, the snout swung aside and scuffed up hard against a ridge of unyielding granite. As if stunned, the beast planted its feet and shook its head—just once— before lumbering forward in renewed attack.
Conan jabbed with his spear, once narrowly missing the creature’s face, once striking its shoulder, to little effect.
He avoided the batting paws, which would splinter his crude weapon to matchwood... and the jaws, that could easily bite through wood and stone alike. The shaft’s fighting-reach was scarcely longer than the bear’s massive arm, so he had to leap in and dodge back to protect his own skin. Seeing an opening at last, he lunged at the monster’s hairy flank... and felt his sharp stone point jab into heavy hide. The raging beast boiled after him like a hairy avalanche, forcing him to scurry backward for life.
Though pricked, the animal was anything but cowed by Conan’s resistance. It reared taller now and swept its paws in broader swaths, pressing forward in an ambling gait that might at any moment become an unopposable charge. Conan feinted at the monster’s belly and snout, trying to teach it to fear his darting point.
Instead, the bear lost patience and lashed out to take off his head. Ducking under its extended forepaw, whose coarse bristles scoured the skin of his naked back, he drove his spear into the animal’s flank. Once embedded, the blade caught in the leathery hide and broke free of the shaft. An instant later, on the back-swing, the flailing paw splintered the pole in two. Conan barely rolled free, dragging his ax from his belt and raising it to defend himself.
Yet the bear, vexed by pain, no longer recognized any obstacle. It swarmed straight at Conan, driving him out onto the down-curving granite slope. A deft stroke to his adversary’s hairy brain pan did not even slow the beast; it only loosened the head of the stone ax in its crude binding.
Meanwhile, writhing to escape the monster’s killing hug, Conan was struck a light, glancing blow by its forepaw. Chisel-claws shredded flesh from his thigh, ripped the flimsy fur clout from his groin, and battered into the frail cage of his ribs, sending him sprawling across the granite like a broken stick-doll.
Rolling and scrabbling to escape, unsure whether the brute was charging or merely tumbling forward onto him, Conan felt himself pressed flat. He took the bear’s whole tremendous weight on his back, its thrashing bulk, its pelt like an armour of steel bristles; its musty, choking stench crushed him down against hard granite. As it rolled over him, the burden abated, but a pitchfork claw raked him up off the rock, and he felt himself clutched in a murderous embrace.
The pressure then grew even greater, stifling his breath, purpling his vision, cracking his bones aloud in their sockets. Desperately Conan lashed out, smiting, writhing to break free.
Then came a series of heavy blows, a loosening, a rushing blast of air. Conan’s vision flickered on madly alternating earth and sky, and he understood why the beast could not hold him—it was rolling down the cliff side. He, too, was falling, hurtling off the stone overhang past any hope of escape. Below was the river, a blue-black pond lathering and swirling amid fanged rocks. Kicking free of the snorting, flailing bear, Conan gathered himself for the impact.
Numb and chilled, he crouched by the waterside, probing his bruised, tom flesh and testing his aching bones. He must have blacked out. Again, as before, he could have been swept any distance downstream. This part of the river was unfamiliar; his island was nowhere in sight. As to the bear’s fate, he could make no guess.
It mattered nothing. Here he was again, devoid of food and belongings, and lacking the strength to try to regain them. What he needed now was a warm, sheltered nook in which to sleep off these wounds and the fever that would likely follow. He could worry about food, clothing, and weapons later.
The trees here rose tall enough to shade both banks of the river, making its waters pool and swirl sedately down a broad channel. Where Conan stood, a tributary stream joined the main flow, cutting through the steep, root-knit bank. Thankful for the pathway, he followed the stream’s course, trudging along its shallow margin where it flowed down from the forest. Though sore and murky-brained, he was aware that by following this course, he left no track. He also knew that wherever he chose to hole up and recuperate, he must stay within easy reach of water.
The tree trunks on either hand stood as broad and stately as the columns of some great palace or temple. Even in his depleted state, and perhaps more so because of it, Conan sensed the awe and mystery of the age-old forest. Down through its canopy pierced occasional sunbeams, slanting a-sparkle with insects and dust motes, softened and scattered in their fall to earth by lattices of foliage overhead. Along the stream, lily and fern sprouted, though not thickly enough to bar Conan’s way. And just ahead, through looming curtains of greenery, he could hear the rush of water as from a small cataract. It was a welcome noise, since he wanted to climb some way above the river before sinking down to rest.
Pushing stiffly through the screen of shrubs and vines, he looked out on a shallow, partly shaded pond. At its further end, where sprays of water pattered down from overhanging rocks, his eyes encountered a searing, paralysing visio
n. There beneath the waterfall—with back turned to him, and with shapely arms and petal-like hands raised briefly overhead to catch the gushing torrent—was a woman.
As innocent of garments as she was of his presence, she stood bathing in the ankle-deep pool. The sight, in the echoing gallery of rocks and greenery, was one of unutterable beauty. Her delicate contours and full, lush curvatures shimmered palely radiant in sunlight reflected up from the water’s dappled surface. As Conan looked on, she lowered her arms and, cupping her hands full of water against her throat, laved herself generously with the foamy torrent. She spread it across her shoulders, breasts, and thighs, and wrung it down through the dark rope of hair that lashed and clung as far as the delicate hollow of her back. Bending forward, she bathed supple legs and tapering feet, lifting and bracing them in turn against a stone outcrop to do so. Without warning, she turned and stepped out of the flow. Her gaze, sweeping the far side of the pond, settled at once on Conan.
The outlander did and said nothing. So thunderstruck was he by the discovery and the splendid female charms revealed to him that no other thought came into his mind. He forgot his perilous situation, his wounds, and the fact that he stood as naked as the woman; instead, he remained frozen in the timeless instant.
The woman, for her part, reacted similarly. She did not cry out, nor did her hands dart in false civilized modesty to cover particular parts of her body. In attitude she somewhat resembled a fawn surprised while feeding—glancing up, alert and expressionless, to determine whether the noise that had roused her represented any threat. Her dark eyes took in everything, clearly: Conan’s impressive physique and his unfamiliar, probably foreign-looking face. Then her gaze dropped to his midsection, unable to ignore the ragged, four-clawed wound furrowed from ribs to upper thigh. The look on her face remained one of cool appraisal, without fear or plea.
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