Shock Diamonds

by E. R. Mason

  I had to push myself to keep up. They could have out-walked me easily. Frequent stops so that Ooda could climb tall trees to get his bearings allowed just enough rest to stay with them. We camped without fires that night, and resumed at daybreak. We crossed the last range of hills later that morning, and spotted their encampment soon after.

  The camp consisted of mounds of leaves, grass, and brush hollowed out to form tent-like structures. They did not have fire or just did not feel a need for it. We arrived at the perfect time. There were six of them mulling around, frequently arguing with each other. All of the others, the main body of Scabas, were away hunting or accosting some other camp. On the opposite side of their clearing, we spotted what we had come for.

  There were three Tusani women still alive. They were tied to trees by vines around their necks. They were pretty beaten up. One of the women was Ooda’s mate. Not far from them were the mostly-eaten body parts of the others.

  Without even a glance at me for approval, Ooda gave the hand signal to the archers to take positions. He motioned again for the warriors to circle the camp. Finally he looked over at me with an expression that said, “There’s no turning back now.” I nodded in agreement.

  With a single yelp of attack, the arrows flew. Surprisingly, it caught me off guard. Usually most men will hesitate a second before their first real kill. There was no such pause in the hearts of the Tusani archers. The arrows flew out from the forest and all but one hit their marks with deadly accuracy.

  But the ape-men were hard to kill. They whooped and hollered and jumped around not understanding the rod sticking out of their bodies. They stumbled and fell and got back up. The only off-target arrow struck its victim high in the leg. He looked down at it and shook his fists angrily before noticing his mortally wounded comrades. Another ape-man, uninjured by an arrow strike, stood upright with a look of curiosity on his face, completely confused by the plight of his associates.

  It seemed like less than a second and the next wave of arrows flew. This time all five hit their marks. The ape-man with the injured leg took one through the heart and fell immediately. The uninjured ape-man suddenly had an arrow through the throat. The others fell silent or rolled in pain.

  Ooda’s second battle cry turned loose the warriors. They charged in and finished the dirty work with long spears.

  The enemy camp fell silent. The Tasuni team gathered in a circle at the center of the camp, surprised by the speed of their victory. Ooda charged in, went directly to the women captives, and began sawing off their bindings. The women were in a state of shock, unable to speak, unsure of what was happening. No one had ever been rescued from the Scabas.

  We did not wait around. All arrows were removed from the victims to keep the new weapon a secret. All traces of Tusani footprints were wiped over. The freed women were carried or half-dragged along the way we had come. We moved quickly enough to clear two mountain range trails before setting up camp for the night well off the beaten path. The next day we reached home just as the sun was beginning to set. Once again, wild celebration broke out. There was dancing and wrestling and chanting around victory fires. It was good for the tribe to celebrate. I sat with the Chief and Ooda, enjoying the new hope within the Tusani, our own expressions slightly less joyous, because the three of us knew.

  The Scabas would be coming.

  Chapter 18

  Fear is a volatile ally. It can command you to flee, or turn you into a mindless killing machine, or make you a hero when you don’t deserve to be. Fear can clear your mind of all other trouble save the one that is coming. It can force you to take a stand with absolute resolve.

  The Tusani were not immune. Once the facts of life had been explained to them, they chose the path of quiet resolve. They did not complain. They did not retreat. Beginning at sunrise, preparations began. Small stones were lifted to the tree blinds so that archers could keep small fires for fire arrows. New paths were cut through the forest surrounding the camp, paths so narrow Scaba attackers would only be able to move along them single file. Defensive positions were rehearsed so many times that even in fear everyone would automatically go to their assigned spot. A long barricade was set up in the cave, secure positions for a line of archers, backed by warriors. We rehearsed, rehearsed, and then rehearsed some more.

  We had one big advantage. The Scabas always attacked in daylight. We knew they’d be coming from the west. In the distance, the last line of mountains provided only a single pass, a sharp fork bordered by high peaks. From a high platform above the forest canopy, a lookout could spot Scabas coming though. When he did, it would give us three or four hours of warning that war was on its way. We would be locked and loaded.

  For two days, we continued to rehearse the defense, making little improvements here and there, adding new hand signals, creating better strategic visibility. We even set up a section within the cave to treat Tusani wounded after it was over. There was a solemn undercurrent to it all. The camp was quieter than it had ever been. It was difficult to sleep at night.

  Midmorning on the third day, the call came. The remote lookout came running up the trail, out of breath, waving the stained-red leather flag that had been made for that express purpose. There was a moment of stark realization throughout the camp, and before any commands were even given, people were racing to their assigned positions. Archers climbed to their posts, carrying fire to light their stone igniter beds. Warriors took their places, hiding within the jungle. In the cave, the assigned teams readied their weapons.

  The lookout had seen movement coming through the pass. That meant at least three hours before the attack would begin. The Tusani were in position and ready in twenty minutes.

  The wait began. The camp looked deserted except for six warriors out in the open, waiting to lead Scaba attackers down the blood-alley trails created just for them. The Chief, Ooda, and I took position out of sight in a tree blind where we could see the entire encampment and into the cave. The Chief carried only my plastic knife in his belt. I had nothing at all. Ooda was heavily loaded down in case he needed to join in the battle rather than direct it.

  When the first wave of Scabas finally made their charge, it was immediately a tragic comedy. They swarmed into the camp like eccentric shoppers at a half-off sale. They charged in pushing each other out of the way, hoping to get the best first kills. Others scattered toward the cave in search of the loot.

  The brave Tusani warriors stationed out in the open acted surprised and afraid just as planned. They gave just enough time for groups of Scabas to form and charge after them. The Scabas roared death growls as they ran.

  It was at that moment Ooda let out the attack howl, and the fire arrows flew.

  I have never seen such a pitiful tragedy. The first wave of burning arrows came from every direction and every one struck a target. The Scabas were bunched together enough that it was impossible to miss. Those impaled by burning arrows roared in pain and yanked at the burning shafts as hair was set on fire. Several fell to the ground rolling. There was a deathly indignity among those wounded. Within seconds, the next wave of arrows came, striking the confused Scabas with equal accuracy. Those not preoccupied with flaming wounds began to scatter, still not understanding what was happening, and enraged that the Tusani would dare fight back.

  The lines of Scabas that had taken off to run down the only Tusanis they could find, dashed into the newly cut trails in pursuit of their prey. Along the trail they were cut down by the spears of the Tusani warriors hiding along the way.

  Within the cave, fire arrows met the first wave of attackers. From there, the Tusani warriors charged over the barricades to meet those remaining. Two Tusani warriors for each Scaba, as hoped.

  Most tragic of all was the Scabas' refusal to retreat. They had arrived so convinced of their superiority, they could not comprehend that they were losing. The archers' arrow strikes began to make for an even more gruesome battle. Now spread out, the remaining Scabas were not such an easy target. The ar
chers were hitting arms and legs, or missing entirely. Unfortunately for the Scabas, fewer targets meant more archers per Scaba. Some Scabas were still going, even with two or three charred arrows in them.

  The massacre did not last long. It was over in twenty minutes. A strange deathly silence came over the camp, the ground covered with burning Scaba bodies. In the ominous silence, Ooda gave the reload-reset yell, expecting the next wave. It came a minute or two later.

  We had expected the second wave to be worse than the first. Common battlefield technique, soften the enemy then send in the real regiment. But the Scabas were not that advanced. The second wave of attackers turned out to be stragglers, the ones who had not been able to keep up.

  They charged into the camp, expecting the worst to be over, expecting to pick at the spoils of war, the scavengers of the tribe. The sight of their tribesmen’s burning, dead bodies scattered everywhere stopped them in their tracks. As they stood staring in disbelief, Ooda’s cry brought the next wave of arrows. Half a dozen were struck. The others ran away in the direction they had come. A second barrage of arrows finished off those remaining. Hand signals from the lookout towers signaled all clear. Ooda yelled "All-clear!" For the first time, I thought I heard emotion in his voice. The silence of death returned to the camp.

  It was then that the Tusani people surprised me the most. This was the moment most warriors raise their weapons high and scream the victory screams, and dance the victory dances. The Scabas had raided, murdered, kidnapped, and tortured them for years and they had not been able to do a thing about it. Suddenly that threat was gone forever.

  Warriors began walking among the dead with spears to be certain the enemy was finished. Others stationed in the forest began to emerge, unable to hide their astonishment at the sight of the massacre. A short time later, the women came from their hiding places looking just as aghast.

  There was no celebrating. At first, I could not believe it. Some Tusani began hugging each other, making tiny grunting sounds as they looked over the battlefield. Somehow these primitive people, so harshly scarred by the Scabas, still understood the loss of life.

  Chief Dawna emerged from the cave inspection with a small contingent of followers. He walked among the dead, waving the same crooked stick he had used to bless his own, chanting his guttural chant as he went. He glanced up at me once and I suddenly felt a frightening flush of guilt. All of this was my doing. How would the Tusani see me now? So many times in history, gunmen had been hired by townspeople to take on criminals exploiting a town. When the dirty deeds were done, and the town safe, often they had turned against the bounty hunter, blaming him for all that had happened, conveniently forgetting the role they played.

  But the greatest guilt was indeed truly mine. The ape-men had been the dominant species, the Tusani the submissive. My interference had changed that. I had greatly affected the balance of power in this place. What right did I have to do that?

  The Scabas would have likely killed me on sight had they found me. The Tusani had taken me in, fed me, and healed me. There was a good chance I would not have survived this long without them. So this massacre had been in part a fight for my own survival as much as for these people. The primitive Scabas had a natural right to attack whomever they chose. And whoever they attacked had a natural right to fight back.

  The Tusani began gathering up Scaba bodies and carrying them off into the woods. Chief Dawna finished his offerings and approached me with Ooda close behind. We stood face-to-face and in his eye was the strange, contradictory look of a wise, yet primitive man. He seemed to sense my fear. He reached out a hand and grabbed my arm with his fat, worn fingers, and squeezed affectionately. He held up five fingers of his hand. “Five taken, three taken back,” he said, and he nodded appreciatively.

  Ooda whapped me a good one on my right shoulder and grunted his approval.

  They carried the bodies to a wide, bottomless pit in the side of a nearby mountain. They dropped them in, no sound of impact to be heard. When all were interred, an ample pile of leaves, dirt and branches were thrown in after, and more blessings invoked. I did not understand what was said. The tone of it seemed regretful. At the end, I heard the words, “Three taken back.” That would be the legend of this battle. It would be called “Three Taken Back,” and would be told through the spoken legends of the Tusani for centuries to come.

  With that dark day behind them, the Tusani became a culture of self-discovery. The shadow of fear that had always been a part of their lives was lifted. The atmosphere in the camp had that too-good-to-be-true ingredient in it. People laughed more. They played jokes on each other. Newly discovered talents became games and contests. There was more painting and tattooing. Artistic talent had suddenly been allowed a place in everyday life.

  In the days that followed, a scavenging team showed me a forest of trees that were exactly like bamboo, incredibly strong, mostly hollow in the center. With the Chief’s permission, we hauled a bunch of it back to camp, tapped into a mountain stream and brought running water down into the cave. A large stone cistern was constructed to provide drinking water, and beyond it a second one for washing. The runoff was channeled through a small, stone-lined canal that led the water back to the mountain side. It happened to be a spot where terrace farming would have been perfect, but I did not have the knowledge to make that happen. I could hear R.J. scolding me somewhere a trillion miles away.

  The girl who would regularly sneak away from camp went by the name of Avea. On two occasions, I was in the right place to follow her, but both times she lost me in a patch of forest and rock where paths led in too many directions. Finally, one bright afternoon, I managed to stay with her and watch undetected from on high. At first she seemed only on the overhang to pick beautiful blue orchids that hung by the edge. After twenty minutes or so, I became troubled by guilt from spying and was about to sneak away when another figured appeared at the forest edge. It was a boy of similar age, but he was not from the Tusani clan. His tattoos were much more colorful, he wore leather cut clothes rather than fur, and his dark hair was carefully cut at the shoulder. He carried a spear with no Clovis point, nor was it fire-hardened.

  They were lovers. I left at that point, lectured myself about being a snoop, and wondered where the boy had come from. In camp that night, sitting around the fire with the Chief and Ooda, I asked what lay beyond the north mountains as though it were a question of idle curiosity.

  Ooda pointed at the north section of my dirt map and replied, “Oshoni.”

  I clutched my two hands together and shook them, and asked “Tusani and Oshoni?”

  The Chief nodded, “Tusani, Oshoni trade good trade.”

  I repeated my handshake. “Tusani, Oshoni, no Scabas.”

  The Chief nodded once again. “Oshoni need Tusani.”

  I sat back and nodded my approval. It was yet another confirmation that the Tusani were basically a peaceful people, and had no intention of using their newfound power to subdue others. It gave me reason to relax further from the fears of what I had done.

  I spent most of the next three weeks exploring Tusani land. I found myself making regular trips to the smashed up escape pod, hoping it would help me to remember who I really was. It was necessary to cut away vines and brush to see inside, but eventually that became a pointless effort. The vegetation found too many ways to invade the pod. Eventually it would be completely hidden and too much work to uncover.

  My flight suit was near the end of its useful life. The pant legs were shredded at the bottom. There were tar stains that could not be removed. Holes here and there in the arms and torso added to the annoying exposure it left. I lay in bed one night and mentally began working out a pattern for Daniel Boone wear. It was possible I would soon be a Tusani fashion designer and trend setter. I went to sleep laughing at myself.

  But that was an uncomfortable night. A bug, or creatures unknown, had chosen to bite my left forearm, leaving periods of itchiness that would not go away. It kept wak
ing me up. I found myself wishing for a good stiff belt of bourbon and finally fell asleep wondering if alcohol could be manufactured here.

  The next morning, I began searching for grapes, the first step in the fermenting process. There was a small clearing not far from the pod wreckage where something that looked like grapes hung in bundles from vines so heavy they dragged down tree limbs. As I stood appraising how best to recover the bright blue bulbs above me, the itching in my arm cropped up once again. I looked down at it with an angry stare and froze.

  Beneath the skin of my forearm, a tiny green light was rapidly flashing. I yelped like a dog at the first sight of his master, and fell to my knees in the dirt. I stared down in doubt at the little flashing green light and then snapped my head up to look at the pale orange sky.

  I could not see her, but the Griffin was up there looking down. I had to stop and finger away pre-tears from my eyes, then quickly look for the flashing green light in my arm, still fearing it was imagined. It was not. The homing device in my arm had been activated. I looked skyward again. Beyond the sky orange, the crew of the Griffin was evaluating a response to their tracking query. They were trying to determine if it was a fluke or could really be me.

  I turned and scanned the area. Eventually they would decide they could not discount the contact, and a landing would be needed. They might even be able to pick me out with the hi-res down-facing cameras, but my appearance made that a long shot.

  Where would they land? When would they come? They would spend time evaluating all threats, decide how to protect against them, then pick the safest landing area that gave the fastest possible escape. That is what I would have done. All I had to do was wait and make sure they found me when they arrived.