by Don Wilcox
We heard the echoed furor which this speech called forth. Soon the Goddess concluded her appeal with a most dramatic invitation.
“Will all of you . . . who wish to rid yourself of the feast rituals . . . come this way.”
With her right wing she beckoned to the eastward U—the slope toward our left, toward our peak and the northeast range. “Let us see . . . which of you . . . understand me.”
Thunder Splitter, not to be outdone, issued an order to all who would join him in the next feast to follow him now into the U to the south of the spike of rock—toward the Octagon.
Slowly the multitude moved, on foot, not on wing. Again that patter of hail on stones as the thousand pairs of talons clicked.
Many of them were answering the Fire Goddess’ invitation—perhaps a third of the total.
Another third were following Thunder Splitter.
But the last third only shuffled along, uncertain which of the two courses to take. Finally they stalled there before the spire of rock, unready to make a decision.
Either they had not understood all that the Fire Goddess had said, or else the old habits of accepting traditions were too deeply rooted to be shaken off. A great number of young females were caught in this eddy of indecision, not knowing whether to follow the majority of bold young huskies—Thunder Splitter’s force—or the many parents and elders who were following the Fire Goddess.
At this moment one of the Goddess’ promises burst into fact. A cloud had rolled dark and ominous over the desert flat. A flash of lightning cracked out of it, and a heavy clap of thunder boomed through the valleys.
The crowd turned to see. Everyone must have realized instantly that here were more vonzels.
When their eyes turned back to look at the Fire Goddess she was gone.
CHAPTER XXXI
The Promise of a Feast
If that cloud had dropped thirty golden blown footballs and sent them bouncing over the desert sand I couldn’t have been any more surprised.
The thirty men and women who appeared were very much the color of footballs, and their healthy naked bodies were rounded with highly developed muscles.
They must have been surprised, as anyone is surprised when first finding himself in a new world. But their perfect teamwork bridged their shock so smoothly that they cooperated on a plan of action with hardly two minutes’ delay.
Together they marched westward.
They marched with weapons ready—the clubs, axes, or round stones they had brought in their tight brown fists.
They marched, not with a military step, but with a steady, trudging pace that must have been the march of our ancestors through thousands of long years in the past.
Two men at the rear kept turning their heads to watch for danger. Two women on either side walked with a steady gaze outward, evidently a practiced maneuver of scouting. The leader, who had spotted the multitude of wingmen instantly and chosen his direction accordingly, no longer looked back.
“Cave men!” said McCorkle. “She said these blooming vonzels might come from any time or place. But cave men!”
We were soon on our way, winged along by our faithful carriers, and out of a natural curiosity we stopped in a hollow of sand to peek over and watch them pass.
No such specimens as these had ever hit the desert before, I would guess. Still, when you stopped to think that the Goddess might have the privilege of picking anyone out of the last hundred thousand years of time, she’d have to be awfully choosy not to get a cave man.
Far to our south the mass meeting of the wingmen had fountained up into a spray of wings going out in all directions—and it left you wondering whether the Goddess’ message had stuck, or whether, like many a sermon or movie on the earth, its inspiration had been cast off as soon as such a meeting was out.
It was especially curious to know which way that doubtful third would flop.
Of Thunder Splitter’s crowd there was no doubt—they were intent on carrying on with their feast tradition. And they weren’t going to pass up the thirty very appetizing specimens who had just landed.
We saw them coming, following cautiously at a distance, and you just knew they were watching for one of these cave men to fall behind the others and into their clutches.
A rumor came out of that afternoon’s long hot pursuit that Thunder Splitter was fascinated by the looks of the slender girl, the next to the youngest in the group. The versions of the rumor were that he exclaimed, “She would look well in wings!” or “I’d like to take her for a ride.”
Though a more likely version was, “She appeals to my appetite more than anyone. Don’t misunderstand me. I intend to eat her first.”
Another rumor that was later pretty well established concerned the fate of the first wingmen who came down to attack the party. He fell victim to one of those full-muscled stalwarts, who quickly choked him to death with steel fingers.
Something like this must have accounted for the way Thunder Splitter and his band of huskies kept a margin of distance between themselves and their quarry.
When we heard these wingmen hopping along not far from the hollow where we hid, they were in high spirits, unblighted by the recent blasts from the Goddess.
“There’ll be a great feast!” Thunder Splitter kept telling them. “A great, great feast for those of you who stay with me.”
The bestial expression of Thunder Splitter left no doubt that he construed the coming of these vonzels as a stroke of good fortune.
CHAPTER XXXII
Prophecies Concerning a Birth
Poor Slim fought a hard but losing battle. As I look back on his last days of life I can’t help thinking of his amazing fortitude. Plenty of guts there, not only when it came to fighting but also in that grim business of suffering in silence.
When we trooped back, one or two at a time from the mass meeting, we were so full of excitement that everyone of us had to tell Slim and the Kid all about it.
Slim might have groaned, “For God’s sake, let me rest. Can’t you see I’m dying?” But instead he just listened and nodded and his long homely face gave us a half smile.
The Goddess had been something very special to him. He had seen her at times when McCorkle claimed that his own eyes saw nothing. And so there was that pleased light in Slim’s eyes, especially when we told how the Goddess made them declare themselves for or against her.
“She’ll lead them out of this if they’ll give her a chance,” he would say.
“Are you getting any better, Slim?”
“I think so . . . The Kid was a swell doctor . . . but these things take time.”
As days passed we realized he wasn’t getting any better. One night he called for Wells.
“Best wishes, Wells,” Slim said, “to your family . . . I hope it will be a boy, Wells . . . to fight these desert battles easier than we’ve fought them.”
“Your battle won’t be lost, Slim,” Wells said, taking him by the hand. “We’ll see to that.”
When Slim’s life had passed out of his body we buried him with a simple ceremony. His resting place was to the west of the Green Tooth, where the shadow of the peak fell in the morning. The spot was also within view of the summit of the roundtop hill where the Goddess of White Flames dwelt.
“He would like it that way,” McCorkle said.
Now we turned with new resolve to the task of consolidating our forces for a showdown fight with Thunder Splitter.
The converts that the Goddess had won for us made their headquarters not far from our camp. They organized themselves with leaders, and kept up constant scouting activities which enabled us to work with less of that old fear of surprise attacks.
The cave men had to be contacted, and that called for all the skill and ingenuity that Wells and McCorkle could muster. It took weeks to gain their confidence and establish a web of simple language as a prelude to explaining the conflict that would soon threaten their lives.
Once the cave men understood, they became
sturdy pillars in our fortress. They already had ample evidence of the bestiality we meant to fight. They numbered twenty-seven now, instead of thirty. Several attempts had been made by Thunder Splitter’s hosts to frighten all of them into submission.
These had failed. But traps had cost them two warriors and a girl—the slender next-to-the-youngest girl who—it was once rumored—had caught Thunder Splitter’s eyes. She, in fact, had become the first feast that the cave men had witnessed.
Along with drilling for defenses against surprise attacks, we had a number of less exciting tasks of preparation. We planted supplies of food and jars of water in more than fifty places over the land. We practiced young boys in throwing stones, and we experimented with stone-throwing machines on the order of Franz Cobert’s knife hurling device.
We worked at feverish speed, it seemed. Still, the approaching battle was not our only excitement.
Certain wingmen who scouted daily and nightly against all dangers kept a special lookout for Franz Cobert. No one knew where he had taken up his hermit existence. He had not dared show his face since the night the bullet got Slim.
But Cobert was still in the vicinity, we knew, and still up to his old tricks. Now and again a voice would roll out of a hollow stone or the tunnel of the spring, calling some sharp command. And once, under the full light of day, Whitey Everett was confronted by him.
Whitey returned from that encounter so scared he was sick for three days. He said he couldn’t remember where they had met. He couldn’t remember what had been said except that Cobert had cursed the late Slim Winkle for taking his razor. Cobert’s face was a mat of black whiskers, his clothes were rags—and his eyes were as cunning as ever.
The Greek was ready to give us a hand in any battle against Thunder Splitter’s host. He camped apart from us but his visits became more frequent. He was a high spirited, loquacious fellow, with a high degree of curiosity.
He wanted to know what kind of baby Wells and Orchid were going to have. He wanted to know so that he and his own native mate would know what to count on.
And when no one could answer him with certainty, he grew very wise and made his own prophecy. He said it would have wings.
There was something in his ancient Greek literature that authorized him to predict wings, he said.
But Orchid was not pinning her faith on any superstition or mythology and, although the Greek’s prophecy pleased her, it didn’t reassure. In fact, when he began to broadcast his prediction too confidently she became annoyed, yes, and worried.
“He means no harm,” Wells would say. “Do you dislike him?”
“No,” said Orchid, “but I distrust his ideas. The more he assures me there will be wings, the more I fear there won’t.”
“You should hear what Thunder Splitter and his crowd are saying. They can hardly wait to learn if it doesn’t have clumsy legs like mine and no wings. But as for the Greek,” Wells smiled, “I’ll tell him to quiet his prophecies.”
One of the old winger ladies who had prided herself that her predictions never failed came to Orchid to console her.
“It will be a girl,” the old lady said. “It will have the legs and arms of your husband.”
“And wings?” said Orchid, her eyes moist with eagerness.
But the old lady would not answer the question.
The rumors that floated back to us from Thunder Splitter’s camp were nothing less than malicious propaganda intended to warn all wingmen against interracial marriages. Most absurd was the story that Orchid already knew from the movement of the child in her womb that it would have no wings!
No wings! What a disgrace to the proud wingman race!
But the insidious talk did not stop there.
What, Thunder Splitter asked, will the family do when their child is born without wings? Will they bear their disgrace?
No, he said, they would kill their wingless child and steal the child of some winged family and call it their own.
“Take warning, you good wingmen who have newly born babies,” Thunder Splitter would orate to the groups of doubtful tribesmen wherever he could find them. “Take warning that your babe may be stolen.”
All of which was fuel for the approaching conflict that no man or wingman could stop.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Cobert Plays His Hand
One morning before daylight I strolled down a sandy path alone, thinking of Slim Winkle. The dawn was held back under a bank of heavy blue-gray clouds. The Green Tooth cast no shadow toward Slim’s grave this morning.
While I was standing there by the mound someone called my name. I turned. It was Kid Smith.
“Want to take a walk with me, Burton?” he said.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“That’s what I mean to find out.” The Kid was in one of his rare unsmiling moods. He was carrying a pistol in his belt. His face was grim. He gave a toss of his head and I followed him.
“Just in case I need a witness,” he said.
“Sure. Glad to be of service.” I hiked along the foothills with him.
I had never forgotten what McCorkle had told me about the Kid’s good disposition. He was the most cheerful and accommodating cuss in the world until something aroused his fighting spirit. Such as Cobert had once done by overplaying his infected foot, imposing on the Kid’s good nature.
That incident had driven a clean wedge between Cobert and the gang—and none too soon. Subsequent deeds from Cobert’s scheming brain had proved him a murderous paranoid, bent on making himself a god over every wingman, Thunder Splitter included.
The Kid and I talked this over as we hiked through the gray morning.
“I know his hiding place at last,” said the Kid. “It’s in the niche between those black pillars where it looks like a coal mine cropping out of the hill.”
“How did you find out?”
“By keeping an eye on Whitey Everett. He sees more than any hawk. He watches everything because he’s afraid. And do you know, I think he’s actually attracted to the things he fears. It’s a wonder the winger gluttons haven’t seized him.”
“Then Whitey knows of Cobert’s hideout?” I said, astonished.
“He discovered it this week. Yesterday he went toward it, the fool, unarmed. He stopped not quite within hailing distance. Cobert saw him, motioned to him to come on.”
“And Whitey came?”
“Not yesterday. He just stood there watching. He must have had the feeling someone else was watching him. That someone was me, hiding among the crags. But early this morning—”
“Whitey went?” I asked.
“Yes. At least he started in that direction. At first I thought you were following him too . . . Here’s where we climb the vines to the next level . . . Quiet now. The pillars are right up there, beyond that clump of orange-barked trees.”
We went along stealthily. The Kid paused to point the pistol at a fresh foot-track. It would have been easy for a heavyweight like the Kid to start the soft dirt sliding along this steep slope. That light track was Whitey Everett’s.
Now the black pillars unfolded before us. We leaned to the rocks and shrubs for cover with every step.
The voice of Cobert burst out suddenly, so clear and loud that my blood froze. I thought he was addressing us.
“All right, you’ve come. Now you get it straight,” he said. He was only twelve yards from us. His heavy black whiskers and hair, and the dark marble wall back of him made his cunning eyes look strangely bright—too bright. His brown hands slapped back against the marble in a confident gesture. “Yes, you’ll do it for me.”
“The voice of Whitey came forth, choked and frightened. “I only came here—to—to see you. I thought you might be in trouble.”
Cobert might not have heard. His eyes were scheming.
“Yes, you’ve cleared the way for me. You can do it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Whitey complained.
“When the child is born, you
’ll be there. You’ll have a chance to get it that first week . . . Yes you will. They trust you. You’ll get it. Do you understand?”
“I understand your words, but—”
“You’ll take the child right up to the yellow table rock above your camp.”
“There?” Whitey was aghast. “But that rock can be seen by—by the huskies that keep spying on us.”
“So you’ve seen them? Your eyes are sharp! Yes, that’s where you’ll take the child. Place him on the yellow table rock. You’re only taking him out for air.”
“Air? They’ll never believe—”
“They’ll let you have him. You’ll deliver, do you understand? Then the huskies will swoop down and overpower you. You can’t help that, can you?”
“What—what do you want the child for?”
“That depends. If it’s got any wings I’ll remove them. If it’s got any hands—or human legs—I’ll remove them. Then we’ll give the child back—and it will be the most accursed child this damned race ever produced.”
“You wouldn’t do that!” Whitey snapped with a healthier blaze of temper than I would have given him credit for.
“I’ll do just that and I’ll make history!” Cobert growled. “Thunder Splitter will rise on this child’s misfortune—and I’ll rise on Thunder Splitter.”
“But this—this atrocity! The gang will know! Wells will know! Everyone that ever saw the baby will swear it wasn’t born that way.”
Whitey was putting up a frantic scrap for a person almost frozen with terror. But Cobert laughed in his face.
“The physical body is what people see, you sap. You can swear till doomsday that a man ought to have arms—or he ought to have wings—but if he hasn’t got them, who the hell cares what you swear? You’ll deliver—and this child will be cursed to its dying day.”