Chosen Too

by Alan J. Garner

  Jinku, hampered by his clawed leg, clambered down the trunk with tortured slowness, complaining all the way. ‘Sir, you don't need me as a guide if you're going after that lot,’ he muttered, pointing at the stationary robusts. ‘They won't exactly be hard to miss strolling out on the grassland.'

  Yowlar clouted the smart-mouthed baboon with a punishing forepaw that sent Jinku rebounding off the tree trunk.

  'Mighty kind of you to keep your claws sheathed, sir,’ the smarting baboon thanked him from where he lay prone on the ground, his head ringing.

  'I'm not interested in them, fool.'

  The slapped monkey got up. ‘I was afraid of that.'

  The wily Sabretooth proceeded to give his primate servant an impromptu lesson in hunting. ‘Listen well and learn. Always go for the weak and sickly, or the very young. Never endanger yourself by tackling healthy and alert prey. Forget that rule and you'll wind up getting your teeth kicked in or worse.’ Yowlar looked over Bighand's pride critically. ‘Take those Uprights over there. They're certainly meatier than the cubs they were fighting, but their bigness makes them stronger and potentially harder to kill. They are also nomadic, so we'll never be sure where to find them on a daily basis. That means we leave them alone and concentrate on the cave dwellers.’ Gurgon, after all, failed to specify which of the man-ape bands to hunt. Yowlar snarled menacingly at Jinku and added, ‘Don't mistake prudence for weakness either.'

  'I wouldn't dream of it, no sireee.’ Rolling over and forwards, the baboon presented his crimson buttocks to Yowlar.

  'What are you doing?'

  'The Squaremuzzle display of submission.'

  'Cut it out. It's off-putting.’ Refocusing on the hominins, Yowlar made the assertion, ‘Anyhow, there are others close by who'll take care of those big Uprights soon enough.'

  Jinku construed the panther's meaning right enough and gave him a baffled look. ‘I figured you were alone out here, sir.'

  Yowlar sullenly showed his much-reduced fangs. ‘I am alone.'

  * * * *

  The wind blew fitfully. Somewhere deep in Bushwalker's subconscious she felt the breeze tugging at her pelt and it stirred her back to life. Groaning, she lifted her throbbing head off the grass-strewn dust and almost passed out from the effort. Fifteen minutes elapsed before the concussed female garnered enough strength to roll over and sit up. She promptly vomited, feeling no better for it.

  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hairy hand, unable to recall a single occurrence prior to the blow from behind, she wondered hoarsely, ‘What fell on me ... a Tusker?’ Her head swam, her eyes could not focus, and her exploring hands gingerly found what had to be an ostrich egg-sized lump protruding from the back of her head.

  Bushwalker peered about. It was pointless really, her blurred vision failing to distinguish anything other than general shapes and colours, the yellow-brown field of waving grasses and the brilliant blue wash of the sunny heavens naturally being predominant. Perhaps it was for the best that she could not see the vultures circling overhead, drawn by the bloodshed below. Bighand kept his mob in the vicinity immediately after the altercation in order to forage, since the scuffle made the victors hungry, but they had recently departed and the timorous scavengers were now being drawn in by the smell of death. Soon enough the Hookbeaks would be joined by the yapping jackals and insanely laughing hyenas, when they would all begin scrapping over individual claims to the carrion.

  She got up and staggered blindly across the veldt. Instinct was driving Bushwalker home. Perilously alone in the African wilds, the female Upright was following the only course of action open to her: to reach Home-rock and the safe unity of her troop. Not knowing how long she had lain unconscious or why she had become separated from her people, Bushwalker stumbled along on her unsteady legs as the unblemished skies reddened off to the west. The pressing need to get back to the reassuring solidness of the caves was overriding her hunger and thirst. The pad of heavy footfalls coming up to her caused the Upright maid to slow and warily turn.

  'Out for a stroll on your own, hairball?’ a husky voice enquired.

  That was the sarcastic growl of a big cat. Bushwalker wheeled about and attempted to flee. All at once she was sent sprawling as the unseen feline bounded up to the terrified gracile and knocked her flat from behind. Rolling onto her back, reeling from the rank breath against her face, Bushwalker could hear her assailant panting and feel its drool wetting her bare cheek. The ground inexplicably shuddered and the uncomforting presence was gone.

  Her sight cleared abruptly. Bushwalker, prostrate and defenseless on the savannah, stared up at the ugliest mug she had ever seen in her life. It was big and black and crowned with a massive set of horns that swept down and outwards before curling up into hooked tips ten feet apart. That brutish headpiece framed an equally unlovely face with a squarish snout and notched, downward facing ears flicking restlessly. The dark eyes regarding the stunned hominin were kindly though, as was the huge tongue that roughly licked her surprised face. ‘Me Ugnap,’ the owner of that hideous face declared. ‘Me save you.'

  Bushwalker rose, spying a young, half-maned male lion pacing frustratingly to and fro a few yards away, and said, ‘You certainly did.'

  'Ugnap finish now,’ her saviour told her.

  Bushwalker cringed as the bull Curvehorn thudded past her toward the tawny cat. He was a veritable monster on the hoof. She fell short of even coming halfway up to his beefy shoulder.

  'Bad cat go. No hurt ground monkey,’ he informed the lion.

  The big cat snarled ferociously, but started to back away. ‘Why don't you leave, you dumb ox! This is no concern of yours.'

  'You stay, Ugnap kill.'

  Bushwalker was impressed by her protector's bluntness. Who in their right mind would challenge this two-ton giant?

  'I'm hungry. Maybe I'll eat you instead of her,’ the lion rashly threatened. Nobody said that the king of the beasts was smart.

  Ugnap stopped and pawed the ground with a sturdy front hoof. ‘Roarer go,’ he reiterated.

  'You can't make me, you big bully!'

  The buffalo shook his helmet of horns and bellowed challengingly. He loudly thought otherwise.

  Instantly changing his mind, the lion spat, ‘You'll regret this. I have brothers,’ before trotting indignantly away.

  The strapping colossus watched the retreating predator and swore, ‘Bring herd-mates. Ugnap trample all.’ Swivelling his bulk around, he returned to where Bushwalker stood quaking. ‘Name have you?’ he asked her.

  'Bushwalker.'

  'Where herd, Bushwalk?'

  'That's Bushwalker,’ she corrected him.

  'Me say that. Herd where?'

  The hominin female heaved a sigh. Ugnap's brain clearly did not match his size. Answering his question, she said, ‘I hope back at Home-rock. That's where I'm headed,’ gesturing with a pained nod toward the cave-pocked stone tower in the near distance.

  The buffalo gave a perplexed snort. His eyesight was not terribly strong. ‘Ugnap come,’ he decided.

  'Look, big guy, I'm thankful for the help and all, but I am a big girl. I can walk home from here unescorted.'

  'Me come. Make Bushwalk safe.'

  Realising this was an argument she had no chance of winning Bushwalker relented. ‘Okay, but only so far as Scraggly Bush. I doubt I could satisfactorily explain you away to Caverunner or anyone else if you're seen with me.’ She started walking, the mountain of beef trailing behind like a lovesick calf. Curious, Bushwalker asked, ‘Why did you help me back there?'

  Ugnap did not reply.

  'Oh, the strong silent type,’ the Upright surmised.

  'Me very strong.’ Flattery could always loosen a reluctant tongue.

  'Where is your own troop, Ugnap?’ Bushwalker turned her head around to see the dim-witted bull struggling to comprehend. Got to think Curvehorn she reprimanded herself. ‘Ugnap, where herd?'

  That did the trick. ‘Me old. Herd drive off.'

&n
bsp; Bushwalker was mortified by his explanation. Hominin geriatrics were habitually cared for by the troop, any individual's rare longevity counted as a storehouse of hard earned survival skills to be tapped, not discarded. It would prove a crucial human survival strategy in millennia to come. Turning the old out of the caves to die a lonely death on the plains was an unthinkable and reprehensible notion. ‘Is that why you rescued me? For the company?'

  'Ugnap lonely,’ the bull admitted.

  The female gracile laughed out loud.

  Short-tempered in the extreme, Ugnap took offence, snorting, ‘What funny, Bushwalk?'

  'Sorry, Ugnap. I am not laughing at you, honestly I'm not. It's fair enough that you want companionship, but you have to concede that we—an Upright and a Curvehorn—make the strangest pair.'

  Ugnap wrestled with that idea. Unfortunately he lacked the mental capacity and words to express his belief that their pairing, while unusual, was no stranger than the sleek black cat and its monkey jockey he had earlier seen pacing toward that rock chimney Bushwalk called home.

  Chapter Nine

  'Bushwalker, you're back!'

  The footsore gracile maid lifted her weary eyes as she hobbled the final few steps up the slope to Home-rock. Rockshaper blazed like a beacon in the dark of night, his grey hair silvered by the luminous moon. Concern registered on his grave face, softened now by the joyousness at Bushwalker's safe return. That joy quickly sank back into worry when he noticed her limp.

  'A brush with a Roarer,’ she casually explained. Cresting the rise, Bushwalker came to a complete standstill and closed her eyes, soaking up the comforting feel of rock beneath her aching feet. It felt good to be home.

  Rockshaper hastened out of the gloomy cave mouth he had been conducting his silent watch for her from since sundown and started fussing over her. Bushwalker sported a deep gash across her left calf where the lion swatted her and a nasty bump on the back of her head. ‘What else happened to you?’ he asked.

  'Beats me. I think I whacked my head and knocked myself silly while out foraging this morning, cos I woke up lying face down on the veldt. Funny thing is, I have no memory of doing it and I can't for the life of me figure out why the troop left me behind.'

  'You don't recall the fight with the robusts?'

  Opening her tired eyes, Bushwalker frowned at the elder. ‘What are you talking about?'

  'I think you had better sit,’ Rockshaper suggested.

  That was no problem for the sapped female, actually more of a relief. She slumped onto the bedrock with Rockshaper squatting behind, doctoring the tear on her outstretched leg. Stripping a handful of leaves from a leftover branch of freshly gathered bedding for the upper caves, he thoroughly masticated the foliage in his mouth before spitting out the ball. Squashing and halving it, he dabbed Bushwalker's wound, cleaning away the dirt and dried blood, utilising the remainder as a sticky compress with which to bandage her injury. Rockshaper completed his simple but effective ministering by retrieving from his stockpile of wild pear bark a sliver for Bushwalker to chew on. A mild painkiller for alleviating sprains and bruises, the medicinal tree skin came in handy for the old male who accidentally banged a finger or thumb under a hammerstone with hurtful regularity.

  'What's been happening?’ Bushwalker demanded as she chewed, Rockshaper grooming her back reassuringly.

  'From what I've been able to piece together,’ he started, ‘there was violence between the robusts and us earlier today. Granted, I haven't the full gist of how things flared up but the ending is pretty clear. We got our butts seriously kicked.'

  His summation melted Bushwalker's amnesia. ‘Wait, I remember ... the fighting, the fleeing. What of the others?'

  'Came wandering back in dribs and drabs all afternoon each hooting the same sad story.'

  'Was Treeclimber with them? The last I saw of him he was going up against Bighand and his boys like a gust of wind.'

  Rockshaper grew reticent, alarming Bushwalker.

  'He's not missing, is he?'

  'Your boyfriend came traipsing home shortly before dusk, looking the worse for wear yet very much in the land of the living,’ the oldster informed her.

  She heaved a sigh of relief then pursed her lips. ‘But if he's home and okay, why didn't he come searching for me?’ The reality hit Bushwalker harder than the clubbing she had received. ‘Oh. He really doesn't care for me,’ she bitterly worked out.

  'I wanted to spare you.’ Rockshaper sounded genuinely sorry. ‘Treeclimber is out to sow his oats, Bushwalker. I know his type. He's not ready for an exclusive relationship.'

  'Thanks for the insight. Unfortunately it's a little too late.’ Bushwalker hopped up and headed for the nearest cave.

  Mystified, Rockshaper followed. ‘Where are you going?'

  'To get some sleep. It has been a long day.'

  'We haven't finished talking. I'd like to know how you managed to walk home alone in the middle of the night without protection, escaping from a Roarer attack with the littlest of scratches?'

  She turned on the caring elder. ‘You males are all the same. It's all about what you want.’ Bushwalker left Rockshaper standing dumbly there as she hobbled off to her bed.

  The next morning she sought out her old friend and sidled up to him apologetically. He was typically tinkering with his stones in the disused side cavern. ‘About last night...’ she began.

  'It's forgotten, girl. You were exhausted, that's all.'

  'That is very accommodating of you, Rockshaper.'

  He glanced at her. ‘You look tired still. How's the leg?'

  'Throbbing.'

  Giving her a fresh piece of painkilling bark, he asked, ‘Did you sleep alright?'

  'As a matter of fact, no I didn't.’ Bushwalker had not eaten and was powerfully thirsty, but those discomforts were not the cause of her sleepless night as she explained between medicinal nibbles. ‘I had the strangest feeling of being watched that kept waking me up every time I was on the verge of nodding off.'

  'Probably just the after-effects of the battle,’ concluded Rockshaper. ‘It must have been a pretty traumatic ordeal.'

  'It was frightening,’ conceded Bushwalker. ‘You were lucky to miss out on all the drama. Why did you stay behind yesterday anyhow?'

  'To finish off this.’ The aged artisan proudly held up the tool of hooked quartz he had just completed shaping to his satisfaction.

  'Looks the same as it did the first time you showed it to me,’ commented Bushwalker. She reached out to grab the angular rock and pulled her hand back sharply. ‘Ouch, that hurt.'

  'I've honed the edge further,’ Rockshaper said with a guilty smile.

  'So I noticed,’ murmured the injured female, holding out the sliced tip of her index finger as proof positive. Droplets of blood from the deep cut spattered on the cave floor and Bushwalker instinctively put the digit in her mouth to suck it away. The taste, while unfamiliarly metallic, was oddly likable.

  'You might want to chew some more bark,’ he recommended.

  'What are you calling this little menace?’ she mumbled enquiringly.

  'You seem to have a knack for labelling my inventions. I'll let you name it.'

  'How about fingercutter?'

  'Cutter sounds appropriate,’ Rockshaper approved, shortening the name.

  Taking her finger out of her mouth, Bushwalker said, ‘I'd like to stay and discuss what uses you have in mind for this finger pricker of yours, but I want to catch up with Treeclimber before we head out scavenging. There is still something he needs to be made aware of.'

  'Anything interesting?'

  'I reckon so. I'm pregnant.'

  Rockshaper dropped his pebble-tool from the shock. ‘You sure?'

  Sighing, Bushwalker said, ‘It is my first time, but a girl knows these things.'

  The old-timer gave a low, drawn out hoot and picked up his stone. ‘And Treeclimber's the lucky male?'

  She gave him a scathing frown. ‘I've not been with anyone else
.'

  'Sorry, had to ask. You are planning to tell him then.'

  'I was ... only now I'm not so sure. Like you said, he's not ready to settle down.'

  'Bushwalker, he's gonna find out eventually. This is not something you can exactly hide from him.'

  'Probably not. I'll decide when I see him face to face. Know where he is?'

  'I don't think you'll have much trouble finding him. Listen.'

  She cocked her head and heard the faint echo of voices emanating from the assembly cavern. ‘There's a tribal gathering going on!’ Bushwalker should have expected it in light of the fiasco the day before.

  'If you hurry you might just catch the start of the meeting,’ Rockshaper urged her.

  Bushwalker squeezed her way back through the slim passage linking Rockshaper's workshop to the outside, his familiar hammering as he resumed his tool shaping on her heels. She made a hurried right and raced along the base of Home-rock as fast as her limp allowed. Making another right hand turn, she burst into the high-ceilinged vault housing the entirety of the gracile troop. Feeling self-conscious due to her lateness, Bushwalker sheepishly shuffled through the cordon of males and seated herself with the grouped females, stretching out her injured leg. She pointedly avoided eye contact with Caverunner, whose look of surprise at the reappearance of the missing female became a glower of annoyance at her intrusion.

  'As I was saying before the interruption,’ he sniped, ‘our only option is to go further afield to forage. I hereby declare Murky Watering and its surrounding grasslands out of bounds.'

  It was Treeclimber who voiced the general objection. ‘That's our chief source of drinking water, boss.'

  Bushwalker scanned the ring of males squatting along the wall and picked out her opinionated beau on the far side of the cave. With an unkempt pelt and caked blood matting the hair of his right shoulder and forearm, Treeclimber had admittedly looked better. His untidy state was matched by his mood.

  'We must have access to the pool, Caverunner,’ he stated adamantly, ‘or we'll surely die from thirst. It can't be made off limits.'

  'Don't be so theatrical. We'll find another waterhole somewhere.’ The head gracile tried to be optimistic but did not come across as sounding terribly hopeful. Murky Watering, despite its unappealing title and algal mats scumming the shallows, was the only reservoir of freshwater in a twenty-mile radius.