Drowsy baboon chatter echoed in the canyon beyond the gate. The Squaremuzzles were waking from the commotion! Sensing his chance for escape slipping between his claws, Yowlar committed an act of utter desperation. Hunching down, gathering his strength for one explosive release, he launched himself at the gate to the sound of wrenched tailbones popping and bitten cartilage tearing, leaving behind his docked tail twitching in the hyena's mouth.
Barely clearing the thorny barrier, his gammy leg snagging the topmost branches, Yowlar somersaulted into a gathering of sleepy baboons on the other side responding to the disturbance, bowling them over like skittles. Regaining his paws, the sharp pain hotting his stump spurring him on, Yowlar shook sense back into his ringing head and, streaming blood, bounded across the hairy mass of slumbering bodies carpeting the populous canyon floor. Yowlar heard cross yelps and groggy whimpers from those troop members he trod upon stir in a rising tide of indignation behind him. Overhead, abusive barks from the senior baboons privileged to sleep on the few available wall ledges rained down on the escaping cat.
Sprinting as fast as his limp permitted, the night air burning in his heaving chest, his pushed muscles twinging in protest, Yowlar raced against more than time. Up on the rim of the ravine walls to either side sentries raced to overtake the panther before he gained the canyon's end. A desperate pursuer recklessly hurled himself from the heights, aiming for Yowlar's back. Mistiming the leap, the jumper sailed over the Sabretooth's head to plough into the sleeping forms ahead of the cat, bulldozing a path for the feline escaper.
Seeing the exit to the gorge within his reach, Yowlar put on a final burst of speed, the stars blurring within his focused line of sight. A hulking shade rearing up ahead blocked his jailbreak—one of the BongaDikus. Uncaring which one, the unstoppable Sabretooth shredded the chieftain's snout with his forepaws before using the giant's bloodied head as a springboard to catapult out of the gorge. Hitting the ground running, or more accurately limping, Yowlar left his pursuers far behind, the frantically barking guards dropping back to tend their scratched, fallen leader. The cat did not halt until the clamouring Squaremuzzles were out of earshot and exhaustion collapsed his overworked legs. Panting madly, he ultimately let fatigue pull him into its dark, numbing embrace.
Revived by dawn's first rays slinking across the veldt, yellowing the greyed grasses and warming the chill earth, Yowlar grudgingly lifted his weighty head, followed by his wearied body, and started. He wobbled perched atop a dizzyingly high escarpment not three feet from the precipice, where the cliffside fell over half a mile to a sandy floor below. In his single-minded flight from the baboons, Yowlar's adrenergic stamina had by fluke petered out moments before his haste carried him out into landless space where gravity would have proved an inescapable foe. Calls never come much closer than that!
Beyond his quivering whiskers stretched the limitless desolation that was Wastesand. Essentially a dune field extending as far as the eye could see, the desert architecture was aridly austere. Bland dunes, often curving hundreds of feet from base to top, were recurrently rippled by an importunate wind responsible for eroding isolated pedestals of rocks further out into mournful spires. Yowlar stood gazing over a sea of sand with gritty waves that broke in windy surges against the cliffs dropping steeply away beneath his shaky paws. On impulse he turned, confronted by Whitetop's shadowing grandeur blotting out the sun-fired heavens. A snowy peak overlooking waterless wilds was a blatant incongruity. Mother Nature enjoyed her little eccentricities.
Attempting to sit painfully reminded the panther of the previous night's close shave and he gingerly licked the weeping stub of a tail the Bonecruncher's trap-like jaws left him with. On the plus side, the amputation did restore the Sabretooth's past life appearance.
Yowlar stared back at the shimmering haze that overlaid Wastesand and wrinkled the rosy morning sky. An image was forming in the heated air. Was this mirage the result of his tiredness and hunger and pain, or an outside influence? Certainly it was as insubstantial as a wispy cloud, yet the flickering streamers quickly coalesced into a defined form immediately recognisable to the amazed cat.
'Jinku?'
'One and the same, sir.'
'But you're dead!'
'That's glaringly obvious.'
The panther lay down and covered his amazed eyes with trembling paws, mewing, ‘This can't be real.’ Yowlar found it highly disconcerting looking at the ghostly baboon. He could see right through Jinku!
'You look like hell, sir.'
'And you're as transparent as mountain water!'
'There's something different about you, sir, that I can't quite put my finger on. Have you done something with your hair maybe?'
Yowlar's head popped up. ‘I must be suffering from early sunstroke,’ he reasoned lucidly, deciding to walk off his madness.
'Try it from my side, sir. By the way, nice limp you picked up. How does it feel being lamed, Yowlar?'
The hobbling Sabretooth eyed Jinku's spirit condemningly, shaming the baboon back into subservience by the power of his hypnotic stare alone. Death was no excuse for familiarity! ‘What are you after, monkey-boy? Revenge on me for getting you killed?'
'Nothing so crass, sir. I have a message for you.'
'From who?'
'A scaled Upright calling himself Gurgle-Bah.'
'You mean Gurgon-Rha.'
'That's him.'
The panther's whiskers twitched fretfully. This was too weird. ‘I thought him dead as well.'
'Don't have a hissy fit. He's deader than exhaled air.'
A dose of bizarre occurrences had befallen Yowlar in recent times. Meeting an extraterrestrial, the following abduction in said alien's spaceship culminating in a trip back in time that altered mind and body, and stripped him of his pride. Should conversing ghosts shock him so?
'Okay, Jinku, I'll bite. What does lizard-lips want passed on to me?'
'Finish the hunt.'
The ethereal baboon wavered, then fragmented into a dozen shards before melting away like the reflection in disturbed pond water, leaving Yowlar to mull over the unearthly visitation. The black cat pawed distraughtly at the empty air, meowing his unrest over the irregular episode.
Gurgon-Rha, reaching out from whatever afterlife his green hide had been consigned to, was nagging Yowlar about his assignment. There was no real need. After feasting on luckless Caverunner and his mate, dining out on bushbabies and chimps, altercating with baboons supersized by growth hormones, the panther subconsciously made the only decision open to him based on his unhealthy hatred for all creatures simian: returning north to Home-rock to continue his predation of the hominins. Easy prey, the Uprights were especially tempting for a Sabretooth with a dodgy leg who had definitely developed a taste for proto-human flesh.
Backtracking by way of a brush-lined gulch curving eastward around the mountain's hilly foot away from baboon central, paws scuffing through shallow sand drifts deposited by the flurrying wind, Yowlar sorted a murderously simple plan out in his head. Regained sufficient strength, he would forsake the shadow of Whitetop and cross the miles of savannah back to Scraggly Bush to exterminate the Home-rock troop on an individual basis, starting with their innovative tool user.
'I'll resume persecuting Uprights, make no mistake,’ he vowed aloud, ‘but not because an overgrown skink commands me to. I'll do it because it's my pleasure.'
Chapter Fifteen
'Tuck in, luv.'
Bushwalker hungrily eyed the generous armful of acacia pods Windchaser heaped on the doorstep to her cavernous living quarters. ‘You've had a good day foraging I see,’ she observed.
'Good enough,’ her second agreed.
'I can't eat even half of this, Windchaser. It's too much just for one.'
'Ah, my leader, but remember you are eating for two.'
Bushwalker glanced earnestly at the older female and quietly mouthed, ‘How did you guess?'
'Come now, child. I've given birth to four offspring. I k
now the signs. Enlarged breasts, puffy face, deepening skin colour, plus the obvious.’ Windchaser patted Bushwalker's slightly swollen belly. ‘How far along are you?'
'Plainly far enough to show ... three, maybe four cycles of the night-sun.'
'And Treeclimber's the father.'
'You don't miss much.'
'Gossip can sometimes be reliable.'
Bushwalker was mortified. She did not relish being the subject of tribal prattle.
'You should be taking better care of yourself,’ mothered Windchaser, ‘if you want to deliver a healthy young ‘un.'
'Don't fuss. Play mother to the troop, not with me.'
'You are part of this band, Bushwalker, so technically as the deputy chief I can mother you to boot.'
The Home-rock chieftain tittered. ‘I chose too well.'
'That's right. Eat up.'
After supping, Bushwalker invited Windchaser to join her on the evening rounds. Of late she had taken to strolling around the lower caves before dusk fell, chatting to the individuals of her troop. The females, apart from Treeclimber's exes, readily greeted the daily interest their chieftain showed in them, with even the snooty males gradually warming to her circulating. She was eroding the lofty position the long and undistinguished line of Caverunners before her had elevated themselves to. The new chieftainship presented a personable face made accessible to her followers and Bushwalker genuinely cared for those she led. She listened heartfelt to their personal tragedies and joys, offering words of comfort and encouragement to those in distress or simply sharing in the rapture of others garnered from snatches of hard won happiness eked out in this unforgiving land.
Windchaser noted her attitude and remarked on it while they casually walked and talked in the diminishing light of late afternoon. ‘You're going to make a fine mother, Bushwalker. You possess a rare, selfless capacity to love.’ The chieftainess did not respond. ‘You're happy at carrying Treeclimber's baby, aren't you?’ the elder female gingerly enquired.
'As happy as anyone with backache, sore breasts, and morning sickness can be.'
'Oh dear.'
Bushwalker glanced over at her dun haired companion. ‘What does that mean?'
'Take it from me, dearie, things are going to get a whole lot worse before you deliver junior. Then after the birth the real problems start.'
The two of them burst out laughing at that.
'You miss him, I suppose,’ said Windchaser. ‘Treeclimber, I mean.'
'Actually, not as much as I should.'
Windchaser was startled by Bushwalker's raw admission. ‘He did sire the child you'll be bearing,’ she needlessly reminded her leader.
Bushwalker placed her hands on her growing belly. ‘How can I forget?’ She sighed, as she did hooting softly. ‘Don't get me wrong. I was fond of Treeclimber, very fond of him. But we had grown apart before he died. He wasn't ready to commit.'
'Most males aren't, like my Grasschewer, but I'm sorry to hear that.'
'Don't be. Isn't it funny that it takes someone's death to open your eyes? In my case it took two. The loss of Treeclimber gave me my independence, while Rockshaper dying taught me to follow my convictions.'
Windchaser paled visibly.
'What's wrong with you?’ asked Bushwalker.
'I was intending to instruct you in the ways of motherhood,’ the oldster said. ‘Only I wasn't planning to die in order to do it.'
'Oh Windchaser, you're such a darling!’ Bushwalker exclaimed, her face beaming.
They continued to visit each and every member of the Home-rock populace, bidding all a good night as the drawing shadows marked the close of day. The pair was leaving the last cave on the circuit, the grey of twilight poised to darken into the black of night, when Bushwalker put the question to her more mature comrade, ‘What is it like to have a baby?'
'Giving birth?'
'What else.'
'I won't lie by telling you that it's all buds and water, my girl. There's a lot of blood and wailing involved, but at the end of all that pain lays indescribable ecstasy. It's a real labour of love.'
Bushwalker reserved her opinion. Nobody in her right mind welcomed hurt. The one consoling factor was that a new life would be produced as a result of the ordeal.
Regarding her saggy breasts, Windchaser added, ‘Having kids sadly makes the boobs droop. That's just one of the costs of motherhood.'
'What are the others?'
'Sleepless nights and sore nipples. Will you answer something for me, my chieftain?'
'No need to be so formal now, old mother.'
Pouting, Windchaser uttered a nervous bark. ‘It is a rather delicate question.'
Bushwalker halted on the path leading up to her new quarters. The grotto adjoining her predecessor's commanded a revealing view of the countryside, providing her with a reasonable vantage point to spy out the land when looking for Yowlar's return during the day, while the fall of night habitually sent her downslope to hone her knife-play in the pebble-tool cave. ‘Let me hear it then,’ she said, intrigue sharpening her voice.
'What's it like to kill?'
Bushwalker was taken aback. ‘Where did that come from?'
'Ditchjumper divulged to me how you disposed of Bighand.'
'That blabbermouth,’ the gracile leader grumbled. ‘It's my own fault for confiding in him.'
'I wouldn't be too hard on the boy. A secret that big is pretty hard to keep to yourself. I'm glad he mentioned it though. A burden that size needs to be shared.'
'Who else has he told?'
'Only me.'
'That's something at least. I don't want the whole troop scared by my antics.'
'Fair enough. So what was it like?'
Bushwalker swallowed. ‘Much the same as childbirth, but without the happy ending.'
Windchaser chose not to press for more details, making the observation, ‘You're looking tired, dear. You really should get more sleep.'
'I'll kip when that black-coated clawfoot is being used as a Hookbeak perch while they're ripping his guts out.'
'That's a charming wish, if you can make it come true.’ Windchaser pondered her leader's intent. ‘There's been no sign of this elusive fiend of yours out there yet.'
'He's coming. He does exist, Windchaser, really he does.'
'I believe you, Bushwalker, but before very long you'll be in no shape to tackle even an ant.'
The chieftainess sighed again. ‘Tell me about it. As if being a first-time mum isn't enough of a worry. Yowlar has to be taken care of and soon. I can't very well go waddling after a fleet-footed cat when I'm due to drop my bundle.'
'Ditchjumper also said that you've been instructing him in your killing ways.'
'Is there anything he hasn't blabbed to you?'
'I guess not. Surely he can be of some help if and when the time comes, maybe even go in your stead.'
Bushwalker shook her head. ‘Ditchjumper tries, but I can't rely on him. He's so skittish he flinches from his own shadow.'
The cowardly male warned her not to count on him. It was the one command decision Bushwalker regretted making. Ditchjumper proved a klutz when it came to handling the pebble-tools and no amount of coaching remedied his ineptitude. He could not cut his own nails let alone shave a cat's whiskers. Having exhausted all the patience she could muster, the exasperated chieftainess had finally admitted defeat and released the clumsy oaf from his schooling. She did prudently retain his services as clawfoot adviser. As everyone knows, there is no substitute for experience.
'You'll still be needing someone to watch your back,’ reckoned Windchaser. ‘I'm offering.'
'That's sweet, old girl, but I can't let you do it. I was wrong to consider putting Ditchjumper in danger just so I won't feel alone. I'll not risk anyone else except me in this venture.'
'But you already have, my dear.'
Bushwalker was confounded. ‘Who?'
'Your unborn baby.'
That chilled Bushwalker to the very marro
w of her bones. She only wanted to protect her troop and keep them safe. In doing so she would jeopardise not only herself but junior too. She gasped, putting a trembly hand to her mouth.
Windchaser tried to sound hopeful. ‘Maybe all of this is just a storm in a valley. Maybe this Roarer of the night has died a natural death out on the plain. That would explain his absence.'
'Yeah, possibly.’ Bushwalker was not so optimistic. ‘I am feeling tired,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps I will head on up and take a nap.'
'That's a sensible idea,’ Windchaser approved. ‘I'll go and chase up Ditchjumper. He can act as lookout tonight.'
Bushwalker trudged up the short incline leading to her day cave feeling decidedly older than her years. She was about to duck inside when a young boy came running up the slope calling for her.
'Excuse me, chief,’ he breathlessly said. ‘That big bull wants to see you.'
'The Curvehorn?'
The boy nodded enthusiastically.
What could Ugnap possibly want?
'He's waiting below in the bush by the big thorn tree,’ prompted her little messenger.
'Tell him I'll be down in a moment, shortstuff.'
The young runner scooted away. Bushwalker scowled. She could not for the life of her put a name to that youngster's eager-to-please face, and it bothered her. Since assuming the leadership of Home-rock, the groundbreaking maid prided herself on familiarising herself with every member of the tribe. Thusly her memory lapse, which she put down to fatigue, was quite troubling.
Putting that problem aside, Bushwalker slipped into the grotto and made her way to the back wall. Kneeling awkwardly, her unravelling pregnancy getting in the rode, she rummaged through the dried grass making up her bedding. Enough daylight remained for her to see as she uncovered her personal stash of pebble-tools secreted up here and selected one, exchanging the cutter she routinely carried for a pointy rock she macabrely named a stabber, before reburying the hand-shaped stones. Bushwalker nowadays made sure she never went anywhere without having a stone weapon on her person.
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