John Bowman's Cave

by Erron Adams

  The way was uphill, as Roop had said it would be. As in many of the passageways of the Origins, a small rill ran roughly down the centre, affording a narrow track to either side. Further in, the passage constricted regularly with rubble falls. In the growing dust and darkness their pace slowed.

  When Yalnita called a halt for rest and food, Bowman collapsed. His mud-caked hands rubbed at the dust that choked hair, eyes, nose, and mouth. Sweat ran down him like water down a fountain statue. A pool of ice-water saturated his boots and blessed his blistered feet with numbness. His breathing rasped and echoed in the tunnel.

  “You’re not strong for this work, Outlander.”

  Rain Dog's eyes glinted from the other side of the tunnel. Relaxed, alert and breathing evenly, the man had only stopped because Yalnita said to. Bowman forced his mouth shut and took two long breaths; it was barely enough to frame an answer.

  “Well, I have chosen the right company to improve my situation, Rain Dog.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Bowman’s sweat began to chill. Roop spoke up for him.

  “Leave the man be, Rain Dog.”

  “Yeah, shut up! If you got nothing good to say, don't!” said Oyen.

  Rain Dog's eyes shifted to take in the two figures, then slunk to the floor. The Pack finished eating without another word and they resumed their journey.

  Gradually, the slope of the passage levelled and light began to show, some way off. Their spirits lifted. A long while they stumbled and crawled towards the tiny white disk that seemed to never grow. When they finally staggered into the glare of day, Bowman dropped into a friendly patch of grass and stretched full-length on his back. The yolk sun burnt through his shuttered eyes and he didn’t care.

  The Rory walked a little further and stood on the rim of the old volcano, paying silent homage to the blue-black lake it circled.

  “Eh, John Bowman, come and see this.”

  God, must I? Bowman thought. But he got up anyway and lumbered to Oyen’s side.

  All around, the rim dropped nearly straight down, several hundred feet to the water's edge. The lake itself was glass on which the image of the sky lay flat as paint. Bunches of grey-white cloud sailed across it and vanished in the curved shore.

  A little wind blew by their ears. Somewhere a raven cawed. Bowman slowly turned and scanned the whole 360 degrees. Beyond the caldera, a green and brown land veined with blue rolled away. In the far distance the horizon shimmered into what might be snow or ocean; hard to tell. At this height, in this air, the world mocked sight, drawing it ever out to where it blurred and fell exhausted. Then the world flew on, careless and anonymous and disinterested as a bird.

  The air carried freshly minted scents. When the soft wind lulled there was a long moment filled with the sound of things it had moved slowing down. In the quiet that followed, insects thrummed and unseen things crackled and clicked as though they uncurled into light for the first time.

  Disarmed by exhaustion, Bowman heard the place, its myriad components working on his senses to produce the song. He smiled, and for the time a smile occupies he knew what underpinned it all: the silent Might that eyed them through this lake. The god that lived here was in everything, just as he’d been told. And if God was in everything, everything could be prayed to, and everything he did could be prayer. The trick was to find the thing he loved doing and do it prayerfully.

  ***

  Though the way was still underground and dark they made good time on the downhill leg of the Falling Path. As the sun lowered they came out on a shadowed ledge above Red River.

  Immediately the Rory set about the task of pitching camp. Yalnita came over to Bowman. “You can help me with the canoes. Come, we don’t have much time!”

  After a few minutes inspecting trees Yalnita stopped before one and drew a short sword from its scabbard. It was metal-bladed, Bowman noted, in contrast to the usual stone he’d seen in Rory implements. Yalnita shrugged, explaining, “Kasina. I took it off a Tohubuho not long back. Perfect for this work.”

  And so it was. She slipped the point of the blade an inch or so into the trunk at head height and ran it in a slow curve down to where the smooth bark gave way to gnarled roots. Then she withdrew it and returned to her starting point, describing a mirror image of the arc she'd just cut. She stood back and subjected the oval shape to a short appraisal, grunting satisfaction.

  “Now I'm going to find another Leatherbark; we need two more. I want you to strip this bark off while I go cut another. Watch.”

  And she took another longer, flatter blade out of the bundle she'd carried with her. Its thick, leather-bound handle was fashioned long enough to accommodate both hands. The blade was of thin wood, sharpened on both sides to a sword-proud edge.

  She thrust the blade in under the bark, halfway up the cut, using the side of her hips to push it in to the hilt. Then she grasped the handle with both hands and see-sawed the blade down. As she did, the thin grey bark peeled away, its edges curling and glistening tears of clear sap. When the blade came out she repositioned it with a slight shove, saying, “Now you try.”

  Bowman gripped the handle with his one hand and pushed. It moved, humiliating fractions of an inch. He took a deep breath, stepped back and pushed with all the power in his arm. More humiliation. Sweat and shame sheened his face as he looked at her. “How?” he asked.

  She came over, grinning, and waved him aside. “Watch.” She positioned her hip at the end of the handle. “You are a man, I am a woman, that is our difference.” Her voice had become husky. “Now see our sameness.” She slapped her hands hard on her hips. “This is where our power lies, in this part of our bodies. These,” she held her muscular arms up in mock disparagement, “are puny. Our real power lies in our hips, where we make and birth the tribe!” The smile vanished as she thrust sideways against the handle with a muted grunt, sinking the blade right the way in. For a moment she held the stance, and then the smile she'd frightened off came tip-toeing back as she relaxed away from the tree. Her dark eyes sparkled as she gloated over Bowman.

  “Understand?”

  As it had been once before in her presence, his mouth was dry. He swallowed, nodded and moved over to do as she'd commanded.

  With satisfaction, he drove the blade in. The see-sawing bits were harder, with only one arm, augmented by the power of his hips as she’d shown. Progress was slow, but he managed.

  “What about up high, where my hip won't reach?”

  “Do the bottom half, both sides, then pull it away like this.” She demonstrated, curling both hands up and walking backwards from the tree.

  Yeah, right! He thought. She made it sound so easy, bringing two hands to the task as she could.

  “When you're finished, lay it with the inner side facing up,” she said and moved off.

  He watched her walk. His mind roamed. For the first time since he'd fallen into Animarl he thought of sex; his penis hardened and he quickly rearranged himself in case she turned around. Good to see some things aren’t broken, he mused, then slapped the thought away and turned back to the tree.

  ***

  Challa and Rain Dog headed out separately, hunting fresh food.

  Oyen, Roop, Lowery and Yalnita worked on the canoes. They lashed each length of Leatherbark with rope at both ends and splayed the hollow centres wide with wooden struts. Ordinary clay from the river bank served as sealant.

  Challa came back empty-handed, snorting his opinion of the hunting inland from their camp. Rain Dog returned with several small, speckled trout from one of the meadow brooks that wound across the escarpment below Lake Mountain to Red River.

  Bowman observed the man walking into camp. Smallest and slightest of the Rory warriors, but iron-hard in everything he had. Not one to be off-side with, and Bowman was. He dropped his eyes and stepped back as Rain Dog passed.

  “Eh, call that warrior food?” Oyen mocked.

  “This or what you’ve got, your choice.”

  Oyen chuckled,
and that was the last of conversation until they ate.

  Night deepened as their campfire died. The Rory rolled under deer hide blankets and slept. The canoes clicked as they dried and shrank to shape.

  Bowman’s mind stayed restless as his body began to lose its fight with sleep. He’d lost her. How could he have let it happen? What could either have done? How could he act now, to change things? What difference would it make anyway, she’s every bit as dead or lost or dreamt of, as me, he thought. Sucking the feeling down he mounded new earth over loss and paid the price of pain buried: walking quickly from the grave he would, thereafter, move always a little faster than needed, staying just ahead of the keening left to memory.

  He turned onto his back and looked in the darkening sky. It was early yet for stars, too late for him, and his eyes closed on one night as he entered another. Shortly his mouth fell open and he began to snore, stretched flat on his back in a strange land. And that was how first the early stars, and then the moon and last the morning light found him.

  ***

  So eager were they to ferry their captive to the garrison for reward, they’d barely touched her since she'd been taken. A small mercy, considering what was to come. She closed her mind on that and wriggled onto her back until she had a clear view of evening sky through the branches of the tree they’d tied her to. The first stars glimmered weakly. It was early but tonight she would wait for the others to shower light across the dark, and for the silver disk of the moon, so near full now they only lit fires for warmth, the nocturnal illumination almost bright as day.

  Tonight she would remember being little, lying in childhood's safe bed, nestling against the window to see the dancers entering the stage, repeating excitedly to herself, 'there's another one' as they magically appeared.

  So many times then, lulled in love and security, she had herself winked out before they came. Ignoring stern warnings she would have stayed up waiting, but they were often late and when they found her sleeping peacefully, tip-toed past on their silver points like court dancers.

  But that was another, long-before, long ago. In another world. Tonight she would wait up, a grown woman, peering pointlessly into the dark, and see what was to come.

  ***

  Chapter 9

  Burnt Pines

  They rekindled the fire and took up the canoes, two Rory to each, deftly passing the hulls through and through the flames until the last of the sap and night’s damp had been cured out. More clay pitch was caulked wherever shrinkage caused earlier seals to fail, and they quickly fashioned paddles from the roots of a large bush called Snake Rush - Bowman noted the aptness of the name as several of the animals slithered from its centre while they worked.

  Then they were on the river. Roop and Lowery led in one canoe, Challa and Rain Dog came next, followed by the largest craft carrying Bowman in between Oyen and Yalnita.

  The river, which had looked serene from their campsite, was now revealed in all its power. This was the middle age of its passage from mountain springs to sea mouth. The rampant, rock-tumbling speed of its upper reaches had been tamed by the more gradual incline here, but what it had lost in youthful speed had been repaid in mass as countless small streams joined it. It sucked them into service like an army on a conscription drive piping itself through wide-eyed villages.

  They kept a fair distance from the bank, staying out of bow range. Yalnita seemed content to let Roop lead them through the maze of silty, rush-choked islands that exploded waterfowl as they passed.

  Following the lead of the others, Bowman knelt in the canoe, placing a spare pair of boots under his knees. But the others had straight away bent their backs to work, paddles dipping and flashing in the sun, throwing fine sprays of water as they swirled the red mass by. He, in contrast, had just to crouch there - his one good arm an outrigger clutching the hull to his right - and feel like stowage.

  To their left, the bank's grass rolled by in a line of undulating green, broken regularly where a tributary's blue swept into the red that bore them downstream. Occasionally wolves could be seen drinking, or black bears that played and rolled on sandy peninsulas, or great deer that looked up, muzzles drooling water, and crashed away in the undergrowth.

  As the hours stretched in hot sun, the scenes began to repeat until what passed before their eyes became a carousel. Bowman's legs began to cramp and finally fell numb. The Rory shook rivers of sweat from their faces and dug deep, stroking the burden past.

  They pulled up on one of the larger islands and ate a midday meal, then went on, flayed by the relentless sun until Roop steered course for a narrow beach.

  As soon as they'd drawn up and unloaded the canoes, Oyen and Lowery drew their swords and hacked the rope that bound each craft at either end. As the pitch stretched and gave, the bark flattened out and the canoes shipped water. The Rory pushed each back into the current and they swept out of sight, slowly sinking.

  “Where to now?” Bowman asked Yalnita.

  “We skirt around the garrison and go straight up the trail. Rain Dog, you scout ahead, let no surprises past if you can. That will slow the rest of us, but it can't be helped. Can’t risk warning the Tohubuho. Challa, you’ll be our tail. Keep an eye out for patrols. The signal for any problem will be three Grey Owl calls. Understood?”

  They nodded.

  “What if they're on horseback?” Bowman asked.

  “Unlikely. Horses are a precious commodity this far from Kasina Nabir. Only Kasina guards have them. It’s a chance we’ll have to take, in any case.” Yalnita answered.

  ***

  To take advantage of the landscape’s natural defences, Burnt Pines had been built in a swamp. Each step the Rory took sank above the ankle in foul-smelling mire. Clouds of insects descended so that swatting became as great a drain on energy as trudging. A few birds flew in lazy circles and followed them. Above the birds, the sun fell out of clear sky like a falcon for the kill, straight down and merciless, rebounding from the rank earth in shimmering waves of radiation. Panicked snakes flicked from the path, often as not between their legs. Bowman hitched his boots up and re-cinched them as high as he could. Glancing sideways at Rain Dog, he chanced scaling the wall of hostility.

  “Are these snakes dangerous?”

  “Some of them. Very!”

  “Which ones?”

  “The ones you tread on.”

  About a half-mile out from the garrison they came onto the path, keeping to its edge and crouching against the head high rushes that lined it. The fort’s walls, constructed from whole tree trunks, shone like spears in the sun. Small lookout posts, roofed against the heat, appeared to be unmanned, though it was impossible for the Rory to be sure at this range.

  They broke into a crouching jog, keeping to the road’s edge. As soon as Yalnita felt clear of the garrison's prying eyes, they slowed and began to walk upright. Soon the verdant wall of forest bordering the swamp loomed. As the sun began to set they entered the lush coolness and slumped on its pine needle carpet.

  “No fire tonight,” said Yalnita. “Challa, how goes our food?”

  The man of few words smiled and bent to his pack, withdrawing the now considerably slimmer parcel of jerked meat. “It's this and water, and a bit of bread, I'm afraid.”

  Oyen groaned and fossicked in his own pack. “Just as well we carried wine!”

  “No, Oyen!” Yalnita's voice was sharp. “I want clear heads tomorrow. The Kasina can't be more than a day from the fort. Besides,” she smiled, “we want some left to celebrate Caylen's return, don't we?”

  They spent the last hour of tree-filtered sunlight checking battle gear: the bows, arrows, bowstrings and other perishables they’d packed in oilskins for the river journey.

  Yalnita reset Bowman's arm, using a lighter cast. There was more flexibility around the elbow, his fingers had regained almost all their former dexterity, if not strength. “How long will it need a cast?” he asked her.

  “Two, maybe three days.”

 
He was gleeful. “That's unbelievable!”

  “No, John Bowman, it’s the truth!” She seemed offended, and offered as explanation, “It was packed in Blood Moss, the great healer. Your arm should be fully restored before the moon is finished waning.” She looked into the night sky, where the full disk drowned out most of the stars with its light.

  “Come, I want to show you something.” She rose, picking up her bow, and they walked up a small hill whose rocky summit sustained only a few stubborn bushes.

  From here, the night landscape of ridges and valleys could be made out as a series of moon-silvered wave-tops, interspersed with darkened troughs. Yalnita stood on the highest point, eyes closed and arms out like a scarecrow, absorbing crisp air and moonlight. Bowman felt a slight current run across his skin; he'd only ever seen people behave that way towards the sun.

  She turned to him. “Come here.”

  He moved to within a few feet of her. She gave a small, dry laugh. “Closer! I won't bite you. Not tonight, anyway!”

  Feeling even less at ease on hearing this he moved to within arms reach. She gripped his shoulder and drew him alongside. Looking back at the moon, she spoke again.

  “One story of the moon is that the sun is jealous of the moon's light, which it stole from the sun. So each night he bites a piece out of the moon until it's all gone. Then he wakes each morning with a bellyache and spits a bit out to get relief. Finally, he gets rid of it all and there it is in the sky once more, boasting wholeness. So old sun gets jealous and starts eating again.”

  “A nice story. Do you believe it?”

  “No. Some do. I believe what I see. There is another story, of two lovers, sent by the sun to light the night sky while the sun rested. Of course, no one could match the brilliance of the sun, and these two, well, they are in love, not very reliable, their work cycles with their passion. So each full moon is when they make love and it lights the sky; then their heat gradually passes. As it does, a little less of their light shows each time they appear until the black night when their passion begins to build towards union again.”