by R Magnusholm
As they turned west and headed home, Spot started to growl.
“What’s up, old man?” John asked.
“Bears.” Spot stared at the reed bed meaningfully. “Near.”
Belatedly, John noticed that the wind had turned and was now blowing from the north rather than northeast as before. That allowed the enemy to sneak in from the east. He turned to Liz. “Ursines in the reeds. Near.”
She nocked an arrow to her bow and pointed it the way they came. They waited for a long time, with Spot growling, but no bears burst out of the reeds. The hairs on John’s neck prickled, and he sensed he was being watched.
He connected to Spot’s mind and sniffed the air. Yes, the sour whiff of wet dog was unmistakable. He could almost pinpoint their location just inside the wall of reeds. He counted several distinct odor patterns spread across the edge of reeds.
“Four of them.” He pointed. “There and there. Just watching us.”
“What do we do? We could go north into the woods and lose our tracks in some animal trail.”
“Nah.” He tapped her canvas bag where the firepot sat. “Let’s give them the fright of their lives, too.” He tore some dry tussock grass poking through the snow.
“Great idea. Get the pot,” Liz said without taking her eyes off the reed bed. She kept the bow half tensed.
He pulled the pot out of her canvas bag, set it down, opened the lid, then thrust a clump of dry grass into the opening. In Liz’s bag, there were several hollow hogweed stems, and he used one to blow air into the pot. A puff of white smoke wafted out, then the dry grass burst aflame.
With a burning brand in his hand, he dashed toward the reed thicket while Liz covered him with her bow. He headed for a spot some way upstream from where the bears were and knelt in the snow, holding the burning brand to the stand of reeds. The tinder-dry reed leaves caught fire instantly, and the tougher canes soon followed suit. The flames whooshed in the brisk northerly wind, fanning over the dry rushes, spreading ever deeper.
From within came bellows of fright and sounds of panicky flight, as the ursines fled east ahead of the wall of fire. Spot shied away from the flames and smoke, his tail between his legs.
“We’ve been here, what? Five months?” Liz lowered her bow. “And already we’re destroying the ozone layer.”
“Fuck the ozone!” He laughed. “That should teach ‘em not to spy on us.”
They retreated from the heat to a knoll on the bank and watched the blaze in silence.
Liz said, “Well, forest fires happened before there were any people around, but the way it burns is decidedly un-British.”
“What do you mean?”
“British wildfires are supposed to be damp squibs unless it’s the height of a heatwave in summer. Our climate’s too wet. But this—” She spread her arms wide as if to embrace the conflagration. “And this hill under our feet; is it a sand dune?”
He peered downstream and saw a line of low hills shadowing the riverbank. Here and there, the wind had scoured the snow clear to expose patches of eroded sand. The sea and sand went together swimmingly, so why did it feel wrong? And then he had it. “Isn’t the Thames estuary purely mudflats?”
“Yes, composed of the famous London clay.”
Flames soon engulfed the entire width of the stand of reeds and began spreading east and west. From behind the wall of smoke, a drum started beating a panicky double-tap.
“The bastards are signaling,” he said.
They listened for an answering signal but heard none. However, when John connected to Spot’s mind, he sensed a faint far-off reply, coming from the northeast.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said.
They couldn’t walk along the burning riverbank, so they followed a well-trodden deer trail into the trees. When the trail branched west, they headed that way, hooking south back to the river. Except there was no river, only the endless stretches of holly and bramble thickets—all quite impassable. The sun disappeared, and in the dim light under the trees it was hard to tell north from south and east from west.
John and Liz blundered through the woods for a couple of hours, eventually finding an auroch trail that led to the river. When they reached the riverbank again, upstream from the blazing reeds, it was already late afternoon.
Hungry and thirsty, they hurried along the shore ice, keeping to snowless stretches to avoid leaving a spoor. To compensate for lost time, they broke into a brisk jog. Spot decided this was a new game and pranced about excitedly.
They stopped to catch their breath and watched apocalyptic clouds of smoke sullying the sky at the eastern horizon. Liz pulled out the firepot and searched for more dried fungi in her bag, but she had already used them all up. She peered into the pot and frowned. “I think it’s dead.”
John leaned over the pot, pushed a hollow hogweed stem in, and blew in a steady stream of air. Ash flew out, but there was no smoke. He stuffed in dry grass tinder he always carried in his pocket and tried again. Same result.
They exchanged a worried glance, then began jogging along the shore. Isn’t it ironic? he thought. They’d set half the river valley ablaze only to let their own fire go out. Now what kind of moron would do something like that? Of course, the hearth fire, being so much larger than the one in the pot, might still be alive; except they had been away for over seven hours . . .
Once inside their compound, John pulled the ladder from where he’d hidden it under the hazel trees and clambered up the stockade wall, his heart racing and his mouth dry. He tripped and nearly tumbled down the internal ladder, dashed to the wigwam, and threw the entrance flap aside. He shook off his mittens and smoothed his hands over the bed of ash, as Liz climbed down the ladder and knelt on the other side of the dead hearth. He raked his fingers through the still-warm ashes, heedless of the danger of burns, and indeed welcoming it, but there was nothing to burn him. A few coals were still hot, but when he crumbled them, he found no live spark inside.
Zip, zilch, nada.
Slowly, he heaved himself to his feet and stalked out of the wigwam into the narrow space between it and the palisade. The sun had set, and dusk filled the clearing, but the shaded courtyard was even gloomier.
“Damn,” he muttered, then kicked the stockade in frustration. Aw, that hurt. Well, they still had a solid wall to keep them safe.
Liz emerged from the wigwam, holding up his old bow-drill and the flat stone they’d used to cap the rotating stick on that day when they had first made fire and killed the tiger. On seeing her calm face, his mood lifted. He sank to the ground and rubbed his foot. One way or another, they would make fire again. They were much tougher now than in the early days.
“And here I was hoping for a cup of tea,” he said.
Sadly, they had burned the log that had a handy knothole for inserting the drill-stick, and it would be quite a bother to find a suitable substitute in the dark.
The wind picked up, and it began to snow. His legs ached from running, and he had a raging thirst. However, from experience, he knew it would be a mistake to guzzle icy water.
“No tea today, darling, but the hearth rocks are hot enough to warm up some water.” She brought an empty leather bucket from the wigwam. “And tomorrow we’ll make a new fire.”
In the thickening twilight, they fetched water from the stream with John carrying the bucket, Liz holding the bow at the ready, and Spot ranging about, sniffing the air. A tiger had passed by recently; it was still loitering in the vicinity, and the wolf was restless. After barricading the entrance to the bramble enclosure, John let out a sigh of relief. Liz climbed the ladder and lowered the rawhide rope they used for hoisting water and firewood over the palisade wall.
“Christ on a motorcycle,” John muttered as he tied the bucket to the rope. “Even bringing water is a military operation now.”
From the top of the wall, Liz scanned the woods. “Huh, did you say something?” she asked without looking down. “I think I saw movement.”
/> “Probably just a branch in the wind.”
As he climbed up the ladder, a tiger roar erupted from the woods. An answering roar arose from further off. Spot scampered up the ramp with his tail between his legs.
John brought up the water bucket, and with Liz’s help, he pulled up the ladder and the external ramp. Safe at last. His mind flashed back to the first few nights in the wild. How terrified they had been. A miracle they had survived at all. Yes, a miracle. They’d make a fire tomorrow, and everything would be fine.
With the fire out, it was pitch-black inside the wigwam, so they were forced to keep the entrance flap open. In the dying daylight, they drank tepid water and ate leftover meat and mushroom stew. When they finished, they were both yawning. After dining on raw wolf meat, Spot was already asleep by the entrance.
“We missed our midday nap,” Liz said. “Do you mind an early night?”
“Not at all. But it’ll be a cold one.”
He pulled the flap closed and secured its fastenings. Fully dressed, they climbed under the tiger skin.
Wind whistled between the stakes of the palisade. In the woods, tigers roared, and owls hooted. John listened to them for a while, then slept. Hours later, he awoke with the cold stiffening his feet and biting his nose, snuggled closer to Liz, and drifted off again.
Chapter 43
Ursine Prometheus
Seaside northeast of Camp Bramble
Gnorrk swayed on his feet, tired to the bone after the long march back to the Sunriser village. When the beating drums had raised the alarm, the two warrior bands had been marching north for hours. After a short discussion with Moorgs, they hurried back.
They had smelled a forest fire from many miles off, and Moorgs and his Sunrisers were beside themselves with worry.
But as it turned out, the fire had stopped well away from the village. Here and there, reeds still burned in the distance, but it was clear even to the dumbest bear that the blaze was dying. Moorgs and the Sunrisers peeled off at their village, relieved. Most of the Woodlanders joined them.
But Gnorrk and a dozen of the bravest bears carried on toward the subsiding blaze.
Cautiously, he crossed a burned-out field of reeds and brushwood, charred stubble crunching under his paws. The reek of fire hung over everything like a suffocating shroud, but the warm ashes felt nice against the soles of his feet. Far nicer than snow. But that was until he stepped on a live ember. He jerked his foot up, growling. One of his retinue gave a yelp of pain and bolted. What a coward.
A blazing driftwood log lay within a hand’s reach. Orange and yellow tongues of flame writhed around it in a place where the log intersected another lump of wood. No flames anywhere else.
He turned to the small band of warriors that followed him. “See, there’s nothing to it. Perfectly safe.” He stretched his hands over the flames. “Nice and warm.”
Slowly, his followers drew around the fire. For a while, they stood discussing why the flames only burned where the two bits of wood intersected. Then some brave soul found another blazing log and reported that flames were alive between two lumps of wood that lay side by side.
“Maybe the fire is like bears,” Gnorrk said. “One bear is weak and could be taken down by the first tiger to cross his path. But together”—he lifted his club—“together, we’re invincible.”
He picked up a piece of driftwood and dropped it over the flames. Angry sparks exploded in all directions, and everyone took a step back. But when nothing bad happened, they moved closer. One bear and then another brought sticks and threw them over the smoldering log. Soon, a messy bonfire burned, shooting sparks into the night.
The bears, who had initially held back, now approached carrying sticks and bundles of reeds. There were several Sunrisers among them, casting fearful glances and conversing in their archaic dialect.
Moorgs arrived later, leading a group of youths and females who brought sacks of clams and oysters for the evening meal.
They all sat down, basking in the warmth and light of the fire, and ate.
“Thy Woodland bears are brave,” Moorgs said. “No one in my clan would have dared to come to da fire.”
“Most of mine also didn’t dare.”
“I say it feels like summer ‘ere.” Moorgs laughed, then wrinkled his nose. “Except fer da stink, of course.”
“Ah, but no tiger or a wolf or an auroch would come close now.”
“True.”
Gnorrk peered around and spotted a stand of intact reeds. He shoved one of his grandsons toward it. “Go and get me a good bundle.”
When the young bear returned with an armful of dry rushes, Gnorrk separated it into thinner bundles. He thrust one into the flames, and when it flared up, he held it aloft and watched it burn. When it burned too short and began scorching the fur of his fingers, he dropped it to the ground and lit a second brand from it.
“Cousin, what art thou doing?” Moorgs asked, worriedly.
Gnorrk stood up and held the burning brand high above his head like some ursine Prometheus. “I’m taking the fire to my village.”
“Cousin, art thou insane? Thou will burn thy houses. I’m not taking no fire into my village.”
“Suit yourself, Moorgs.”
The Sunriser chief made a non-committal grunt.
Gnorrk turned to his followers. “I want two—no, three bears feeding the fire with sticks all night. Me and my two eldest sons will take the first shift until the Auroch Eye is high.” He pointed out the bright orange star rising above the eastern horizon. “And tomorrow we make hundreds of reed bundles and carry the flames to our village. Never again will we be cold, and never again will tigers prowl around our lodges at night.”
Later, Gnorrk sat with his eldest sons by the campfire, feeding it sticks. A score of other warriors sprawled around them, snoring in the flickering glow. Wind blew the smoke away from them, bathing them in its cozy warmth. When the moon set, and the Auroch Eye floated high, Gnorrk woke up three other bears. “After the Auroch Eye goes to sleep in the west, you wake another three and tell them to guard the fire until sunrise. Then they wake me. Is that clear?”
The bleary-eyed bears nodded.
“Good,” Gnorrk said. “And if the fire goes out at night, I will skin those responsible alive and make their hides into drums. Pass that message to the morning watch.”
The other bear gulped. “It shall be done.”
The next day, when Gnorrk woke, he discovered the fire burning merrily. His belly grumbled, so after ordering the tired guards to sleep and setting the fire-keeping task to a new trio, he made his way to Sunriser village.
Moorgs was already up, bossing his clansmen. After he and Gnorrk exchanged greetings, the Sunriser chief said, “A curious thing. Da scouts I sent upriver yesterday returned in da night. Dey were cut off by flames.”
“I’m glad they’ve made it back safely,” Gnorrk said, disinterestedly. Staying up late to look after the fire made him peevish. “Got anything to eat, cousin?”
“Never mind da food fer now. Don’t thou want to know how da fire started?”
Gnorrk yawned. “A piece of sun fell down?”
“In winter? No, t’was bears! Ugly dwarf bears.”
“Go on.”
“Dere were two of them: male and female. About this tall—” Moorgs held his palm under his chin. “Real short. And dere was a wolf with dem.”
Gnorrk’s knees suddenly grew weak, and his heart tried to climb up his throat. “A giant fire-breathing wolf?”
“Just a regular one.”
Gnorrk gazed at the wind-tossed fens, thinking. It must have been the same wolf who’d bitten him as he ran behind his retreating warband after they’d been routed at the Small Salmon Stream. The wolf had seemed as big as an auroch then, but for some reason he’d bitten Gnorrk on his butt instead of snapping his head off. So, the enemies who’d killed his son Senior and his warriors were just bears. Not spirits or monster wolves. Still, they could throw fire around t
hemselves . . . And who ever heard of wolves and bears living together?
“Did your scouts notice anything unusual about those bears? Other than their size,” Gnorrk asked. “My shaman says they’re evil spirits.”
Moorgs said, “One scout saw da male pull da skin off his head, so it hung over his shoulders. To cool down. He’d gotten too hot with all dat fire inside him.”
Gnorrk’s old terror returned, and his knees turned weak again. “Only one scout saw that?”
Moorgs nodded. “Aye. Of course, my scout was scared poopless after da stranger set fire to da reeds, so maybe he’d just imagined it.”
The two chiefs were interrupted when several females and youths returned to the village, burdened with sacks of clams and mussels.
“Dere’s thy food, cousin Gnorrk,” Moorgs said.
Chapter 44
To Make Fire
Camp Bramble
John awoke the next morning and stretched. He lay still for some time, watching the sunlight streaming from the smoke hole in the roof. The air in the wigwam was beyond frigid, and his breath plumed. What the hell? And then he remembered: a wolf shot by Liz, ursines stalking them, burning reeds cutting off the route home, losing their way in the woods and wasting so much time that the fire died in the firepot and in the hearth.
Liz stretched beside him and rubbed her eyes with mittened hands. “Good morning, darling. Why am I wearing mittens to bed?” Her eyes drifted toward the cold hearth, and she shook her head, smiling sadly. “Never mind, we’ll make fire one way or another.”
She wriggled out from under the pelts and threw open the entrance flap. “Let there be light.”
John climbed out and stared in dismay at the iced-over water in the leather bucket. He wasn’t thirsty enough to drink that, but he broke the ice, dipped the Arsenal mug in, and took a slow sip. If animals could drink icy water, so could he. Strangely enough, neither he nor Liz had ever had a cold since arriving here. Not even a tiny sniffle.