The Door to September: An Alternate Reality Novel: Survival in Prehistoric Wilderness (Back to the Stone Age Book 1)

by R Magnusholm

  The result wasn’t a boat, though, but a twelve-by-six-foot raft. While ungainly, the watercraft was sturdy enough for John to walk upon and even dance a jig. And as for stability, as hard as he tried to rock it, he couldn’t capsize it.

  Standing on the raft’s deck, he grinned at Liz. “Now what do you think?”

  “If you ask me, it’s a frivolous waste of time.”

  He laughed. “It’s freedom. That’s what it is. It’s a Plan B.”

  “We could’ve made three or four new arrows in that time,” she said. “And all those rawhide strips wasted.”

  “We’ve got more bearskins than we know what to do with.”

  “I think it’s your inner child talking,” she said, but her eyes were shining.

  “Why don’t you come over, Liz?”

  She laid George in the grass and waded into the water. He extended a hand and pulled her aboard.

  “Hmm, it seems stable.” She paced this way and that. “Suppose we stand to one side and rock it?”

  “That’s not normal boat use,” he protested, moving to her side. The raft barely listed. “But let’s rock it, baby.”

  With Spot watching from the shore, they swayed the raft as hard as they could, but came nowhere near to overturning it.

  “Since it’s made of reeds, let’s call it the Ra,” he said. “I think that’s what that papyrus raft that crossed the Atlantic was called.”

  Liz sighed. “If you insist.”

  “That’s settled then. Instead of slogging through mud, we’ll wait until high tide and sail it all the way into the Fleet.”

  “You forgot something,” she said.

  “Like what? Several clear channels are leading that way.”

  She smiled. “Not that.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve got no paddles, no pole.”

  He slapped his forehead. “Oh.” Sometimes he could be so impractical, so forgetful. “Maybe we could use our hands. I paddled on that reed bundle easily.”

  “This raft is much heavier, and there’ll be a current.”

  The wind picked up, carrying the smoke of their fire over the marshland. Spot stiffened and stared past the raft at the reed patch some hundred yards upstream.

  “Danger,” the wolf spoke in John’s mind. He also shared a glimpse of a crouching tiger. A young male. Hungry, fierce, impatient. All those things Spot knew after a single sniff.

  “Spot says there’s a tiger.” John pointed. “There.”

  She unslung her bow from her shoulder and nocked an arrow.

  A herd of deer came out of the dense rushes. Ears twitching, they eyed the mudflat that lay between them and the tidal channel where the raft floated. Evidently satisfied that John, Liz, Spot, and their fire posed no imminent risk, the deer lowered their heads to drink.

  Suddenly they stampeded as a tiger pounced from an ambush, narrowly missing a fawn. The camouflage-green predator stood in the shallows, its sides heaving. It gazed into the wall of reeds after the departing herd, then turned and regarded John and Liz wistfully before stalking off.

  “The damn tigers are getting bolder,” he said.

  “Not necessarily. He’s upwind from us.” She lowered her bow. “A shame he didn’t come closer.”

  “Why?”

  “I hate the brutes killing cute Bambies.”

  He shrugged. “It’s an adolescent tiger, and he’s hungry.”

  “Not my problem.”

  Little George woke and began wailing. Liz climbed overboard and waded ashore. As she breastfed the baby, John considered what to do.

  He could go into the woods and obtain a good poling stick easily, but it would take a serious effort to make a half-decent paddle. And on a raft of this size they’d need oars, which meant devising oarlocks. Well, he’d get a pole or two and whittle two paddles out of a split fir log to start with. It shouldn’t take more than a week. Then he’d ponder how to make oarlocks.

  But the little boy that dwelt in him demanded that they sail the boat today. In these shallow channels, all he needed was a pole. The alders on their islet were useless. Too gnarly. He glanced at the woods some two hundred yards north. He could get a pole in less than an hour and sail on the next tide. But . . .

  There was always a but. A simple act of going into the woods was a military operation that required carrying a portable fire, Spot sniffing for hidden enemies, and Liz having her bow at the ready. He was a mature family man, not some spoiled, impatient boy.

  He climbed into the water and pulled the raft ashore. It slid easily over the marsh grass, and with Liz’s help he managed to drag it all the way to the alder trees. He placed a few lumps of driftwood under the craft’s bottom to keep it off the damp ground and lashed it to the trunks.

  Chapter 56

  The Compromise

  John selected two young trees that had been cut down by beavers. The animals had helpfully eaten the side branches, crowns, and even most of the bark. Beavers were such useful neighbors, he reflected. By their prodigious tree cutting, they saved him so much labor. The cut trunks were long and straight, and from the quality and springiness of the wood, he knew they were ash.

  With Spot watching, John lifted the ends of the poles over his shoulder and hauled them to their compound, leaving drag marks in the moss and leaf litter. Although with the wolf sniffing for danger, there was no possibility of a surprise attack, John still carried his spear handy in his right hand.

  He found Liz watering the seven tomato plants that grew in the tiny patch of dug-up earth—the first and only garden in the world. George lay in his woven basket next to her, cooing and gurgling.

  She lifted her head and regarded him sternly. “You’ve been gone too long.”

  “I was only by the beaver dam. Spot sniffed a tiger prowling around, but no bears.”

  Lately, Liz had become snappy with him, pouncing on his real and imagined shortcomings. He suspected that was because she opposed the idea of leaving Camp Bramble and moving to the estuary island they had seen in winter. He wanted to explore, but she wanted to dig in.

  They had reached an uneasy compromise of staying and exploring. The trouble with this approach was that their efforts were split between two separate projects. Instead of digging a moat around their fort and producing more arrows and darts, he mooned over his raft and expended time and energy on procuring poling sticks and oars, as if he were a boy in love with the romantic notions of adventure rather than a family man whose duty it was to defend and provide.

  He propped the ash poles in the sun to dry and pulled the canvas bag with the firepot off his shoulder. “There, good poling sticks for our gondola.”

  Liz regarded him with a frown. “You’re taking risks.”

  “Our wolf ran three miles around the camp only this morning. Not a whiff of the ursines.”

  “If there are no bears, we need no boat,” she said exasperatedly.

  “Oh, the ursines are out there, all right.”

  “We’ve got them good,” she insisted. “They’re not coming back.”

  “We can’t know that for sure.”

  “They would’ve come by now if they were going to.”

  “I feel that maybe . . .” he began, but lost his train of thought. “Ah, never mind.”

  A vague premonition of doom was waxing and waning in him like the phases of the moon. A most unreliable barometer. He made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. To assume the ursines would not attack, or to imagine they could be defeated easily was wishful thinking that could get their little family killed. Of course, playing with watercraft could bring the same outcome. Tidal flows were swift and merciless, and neither he nor Liz were experienced boat builders and sailors.

  But that’s why they needed to learn to sail.

  His gaze drifted to a four-foot-long hunk of a dry fir log he’d cut to size with fire earlier by burning off one end. A fissure ran along one side. He intended to widen the crack to split the log and then make paddles by hacking of
f and whittling away the excess wood.

  He helped Liz reinforce the woven palisade enclosing their garden by hammering in half a dozen stakes. They didn’t know if rabbits ate tomato plants and didn’t want to find out. Delicate golden flowers bloomed on the branches, and on two plants hung clusters of tiny green globes.

  He cast an appreciative gaze around their clearing. Brambles were in bloom, and hazelnuts, still green and raw, festooned branches of the two trees at the rear of their compound. Theirs was a blessed place and abandoning it would be sacrilege. They should fight to keep it. Did that mean they had to abandon the boatbuilding project?

  The indomitable spirit of adventure that dwelt within him rebelled against the thought. He needed to explore. Had to see what was around the next river bend. It was as vital as breathing to him. He recalled the way Liz’s eyes lit up with mischievous glee when she boarded the raft for the first time and knew that the same spirit of adventure dwelt in her heart.

  He pointed to the trailing brambles lapping against the northern end of their fort like a green sea. “I’ll dig foot-traps in there. With sharpened stakes.”

  “And your raft?”

  “The raft can wait. Maybe we could use it for fishing or hunting ducks one day. A little yachting vacation, eh?”

  Liz smiled faintly. “I’ll go rustle up some dinner.” Trim and agile, she picked up the baby basket and climbed the ladder to their wigwam.

  He forced the thorny trailers apart with a hooked stick. Using an antler pick, he began digging a series of narrow foot-traps. As he toiled, the sun beat down on his bent back. He hammered a stick into the center of the first pit, pulled it out and replaced it with a half-foot-long sharpened stake. Temporarily marking the trap with a pine branch, he proceeded to work on the second hole.

  Deep down, he knew the ursines would be back in far greater numbers. They might use less rash tactics than the last time, although he doubted that. He expected an all-out assault against all sides of the fort, and he had to take steps to prevent it. For that purpose, they had cultivated thorny vines all around the stockade wall, leaving just one narrow path leading to the entrance ladder. The addition of the staked pits would reinforce their defenses considerably.

  A couple hours later, he wiped sweat off his brow and straightened his aching back. Five pine branches marked the concealed traps. He pulled them out now and let the trailing thorny vines fall over the pits. He drove two stakes into the ground to mark the danger area.

  A savory aroma of roasting salmon reached his nostrils. They had caught the fish this morning. They’d eat one side, with the second half joining a dozen smoked filets that had been dried to a consistency of oily wood and now hung under the rafters next to hams of bear meat. For the lean days.

  “Honey, is dinner ready?” he called. How many times had he said this to his wife on Old Earth? Ah, but what did it matter now? He forced the memories aside.

  “Patience, patience,” Liz replied from behind the stockade wall. “Ten minutes.”

  His gaze fell on the fir log again. Enough digging pit traps. He could devote some time to making paddles. With the help of three stone flakes hammered into the crack in the wood, he split the log lengthwise. He supposed he’d be able to make crude boards this way, one day.

  One of the log halves was thicker than the other. He picked up the thinner one, chose the haft end of the paddle, and started hacking off the excess wood. With every strike, the flint blade cleaved off slivers of fragrant fir wood, and he made a mental note to save them for kindling.

  When Liz called him to dinner, the lump of wood he held didn’t look much like a paddle, but he knew he was on the right track.

  Chapter 57

  Gnorrk Conquers All

  20 miles west of Camp Bramble

  The combined army of the Woodlanders, Sunrisers, and Salmoners marched into the Sunset Clan’s territory at dawn. Since nobody knew where exactly their village lay, the scouts headed out in a wide fan across the woods. They searched all day, but it wasn’t until the evening shadows gathered in the sheltered avenues of the forest that a fleet-footed young scout arrived at Gnorrk’s side.

  “We’ve found them, Grandpaw,” the scout reported, his eyes gleaming with pride.

  “Where?”

  The scout pointed toward the sunset. “Their village is that way, on the Great Salty River.”

  “How far?”

  The scout scratched his head, and his eyebrows knit in concentration. “Erm, umm.”

  “Can we reach them before dark?”

  The scout brightened. “Yes, Grandpaw.”

  Gnorrk pondered if they should attack now or make camp and strike at dawn. He glanced at his team of torchbearers. One had just lit a new reed bundle. A plan of attack formed in his mind. He turned to the scout. “That Sunsetter village . . . describe the approaches to it.”

  “It’s on a river island by the shore, and we can wade across.”

  “Are there dry reeds near it?” Gnorrk asked.

  “Plenty.”

  “Good,” Gnorrk said. “Now fetch me Chief Moorgs and that new chief of the Salmoners. What’s his name again?” He gazed about himself at the tight band of his bodyguards.

  “His name’s Irsa-gob Duplett,” one of them supplied helpfully.

  “Well then get Irsa,” Gnorrk growled.

  The fuzzy plan that had hatched in his mind acquired details.

  As the moon rose over the woods to the east, the invaders converged on the river island where the Sunsetter village stood. Reeds rustled in the northerly breeze that carried the scent of Gnorrk’s army into the enemy village. No matter, Gnorrk thought with a smirk, his enemies might as well know they were surrounded with nowhere to go.

  He called over a torchbearer and pointed to a stand of dry rushes that remained from the winter. “Light it up.”

  The young warrior obeyed, and with a cheerful whoosh, flames leaped into the black sky. Amid much crackling and spattering, the broiling fiery beast raced toward the enemy positions. Gnorrk’s heart sang and swelled with the power that was his to command. No one and nothing could stand in his way now. He would unite all four bear clans, and then he’d look for somebody else to conquer—perchance the vile dwarfs who had killed Junior and stolen a slice of his land. Oh, he’d repay them one day. Overcome by wild joy, he pressed his paws to his chest to stop his heart flying out into the night. No bear could live without a heart. Not even a great chief like him.

  “Light all the reeds to the right,” Gnorrk ordered.

  Accompanied by his teammates, the torchbearer hurried off. Soon, a new conflagration was added to the inferno raging in front of him. The wind fanned the flames, carrying the smoke toward the village. As the dry rushes were interspersed with the new growth, Gnorrk wasn’t unduly concerned that the fires would interfere with his attack.

  In the village, a drum began beating.

  “Forward!” Gnorrk yelled.

  The warriors advanced on the village. Most of the Woodlanders paid little heed to the raging flames and smoke, but the allied Sunrisers and Salmoners shied away.

  The tide was out, and the water in the channel separating the island from the mainland came only to his waist. Soon, the fastest bears were climbing the muddy clay bank.

  Gnorrk followed them out of the river. “Hold the line,” he commanded in stentorian tones. If the enemy chose to fight, the reckless fools charging ahead of the main force would be beaten back with ease and likely killed.

  As it was, after seeing the flames, the Sunsetter Clan had no stomach for a fight and fled ignominiously into a reed bed on the other side of their island, leaving the village empty save for a few slow-witted elders. Those were slain on the spot to feed the hungry troops.

  Gnorrk’s warriors looted the reed-thatched huts and captured half a dozen females in the bushes south of the village. Gnorrk ordered a couple of huts to be fired, and in the light cast by the dancing flames, he watched approvingly as his troops besported themselv
es with the captives.

  “Where did the rest of them go?” he asked the scout leader.

  “We’ve driven them into the shallows. They’re just standing there in the river.”

  Gnorrk called to the Sunriser chief Moorgs who knew much about currents and tides. Together, they crossed the village and headed down the far riverbank. At first, he thought there was another island further out, but then he realized that it was just a mass of bears huddling among the reeds in shallow water.

  Moorgs laughed. “When da tide returns, dey’ll drown.”

  Gnorrk sat down in the grass on the bank. “How soon?”

  “When da moon is high.”

  “Then we wait.”

  Clouds drifted over the face of the gibbous moon as it rose higher and higher. The Auroch Eye, bloodshot and baleful, emerged low over the eastern horizon. The wind carried the stench of smoke, laughter of his warriors and squeals of protest from their captives.

  Eventually, a heavily accented voice called from the reeds. “Who are you, and what do you want from us?”

  Gnorrk remained silent. When the tide rose higher, the trapped Sunsetters would beg to pledge their loyalty to him. He’d talk then. And they’d listen and obey.

  Chapter 58

  The Grass Soap

  Flood Plain southwest of Camp Bramble

  A month later, John stood at the stern of the Ra, holding a ten-foot poling stick. Liz sat amidships with George in his basket by her side, while Spot paced from side to side, peering into the green walls of reeds sliding by. With the tide rising, all the channels between islets were overflowing.

  John grinned. “The raft handles like a dream. And it’s so stable . . .”