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

by R Magnusholm

  He watched the foursome wade across the stream in the murky brown light.

  His son Split-Ear appeared at his side and said, “It could be a trap. The Salmoners had one warrior killed today and another wounded. The dwarfs used a wolf to lure the sentries into the open.”

  “I smell no dwarfs, just one wolf.”

  Split-Ear sniffed the air, then nodded in agreement. “It’s an old male.”

  “Yes.”

  “Still, it works for the dwarfs,” Split-Ear said.

  Gnorrk huffed dismissively. It was only a regular wolf, not the fire-breathing monster the size of an auroch of the shaman’s imagination.

  “The warriors are scared,” Split-Ear continued. “There have been desertions.”

  “Not among the Woodlanders.”

  “No. In other clans.”

  “That’s what happens when you have soft chiefs,” Gnorrk said.

  The four warriors crossed the stream and disappeared into the thickets on the other side. Immediately, the howling stopped. Branches snapped as the warriors gave chase, roaring and banging their clubs on tree trunks. A short time later, the foursome returned in triumph, their mission accomplished.

  The moment they came ashore, however, the wolf slunk out of the bushes and sat down on the opposite bank, watching them slyly out of its yellow eyes. They waved their clubs at it, but it lifted its nose to the sky and resumed its ageless song of grief.

  From the trackless woods to the east arose an answering cry, faint and faraway.

  Infuriated, Gnorrk plunged into the stream and began wading to the other shore. Dark water rose to his thighs, then to his waist, shriveling his nether parts, combing through his dense fur. Two of Gnorrk’s bodyguards rushed past him, yelling the Woodlander battle cry. As they climbed the opposite bank, the wolf leaped into the undergrowth and vanished.

  When Gnorrk’s guards returned, the fierce wolf howl erupted again. In the middle of the stream, Gnorrk exchanged a weary glance with his guards.

  What a nuisance! Taken over by impotent fury, he laid about himself with his club, smashing it into the fast-flowing brook, churning up the water.

  The cursed wolf continued to sing.

  Exhausted from beating the stream into a foam, Gnorrk headed back to shore, his shoulders slumped. He climbed out and stood, dripping, in front of his troops. By now, every Woodlander was up. He turned to Split-Ear. “Take a score of fast runners and go around that noisy fleabag.” He turned to his other lieutenants, Strongpaw and Snout. “Take ten warriors each and flank him from both sides.”

  He watched the three teams head into the woods. They’d cross the brook and surround the wolf. A score of warriors remained by his side. “Spread out,” he ordered. “Form a line.”

  He waited for Split-Ear, Strongpaw, and Snout to give a signal—three roars— indicating they were in position.

  But before the first roar came, the wolf fled.

  ***

  Atop the parapet walkway, John was startled awake. Somehow, he’d dozed off, which was no good. Oh, no. No good at all. A sentry should never sleep, because if he did, he risked not only his own life but also those of his buddies. His heart thudding in his chest, he peered over the rugged top of the stake-wall. In the bronze light of Jupiter, the clearing around the palisade walls lay empty. He probed the dark shadows pooled under the stands of brambles and under the hazels at the back.

  No one.

  He swallowed on a dry mouth, his throat raw from howling. From howling? The disjointed fragments of memories tumbled, assembling themselves, snapping into a coherent picture. Spot had smelled the ursines trying to surround him and escaped deeper into the woods, where he now rested after so much excitement and fun. Far to the east, other wolves were still howling—possibly the same pack that had chased Spot last winter.

  John hoped the other wolves wouldn’t be attracted to the locality, for their arrival would jeopardize Spot who easily avoided the ursines and ranged freely through the surrounding woods.

  Beethoven’s Ode to Joy began playing on Liz’s phone. Such an incongruous sound coming from a wigwam. Every time he heard it, he had to restrain himself from laughing. A short while later, the inner ladder creaked, and Liz joined him on the parapet walk.

  “I had a wonderful sleep,” she said. She connected the crank charger to the phone and started turning the handle. The gentle grinding sound reminded John of a chirping cricket.

  “The wolf howls didn’t bother you?”

  “No. I find them soothing.”

  He told her how he sent Spot to harass the ursines to deny them sleep, and how he’d fallen asleep in the process.

  She said, “I’m sure you’d have woken up if they broke into the clearing and slammed a battering ram into the wall.”

  He chuckled, envisaging a gang of ursines charging madly over the glade with a heavy log. Such a compact target to practice archery. “I would’ve heard them well before they got that ram anywhere near us.”

  They sat quietly, listening to the wind. An owl swooped over the clearing on silent wings. It alighted in the tall grass. A mouse squeak was cut short, and the big bird lifted off again. A cloud drifted over the radiant eye of Jupiter, plunging them into darkness. The wind that had been blowing all night slackened.

  “Do you think Spot is up for more howling tonight?” Liz asked.

  “Sure, he is.”

  “Well, make him do his howly thing then.”

  Chapter 69

  Singularly Bad News

  A very irritable Gnorrk climbed into his shelter. One of the guards posted outside closed the entrance flap. Gnorrk stretched out on pine fronds and dry grass and shut his eyes.

  But before he could enjoy some well-deserved rest, the cursed wolf howled again. Gnorrk jerked bolt upright with an angry roar. The wolf sang with unholy glee, clearly enjoying tormenting the Woodlanders.

  A gruff command sounded outside, and the guards splashed across the stream to chase off the damn animal. The wolf fled, still howling, toward the Sunriser Clan’s camp. Gnorrk faintly heard the irate growls of awakened allies and the bellowing of their chief Moorgs.

  The cursed howler didn’t stay there long, heading off to visit the Salmon Clan’s encampment and then the Sunsetters. As the noise receded into the distance, Gnorrk lay back and tried to sleep. But before long, the wolf returned and howled seemingly outside Gnorrk’s shelter.

  When morning came, Gnorrk didn’t get up at the crack of dawn as usual. Instead, he crawled out a few hours later, bleary-eyed and grouchy. Everyone he met was tired and short-tempered. Instead of heading out to forage, the bears milled around the camp aimlessly, blinking in the bright sunshine like idiotic oversized moles.

  The chief of the Sunrisers Moorgs arrived by midday with news that three more of his warriors had deserted in the night. He enquired, rather insolently, how long Gnorrk intended to persist with the siege.

  Gnorrk bit off an angry reply and instead said, “My good friend, Moorgs.” He felt his rage swelling and took a deep calming breath. “You’ve been like a brother to me. Your lack of faith pains me so much.”

  “My warriors had little rest last night. Dey ask: why do we fight da dwarfs? Vile and ugly though dey be, dey’re not attacking our village.”

  Gnorrk straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “My shaman says that woe has come to the woods. The dwarfs are death. He said we’re all doomed if we don’t kill them.”

  “Thou said thy shaman’s a mad fool.”

  Did I? Gnorrk thought. Maybe. He couldn’t remember. “Ahem, Moorgs, my shaman may be a mad fool, but he talks with spirits.”

  “My own shaman said nothing about no dwarfs.”

  Gnorrk fetched the three flying sticks from his shelter. He held them out to Moorgs silently. Blood had dried on the shafts, dark and ruddy brown. “The dwarfs are killers.”

  “All da more reason to leave dem be.”

  Gnorrk’s belly grumbled.

  Moorgs smiled k
nowingly. “And my warriors are hungry, too. At home we live on mussels and clams, but dere are none in da woods.”

  “Why don’t you hunt deer and rabbits?”

  “We tried, but dey’re very fast.”

  “We’ll wait a few more days,” Gnorrk said. “The dwarfs either die of thirst, or they come out and die of our clubs.”

  Moorgs rubbed the back of his furry neck. “We’ve been ‘ere fer seven days. Nobody can last dat long without water. Maybe dey don’t drink.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Or maybe dey have a little spring dat gives dem all da water dey need.”

  “Impossible,” Gnorrk repeated stubbornly. “I’ve never seen a spring on a hilltop.”

  The two chiefs stood in silence. An unpleasant and distressing thought occurred to Gnorrk. If the dwarfs were as magical as the shaman claimed, they might be able to make water and food from air. Or they turned into wolves at night and loped about, stealing food, drinking from the stream, urinating on clan shelters, and howling. And if that were the case, then the bear race was truly doomed, and there was no point in fighting. But Gnorrk was nothing if not proud. His honor would never permit him to give up.

  “All right,” Gnorrk said. “A few more days, and we go home.”

  “How many days is a few?”

  “Not too many.”

  Gnorrk’s belly grumbled again. He turned around. “Hey, somebody feed your chief now.” He smacked his club against the palm of his paw. “Or else.”

  A young bear hurried over with a haunch of a deer caught yesterday. Another brought a rabbit. Gnorrk shared the food with Moorgs, and that improved the other chief’s mood no end.

  After eating his fill, Moorgs begrudgingly agreed to stay for a few more days, the precise number of which was yet to be determined.

  The next night, the howling bedlam rose again. Gnorrk didn’t sleep a wink. The day passed uneventfully: the dwarfs stayed put; the tired Woodland Clan hunters failed to catch any deer when the ambush team fell asleep at the crucial moment in the hunt.

  The situation was getting desperate.

  As darkness fell, the howling resumed in earnest. The guards were too exhausted to chase off the wolf. Despite the terrible racket, Gnorrk slept, albeit fitfully.

  The next morning dawned hot and muggy. The chief of the Salmon Clan arrived, jabbering in his incomprehensible lingo and flapping his paws as if imitating a stork.

  “I don’t speak stupid,” Gnorrk snapped.

  “He says something about desertions,” one of Gnorrk’s retinue supplied helpfully. Gnorrk recognized Fleetfoot, whose mother had been abducted from the Salmon Clan.

  “Fleetfoot, go with this blathering idiot and find out what happened.”

  Gnorrk sat down by the fire and waited for the pair to return. In the overcast sky, dark clouds thickened, and his fur prickled and stood on end as it always did before a thunderstorm.

  Fleetfoot and the Salmoner chief returned, lugging a dead body between them, grunting with exertion. They held it tenderly under the arms, and its limp head swayed with every jerky step, the feet dragging on the forest floor. A single Salmoner limped behind them.

  “Their clan ran off,” Fleetfoot said. “Somebody or something tore out a sentry’s throat. And when they woke up, they just took off . . .”

  “Cowards,” Gnorrk muttered. What kind of chief allows his entire clan to desert? A weak chief. That’s who. But weakness wasn’t a bad quality in a ruler of a conquered clan. It was much more preferable to rebelliousness.

  Gnorrk ordered a space to be made in one of the shelters for the inept leader of the Salmoners and his last warrior.

  Chapter 70

  The Thirst

  John scraped a wooden dipper along the bottom of the tub, scooping up the last of their water. He poured it into the Arsenal mug and handed it to Liz. Her face set in grim concentration, she sipped from it slowly.

  As he watched her drink, his own thirst intensified, so he tore his gaze away to peer into the trough. Enough water remained in the right corner—a cup or so. He’d be able to get it all with a reed straw. But after that they’d have nothing.

  Liz held out the mug to him. “I left some for you.”

  “No. If your milk disappears . . .” He tried to swallow a lump. Couldn’t. “Then little George . . .”

  “If you get too weak from thirst—”

  “There’s enough water in the tub for me.” He held her gaze. “We must break out tonight. It’s our last chance.”

  “John, it’s hot and muggy. It will rain.”

  “A bit of drizzle won’t help.”

  She broke eye contact and lifted her gaze to the lowering sky. Gunmetal-gray clouds towered over the woods, threatening to enfold the world in their smothering embrace. Fast flying birds, swifts or swallows, darted low over the parapet wall, chirping excitedly. Normally they flitted high above the treetops.

  “See the birds?” she asked brightly.

  “What about them?”

  “They chase insects.”

  “So?”

  “When the air pressure drops, bugs fly low as it’s harder for them to fly in thinner air. Or maybe they can’t stand turbulence. Most of them are weak flyers.”

  “Liz, this is fascinating. But—”

  “Air pressure drops before thunderstorms.” She smoothed the downy hairs on her forearm. “Do you feel the static?”

  He shrugged. Lately, he felt nothing but thirst and lightheaded fatigue. He plucked a reed straw from the pile of kindling and knelt over the trough as if in silent prayer. He sucked up the water, swished it around his mouth, and swallowed it slowly. Flavored with pine tar and charcoal, the stale water tasted better than fine wine. Enough of the life-giving liquid remained to fill up his mouth twice more. He hoovered up the last dregs from the cracks and stood up, fighting off a wave of dizziness.

  He told himself it was nothing—just postural hypotension. Not dehydration. For the nine days of the siege, he had enjoyed two mugs of water a day and Liz had three. It was a fair-sized mug—over half a pint. The idea was to drink enough to stay healthy. Once the water was finished, they’d break out and make for the reed beds and the hidden boat. They had to be strong and fast for that.

  “Here.” Liz offered him the mug again. “Drink. You’re too pale.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not because of thirst. When I run with Spot in my sleep, I wake up drained as if I haven’t slept at all.”

  She looked at him uncertainly. “You’re not making this up?”

  “No. I didn’t notice the effect before because I’ve never connected to him solidly for three nights in a row.”

  “Get some sleep, John. There’s nothing left to do till evening. And don’t connect to Spot.”

  “You’re right,” he said, squeezing her arm.

  As he headed into the wigwam, George woke up and began crying. Liz picked him up and carried him outside in his basket, leaving John to sleep in relative peace.

  ***

  Gnorrk watched the Salmon Clan’s leader sitting slightly apart from the Woodlander warriors. He fought a wave of revulsion and restrained himself from killing the stone-cold loser and sharing the meat to raise the morale of the troops. But eating allies seemed like a bad diplomatic move. He needed the neighboring Salmoners to be weak, and he’d march with his army to restore their chief to his position of power. Then the weakling with an unpronounceable name would be in Gnorrk’s debt.

  Gnorrk picked up a twig, snapped it in half, and dropped it into the beaver pond. He never thought that being king would be so hard. He couldn’t just bash heads and roar; he had to think.

  The first drops of rain, fat and heavy, smacked into the dry forest floor and stippled the surface of the pond.

  Gnorrk had never liked the rain. For one, it made him cold and wet. Now, it threatened to put out the fire that must never go out. Besides, he sensed something else—some unspecified calamity perceived only dimly that made the rain a
singularly bad omen.

  As the rain intensified, it hissed in the coals of the bonfire and turned to steam. The firekeepers hurried to add more fuel. Suddenly, Gnorrk’s mind snapped to the village fire. In his absence, would the fire team remain diligent, or would they let the precious flames go out?

  He prayed to the Blessed Bear in the Enchanted Woods that the team of ten would stay true to their orders.

  But what if that idiot shaman tricked them and sent them on some fool’s errand, leaving no one to save the fire from the rain?

  No, that mustn’t be allowed to happen. He had to act now.

  He began making preparations.

  Chapter 71

  The Turbulence

  John awoke in midafternoon, refreshed and full of nervous energy. Apart from a slight headache and dry mouth, he was in good form. Tonight, they’d break out. After nine days of inactivity, the prospect of taking action flooded him with adrenaline, and he found the notion of finally doing something to be darkly exhilarating.

  In the dim light flooding through the wigwam’s smoke hole, he stretched, rubbed his eyes, and reviewed their plans. He’d carry George in a sling. Liz would wear his original rucksack, packed with cuts of cured meat; she’d also take her canvas bag with the pot of coals, and two quivers of arrows. They’d keep their hands free to use weapons.

  He peered about. The shady wigwam was filled with the fruits of their labor. Pelts lined the floor in the sleeping corner. By the fire pit stood wooden bowls and other utensils that he’d spent many days carving and burning out with hot coals. Twenty throwing darts of tough oak leaned against the wall by the entrance. Such a shame he got no chance to hurl them at the enemy. Winter clothing they’d spent many days sewing up with awkward paperclip needles and knotted rawhide strips hung from the far wall. Suspended from the sooty rafters, hams of cured meat turned slowly in the draft, waiting to be eaten. Outside, at the back of the yard, stood an auroch hide tub, where a bearskin soaked in the tannin brew. The vile solution was undrinkable, of course, but they still washed their hands there.