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

by R Magnusholm

  The wigwam itself; the stockade; the outer defenses and traps—all of that represented months and months of backbreaking work.

  He felt a jab of cold fury. Now all of this would have to be abandoned.

  Well, maybe not all. They might bury some possessions in the small root cellar and cover the spot with ash to disguise the smell. Their winter parkas and snow pants could be bound with rawhide strips and slung over their backs. The valuable tiger pelt and a few other animal skins, rolled into a bundle, weren’t too unwieldy to carry over his shoulder. If they managed to sneak out unnoticed past the sentries, they wouldn’t need to fight, and he’d take the bundle with them. But if they had to move fast, he’d drop it.

  He rose and added more fuel to the fire. With firewood in short supply, it took some effort to keep the flames alive.

  Before leaving, he’d fling the external ladder into the brambles, and with luck, the ursines might not find it, and maybe the bastards wouldn’t be able to climb into the stockade. He and Liz would then return and recover the rest of their possessions. Hell, maybe they’d move back into Fort Bramble, and the next time they’d quadruple their water storage and always keep every container filled.

  As John rolled the animal pelts up, he marveled at how much they had achieved. They would overcome this too.

  Outside, George began wailing, and John’s blood froze in his veins. How are we going to get past the sentries with a crying baby? And then Liz’s soothing voice started singing a nursery rhyme: “I hear thunder. Oh, don’t you?”

  As he threw open the entrance flap, thunder crashed nearby, and lightning cleaved the murky sky to the east. He saw Liz on the parapet with tiny George in her arms, silhouetted by a brief flash, her hair flying wildly in the wind. The first drops of rain, cold and heavy, pelted his face.

  Liz turned toward him, her eyes jubilant. “What did I tell you? What did I tell you!”

  Behind him, raindrops beat a tattoo on the roofing skins, exploding on impact and throwing fine spray into the air. As the rain intensified into a deluge, the skins turned wet and slick, and rivulets streamed, splashing into the empty wooden tub. Some water also trickled into the two leather buckets that stood by the trough.

  The thunder pealed again, closer this time. Frightened by the noise and cascading water, their son bawled. Liz descended the inner ladder and put him into the wigwam. “Shush now, little one.”

  John stood in the downpour, water streaming down his upturned face, and prayed that the rain would go on and on. He glanced down. The water covered the bottom of the trough, enough to fill two mugs. At another corner of the roof, a new rivulet formed, the precious liquid soaking into the dry ground. He grabbed the mug and rushed over to catch the drips, his cheeks aching from a wide grin.

  Liz reemerged, holding the plastic container and two wooden bowls. She hurried around the outside of the wigwam, positioning the vessels to catch any drips coming off the thatch and roofing skins. George continued to cry angrily, too young to understand their good luck.

  “We’re back in business,” John said, moving a bucket to intercept a stream cascading down the entrance flap.

  She threw her head back and laughed happily, as raindrops plinked and plonked all around them.

  He tipped the full mug into the trough, then held it back to catch more drips. His hair soaked through, old shirt stuck to his body, he felt his spirits lifting with each passing minute. The air tasted of thunder and freshness.

  She said, “I hope the weather holds.”

  They turned in unison and stared into the tub. Already, the level had risen an inch—enough to postpone their departure by two days.

  The rain continued unabated all afternoon, which they spent emptying containers into the trough. As dusk fell, that veritable reservoir was half-full, and they celebrated by drinking a cup of water each.

  After eating a quick dinner of cured meat slices, washed down with more water, they sat atop the parapet wrapped in bearskins and watched the surrounding woods. The rain had lost its intensity, turning from downpour to heavy drizzle, and a mist arose in the twilight avenues of the forest.

  Liz said, “Doesn’t look like they’re planning to attack.” She glanced back at their wigwam where they’d left their bows to keep them dry. “Just as well they don’t know that a wet bowstring reduces range and accuracy. What does our wolf say?”

  “The sentries are still there.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’ll send him howling again tonight,” he said.

  “Don’t exhaust yourself.”

  He didn’t reply at once. Behind them, the water continued to drip into the tub and buckets. “I’ll keep my health-and-safety in mind.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. A large ursine, his silver-gray pelt glistening in the diffused light, stood by a tree on the path leading to the stream. He stood motionless in the open, alone and straight-backed. In his right paw, he held a pine branch that he waved over his head. It was this movement that had attracted John’s attention. The ursine’s other paw was empty, and no weapon hung from his belt.

  John recognized something proud and even regal in his posture and bearing. He nudged Liz.

  “Wow,” she said. “He’s gotta be their chief.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She climbed down the inner ladder to fetch her bow. “It’s a hundred paces. I can’t promise I can get him at this range—”

  “Wait. Let’s not rush it. I believe he wants to negotiate.”

  Liz returned with her bow and a quiver. She began selecting an arrow. “My bow wants to negotiate, too.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll get him to come closer.”

  He picked up a reed bundle and waved it over his head, then climbed down the external ladder. As he walked to the barricade blocking the twisting passage in the brambles, he cast surreptitious glances to either side to see if any of the ursines were creeping closer for a sudden rush. Several of them peeked from behind pine trunks as they always had. None moved closer.

  It occurred to him that this might be a trick to distract their attention while the enemy tried to sneak in the back. He paused, connecting to Spot who had been spending the day in his lair at the north end of the glade. As the ursine chief continued to wave a pine branch over his head, John waited for Spot to confirm that the enemies were not massing up at the back of the clearing beyond the hazel bushes.

  The wolf reported only two sentries.

  As John approached the barricade, the ursine chief stopped waving the branch and spoke in his guttural and growly language. The brute pointed at John, then at the fort. He slapped his chest and indicated the forest around them. Opening his paws in an expansive gesture, he stomped his feet, rather emphatically.

  John shrugged. “Yes, I know we are surrounded.” He pointed at the ursine and then northward, making shooing motions. “Go back to your woods, why don’t you?”

  The ursine chief said something, his tone arrogant and haranguing. John supposed he was listening to a string of threats.

  “Well, fuck you too,” John replied, pleasantly.

  For a while, they stared in silence across the intervening space. Perhaps the bear wasn’t threatening. Maybe he was complimenting Liz’s beauty and archery skills. Or complaining about Spot howling all night. Or offering a treaty of eternal friendship and his younger daughter in marriage. No way to tell.

  The ursine resumed speaking, then stopped and waited for something. Presumably an answer.

  John slapped his chest, imitating the ursine’s gesture. “Growl-growl, rah-rah, I’ve not the foggiest idea what you’re saying. I could tell you about a portal opening between our worlds, but you won’t understand, so I’ll say just one thing: fuck off and die, asshole.”

  The ursine replied something, then turned to go. At that moment, one of his henchmen snarled urgently, probably a warning. An arrow buzzed overhead like a furious wasp, but the ursine chief was already diving for cover.

  John t
urned and looked at Liz incredulously.

  She shrugged and fit another arrow to the bow.

  Behind him, the ursine chief spoke again, indignantly, but this time he stayed out of sight.

  “Go to hell,” John told him.

  The ursine growled something in response. John expected him to say something else, but he didn’t. After waiting for a few minutes, John returned to their stockade and climbed up the ladder.

  “That was weird,” he said. “But I’m not sure shooting at negotiators is a good idea.”

  “Killing is negotiating, too. It shows we mean business and are not afraid.”

  “Well, it does, but it also shows that we’re treacherous.”

  “But we are.”

  He laughed. “Yes, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea to advertise it.”

  “The only thing I regret is that I missed.”

  “You scared him all the same. And that’s what matters.”

  “I love you, John.”

  “I know.”

  Chapter 72

  Bury Me under a Hazel Tree

  The next day dawned gray and cloudy. Wind-harried clouds raced each other, and the trees swayed and groaned. Peering over the parapet into the surrounding woods, John shivered under a damp bearskin. Beyond the expanse of brambles, their broad leaves glistening with rain, the dark conifers seemed less menacing than only yesterday. And the birds chanted more happily than before.

  Rain fell intermittently all night, and the wooden tub and buckets were two-thirds full. Enough to sustain them for a week. Tired after keeping the late-night watch, Liz slept in the wigwam.

  Off to the right, a furtive movement caught John’s attention. He strained his eyes to penetrate the gloom under the towering firs. Probably the ursines having a change of guard. But when he looked closer, he saw that it was a stag, browsing on rowan bushes that grew in the shade.

  A deer? Here? Now that’s odd, he thought. How come it’s not scared of the enemy sentries?

  Unless . . .

  Unless there were no sentries. Unable to contain his excitement, John rose, and the bear pelt slid off his back onto the walkway behind him. Cold drizzle fell on his shoulders, but he paid it no mind. The stag lifted its antlered head and glanced at him without interest, then resumed feeding. Beyond the first animal stood others—all grazing peacefully within a few feet of where the enemy sentries had hidden only last night.

  John forced himself to calm down. Perhaps the ursines were merely sheltering from the rain deeper in the trees. He picked up the discarded bearskin and wrapped it around his shoulders again. Time to connect to Spot, who had been sleeping in the thickets some way off.

  John closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked out of the wolf’s eyes at a colorless world. The poor animal, exhausted after several sleepless nights, got up with a groan, sneaked out of the thicket, and trotted to the nearest ursine camp. Lately, the old wolf would tire easily and always seemed out of breath. John had driven his loyal friend too hard in the past few days, and now he felt a prickle of guilt.

  Spot slunk out of the shadows and peered into the biggest enemy camp. A spooky silence filled the juniper-studded slope by the beaver pond. The crude pine-bough shelters clustered around a dying fire. No one was tending it. No one occupied the shelters either.

  The other four camps likewise stood abandoned. Spot made a slow circuit through the surrounding area, picking up four separate scent trails leading away into the forest. Two clans departed northward. One headed west, upriver, and another went east to the sea.

  Not a single enemy remained.

  Ecstatic, John released Spot and opened his eyes. He could barely contain himself. He briefly considered waking Liz, but she was no less weary than him. Maybe he should sleep, too.

  But how could you sleep if you want to dance a jig and holler the good news? Victory! The ursines are gone.

  Well, he’d holler later. He wrapped himself tighter in the bearskin, pulled a flap of it over his head, leaned against the parapet, and closed his eyes. Just for a while, just for a short bit. His mind drifted, like a boat slipping its moorings, and floated rudderless into the current.

  Some indeterminate time later, the creaking of the inner ladder jolted him awake. As Liz’s head appeared over the walkway, he sat up straighter and smiled.

  “Asleep on duty?” she said, not unkindly, then peered at him closer. “Why are you grinning like a Cheshire Cat?”

  “They’re gone.”

  “Who?”

  His grin grew wider. “The ursines.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  Stunned, she remained silent, staring at him incredulously. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Spot visited all four of their camps. All empty.”

  “Might be a ruse,” Liz said. “They might be planning a surprise return.”

  He lowered the external ladder. “We’re not easily surprised.”

  As he climbed down the rough wooden rungs, his vision suddenly dimmed and went out of focus. He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, and his heart thudded painfully against his ribs. His skin cold and clammy, he gripped the rung above him, trying to draw breath and failing. His nose filled with the cloying aroma of fir tree sap and needles.

  Green, so horribly green.

  Please God, not a stroke, he prayed silently. Not a heart attack. He clung to the ladder, dimly aware of Liz calling his name. He tried to speak, but no sound came. It took all his strength to stop himself from falling. A succession of disjointed, fuzzy images rushed through his mind. Tall grass rustling in the wind. A hollow between tree roots. Moss, smelling so fresh and alive after the rain. A huge furry animal as big as the world, nudging him with its damp nose. The taste of warm milk. Spot’s memories.

  And then, as abruptly as it started, the vision faded, and the sounds of the real world returned. He gazed up at Liz’s worried face. Blinked. Drew a shuddering breath.

  “John, what’s wrong?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Spot.”

  He climbed shakily all the way down, let go of the ladder, staggered a few steps, and slumped in the wet grass.

  Liz hurried after him. “The ursines got him?”

  He swallowed a lump and shook his head.

  She wrapped her arms around him. “What happened? Who killed him?”

  “I did.”

  She gripped him tighter. For a while, she was lost for words. At last she said, “You mean what’s been happening to you—the way you drained yourself—it must’ve been draining him, too.”

  Oh, how much I love you, Liz, some part of him thought. Sometimes it seemed that she plumbed his innermost soul, so perhaps a telepathic link existed between them, too. Or her fine analytical mind saw connections between things in the same way his brain did. “I drove him too hard,” he said. The worst thing about it wasn’t that he had driven the trusting creature hard, but that he’d never given it a second thought.

  Not until it was too late.

  “He was an old man,” she said. “It might’ve been his time.”

  A trickle of moisture rolled down his cheek. He ignored it. “Maybe so, but I hastened it.” He glanced at her. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

  In the wigwam, their baby awoke and cried. Liz stood up. “I’ll get George and my bow, and we’ll go looking for him. Any idea where he might be?”

  John nodded. The old wolf had a few favorite dens; he’d be in one of them. John thought of the Christmassy aroma of fir fronds. His fallen friend probably lay in his lair under the low-slung boughs at the north edge of the glade. Sheltered and dry, it was the perfect hiding place. Deeper in the forest, conifer branches didn’t grow so bushy close to the ground.

  ***

  They buried Spot under a hazel tree in their clearing, the faithful wolf facing the wigwam. Perhaps he’d watch after them from that unk
nowable beyond, into which so many had gone before. John smoothed the pile of dirt with an auroch shoulder blade he used for digging and laid three white stones in a line to mark the grave. He straightened his back and stood, gazing down at the patch of disturbed earth. Somewhere in its damp embrace, the wolf lay, his nose on his neatly folded front paws, his favorite tiger bone by his side.

  Liz had gathered a bouquet of daisies and cornflowers, its gold-blue brightness incongruously cheerful atop the somber gray mound. George sat propped up in his basket and watched the proceedings without understanding anything.

  John thought of something appropriate to say, but there was nothing to say to make it better, so they just stood in silence for a long while, listening to the wind rustling the hazel leaves. When George became restless, Liz picked him up, and the three of them left without saying a word.

  Chapter 73

  A Hasty Departure

  After a sleepless night spent keeping the fire going in the rain, Gnorrk crawled into his shelter to rest. At least here, a day’s walk from the enemy village, no wolves howled outside. The temporary camp lay on the north bank of the Little Salmon Stream, so Gnorrk had left the territory the dwarfs had stolen and the boundaries of which they’d marked with the heads of his slain warriors mounted on stakes.

  His siege of the dwarf village had ended in ignominious retreat. The memory of being defeated by a single wolf rankled like a festering sore. But what else could he have done? Denied sleep, his brave fighters turned into a bunch of neurotic females.

  Gnorrk ground his teeth. His standing among the clans had taken some beating. In a leader, failure was never welcome. But was that really failure? Everyone heard how he ordered the dwarfs to stay out of his woods. Since the dwarfs didn’t venture far from their village, there was no reason for anyone to doubt that the vile runts feared and obeyed him.

  As he twisted and turned to get more comfortable, he bumped his left foot that had been injured by a flying stick. It was only a scratch, but Gnorrk could easily see how it could’ve been very different. During the siege, half a dozen of his fighters had died and twice as many among the allies. A number succumbed to cowardly traps or were eaten by tigers while foraging. But others were felled by flying sticks. He supposed that diving for cover wasn’t dignified, but few warriors had seen him show fear. Just his bodyguards. And they knew how to keep their snouts shut.