by R Magnusholm
The official version of events was that Gnorrk had issued orders, and the dwarfs, terrified and beaten, begged for mercy. The fact that he’d ceded part of his land irked him, but then again that patch between the Little Salmon Stream and the Great Salty River had always been contested territory among the clans. Politically, it might even have been advantageous that the dwarfs occupied it. But then he thought of his son Junior and the eighteen warriors slain by the cowardly interlopers who instead of coming out to fight had sent a wolf to ruin his sleep.
Those puny whelps would pay for this with their blood. He would think of some way to make them pay. Gnorrk imagined himself the smartest bear in existence, and no problem was too great for his genius.
He was still mulling over how to beat the dwarfs when uneasy sleep took hold of him.
When morning came, the rain stopped. The fire carriers lit the first reed torch from the bonfire and jogged north into the trackless woods. Annoyed and limping, Gnorrk followed at a more sedate pace, his bodyguards flanking him. With the reek of fire clinging to vegetation, it was easy to follow the trail.
By late afternoon, his party reached the Lake Country where the fire carriers had built a fresh bonfire. Gnorrk watched them as they gathered armfuls of reeds to produce more torches while others foraged for roots and berries. Under a rotten log, one young scout had found several juicy grubs. Gnorrk pushed him over and ate the tasty squirming things himself as the youngster looked on hungrily.
The night passed without incident, and at dawn the warband set off for their home, reaching it by midday.
Gnorrk marched into the village with all the fanfare of a returning conqueror. Females and little cubs gathered around him and his warriors, offering mushrooms and a few rather small salmon. The shaman shuffled toward him on his fat legs, congratulating him on his victory over the dwarfs.
“Any trouble while I was away?” Gnorrk asked.
“With the best hunters gone, we nearly starved to death.”
“You don’t look starved to me.”
“I . . . but I—” the shaman stuttered.
Gnorrk silenced him with an imperious sweep of his paw. “I expect a full report tomorrow morning after I’ve rested.” He strode purposely toward the village square.
The advance party that included the fire bearers waited for him by the communal lodge. A fire blazed merrily in its circle of stones.
The leader of the advance band, Strongpaw, had an oddly sour expression as if he had eaten too many unripe blackberries. Behind him stood the fire carriers, looking strangely crestfallen. By contrast, the ten aged warriors, who had been left to keep the home fire going, grinned proudly. Gnorrk’s gaze drifted from Strongpaw to the blazing fire, to the elderly guards. It was clear what had happened. The village fire hadn’t gone out as he’d feared, meaning that Strongpaw’s team had carried the flames across miles of trackless woods for nothing.
Gnorrk puffed up his chest and addressed the village guards, “Well done keeping the sacred flames going.” He turned to Strongpaw, “Good job carrying the fire and scaring off the tigers. We haven’t lost a single trooper.”
Strongpaw’s expression brightened.
Gnorrk nodded. There was more to leadership than bashing heads. A little praise now and again cost him nothing. He addressed his travel-weary retinue, “My friends, we rest now.” His voice climbed in volume as he spoke to the gathered crowd of females, cubs, and the elderly. “Tomorrow morning, I will tell you everything about our stunning victory. But now we’re too tired. And hungry.”
“There isn’t much food in the village,” the shaman cried petulantly. “With no one to hunt—”
“Oh, be positive,” Gnorrk said. His gaze drifted to the chief of the Salmon Clan, who stood off to one side with his one remaining warrior. As neither of them understood a single word spoken, they both grinned stupidly.
Gnorrk beckoned to Fleetfoot, a young hunter who spoke the Salmoner tongue. “How do you feel about becoming the chief of the Salmoners?”
Fleetfoot goggled back in incomprehension. “But they already have a chief.”
“But say if they didn’t? Think you could handle it?”
Fleetfoot hesitated. “But I don’t know anyone there. What if they don’t accept me?”
“I’ll send a strong war party,” Gnorrk said. “They’ll bash their heads until they beg to be led by you.”
Fleetfoot brightened. “And I’ll be able to have all of their females?”
“Of course.”
Fleetfoot may not be the brightest bear, but he certainly isn’t stupid, Gnorrk thought. He was a hard hitter with his club, and most importantly wasn’t timid. He’d make a fine chief. He wouldn’t allow a whole clan to desert.
Fleetfoot gave a sidelong glance to the Salmoner chief, who remained blissfully unaware that his fate had just been sealed. “What about him?”
“Why, the shaman says, we’ve got a food shortage. Any ideas how to solve it?”
“Let’s eat the Salmoners,” Fleetfoot replied promptly. He paused, hesitating. “But the hospitality rules… Isn’t it prohibited?”
“Do you want to be a chief or not?” Gnorrk asked in an insidious whisper. “To eat the best food and grab any female you please?”
“Well, yes.”
Gnorrk clapped him on the back. “You’re learning leadership fast. Now you just have to do the deed. Show me how you take decisive action.”
Fleetfoot snatched some mushrooms from one of the females and offered them to the Salmoner chief and his one warrior, saying something in their language. The Salmoners smiled, sat on a log in front of the fire, and began eating.
While they were thus distracted, Fleetfoot unhooked his club from his belt and stepped behind the allied chief.
In one smooth motion, Fleetfoot raised the weapon and brought it down viciously on the deposed chief’s head. The club hit with a wet crunch of breaking bone, and the stricken Salmoner pitched forward, dying with a piece of mushroom in his mouth. The last Salmoner warrior turned, his eyes widening in surprise.
Fleetfoot’s second swing caught him on the side of the head. It was a glancing blow that didn’t kill him outright. Blood pouring from his ear, the Salmoner tried to rise, a low, thin moan escaping his throat. Fleetfoot smashed the club down again but missed his target’s head, striking a shoulder instead.
The blow brought the Salmoner to his knees. His eyes wild and desperate, he struggled to scamper away. Whooping the Woodlander battle cry, Fleetfoot unleashed a flurry of blows. Blood spattered the feet of the curious spectators who had formed an eager circle.
“Bring me a chunk of liver, will you?” Gnorrk called over his shoulder as he headed into his hut. The shortage of fresh meat had been solved at a stroke.
Now that was leadership.
Chapter 74
A Coin Toss
Liz held a one-pound coin in her hand. “Best of three?”
“Okay.”
“Heads we stay. Tails we sail.”
Liz tossed the heavy coin up, the dull brass disk spinning twice or thrice—the only British pound in existence, at once priceless and worthless. She caught it and slapped it against the back of her left hand. Gingerly, she lifted her right hand to reveal the result. The profile of Queen Elizabeth II glinted in the morning sunshine. Seeing her here, in primordial woods, seemed incongruous, insane, surreal.
John swallowed a lump, pondering the wisdom of relying on a coin toss to make life-changing decisions. Sail into the unknown or stay in Camp Bramble? So many variables . . . so many possibilities. They had discussed the pros and cons for a month now as the summer gave way to an early fall of the first yellow leaves and shorter days. Soon, with the weather getting colder and windier, sailing away would cease to be a viable option. If their reed raft were snagged by submerged trees or torn apart by violent currents, they’d have to swim for it in icy water. With a baby.
Once again, Liz threw the coin up. Tails.
John thought b
ack to the first time he’d played a coin toss. He must’ve been five or so, and they’d been playing with pennies behind the bike shed of his primary school. Somehow, he’d managed to lose all his pocket money that day, which was some achievement, considering the fifty-fifty chance of losing. He’d never gambled since.
“One last time,” Liz said and tossed the coin up. She caught it, slapped it against the back of her hand, but hesitated to reveal the result. “This is so childish.”
“Yeah.”
After the departure of the ursines and death of Spot, he kept his promise to quadruple their water storage, so he had burned out two more logs to make troughs. The auroch hide tub had been emptied of the tannin solution, washed out, and filled with clean water. John surrounded the outside of the wigwam with various containers to maximize rainwater collection. They certainly wouldn’t die of thirst now. As for food, they had eaten the last of the cured bear meat and were smoke-drying venison. Plus, John had devised a way to kill rabbits with deadfall traps that consisted of a heavy log propped up on a wobbly stick. After placing traps on rabbit runs, they ate rabbit stew nearly every day.
The problem of obtaining intelligence on the ursine movements had been partially solved, as John had been able to entice a wolf pack into the surrounding woods. While he couldn’t form a close telepathic bond with any of the animals, he nonetheless still spied on their thoughts from time to time to glean if there were ursines nearby.
Liz moved her hand aside to reveal the coin. Heads. They exchanged a weary glance.
He said, “So we’re staying then.”
“It’s probably for the best.” She smiled ruefully, then spread her arms to indicate the surrounding clearing—their safe bramble atoll in a treacherous sea of forest. “This place we know, but that island might be chock-full of ursines and tigers and the devil knows what else. And without a wolf to warn us . . .”
“Uh-huh.”
“I know you wanted to go.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “As a consolation prize, let’s sail to that small island that we didn’t reach the last time. But we must have proper oars with rowlocks and all. It might be only a fifty-yard channel, but who knows what currents are there.” She pulled him close and pressed her lips to his, briefly. “And I can give you another consolation prize once I settle George for the night.”
He put his hands on her hips and pulled her closer. “What do you have in mind?”
“Something special.”
His hands slid lower to fondle her bottom. He nuzzled her ear. “Like what?”
“That old tiger fat has gone quite inedible, so I’ve invented a new use for it.”
“A tallow lamp?” he said. “For romantic lighting?”
She smiled enigmatically and gazed at him from under lowered eyelashes. Her hand slid down his stomach, her fingertips brushing his manhood through the deerskin kilt he wore. “Oh, I see you’re already up for it.” She pushed him off.
“I’ll start working on the oars immediately.”
“Good idea. I’ll rustle up some supper. Do you want mushrooms or burdock roots with your rabbit stew?”
“Can you put in both?” he said. “For variety’s sake.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Sure.”
Chapter 75
The Tiger Grease
Later that night, after settling George, Liz pulled the deerskin curtain closed in front of the baby’s sleeping corner, which they now called the second bedroom.
The ruddy glow of embers in the fire pit rippled over the woven willow and reed walls. The flames hissed and popped companionably. Outside, owls hooted, and wolves howled in the distance somewhere off to the north.
She knelt on the tiger skin by his side. “Not sleeping yet?”
“No, I’m awaiting my consolation prize.”
She nuzzled his neck. “You smell of the river.”
“So do you.”
They had bathed in the stream as they did most evenings. Oh, the blissful days of summer!
She unbuttoned her blouse—the same one she had worn on day zero. Slightly frayed, after repeated washes in ash water it was no longer white but pearly gray. In the dim firelight, it looked like a top-of-the-line negligee.
He reached for her. “You’re beautiful, Liz.”
She giggled, wriggling out of her deerskin skirt. “Aren’t you hot under those covers?” She pulled them off him, finding him naked. His manhood stood to attention like a lone soldier on a parade ground.
They knelt on the luxurious pelt, facing each other, their lips locked. It’s moments like these that make life worth living, he thought as his hands explored her body. Down her back to her trim posterior. Up again, caressing her breasts, moving lower to her flat stomach. Impossible to believe that Liz was the same woman who had held the door open for him on their last day on Old Earth. When they fell out of the familiar world, she had been plump and middle-aged, but now she looked hotter than that gym bunny he’d seen on the way to work. That young lady had probably spent most of her free time on empty exercises, so that she could sport tight-fitting yoga pants in public, drawing the lustful gazes of men and envious glances of women. By contrast, his Liz hadn’t spent a single minute doing sit-ups or lunges.
She simply lived and worked and fought.
His fingers slid down her tummy into her bush, then lower, stroking her there, in the center of her pleasure, the way he knew she liked.
Her breathing grew shallow and fast. She moaned in the back of her throat, the sound tinged with regret that was both eager and wistful, and pushed his hand off. Her lips left his, and she gasped. “Don’t make me come so quickly.”
“Mmm, okay.”
“I have something special in mind . . . something involving tiger fat.”
His mind raced with possibilities. He could think of a few uses. He suggested the most innocent one, while his hands slid down her back to stroke her bottom, so pert and soft. “I could make a tallow lamp. All the better to see you.”
Her eyes gleamed with reflected firelight. When she spoke, her voice had a trace of huskiness. “I’m planning to use it for contraception.”
“But, Liz, I’m not sure—”
She pressed her lips to his, her hand taking hold of his member and sliding up and down along its length. Breaking the kiss, she said, “Think laterally not literally. Tiger grease is perfect contraception if used in a certain way.”
“Well, I . . .”
Liz bade him to lie back and straddled his legs. From a basket hanging on the wall, she fetched a small clay pot, opened the lid and dipped her finger in. “Ah, just the right consistency.”
John crossed his arms behind his head and watched her apply a generous dollop of fat to the tip of his rod. She put the pot aside and began slathering his shaft from tip to root.
“You know, Liz, this is the first time anyone put tiger grease on my cock.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
She moved up, straddling his lower stomach, and reached behind her, taking hold of his greased manhood. “Now, don’t move. I’ve never had it stuffed up my bottom before.”
He kept perfectly still.
As she leaned back, he felt the tip of his rod pressing against her yielding resistance. Liz gasped as it began pushing into her. She stopped. “Wait, wait . . .”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, silly, but it’s very tight.”
She leaned back some more, and his manhood slid deeper into her. He fondled her breasts, finding her nipples hard. Her hot tight tunnel gripped his throbbing member; the sensation was exquisite. He had to look away from her beautiful face and from her loose hair cascading over her naked shoulders. The way her tresses simultaneously concealed and revealed her breasts drove him wild. How could such perfection even exist? He had to distract himself; to think of something else, or he would empty himself into her instantly and ruin the erotic experience for both of them.
She sank still lower onto him, and he felt he
r cool posterior pressing against his thighs. He was as deep inside of her as possible. He reached down and caressed her clit with his thumb. She was so wet down there, so slippery.
Minutes drifted by, never to return. A single star twinkled in the circle of night visible through the smoke opening of the wigwam.
She began gasping softly and rocking back and forth. “Oh, that feels nice,” she whispered, her voice throaty and catching. “Move. I want to feel being taken.”
Still rubbing her clit, he started thrusting slowly.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Oh fudge, oh sugar. This is just . . . too much . . . mmm. I’m going to come—” Her entire body turned rigid for a moment, and then she collapsed forward, breathing hotly against his neck.
And then suddenly, he reached a point of no return, tumbled past it, and it came soaring out of him, as a tidal wave of pleasure swept away all intelligent thought. In a haze of bliss, he thought of his seed pumping into her, the tiger grease contraceptive working like a charm. Perfectly safe, no risk of an unplanned pregnancy. And what a final indignity to inflict upon the hissy brute . . .
Afterward, she stretched by his side, her hand tracing random patterns among the hairs of his chest. “Did it feel better than a handjob?”
“Mmm . . . far more intimate. And for you?”
She didn’t reply at once, then said, “When we do it in the usual way, I always worry. I have my hands full with George. I want him to walk and talk before we expand our family. Well, today for the first time, I wasn’t worried.”
“Liz, in all my forty years, I’ve never come by accident.”
She giggled. “Forty . . . you’re sure you got that right? You look no older than twenty-five.”