by R Magnusholm
“Let’s sleep,” said Liz. “The reeds are flooded all the way to the mainland, and the water’s still rising. No ursine will come near till low tide.”
They climbed into their tiny shelter and stretched on both sides of the baby basket. Exhausted after an eventful day, John fell asleep at once.
Six hours later, he awoke in a cold sweat to a premonition of impending doom. Liz’s phone continued to play the Ode to Joy, insistently, on repeat. He blinked in the darkness of the shelter, sat up, and silenced the alarm. Time for his sentry duty.
“I can come with you,” Liz said. “If you want.”
“No, you sleep while George’s letting you.”
He pushed aside the entrance flap and climbed out. In the gray predawn light, black tree boughs arched overhead, enfolding them in their gnarly grip—an embrace that seemed more predatory than protective. He stood still, listening. While they slept, the wind had picked up, and leaves rustled all around him. After slinging his bow over his shoulder and making sure his axe was tucked under his belt, he gathered both of his spears and made his way out of the trees. He hid in the bushes by the mouth of the cove. The concealed position afforded him a clear view over much of the channel and the opposite bank.
The river flowed swiftly past, and the cove was nearly empty. In the ruddy light of Jupiter, the churning water gleamed like liquid bronze. The swaying reeds on the opposite bank were free of water. John suppressed a yawn and rubbed his eyes.
Once more, the fish escaping from the draining cove dashed through the shallows, cutting the surface with their dorsal fins. He imagined them being miniature sharks and smiled. On the opposite shore, nothing stirred but the wind-tossed reeds.
Chapter 89
Hate Most Savage
An hour later, the ebbing tide had reached its lowest level, and the water flowed at a more sedate pace, no longer gurgling but susurrating hypnotically.
John struggled to stay awake.
As his eyes began to close, he thought he spotted a two-legged figure move on the opposite bank, but when he peered closer, it was only a shifting shadow cast by a clump of bulrushes. Suddenly, a bird burst out of the reeds and flew into the night, screeching.
John strained his eyes to see, but there was nothing there except the reed heads swaying in the wind. Loons continued to call up and down the river, as before, but for some reason they had fallen silent opposite the island. Was there a tiger on the prowl? Thank God they had made a fire.
He became aware that the wind blew from the southwest now, carrying their smoke to the mainland. Well, that should scare any tigers away. It also gave away their location, but would the ursines really prowl in the marsh at night? Besides, compared to the conflagration eating the forest to the east, their tiny stream of smoke might go unnoticed.
Might . . .
Might was such a weasel word. He strained all his senses, then closed his eyes and projected his awareness outward. He detected a dense focus of hostility, some way off to the south, on the mainland. Was there anyone nearer, hiding in the reeds, too? He couldn’t tell. He shifted to get more comfortable on the hard ground and waited.
Minutes drifted by, and nothing moved but the dark night wind. Low in the western sky floated the crescent moon, sinking slowly before it vanished beyond the horizon. Jupiter rode high, peeking like a prying orange eye between swaying branches of willows. He shivered in the chilly breeze off the river and wished he’d brought a bearskin to wrap around his shoulders.
Fall was coming and then winter.
Well, at least the shivers kept him awake. Thoughts, sluggish with sleep, stirred deep within his mind, like lazy fish. He had no home and no castle, but he had a moat. And what a moat! Fifty yards at high tide, forty at low. A drifting cloud hid Jupiter, plunging the world into smoky grayness.
He shivered again. So cold. He’d better get that bearskin. As he began to rise, an anguished scream cut through the night. A triumphant tiger roar that erupted a heartbeat later froze John’s blood in his veins. Voices, jabbering and inhuman, snarled in the darkness somewhere beyond the channel. Ursine voices.
A dry twig snapped behind him, and he jumped to his feet, whirling around.
Liz emerged out of the trees, her bow slung over her shoulder. A bearskin was draped loosely over her shoulders.
She came to his side, and they listened to the commotion in the reeds. Footsteps splashed through the shallows, and an ursine call ululated in the dark, followed by savage snarls and roars. A battle was taking place, but in the morning stillness, it was hard to tell how far.
“They’re in the swamp,” he said. “The bloody ursines are looking for us.”
“A tiger got one.”
“Perhaps it was the other way around.”
“Or they got each other.” She chuckled with forced joviality. “One can always hope.”
The commotion gradually died down, replaced by an ominous silence. She leaned against him, and he put an arm around her.
Her voice uncertain, Liz said, “Maybe they don’t know where we are.”
He thought of the suspicious bipedal shadow he’d seen earlier, and of the loons calling everywhere except directly opposite their islet. “Our smoke’s been blowing toward the mainland for the past hour.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
He shook his head. “If we made no fire, we might have ended up as a tiger’s dinner.”
They sat down and huddled under the bear pelt. It easily covered them both. They remained silent for a long while. The clouds parted, and Jupiter shone once again. In its orange-brown light, everything seemed tinged with rust. The river flowed past sluggishly, without churning, but no heads bobbed in the water, and if anybody was spying on them from the reed bank, they stayed well out of sight.
Dawn broke in the east, pink and soot-streaked. Leaning against Liz’s shoulder, he must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again, the eastern sky had lightened to pale gold, backlighting columns of black smoke rising above the woods.
Liz said, “Get some sleep, John.”
“What if they try to come over?”
“I’ll wake you.”
He hesitated. Quite recently, he couldn’t imagine the ursines prowling at night through tiger-infested quagmires. What savage hate drove them?
Liz said, “I’ll keep watch until the tide turns. I’ve always wanted to see a tidal bore surging up the river.”
“You’ve seen it before.”
“Not at dawn.”
He kissed her, then headed back to their shelter, reckoning that even if the ursine scouts had found them, it would take them hours to report to their commanders, and for their main force to arrive.
George was breathing softly in his basket. John gently touched his son’s head, adjusted the rabbit skin cover to keep the little guy warm, pulled a fur pelt over himself, and closed his eyes. In three hours, they’d launch the Ra; the tide would be in by then. All they had to do was hold on until then. The pelt was thick, and he soon warmed up and fell asleep.
He couldn’t have slept for more than a few minutes, when hurried footsteps woke him up.
“John,” Liz whispered urgently. “We better get going. Now.”
He sat up groggily. Speckled golden sunlight streamed through the open flap. He must have slept longer than he’d thought.
She began tearing the hides off the roof. “The ursines are massing on the other bank. Get the skins. I’ll sweep the hot coals into the pot.”
John bundled up the hides, while Liz refilled the firepot with fresh embers. She grabbed the basket with their sleeping baby, and they hurried out of the woods to the cove. The forest fire had spread west, further than it had been when he’d gone to sleep, so he must’ve slept for at least two hours. Limned by the flickering firelight, scores of ursines lined the opposite bank, their beastly faces turned in their direction.
George woke with the insistent cry of a hungry baby, and the enemy stirred, breaking into an animated d
iscussion.
John stowed the bundle of hides aboard and tied them to the reinforcing timbers of the reed deck. He glanced at Liz. “How soon’s high tide?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
Liz shrugged. “Half an hour. Maybe less.” She stowed the baby basket amidships and lashed it to the mast.
The spot where the Ra lay in the tall grass was screened by willow bushes, so the enemy couldn’t see what John and Liz were doing. But when they began dragging the boat down to the water, the ursines grew agitated. The boat slid over the dewy grass as if it were on rollers. Once they reached the mudflat, the going became harder. But with him pulling on the mooring rope, and with Liz pushing against the stern, they still made fair progress.
“We’re a mile off the mainland,” he said. “And the reeds get flooded at high tide.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t the idiots realize they’re going to drown like Pharaoh’s army?”
Instead of replying, Liz ceased pushing the boat and picked up her bow. John glanced over his shoulder, and his heart sank. A dozen ursines were swimming across, using bundles of rushes as flotation aids, while the others gathered reeds to make more bundles.
Chapter 90
Paint it Red
Nocking an arrow to her bow, her hair flying in the wind, Liz struggled through the mudflat to the water’s edge, her feet sinking into the silt.
She stumbled and nearly fell, struggling to free her foot. The fastest ursine reached halfway across the channel. Liz’s first arrow flashed over the water and tore into the enemy’s head, the flint point punching through its thick skull. The monster jerked erratically and disappeared under the surface, releasing his bundle of reeds that fell apart and floated down the river in a scatter of stalks.
She shot again, and another ursine began thrashing in the water.
His arm muscles bulging with the strain, John pulled the boat, but without Liz’s help, he only managed to move it a few inches. His feet kept sinking and slipping, and he worried the mooring rope might break. He threw it aboard. With silt turning to squelchy sludge under his feet, he hurried to the stern and pushed.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Liz shooting arrow after arrow. With his head bent low over the stern, he couldn’t see her hitting her targets, but the ursine bellows of pain and rage told him that she was. The Ra moved forward an inch or two, then his feet slid out from under him, and he face-planted in the mud. And then Liz was in front of the boat, lifting the prow and pulling, and when John pushed again, the boat suddenly slid forward half a foot.
The water’s edge still lay five yards away.
“Liz, leave the boat. Shoot the fuckers. Shoot them,” he cried, pushing as hard as he could.
“I nailed some. The rest retreated.”
He pushed the boat in silence; Liz’s lifting of the prow helped the Ra slide across the mudflat. A scant four yards to go.
John slipped and fell on his face again. He struggled to his feet, breathing heavily, and spat out a gob of mud. On the opposite bank, the ursines were running upstream. The few that remained held reed bundles in front of them as shields and paced up and down in irritation.
The boat moved another half foot, then a few more inches. Liz glanced at him, a mix of hope and terror in her eyes. “And again. Push!”
He nodded and gave the stern a mighty shove. The boat slid forward again. He saw Liz crane her neck to peer upstream to where the ursines were heading. When she turned back, her face was pale as marble. He glanced upstream, but from his position he could see nothing through the wall of reeds.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
Instead of replying, she lifted the prow and pulled with all her might.
He pushed against the stern, and the Ra slid forward at least two feet. They would make it! He glanced at Liz and tried to smile reassuringly, but her eyes were wide and desperate.
“What is it, Liz? What are they doing?”
“Push John. Push.”
He did. The boat slid a few inches. As he took a step forward and braced his feet for a new heave, he peered behind the stand of reeds that had earlier blocked his view upstream. A hundred yards away, at the western tip of their isle, the channel was filled with bobbing heads and reed bundles. His heart gave a lurch and tried to climb up his throat. Beyond the range of Liz’s arrows, the enemy was crossing unopposed. How long would it take them to run along the length of the island?
The tangled thickets would not delay them for more than a couple minutes.
Oh, God, where was the tide?
Liz glanced beyond him toward the tree line, then met his gaze. A grim understanding passed between them. The enemy would fall upon them at any second now.
“One, two, three,” he groaned.
His feet scrabbling for purchase in the soft silt, he pushed as hard as he could. The boat began sliding. Faster and faster. Liz fell on her back, struggled to her feet, lifted the prow, and pulled. The boat kept sliding forward. John hadn’t suspected that he had such reserves of strength, but he had. He fell on his face again and again as his feet slipped from under him, and his heart became a trip hammer in his chest.
But the Ra was sliding. By God, it kept moving.
Two yards to go.
One yard.
The prow reached the water’s edge.
Then the front half of the hull was in the river. It became easier to push.
If only they had a few more seconds, a half-formed thought flashed through his mind.
Branches snapped behind them, and a savage cry rent the air. John grabbed his javelin that lay across the stern alongside his long-spear and his bow. He whirled around, lifting the weapon.
An ursine tore out of the woods and pelted down the grassy meadow. His short furry legs pumping under him and his long arms swinging, he held a gnarly club in his paw. Two more brutes followed close behind.
Liz’s bow twanged like some monstrous stringed instrument in the orchestra of Hades, and the leading enemy warrior fell and rolled down the slope.
The remaining two ursines leaped over their fallen comrade, closing in rapidly.
“Kill the nearest one,” Liz shouted, and her arrow buzzed past John’s shoulder.
One brute clutched at his chest, lost his stride, stumbled, but kept going.
John pulled his arm back and hurled the javelin.
The leading monster caught it in the middle of his abdomen. His paws flew up. He dropped his club and fell sideways.
The ursine shot by Liz remained on his feet. But when he reached the mudflat, his feet stuck, and he crashed on his face, driving the arrow deeper. He lay there, twitching and struggling to rise.
Liz grabbed the prow, and he leaned against the stern once more.
“One-two—” he grunted and shoved.
The Ra slid forward. He pushed again and felt water under his feet. Just an inch or so. Too shallow to float the boat. But water helped; it made it easier to push, for it seemed that the Ra had lost half its weight.
He heaved, and Liz pulled, and the boat half-floated, half-slid a whole yard. They were out of the mouth of the cove, the deep water just a few heaves away. Nearly safe now! He tried to catch Liz’s eye, but she was peering grimly at something to her left. He followed the direction of her gaze, and his bones turned to ice and his hair stood on end. A dozen brutes were swimming across the channel, heading directly for the Ra. The nearest were now mere yards away.
Heavy footsteps behind them. Ululating war cries.
He glanced over his shoulder. A seething mass of ursines, at least fifty-strong, flowed out of the woods like a black and brown flood. Furry legs pumped. Long arms swung. Clubs were raised in triumph, ready to kill. To kill him. To kill Liz. To kill tiny George.
Liz didn’t reach for her bow; it was futile. Too many targets. Too few arrows. Too slow a rate of shooting. Nothing short of a belt-fed automatic weapon would have stopped this mad charge of the ursine warband.
And so he pushed. And Liz pulled while George bawled on the deck, naively and innocently demanding his milk. The boat kept sliding forward, and suddenly John was in the water up to his ankles. Finally, the Ra floated. By God, it floated!
Chapter 91
You Die Now
The current caught their boat, dragging it downstream. John pushed again, and the Ra moved so easily that he and Liz had to run to catch up.
Behind his back, feet splashed through the shallows. He grabbed his long-spear and spun around. In the last instant before turning, he saw Liz clambering aboard.
A dozen ursines had reached the water, and more were crossing the mudflat. John thrust the spear at the closest enemy who was surging forward, his club upraised, huge fangs bared. The enemy made no effort to dodge the spear, and the flint point tore into the monster’s ribcage.
John jerked the weapon out, backing off from the advancing throng. He jabbed it at another target and felt it biting into the soft flesh. He kept retreating. The water became deeper, reaching to mid-thigh. He felt strangely numb as if he were operating his body remotely.
Behind him, Liz’s bow twanged again and again, but none of the bears attacking John had been struck. At whom was she shooting?
He took another step back, brandishing his spear at the enemy, and chanced a glance over his shoulder. Some of the ursines swimming across the channel had reached the shallows. Chest-deep in the river, at least a dozen of them headed to cut off the Ra’s escape. The nearest launched himself at the boat, took an arrow in the eye, and floated face down. But several others were reaching to grab the boat, and Liz could not shoot fast enough to stop them all.
Dark despair sank its icy claws into him. All was lost. All that titanic struggle for nothing. His previous skinny-latte-drinking urbanite self might have given up at that point and simply waited for the enemy to close in and put him out of his misery. But the new John was made of sterner stuff, and the life that was in him rebelled.