Page 1 of Caveman Alien’s Horn (Caveman Aliens #26)
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- Cora -
I look up from my work, my heart suddenly beating fast.
Someone’s coming through the jungle.
I bounce to my feet, wanting to hide. Nobody ever comes here, and I’m super sensitive to sounds I can’t immediately place. Thankfully I have a dense bush specifically to hide behind, so I crouch down and peer through the leaves.
I relax when I see who it is. Astrid makes sure I know she's coming. She deliberately rustles the leaves and branches of the tree that is my home before she slowly walks past the thick trunk and out into the little clearing that is my backyard.
I straighten up so she can see me.
“Oh hi, Cora. There you are.”
She’s looking good. Her dinosaur skin dress is clean and hugs her shape in a way that speaks of good tailoring tools and materials. And of good, nutritious food. Her shiny, black hair is tied back with ribbons, and she has a narrow belt around her waist, a small knife in a sheath, and several pouches for useful things. The straps of her gladiator sandals wind their way up her legs to right under the knees.
That’s longer than necessary, I reflect. It’s for the look.
Yeah, the tribe girls are doing fashion now.
I quickly run my hands down my sides to straighten my own grass-woven skirt and tunic. I feel like a medieval farmer visited by a noble lady from the city. I also can’t help wondering where her dragon is. That alien horror can’t be far away.
I put my hands at my hips. “Hi. I wasn’t expecting you.”
She comes over and leans in for a quick hug. She smells of wood smoke and crushed flowers mixed with something else, clean and fresh. It’s a designed fragrance, another fashion item. Jungle chic.
“I know. Sorry, I know we agreed I wouldn’t come back here.”
I tilt my head to the side. “So it must be important.”
It’s not the warmest of welcomes. But I’m in two minds about Astrid being here. On one hand it’s nice to be remembered and not ignored. On the other hand, the more she comes here, the more likely it is that my precious hiding place is discovered by others.
She unshoulders a leather pack and lowers it to the ground. “I’m not even sure, Cora. Probably more important to me than to you. It’s just, last time we met, I don’t think I expressed myself that well. And I didn’t have anything useful for you. So I brought that.” She touches the pack with her toe. “Just some food and medicine and tools you might need. Some clothing. One of the breads that Bronwen bakes. Fresh from the oven. It’s good.” She gives me a shy glance.
“Thanks.” I have to control myself and not launch into a deep conversation with Astrid, catching up the way I really want to. But I know where that will lead, and I’m determined not to go there. “The vismonks don’t know how to bake anything.”
Astrid looks around carefully. “Vismonks? The local creatures with twelve arms? The cavemen call them ‘gray ghosts’.”
“I just think they look like the Hindu god Vishnu, who’s often depicted with many arms. And they also remind me of monkeys. Vishnu-monkeys.”
Astrid’s face lights up with a smile. “Vismonks. I get it. Not bad. Are you close with them?”
No, I’m not going to be baited. I just look at her.
“Anyway,” she goes on, fidgeting with her belt, “the girls really want you to join us in the Borok village. They worry about you.”
“No need. I’m good. I probably worry more about you guys. Remind me, how many of you are pregnant now? With aliens? ” I can't keep my tone neutral. I think they're absolutely nuts.
Astrid sighs. “I think I told you that Bryar is about to pop. Piper isn’t far behind. Bronwen is showing. Alba… we’re not sure.”
I look behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of that freaking dragon alien she married. But he’s staying out of sight. “And you?”
She looks away. “Too soon to know, one way or the other.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure if any of you grasp how insane it is. They might all tear in half during the birth. God knows what kind of creature will come out. Anything could go wrong.”
She shrugs. “We know that. We figure that if we can get pregnant at all by the cavemen, then we can’t be that different from them. Probably they’ll be close to normal human babies. They’ll be big, though. That’s a concern. But Bryar’s belly isn’t any bigger than other pregnant women I’ve seen. And anyway, we have to be positive about it because there’s nothing we can do.” She gives me a significant look. “But you, with your special?—”
“Yes, I get it,” I snap before she can continue. “Sorry, you got yourselves into this mess. I’m not about to share your fates. It’s been less than a year with those cavemen. What happens when your husbands tire of you? Or when the other tribesmen start wanting women for themselves, gang up, and kill their husbands in the night? Or when your dragon decides that he misses his hoard after all? No, I think I’ll stay here. It looks as if I’m doing better than you guys anyway. I’ve been perfectly safe here the whole time. There’s been no battles or monsters or wars. Can you say the same?” I know I’m mostly trying to persuade myself. Of course I want to help. I really do. But this is life or death stuff. It looks to me as if the girls are in a really bad pickle, and I’m not about to join them.
“I’m not sure we got ourselves into anything,” Astrid counters, eyes flashing. “Piper got us out of the tunnels and into a real village, and suddenly we were much better off. We don’t starve, we’re respected, we can make things, and we don’t have to dread waking up in the morning. Things there are a little different than you seem to think. I wouldn’t invite you there if I wasn't sure it would be safe.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” I say soothingly. “I know that. My judgement of what is safe and what isn’t is a little different from yours, I guess.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks away. “I guess so. Cora, if this is about the way we split up way back then, in the tunnel… that was all me. I’m so sorry. I lost my mind and chased you away. I’ve thought about you every day since. I convinced myself that if I found you, it would be okay. You could get a better life, like we did. But this…” She chokes up.
In two quick steps I’m next to her and embrace her. “Don’t worry about ancient history, Astrid. I was no better than you. I don’t even remember what we said. But I bet you were right. Look, I know I’m being a total bitch about this whole thing. I do really want to come with you and see Bronwen and Alba again, meet Bryar and Piper and everyone. But I’m serious about this. I’m safer here. You chicas may be safer in that village, I don’t know. It’s just not for me. I have to go with my gut feeling.”
“Yes.” Astrid sniffles and wipes her eyes. “I know.”
We stand there and look at each other.
Astrid and I are not natural friends. She’s smart as a whip, direct and active. And she has a tendency to dominate a group. She gets things done and does the hard things herself. Whereas I was always a bit of a rebel, choosing my own path. When someone wants to tell me what to do, my immediate reaction is to disobey. But I’m well aware that I overreacted badly back when I left the tunnel after a fight with her. I never intended to return, even if it killed me. Which it almost did, more than once. Then the vismonks found me, and I didn’t have to go back. Several years later, here we are.
I reach out and pinch the fabric of her dress. “I hope that pack contains one of these fancy things. What is that, Dior?”
Astrid chuckles. “I think it’s Chanel.”
“Oh yeah. You can tell by the pockets.”
“Pockets everywhere is so Chanel,” she says and gathers herself up. “And the thick dinosaur hide. Anyway, there is one in the pack. It’s mostly Alba who makes these.”
“Thanks. I prefer Alba to any other brand.”
She bends down to adjust a sandal. “I’ll tell her. All right, Cora. If you change your mind, you know where we live.”
“Sure. Thanks for coming. But please, Astrid — this was the last time. I don’t want to be found by anyone else.”
“Hmpf. I tell you, some people are so stubborn .” She gives me a wry smile and walks back the way she came, under the tree.
She looks amazing in her short dress. The light brown sandal straps contrast with her dark skin. Bracelets and thin leather straps adorn her wrists. She's healthy and strong, determined and capable. Even more now than the way I remember her. She always had a brittleness to her. That’s completely gone, even in this awkward meeting. That dragon has been good for her, I think.
She turns. “Remember the flying saucers the Plood used to bring us here? There’s one that’s abandoned. Praxigor says it works, but I’m not sure we can trust his opinion, because dragons never use machines and hate using tools.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh?”
She points. “Due west. Aim for the sunset until you reach the coast. That’s the edge of the continent. It’s so close to the beach you can hear the waves crashing. That’s all I know. So long.”
She walks on, under the tree that’s my home, and into the jungle on the other side. Soon after, I hear the soft sound of dragon wings beating, feel a brief pang of sheer terror, and then relax as the dragon and his passenger rise in the air and probably set course back to the village. The foliage is too dense for me to see them.
I pick up the pack and climb up in the tree, straddling a thick branch. Solid surfaces are a rare thing up here, so I hang the pack on another branch and take out the items, one after the other.
There are a few small pots with various concoctions, marked with something as refreshing as actual writing. Infections, says one. Stomach issues, says another. A big one is marked Sobriety, and the liquid inside smells strongly of alcohol. One pot contains a lotion-like substance I might try in my absolute rat’s nest of hair. Or on my skin. It smells good.
Bronwen’s bread is wrapped in a thin layer of woven leaves and smells incredible. It’s even warm to the touch, so it must be straight out of the oven.
There’s more food, dried meats and such, as well as a knife in a sheath, a pair of sandals, a wooden comb, soft leather underwear, and the dress. It may not be Chanel, but right now, Alba really is the best brand I can imagine.
“Thanks, girls,” I sniffle as I repack it all. “This is like Christmas.”
Damn. Should I just go there? They have all kinds of nice stuff in that village, to the point where they can fill sacks with them and just give them away. I live in absolute poverty by comparison. I don’t even have leather, because the vismonks don’t hunt like the cavemen do. All my garments are woven from grass and straw and rough natural fibers, which means they’re pretty loose and comfortable, but they mostly don’t last long.
Nah. I don’t really care. I’m well fed, I’m safe, I’m warm and dry. And I don’t have to go out into the jungle to hunt or gather food. I have a big tree to live in, and I haven’t seen a dinosaur for probably a year or more. It’s as close to a luxury life as I can get on Xren.
I spot movement at the corner of my eye, but pretend not to notice.
“I’ll find places for all these things,” I say out loud as I rearrange my various pouches made from stiff, woven bark and other fibers. This shower of gifts more than doubles my store of possessions. “Living light is the trend,” I mutter. “All the cool jungle kids are doing it— oh, you startled me!”
A small vismonk drops down from a branch above and lands in front of me, one hand lifted with its tiny fingers flexing fast. It’s the sign for laughter, as far as I can understand.
I give the vismonk boy a smile, making sure to not show teeth. He didn’t startle me at all, but he’s young and he likes to sneak up on me like that. “Hi, Eric. I thought it was a big raptor coming to get me!”
He shows me the sign for ‘I got you’ and sits down.
I’m always astonished at how these things can get all their arms out of the way so they can move around and do things. They’re immensely flexible, and the arms are very thin when they’re not being used. It’s no surprise that they use sign language to talk among themselves, although I’ve gotten Eric to say a few words in English, too. So they have the ability to talk, but I think it’s just easier for them to use their arms. And it’s quieter, which is a major plus in a jungle where danger lurks behind every tree.
“Yes, you did,” I sign back. Learning their full language would be impossible for someone with only two arms, but over the four or five years I’ve been here, I’ve been able to pick up a good few words and phrases. “Such a quiet hunter!”
He puts a small, black hand on the pack Astrid gave me.
“Yes,” I tell him with my hands. “Is new. Is mine now.”
He loses interest in it and starts pawing at the bag that has the bread in it.
“You can smell that, huh? All right, let’s take a look.” I unwrap the bread from its leaves. The inside has writing on it:
There’s more where this came from. If you want jam or butter on it, you know where to go.
(That was a hint. Did you get it?)
PS. We don’t actually have butter. Do you? Name your price. We will pay with pretty leaves.
I smile to myself. That message is very Bronwen, and she’s the baker.
I pull the knife out of its sheath. “That looks sharp.”
Eric stares at the blade and makes a ‘don’t like’ gesture. The vismonks are smart, but they don’t use metals, as far as I know.
It’s a nice knife, though. Long and thin, it could be tied to a stick to make a pretty good spear.
“Or it can slice bread.” I carefully insert it into the crunchy crust and slice around the end of it. I think I see a small puff of steam from the warm insides, but it could also be my imagination.
The scent is wonderful — there’s the sweet tone of any freshly baked bread, mingled with a whiff of walnut and cardamom. The girls must have found some good spices in the jungle after I left. The slight hint of honey is definitely my imagination. I’ve never seen a bee on this planet.
Not wanting the hard heel to be the first piece I taste, I cut a thick, irregular slice and bite into it.
It’s warm and soft and perfect. There’s a nutty warmth, sweetness, and just enough of exotic spices to be interesting but not overpowering. The crust is crispy and thin, a dark brown on the top to a golden sheen on the sides. Oh, to be able to have this every day…
“Those girls fight dirty,” I mutter as I chew.
Eric looks at me in wonder with his huge, luminous eyes. I kind of get why the cavemen call them ‘gray ghosts’. If I met one of these in the jungle at night, I’d scream.
I hold out the heel. “Here. You’ve got sharper teeth than mine.”
He accepts it and turns it over in three of his hands. Then he takes a bite, impressive fangs showing, and chews with an open mouth.
“I hope it’s not bad for you,” I tell him. “But it’s made from all Xren ingredients. Locally sourced.”
He takes another bite, then carefully puts the rest of the piece down on top of the branch.
“Not your thing? Fine. More for me.” I demonstratively push the rest of my piece into my mouth and cut another one. After years of living on berries and fruits and roots, having access to actual baked goods is a luxury I can’t resist. I fully intend to eat the whole loaf in one go.
“It’s best when newly baked,” I explain to Eric. “No use in letting it go stale.”
I discreetly look around for more of his kind. Adults from his tribe of vismonks check on me at least once a day, but today there hasn’t been anyone and sunset is approaching. “I’m not in the doghouse, am I?”
In sign language I ask, “They not like the dragon?”
Eric gestures fast with four hands, not giving me a chance to see what he says. But it doesn’t look positive.
I’m not surprised. Astrid’s dragon husband is scary. And I’ve never even seen him, just felt his presence in the shape of a sudden wave of intense, inexplicable fear. I can’t blame the vismonks for not wanting him here. And they must realize that the dragon has something to do with me, although I sure never wanted him here, either.
The vismonks are also a reason I don’t want to leave. The tribe has kept me alive for years, protected me and given me a home. I can’t see how they could possibly have profited from it. I’m nothing but a drain on their resources, a charity case. They like the weaving I do for them, and some of the dishes I make from the raw food they bring me are popular with the younger ones. Still, they’ve been incredibly kind to me and I don’t want to repay them by suddenly quitting on them for somewhere that’s supposedly better.
Eric makes his ‘goodbye’ sign, drops down to a lower branch, and is gone.
“See you later.” I grab the pot of booze the girls gave me and climb the tree, past my loom and my bed and my various hanging bags with supplies. The tree is not very tall, but extremely wide, and it has prevented any other tree from growing nearby. It’s in the perfect spot — because of the terrain, nobody can easily spot it, and getting to it would mean climbing and traversing a dry riverbed-slash-waterfall that’s quite rocky and not worth the effort. No caveman has ever come up to the tree, although I’ve often heard them walk nearby. They probably don’t know it’s here, despite it being quite close to their village.
At the top of the crown, the upper branches split out and curve down in an umbrella-like pattern. In the middle there’s a natural platform about ten feet square where I sit every night if the weather permits.
Climbing up, I sit down in the middle, open the pot of fruit wine, and listen.
The cavemen of the Borok tribe will often pass nearby, in a narrow opening in the middle of a rocky outcropping. It’s really the only way to pass if they want to avoid climbing twenty feet up vertical cliffs. It’s a good place to rest, and often they will sit there and talk quietly. But not quietly enough — from just listening to them and sometimes watching them from my hiding place in the tree I’ve been able to learn a bit of their language. The structure is simple enough, and the words are logical. It’s just the throaty sounds that can sometimes be tough.
“But who cares,” I say softly as I pour the wine into a clay mug I’ve made. “I’ll never have to talk to a caveman.”
I turn my head and squint into the light of the setting sun. So there’s an abandoned flying saucer somewhere by the coast? It could be our chance to return to Earth. If it works and if we find a way to use it. And if it doesn’t get crushed by some dinosaur stampede first. I guess it can be a project to find out, if ever I feel like walking for weeks through the deadly jungle and then having to search an entire coastline for it. It's not a journey I can make on my own, I think.
I turn around and gaze over at the hazy, red spot in the distance, over the treetops. It’s the Mount in the Borok village, the huge rock that the girls live on top of. Or at least some of them.
I don’t hear the distant sounds of drums tonight, so there's no feast or celebration. But as the sun quickly sets I see the calmly dancing light of the big tribal campfire.
When it becomes dark enough, I also see a tiny point of light, the fire on top of the Mount. The girls are there, cooking dinner and probably talking about the crazy hermit who refuses to join them. Once in a blue moon the breeze brings me a hoot of girlish laughter or a couple of bars of an out-of-tune version of Shape of You , and I wish I was there with them.
I take a sip of the wine, finding it not too sweet and probably pretty strong.
“Cheers, girls,” I say as I hold the mug up towards the Mount. “I may be crazy, and I may be lonely, but I’m safe .”