Page 3 of Caveman Alien’s Horn (Caveman Aliens #26)

3

- Cora -

It all happens so fast I can’t keep up.

There are some strange noises from a tree, a giant raptor comes charging right at me, the raptor hits something invisible that’s still alive somehow, it limps away, and there’s a bit of the air that shimmers.

The shimmer comes closer, and I back off, heart beating wildly in my ears. That thing pretty much has to be a dragon like Astrid’s. It’s not a regular caveman.

Someone yells something from the woods.

And something slowly becomes visible in front of me, part of the jungle and yet not. I can’t really focus on it. There are colors, skin, and something that looks like scales. It looks like it’s wearing a piece of brown leather as it towers over me in the most intimidating way.

I back off further, hand frantically searching for the knife that I just remembered I have.

Suddenly there’s a horn, floating in the air. It’s dripping with blood.

I can't hold back the scream. It's all too much, too fast.

There are green eyes under the horn, the shape of a giant caveman wearing some kind of camouflage that makes him practically impossible to see.

The apparition draws away, fast. There's the sound of running feet and a thin yell from the woods, the caveman language, something about 'part of you'.

The sounds quickly vanish and everything is quiet again, except for the crashing sound of the raptor wildly running through the dense jungle until it suddenly goes quiet. It must have fallen off the cliff.

Heart racing, I crouch down and quickly look around for more dangers. I may be surrounded by invisible aliens.

Still clutching my knife, I stay down until I'm sure there are no movements nearby.

“Damn,” I mutter when several minutes have passed with no more threats. “What the hell was that? ”

The tree and this clearing have been completely safe until now. And then suddenly several horrors attacking at the same time.

Just days after Astrid found me the first time. And just after she’s been here again. That can't be a coincidence.

“Thank you so fucking much, ” I seethe. “Just had to tell everyone, huh?”

But I’m being unfair. I’m sure the girls kept their mouths shut. It could be as simple as someone happening to see where the dragon landed and wondering what there might be in that spot that’s so interesting. I am pretty close to the Borok village, after all.

I’m still jumpy, so I gather my stuff and climb back into the tree. My big loom is about halfway up, held in place by strings and thin ropes I’ve painstakingly made myself from various fibers.

Building the weaving loom is probably my greatest accomplishment on Xren. Thick, roughly hewn limbs form the main frame, along with some branches of the tree itself. They're lashed together with strong vines and supple twigs, creating a pretty solid platform high above the forest floor. Instead of delicate threads, I’ve strung thick strands of dried grasses, reeds, and plant fibers tautly between the upper and lower beams, forming the warp. The heddles, used to separate the warp threads, are simple loops fashioned from smaller, flexible branches and tied with more plant fiber. For treadles I use thin sticks that I have to operate with my hands.

The whole thing is about the size of a dinner table and it is the most primitive, ridiculous contraption anyone ever saw. It’s like something out of the Flintstones . But it works well enough for me.

As the shuttle I use a smooth, hefty stone. It’s one of the few strokes of luck I’ve had on Xren — it already had a hole in it, so I didn’t have to spend weeks or months drilling one with other rocks. I just had to widen the one that was already there. At the time, I took it as a sign that the planet would allow me to flourish. A couple of years later, I think the term is probably ‘barely survive’.

And I wonder if today, planet Xren changed its mind.

But if it wants to evict me from this tree, it’ll have a fight on its hands.

Using the strings I spent the morning making, I carry out small improvements on the loom. It’s not the sturdiest of machines, and the small branches tend to break. The various strands I have to use also break much easier than Earth threads, but I’ve learned to be smooth and careful and quiet when I weave. The loud clack-clack that I’m used to from Earth looms would attract all kinds of attention.

Keeping a nervous lookout below, in case something comes to get me again, I continue working on a sheet of fabric that is the finest I’ve made so far. The trick is to find soft plant fibers, soak them and extract them over days and weeks until I can spin a decent thread from them. These ones took me years to find and months to work with until I got it right. They are so thin and strong I’m starting to wonder if I will be able to make a fabric that I can make real, foldable clothes from. It will be much coarser than cotton, but not as rough as burlap.

“Canvas may be a quality to aim for,” I say softly to myself, “or really stiff denim, and that will be orders of magnitude better than?—”

I freeze.

There’s movement beneath the tree.

It’s Eric. And some of his adult vismonk tribemates.

Seeing several of them at the same time is rare. And it gives me an unpleasant feeling. They’re not here for fun.

I climb down and make the friendly greeting sign, both palms held up and moving towards them.

They respond in kind, which is mildly reassuring. There’s at least ten of them, but most of them are walking and crawling around in the bushes around the clearing, as well as right next to me.

I recognize the one standing still. She’s the one I call Diana — for some reason she reminds me of Olenna Tyrell from Game of Thrones , the scheming elderly lady who was played by Diana Rigg. She looks older than the other vismonks, and she has a regal bearing to her. I haven’t seen her for probably two years.

She gestures slowly enough and with few enough arms for me to follow. “There was a raptor here. And a caveman.”

“Raptor.” I gesture. “Not see caveman.” That thing I saw looked nothing like a caveman. But someone in the woods was yelling in their language.

“At the same time,” she goes on.

I make the very useful sign meaning something like “I accept what you say, but cannot confirm.”

“There was a dragon and a tribeswoman here,” Diana goes on.

“Yes. The woman my friend.”

“Will they come back?” Diana’s gestures are much more sophisticated than mine, using all kinds of grammar and small secondary gestures that I think are meant to add nuance and emphasis. It’s all lost on me.

“Not know. Woman and dragon not. Caveman, not know. Raptor, not know.”

“The raptor is dead,” Diana gestures, adding another hand for the sake of speed. “It fell off a cliff and we killed it. Unfortunately we weren’t able to come here in time to ward it off completely. We thought this place was hidden from anyone but irox. And we were busy elsewhere.”

The other vismonks gesture to each other and slowly saunter away. Only Diana, Eric, and a couple of adult males stay. There’s a calm grimness to them all that I don’t like.

“What happen?” I ask.

“Cavemen,” she says curtly with a quick, cutting move of one hand, indicating someone slashing with a sword. It’s not a sign I’ve seen used a lot — these guys tend to avoid the cavemen.

“What they do?”

“The cavemen are bad,” Eric tells me with his hands. “Mean cavemen.”

“The same ones here?” I ask.

“We don’t know,” Diana says. “I wish you to come with us.”

I have no reason to not come, except that I’d prefer to not leave my tree and the clearing. But the vismonks should be able to keep me safe.

Diana walks through the undergrowth on her powerful legs, while the others bounce along with us. They’re tremendous jumpers, the vismonks.

We walk downhill, past rocks and bushes, making our way down the steep incline that I remember from when the vismonks first brought me here. It doesn’t look like it’s possible or worth the effort to climb, which is why the tree seemed so safe.

I immediately remember why I fear the jungle. It’s so dark, so stifling and so alive . There are sounds and movement everywhere.

We approach a group of vismonks, some sitting down.

In the middle are three that are injured, one lying with its head in the lap of an adult female. Another is gingerly cradling one hand, and a third is clutching its knee.

“The cavemen did that,” Diana tells me as we come to a stop. “And we were nearly too late to save him.”

The vismonk on the ground is bleeding from wounds in his legs. It looks like something’s cut into them from all sides. The second is bleeding from its wrist, and the third has a cut all around its knee.

On the ground there are cut-up and bloodied pieces of three nasty-looking strings that have been covered in dinosaur fat.

“Snares,” I say out loud. “They were trapped.”

Diana looks at me. “Caveman set traps,” she gestures, using a sign I haven’t seen before but which is pretty obvious. “He went into it and was caught. Then he was hoisted high up and he couldn’t get away.”

“Very bad,” I gesture, wishing I knew more words of sympathy. “He brave.”

“Brave indeed,” Diana tells me. “Perhaps too brave. He made no sound, so as not to alert the cavemen that their trap had sprung. And yet, his friends came to free him. There were other traps, especially set to trap the helpers. Both were caught. All three stayed still. But that also meant that we didn’t know they had been trapped.”

I squat down to look closer at the injuries of the vismonk that’s lying down. His furry leg is all bloody, because he was hanging upside down and that’s the way it flowed. The cuts look nasty, dirty and oozing fluids. And I don’t like the grease on the snare. That must be full of all kinds of terrible sources for infection.

“Will be well?” I ask, having serious doubts.

“The cuts are deep,” Diana gestures. “To the bone.”

I wince in sympathy. These three may have been hanging there for hours. Or days, for all I know. This one may be lucky to keep the foot.

“Very bad,” I repeat, having exhausted my vocabulary. “I have thing may help. Eric, go get my new sacks.” As far as I know, they don’t have a sign for ‘please’.

The young vismonk bounces away immediately, going back up the hill.

“We had just discovered them when the raptor attacked you,” Diana explains. “That’s why we weren’t there to help. Only when we heard your scream did we know you needed us. I sent two, and they killed the raptor after its fall and saw that you were in no danger. So they returned here.”

“Thank you. Cavemen often make trap?”

“Not until these past two seasons,” Diana says. “Before then, none. Now, we sometimes discover them. The caveman fear us and want to be cruel to us. This is the first time someone was trapped. The traps were set only for us. Not for other prey. Just high enough up for our kind. Placed with great skill.” I swear her hands tremble with fury.

“Jungle not safe,” I comment. I wish I could say something more meaningful, but even in English I can’t think of anything that would help much.

“The jungle was never safe,” Diana tells me. “But some parts of it were. Now, even your home is a dangerous place.” Her eyes are big and clear as she turns to face me fully.

The implication is clear — you have brought danger to our turf .

To my relief, Eric returns with my bag, bouncing easily through the woods.

I get out the jar marked Infection and squat down beside the injured vismonks.

“Is good,” I gesture to them all and show them the green paste in the jar. It smells of herbs and alcohol.

I scoop up some of the paste.

“This will keep bad stuff out of the wound,” I coo as I apply it to the deep cuts on the injured leg. They can’t understand the words, but I hope the calming tone will come through. When the patient doesn’t protest or make much of a sound, I continue on the other leg. “Such a bad caveman to make a snare for you. I wonder if it may be someone who’s new to this area. Because the local tribes don’t do that, I think. I would ask them if I could, but you know I don’t want to have anything to do with them. There. That should do it. Now you.” I turn to the second one, who is already reaching out his hand with the bleeding wrist.

When I’m done with all three, I wipe the remainder of the paste on a leaf. Even with the paste, I doubt this will end well for the most badly injured patient. But I’ve done everything I can.

“I bring danger to your home?” I ask, making sure to make the sign that means ‘question’ very clearly.

Diana looks at me. “I don’t know. Do you bring danger to our home?”

I have no answer to that, so I keep my hands still.

Damn it. Even the vismonks can’t ignore that all kinds of unpleasant things are happening right after Astrid found me. But I’m not going to volunteer to leave my tree. If they want me gone, they better say so.

The crowd disperses, and one large vismonk takes the most badly injured patient on his back and bounces away. The others follow, and soon there’s only Diana, Eric, and me left.

Diana makes the ‘goodbye’ sign, and I quickly do the same. She bounces calmly away into the jungle.

“She’s not happy,” I ponder out loud. “And I can’t blame her at all.”

“We not stay here,” Eric gestures. “Danger. Back to your tree.”

He has a point, so I quickly make my way back up the hill. The tree looks the same as ever. The upper branches wave gently in the breeze, giving off a calm, undulating hiss that I really like. But now my home doesn’t feel as safe as it did just a few days ago.

Checking the ground for signs that someone’s been here, I climb up, using a short rope to pull me up to the lowest branch. My little fireplace is built on a layer of rocks and pieces of dried clay, to keep the heat away from the wood it rests on.

The ashes still have some embers in it, and normally I would be starting to cook a meal about now. But I’ve lost any appetite I may have had.

I sit on a low branch, lean on the main trunk behind me, and fidget with my new knife. Could this be the end of my life here? Are the cavemen and raptors and mysterious beings here because of me? Am I bringing danger to the vismonk tribe?

“No, this is getting me nowhere,” I say to Eric, who’s keeping his distance to the knife. “And if I am about to be evicted, it’s better if I bring something from here.”

“Many noises,” Eric gestures. “Be quiet in jungle.”

He’s of that age where he’s being taught many vital lessons by his elders, and he’s extremely eager to teach them to others.

“You vismonks are a lot like humans,” I reply softly as I climb down to the loom. “I wonder just how much like us you really are.”

I start weaving, wanting to get as much as possible done before sunset forces me to stop. I can still spin some threads by the fire, but I’m not sure if I want to light a fire tonight. It might be seen.

“One way or the other,” I fret as I furiously weave as fast and as quietly as I can, “my life just changed.”

- - -

T he sun has long since set and I’ve been weaving half blind when I have to stop. I’d have loved to keep going and make this sheet even bigger, but as a first effort with the new fibers, it’s not a bad result. I cut it loose and roll it up, noticing that despite its stiffness, it’s quite smooth. Not as good as canvas, but better than burlap. Mostly. The weave isn’t too tight to use my pitiful wooden excuses for needles.

I bring it up to the top of the tree. I can’t see the Mount tonight. Some mist has drifted in, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to rain. Eric has been gone for hours, probably back in his tribe’s mysterious village or hive or wherever it is they live.

I quickly secure my meager possessions in their bags, filling up the big pack that Astrid gave me. The skin it’s made of looks pretty waterproof. While I’ve never had any problem with my own bags letting water in, with their outer skin of waxy leaves, the thick leather is obviously better and less fragile. I put all my important things in it, including the medicines and the booze. And the new sheet of fabric. It might be enough for a short jacket or even some loose shorts.

I get to my bed, which is a knot of big branches where one minor trunk shoots off to the side. It makes a big hollow in the main trunk where I can curl up and be out of the rain.

I often wonder if this was something the vismonks did on purpose, maybe by placing a stone there when the tree was small and then replacing it with bigger rocks as it grew. It seems too useful to have happened all by itself.

“They just may have given me the nicest house they know,” I say to myself as I arrange the dry grass and leaves the way I want them. “It might be a regular mansion to them.” I sprinkle fresh ones on top, and then I lie down. It’s not the softest of beds, but I like that it smells of grass. It reminds me faintly of Earth.

I take some deep breaths. The hiss of rain and the sweet smell of wet earth from the ground has a calming effect on me. My life may have changed, but maybe not for long?—

I stiffen. There’s another sound, a scratching noise. As if someone with claws is climbing the tree.

Sitting up, I grip the hilt of my new knife. There’s definitely a sound. And it’s not water dripping.

I quickly stand up and push my back into the trunk of the tree, knife in hand.

The air in front of me shimmers in the dark.

I squint. No, that’s a man ? —

“ Eeeahh!” I scream as I’m being swept off my feet, lifted in impossibly strong arms and thrown over a wide shoulder. From here it’s obvious that this is a man, with legs and feet. Unusually large feet. And a round butt, thankfully clad in some kind of suede-like leather. I’m seeing it from really close up, but upside down.

“Let me go!” I go crazy, kicking and screaming and trying to hammer my fists on the attacker. It feels like I’m very far from the ground. But with my upper body hanging down, I can’t get much force behind it and I mostly hit his firm butt.

“Be quiet, Cora,” he hisses in cavemannish. “The gray ghosts will hear!”

Oh yes. “Help!” I scream to alert them in case they haven’t heard me yet. “Caveman!”

It doesn’t matter much what I yell, because they don’t understand English. But I can’t yell in sign language.

The caveman starts climbing down the trunk of the tree, his feet finding lots of purchase on the smooth bark.

“Heeeelp!” I redouble my efforts, screaming and writhing and grabbing onto any branch within reach. I desperately grasp a twig and rip it off its branch, then start thrashing it at the abductor’s legs. “Stop! Let me go!”

It has no effect. The caveman keeps climbing down with surprising ease. Probably because he’s so big, at least eight feet tall.

There’s a dissonant crash as he puts both feet right into my loom. It collapses under him in a dissonant crescendo of snapping strings, and he drops to the next branch.

But by the purest coincidence, I’ve just gotten hold of a nice, thick branch with both hands. So while he drops several feet, I stay up, dangling from the branch before I quickly find a foothold and climb back up as fast as I can. I climb here every day, and I know every branch. The rain makes them slippery, but I’m used to that, too.

“ Vreeg!” The caveman swears and seethes as he tries to extricate himself from the hundreds of strings and threads on my loom. It sounds like a big alien harp played by an angry gorilla.

Passing my ‘bedroom’, I grab my new knife and my backpack and keep climbing. I’ve no illusions about how this will end — he’s much bigger and faster than me. When I reach the top of the tree there’s not a lot of ways to come down.

Except one, which I’ve been curious about before but never tried because it’ll kill me if it doesn’t work.

But I climb to give the vismonks time to come to my rescue. I’ve never seen them fight cavemen, and I’m not sure if they even can. But they have fearsome teeth, and the cavemen seem to stay away from them. So I hope to find out tonight.

My attacker gives my loom a final kick, making a dry breaking sound that makes me more angry than scared. It took me months to build that thing.

Pieces of shattered loom make hollow bangs as they hit branches on the way down.

I can see him coming below me. He’s mostly a shadow in the dark, but the shape is all caveman. He’s immensely strong and gains on me. He sticks to the trunk like a monkey climbing a coconut palm. It doesn’t look right.

I get to the upper branches and stop right under the ‘umbrella’ of branches that hang down from here. There’s no use in going to the platform on top — I want the branches here to impede his movements. And this is the place if I want to risk my life with the ‘emergency exit’.

Big, cold water drops fall on me from above, and I’m already soaked as I put the backpack on me properly. I’ll need both arms free.

“Stay,” the caveman rumbles from below. “I’m here to save you.”

I draw the knife from its sheath. I’m not going with him.

“Go!” I try in his language. “Go away! You not friend! You not save!”

I’m scared, and my voice is screechy. But for now I’m mostly angry. How dare he disturb my serene life in the tree, destroy my loom, and then chase me through my own home? And how does he know my name?!

Before I know it, he’s opposite me, on the other side of the complicated structure of the treetop. He’s a caveman, but also not. There are no stripes, for a start. Instead he has a strange, irregular pattern of various nuances of skin tone. Dangerous-looking spikes stand out from his lower jaw. His hair is thick, dark, and straggly. He has something big and stiff under that loincloth. And his eyes have a deadly fire in them, green as a viper.

“I’m not here to harm you,” he says and reaches a big hand out towards me. “I will save you. There are better places.”

I clench the knife. “Go! Leave! I not want save.”

Moving as fast as a reptile, he crawls over to my side. The dense branches don’t seem to bother him. He may be more used to treetops than I am.

“Come,” he says and reaches his hand out again, grabbing my shoulder.

The touch makes me react like a reflex. I hack the knife at his arm and feel the blade stop against something hard.

My assailant swears again and grabs my wrist. I have to let go of the knife, and it falls.

Clear, green eyes glare at me from close up, the pupils not round but with a weird triangular shape. “I am your friend! ”

Oh damn. When I see him speak from this close, his white fangs becomes very visible. And to top it off, I notice that he has an unusually long tongue.

“No!” I insist as I curl up and kick at the arm I just stabbed. My foot connects, and he groans in pain.

The grip on my shoulder is gone.

This is my chance.

The danger gives me extra power to jump up and grab the branch I always saw as an emergency descent possibility. It’s the only one of its kind in the tree, thick and flexible, almost like a vine. It hangs lazily down to the ground without any twigs or leaves.

I get it between my thighs, and then I let myself slide down it, like a fireman’s pole.

The vine is nowhere near as slippery as a metal pole would be. It burns the inside of my thighs and my palms, but I’m getting away and I don’t care.

A third of the way down, there’s a dry ‘crack’ somewhere above me as the vine snaps.

I scream as I helplessly fall to my death.