CRO-MAGNON (21 page)

Get back on track,
he thought
. Finish the mission and get both of us out.

“
It’s too complicated and speculative to explain now,” she said.

“
Oh, you figure a bone guy is too dumb—”

“
No, I’m afraid you’d think I was crazier than you probably already do.”

“
I don’t think you’re crazy.” Calder felt the bow nudge the icy shore. “I just think—”

She shook her head again. “I need more data and more thought. If the idea jells, I’ll let you know.”

#

Calder and Blaine left their gear for Zinchenko to store. As they approached the work trailer, the door to the camp master’s trailer opened and Fitrat stepped out. She paused to light one of her black twists before moving to intercept the two scientists. Blaine knew they were about to be grilled.

Without preamble, Fitrat said, “I want to know what you found in the cave.”

“
You heard us tell Mr. Salomon yesterday,” Blaine said. “Two adult skeletons and one child.”

“
I believe you found more than that.”

“
Why?”

“
Your manner of speaking to your superior.”

Blaine glanced at Calder, as if puzzled. “We simply told him what we found.”

“
As director of antiquities for Tajikistan, I have on-site authority.” She blew a cloud of smoke that moiled in the cold air before being whipped away. “If I decide you are holding back . . .”

“
We’re not,” Blaine lied. “We intend to issue a complete report.”

The door to Zinchenko’s trailer opened again and Teague stepped out. Blaine expected the facilitator to say something, but he just stood there with his dead-eyed stare. She mounted the steps to the work trailer.

Inside, she said, “Teague’s the one we need to watch.”

“
Oh, I thought he was here to facilitate our work.” Calder stepped into the trailer and laid his camera pouch on the work table.

“
I saw a suspicious lump just now under his parka,” she said.

“
At least he’s on our side, mission-wise.” Calder gestured to the corners of the room, obviously to remind her that the place could be bugged. “As long as we do what Salomon wants, we shouldn’t have a problem.”

“
Tell that to people who tangled with the man and then wondered what hit them,” Blaine said, too upset to heed his warning.

She opened a paper bag on the table and took out a sealed lunch that Zinchenko had left them. She glanced at the label on the olive-drab bag. “Meal, Ready to Eat. Probably left over from World War Two.”

Calder grinned. “I’ll take Ayni’s food any time, even if we do have to eat with our fingers.”

Blaine broke the seal. “So, what do you think of the setup in the cave?”

“
Nuclear family. More Cro-Magnon than Neanderthal.”

“
That would be the woman’s influence.” Blaine inspected the contents of the package and wrinkled her nose. “So, what do the new paintings tell us?”

“
The depiction of the three Neanderthals “rescuers” in the first panel tends to confirm that they were extremely robust and that they hunted in small groups. In the second panel the Neanderthal rock shelter, which looked permanent to me, corroborates that they lived in small clans and probably stayed in one place year-round.”

“
I meant, what specifically?”

“
The artist had a remarkable ability to summarize information pictorially. This quad of paintings pretty much speaks for itself.” Calder nibbled a patty of mystery meat and pulled a face. “This time, you interpret the pictures and I’ll say whether I agree.”

“
Fair enough, but later.” Blaine yawned, laid down her food, and stepped toward a sleeping pad in the rear of the trailer. “Right now, I’m bushed.”

“
Did Ayni wake you when he came in last night?”

“
I didn’t even hear him.” She lay down and pulled an opened sleeping bag over her. “I think it’s the tension of wondering whether the tunnel is going to collapse on us.”

“
Amen to that.”

She reinflated the air pillow, tucked it under her head, and snuggled. “Wake me for the afternoon dive.” Intending to drift off, she closed her eyes, but the painting of a dark-haired Cro-Magnon woman being toted by a blond Neanderthal captured her thoughts.

Vaguely, she heard Calder nattering about compressed air, but she had already departed the world of compressors, scuba tanks, and regulators for the one depicted in the Cro-Magnon woman’s exquisitely evocative cave paintings.

Chapter 10

Leya hit the fast-flowing narrows feet first. She plunged deep, stunned by water at least as frigid as the stream of snowmelt her tribe had been using for drinking and cooking. She had known how to swim since she was three summers old, but not in ice water. She knew she would not survive unless she could swim free of its numbing embrace.

The current tumbled her in a green void. She couldn’t seem to stabilize her body or even tell which direction was up. Her heavy parka dragged at her arms, weighing her down. Maybe she should . . .

No! If she survived the river, she would need protection. Also, her earth-
mator
was tucked in a pocket.

Kicking out, she managed to stop the tumbling. She peered around at the silt-laden water, her lungs starving for air. One direction seemed a shade lighter, and she stroked toward it. She felt her consciousness fading, and willed herself to keep going.

The void brightened.

At last, she broke the surface and sucked precious air. A glance told her she was in a fast-moving trough, hemmed in by a standing wave on either side. The roar of the water overpowered her brain. She felt her body heat draining.

She struggled to stay afloat. Too cold . . . A lassitude stole over her. She would never get out. If only she had listened to Alys, obeyed Ronan, surrendered to Mungo.

Maybe she should just . . .

No!

The thought of her tormentor brought a surge of anger. She would not die. Not like this. Not because of him.

The parka would have to go. Squirming free of it, she plucked the earth-
mator
from a pocket and tucked it into her tunic. If she wound up in the Land of Shadows, it might be of some use.

Rolling onto her stomach, she began to stroke with the current, which a part of her mind noted was swinging right. Spitting gritty water, she stole a glance at the rocky cliffs. Unless she made it through to the shallows she had no chance of gaining shore, no hope of surviving.

She sensed her body losing feeling. The river bent again, the current sweeping her toward the left-hand wall.

Ahead loomed a huge standing wave. She tried to swim right, but the current turned her around and carried her backward into the wave.

She crashed against something hard and her right leg went numb. She kicked with her left and felt another jolt, this time to her rib cage, leaving her unable to breathe. She gagged.

Then she was beyond the bend, the current sweeping her back toward the center, its grip diminishing. Exhausted, she raised her head and saw the gorge widen, saw a larger watercourse meet the river on the left.

She tried to breathe, and failed. Through a spray of mist she glimpsed three figures walking along the shoreline, their strangely shaggy hair and beards gleaming yellow in the midday light. A wave cut off her view.

Her dulled mind struggled to make sense of what she had seen. Mungo and the others must have followed her along the shore. Somehow they had managed to stay ahead of the racing water, perhaps having cut across the curve of the river. They must think she was dead and were looking where the current might deposit her.

But their hair and beards were wrong.

She managed to draw a tiny breath before pain clamped her lungs. She knew it was not enough.

Anything, even surrendering to Mungo, was preferable to the Land of Shadows. But the men were not looking toward her. Didn’t they know she’d be in this direction?

She waved an arm, swallowed a mouthful of icy water, and managed to croak, “Help!”

Maddeningly, they declined to look up. They were doing it on purpose! Mungo wanted her to die.

The last dregs of warmth left her body, her muscles let go, and she slipped under the surface.

No!

Gagging on another throatful of grainy water, she fought to the surface and tried to stroke toward salvation. But her right leg refused to move, the rest of her was numb, and the pain in her ribs made it impossible to breathe.

Her vision faded.

As she slipped under again, she thought she saw one of the men glance up. She fought with all her might but failed to break the surface. She felt her body drifting. Freezing water flooded her lungs, and she knew she was finished.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her limbs refusing to move. She tumbled along the rocky bottom, the face of her
mator
swimming before her.

She bounced off a rock and felt the current buoy her in a gray-green limbo. An eternity passed and her mind began to shut down.

If only she’d listened . . .

Thick fingers clamped her arm and plucked her out of the current like a speared fish. She vomited water, defied the ache in her ribs to draw a small breath, then another.

Gasping, she felt energy return.

She looked up, expecting to see Mungo’s scarred visage, or Drem, or even Hodr.

Gazed instead at a big face with swept-back cheekbones, at glowering blue eyes under shelving brows, at a boulder-like skull framed by shaggy yellow hair and a coarse beard chopped off below a massive underslung jaw.

At a Flathead.

As she struggled to free herself, the man’s nostrils flared in a huge nose that she could see had been flattened at the bridge and broken farther down, and he tightened his hold. His grip was overpowering, much stronger than Mungo’s had been. Further resistance was pointless. Gagging, she spat a throatful of water and closed her eyes.

All she could hope for now was a quick death.

#

With a few powerful stokes, the Flathead towed Leya to shallow water. They were in the Arya River, she knew, the one that was said to drain into the inland sea. She felt herself hoisted in one hand like a toddler, the savage’s shoulders spanning her body from her collarbone to the bleeding gash in her thigh.

He waded ashore and set her on the rocky bank. As he straightened, she saw that he was a hand shorter than she, but massively built. It was hard to tell his age by his weather-beaten face but she thought he might not be much older than she, though he appeared full-grown.

The three men were each dressed, if that was the word, in two pieces of ragged reindeer that had been crudely laced with strips of rawhide to form a rough tunic. The skins had been scraped but not tanned, although Leya could tell from the smell that they’d been smoked to close the pores and combat shrinkage. So these people did have at least a crude technology, she thought.

On the rocks at the river’s edge lay three oak clubs and three maple spears, one with a stone point, the others with fire-hardened wood tips. The remaining two men looked up from a bush-antlered deer that had collapsed on the stony shore, tendrils of congealed blood veining its flank.

One—a youngish man of perhaps one-score seasons, allowing for his weathered appearance—uttered a string of guttural words accompanied by strangely elegant gestures. He gave what probably passed for a smile among these outlanders, and she saw that one of his front teeth was missing.

Neither of the other two returned the smile. The Flathead who had pulled her from the water gave an offhand grunt and the other, a grizzled older man, made a dismissive gesture with his bloody flint blade. Then, in a casual display of strength, he manhandled the heavy deer carcass against a rock to let it bleed some more. A mass of facial wrinkles and ragged scars made his age impossible to guess, but his powerful build hinted that he wasn’t as old as he appeared. From his manner, Leya guessed he was a person of authority.

So, the Flatheads did maintain some kind of order. Leya felt a measure of relief, which vanished as the gap-toothed man stepped forward, scowling. The broken-nosed man set her down and she tried to stand, but her wounded leg collapsed. The other man stooped to run a rough hand over her hair, and she found herself scuttling behind her “rescuer.”

The three Flatheads cut a pole and slung the bled-out deer. Within moments they were on their way, the broken-nosed young man bearing Leya across his shoulders and forging a trail through dense stands of willow, while his companions carried the carcass. Despite their brutish bodies, they stepped lightly. She saw that, instead of lace-up moccasins insulated with dried grass, they wore crude squares of aurochs hide lashed around their broad feet.

She noticed that all three men were left-handed, unlike most of her own people. Maybe, she thought, they were all that way. They certainly were different in other ways, most notably in their inhumanly robust physiques. The older man seemed stiff in one leg, but it did not seem to slow him.