Orphan of Creation (28 page)

The others busied themselves setting up some sort of a camp on the trail, comfortably out of earshot of the village, but everyone kept glancing over to look at the strange newcomer—and to glance down the trail toward the village. Were they safe from the Utaani? What did the Utaani think the Americans were doing here? What the hell could they do with this beast that Ovono had dumped in their laps? Why was the critter still around? Why hadn’t it rushed off into the jungle at the first opportunity? Vague, amorphous, and yet insistent questions that led nowhere but back to themselves.

Nothing was clear anymore, Barbara thought. The knowledge that
Homo sapiens sapiens
was not alone seemed to mean nothing else could be certain.

We are not alone
. . . Out of the blue, Barbara remembered with sudden, perfect clarity a moment from her past. She could recall every tiny detail of the moment, as if her mind were rebelling against the confusion of the present by presenting the past in perfect solidity.

She was curled up in her childhood bed, the cotton sheets crisp and clean-smelling, fresh out of the drier. It was late on a dark, impossibly silent night, and she had her head under the covers, reading
Robinson Crusoe
by flashlight. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t just back in her childhood bed, she was inside the book, riding on Robinson’s shoulder as he walked his island. She was on that bright, clear, windswept island, walking along the surf with him when he saw that shocking, solitary footprint. Robinson knew, impossibly but irrefutably, that he was not alone. He found the man who left that footprint, named him Friday after the day he was found, and made him his servant—

There was a noise in the trees, some tiny creatures leaping loudly from one branch to another, and Barbara gave a violent start, coming back to herself. She looked over to the creature, saw that she had spooked the poor thing by jumping like that.

“You need a name, my friend,” Barbara said. “We can’t just call you
it
or
she
or
australopithecine
and I’m sure as hell not calling you a
tranka
.” The creature cocked her head at Barbara, listening to the sound of her voice and the strange shape of the words these people used.

Barbara thought for a moment, working out how many days they had been out here, what day it was. “Thursday. You are Thursday,” she said, feeling quite pleased with herself. The name suited her, somehow.

“What’d you say, Barb?” Livingston asked as he sat down next to her.

“I just named her. I’m going to call her Thursday. Wanna know why?”

Livingston thought for a second. “Yeah, I know.” He began reciting.

“Monday’s child is fair of face

Tuesday’s child is full of grace

Wednesday’s child is full of woe—”

“Thursday’s child has far to go . . .”
Barbara finished. “Yeah, she sure as hell does. But read
Robinson Crusoe
when we get home. So now what do
we
do?” She stood up and crossed to Thursday, being careful not to get too close or make any sudden moves. She reached out her hand again, and Thursday put out her own hand to touch it, lightly, as she stared deep into Barbara’s eyes. “And what do we do with you, Thursday?”

She sensed that this strange human was talking to her, and some small part of her recognized that the new sound ‘Thursday’ was suddenly being repeated, directed at her. She rocked back and forth on the log she was sitting on, and made a friendly, snorting noise at this strange one in hopes of making her feel better. All these new ones were so strange. But they seemed so interested in her, paid so much attention to her, moved about her so respectfully, almost as if they were afraid of her. They did the work while she sat still. It occurred to her that she could run away from these people easily—they had not tied a rope about her neck, or put her in a stockade, or even hobbled her legs. For so long she had thought of escape, of getting away, out. Now, for the first time, she wondered what she would do when she got there, got ‘out.’ She looked at the jungle, which seemed so much closer and bigger here. How would she live there? Could she find things to eat? The things that made so much noise seemed so much more frightening here.

And she was curious, most curious. These people were so different! What were they going to do? She had to know more. She listened for a moment more to the jungle calls, and then turned her back on them forever. She would stay with these people.

Barbara shook her head as she looked at Thursday. She thought of the whirlwind they were going to reap together. Thursday grunted again and reached out to give Barbara’s hand a reassuring pat. It was going to be all right. Somehow.

<>

Dr. Michael Marchando wearily pushed the hospital’s pasty version of green beans around his plate, too tired to be hungry, too much in need of food not to force the stuff down. He had already survived the meatloaf more or less, and it sat on his stomach like a mid-sized lump of lead. He needed food, and sleep. Thanks to some inept shift-trading on his part, he had managed to draw the graveyard shift in the Emergency Room, then the following midday shift, after four hours sleep—and now that he was clear of that, he was due to start On Call duty in an hour.

Mel Stanley sat down far too cheerfully next to him. “Mike! So how’s it feel to have a mystery star for an ex?”

“Huh?” Mike asked.

“Jeez, where have you been? Haven’t you seen a paper or the news or anything?”

“No, I’ve been here up to my armpits in gunshot cases. Haven’t had a chance to look up in twenty-four hours. What are you talking about?”

“Just a sec.” Stanley popped up and went over to search the empty tables until he found a newspaper. He came back and handed it to Michael. “Here, this morning’s
Post
. Page A-3. But that’s old stuff. There was some wild stuff at a news conference today. She’s supposed to be out in Ghana, or Gabon or something. Looking for that thing.”

Michael opened the paper, saw the headline, and felt his blood start to race.
Scientists Discover Pre-human Graves in Mississippi.
There, alongside the story, was a photo of her boss, her cousin Liv, and Barb looking over a skull in what looked like the backyard in Gowrie. “Jesus. I knew some about this but I . . . . What do you mean, she’s
looking
for it in Gabon?”

“I mean they think it’s still out there, alive. Pre-humans roaming the jungle. And some reporter claims your wife is out there, trying to find them.” Stanley looked down at his friend. “Hey, you okay? C’mon, snap out of it.”

But Michael did not even hear him. He didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it. How could she go off to the
jungle,
for God’s sake, without telling him? Suddenly, he was afraid, afraid for her—not because she might be hurt, or lost, or killed, but because he might have lost her forever. He felt, for the first time, that he was not any part of her life. It was a shock to realize that something besides himself was that important to her. But why should
that
be a surprise? God knows he had done enough to drive her away.

He had to get back to her. He had to make it up to her. What the hell was going on? He stared at the newspaper page, as if looking for answers that weren’t there.

Chapter Eighteen

Things, it seemed to Livingston, were happening too fast. Everyone on the team had been prepared for a long, drawn-out search for the australopithecines. They had envisioned the wise native guides leading them to the nesting-sites of the shy, secretive creatures, so they could photograph them from half a mile away and gradually gain their confidence, or something. No one had bargained on having Thursday dropped in their lap so quickly. No one knew what to do about it. They were all in a slight case of shock.

Livingston, though he didn’t speak up and say so, was all for heading back at once, perhaps taking Thursday with them, if possible. After all, they certainly had what they had come for, and getting the hell away from those Utaani scumbuckets sounded like good policy. What was hanging around going to get them?

Livingston held his peace that day. Barbara was too busy to pay any attention anyway, and she was the only one who mattered, really, as far as decision-making went. After all,
she
was the one who owned an australopithecine. Even if that wasn’t strictly so, there was no denying this was her call.

But Barbara didn’t seem much interested in making decisions. She spent the day doing little more than staring at Thursday, taking occasional notes now and then. Since Thursday wasn’t doing much besides wandering around the makeshift campsite, it seemed unlikely that the notes would tell anyone much. Maybe, Livingston thought, note-taking was good therapy—a comfortable, familiar thing to do in the midst of so much that was unknown.

Thursday spent a lot of time poking through the campers’ belongings, never hurting anything, merely indulging her curiosity about all the unfamiliar objects, grunting and grimacing, and seeming to make some sort of hand-signs to herself now and then. At first she was a bit hesitant about moving about, glancing over at Barbara as if to seek permission for whatever she did. But she quickly got it into her head that she was allowed, probably for the first time in her life, to do whatever she wanted. Once
that
got into her head, she seemed remarkably unwary and relaxed. Obviously she was more used to humans than these human were used to her. The big moment of the morning came when she wandered far enough out of camp to dig up a few tubers—fat white roots far too big and tough for a human to eat. She chomped them down in a few massively powerful bites. The highlight for the afternoon came when she found a small, fast-running stream and leaped into it with obvious delight, eagerly splashing about. The humans were just as glad afterwards. Once the shock had worn off a bit, it was quickly apparent that an unwashed Thursday was pretty gamey.

Rupert at least had the presence of mind to take pictures, lots of them. Shots of Thursday walking, sitting, yawning, splashing in the water; close-ups of her head, feet, and hands. Rupert took a lot of notes, too—the same sort of careful, copious notes he always took. Maybe he got the same therapy from it Barbara did.

Ovono and Clark returned to the Utaani village in the afternoon for a bit of fence mending, making sure the chief was happy with the deal, assuring the villagers that they had never seen such a fine
tranka
(which was certainly true). They ended up staying for a brief afternoon meal and a tour of the
tranka
quarters and the crop fields, which seemed to leave them both a bit shaken. Neither of them was willing to say much about it afterwards. The day slowly petered out. The humans prepared dinner, a rather subdued affair, and in the process made the signal scientific discovery that Thursday was fond of canned beans, hot or cold, and understood fire perfectly well. She sat quietly next to Barbara, staring at the flames, keeping a respectful distance from the heat, but showing no fear. It was nice to have
some
things clear and certain, Livingston thought.

After dinner, they sat about the campfire for a long time, speaking little, talking of inconsequential things. All the humans found themselves staring constantly at Thursday, endlessly fascinated by her human-ness and her alien-ness. Thursday’s self-assurance was off-putting to all of them. She seemed to feel she belonged here now, that there was no question of that.

Livingston concluded that someone had to get them started talking about the situation. “Listen, we can sit here like we’re on a hike roasting marshmallows if that’s what you want, but I say it’s just about time we decide our next move. This isn’t what we planned, granted, but we can’t sit here for the rest of our lives. I vote we get the hell out of here, and take Thursday with us. We’ve got what we came for, and a hell of a lot more than we bargained for, and we should get out while we’re ahead.”

“I want to stay here for a while,” Barbara announced crisply, as if she had made up her mind on that point long before. “We have Thursday here to study, and I’m sure the Utaani can tell us a lot we need to know. We need what they know.”

“I think,” Clark said, “that I don’t want to deal with our hosts anymore. I understand them a bit too well now.” He poked a stick into the fire and watched the sparks shower out. “Monsieur Ovono and I had quite a visit over there. All of us, right along, have felt there was something very
wrong
with this place. Now I know what, and we should have known it right along.” He nodded toward Thursday. She looked up from the fire and returned his glance. “Slavery. We saw today, firsthand, how they treat their slaves, and I’ve been thinking, all day, how that must affect the slave masters.”

“Grandpa Zeb said a lot about that in his journal,” Liv said. “He kept saying he felt sorry for the slavers, having to crush their own better feelings enough to let them live with slavery.”

“Yes, but it’s worse here,” Clark said intently. “Your slave masters could lie to themselves, tell themselves their slaves were inferior, just animals that could be worked to death—but here, that lie is true! Their whole economy is based on
tranka
-slavery. They have dumb brutes to do all their work—and so work is something for dumb brutes. The women do domestic things, but the men do virtually nothing themselves. All their routine work is done through their slaves. There is no dignity of work because work is something your slave animals do for you—and those animals aren’t really capable of doing a lot of things properly. Work is something for the stupid, the clumsy, to do.

“And they spend their lives staring into the eyes of creatures that aren’t
quite
human, but very close to it—so close that the Utaani must
know
how close to animals they themselves are. They haven’t tried to raise the
tranka
up toward the light, they’ve dragged themselves down into the mud. They’ve brutalized themselves, and I don’t have the stomach for it. I saw one of them whipping a
tranka
today. The poor beast was screaming in agony—and the man with the whip just looked bored. Not angry, not full of hate or seething with the need for vengeance, or forcing himself to go on even though the cries horrified him—he was
bored
. He could have been weeding the crops for the amount of feeling he showed. No more for me. I want out.” He looked up again at Thursday. “And I’m not saying no to it, necessarily, but I think we should think long and hard before we take a slave-beast back with us. What will it do to
us
?”

“She’s not a slave-beast,” Barbara objected. “She’s a . . . I don’t know—a beast, a creature, a near-human, a person, a
something
that has been used for a slave. My ancestors were used for slaves—does that make us slave-people?”

“Let’s not get too riled up there,” Livingston said. “The australopithecines dropped out of sight for a million years. And even before that, we know next to nothing about them. A few scraps of bone, that’s all. No real idea of their behavior. Then somewhere in the last few thousand years, these Utaani got hold of them somehow. Maybe in the last century, maybe in the time of the Pharaohs. We don’t know. How do we know they haven’t been bred for slavery? We bred wolves into dogs, and you could make an argument that dogs are pretty slavish. Thursday here seems incredibly docile. How long have the Utaani and their ancestors being killing all the
tranka
that showed any spunk? Certainly they’ve bred them, domesticated them. We’ve domesticated a lot of animals. Doing it to australopithecines is different, somehow, yes, but why, and how, and by how much? But as far as your question, Clark, I can’t quite see how one australopithecine is going to contaminate Western civilization. Rupe, what do you think?”

Rupert had been whispering a translation of the conversation to Ovono and listening to Ovono’s whispered comments. He looked up and said “Mmmm? I don’t know. There’s a great deal to learn here, but I’d say we’ve got our hands more than full already. For the record, M’sieu Ovono wants to get the hell out, but says we paid for Thursday, she’s ours, and we should keep her. He says it’s nonsense to think of releasing her to the wild. She has lived with men, and would not know about fending for herself. She would die if left behind, or else be captured and put back to slavery. Ovono says he would shoot a dog rather than be so cruel as to let it suffer that way. He’s got a few points, and I’d say they all cloud the moral issues just a bit more.”

“Hold it here, just a second,” Livingston said. “Let’s assume we’re all agreed that we have to take her along—for ethical as well as scientific reasons. But has anyone thought about the logistics? We can’t just stroll into Makokou with her—we’d cause a riot. And what, exactly, are the export rules for removing a hominid from Gabon?”

Clark raised his eyebrows for a moment and nodded. “Mmmph. You’ve got a point. Requires a bit of thought.”

“I’ll say one more thing. Thursday can go with us—but only if she wants to,” Barbara said. “She can’t possibly be made to understand moving to a new place, and how different it will be, but at least we can give her the free choice to stay or go. I can accept that we’d have to restrain her for part of the trip—during the flight home, say—but whenever we leave
here
, if she follows us, fine. If not, no one is to try to compel her in any way. Is that understood? If she comes, she comes of her own accord.”

Rupert chortled. “‘Look Dr. Grossington,’” he said in a little boy’s voice. “‘She followed us home, can we keep her?’”

“Shut up Rupert, I’m serious. But before we plan how to leave, we have to decide how long to stay,” Barbara went on. “And I still say we need to stay and learn more. I don’t like the Utaani any more than you do, but surely we can save some time and learn more by staying here.”

“But we’re not equipped for that sort of study, Barb,” Liv protested. “This was all put together in a hell of a hurry, and I don’t know that anyone really considered what exactly we were to do at this end—but this is a small survey team. We’re not prepared to wade in and study a whole culture. And do you really think the Utaani will tolerate us hanging around all day watching their slaves? How would you learn more? What would your procedure be?”

“I don’t know yet,” Barbara said hotly. “I haven’t had time to think it through. But we can’t lose this chance.”

“Barb, I guarantee this isn’t our last chance,” Rupert said. “Once the scientific community knows about this place, the Utaani and their
tranka
are going to spend the rest of their lives up to their wazoos in anthropologists. And I for one would be happy to leave these bastards to the eternal torture of being studied—as long as I don’t have to do the studying. We’re not abandoning the quest if we head back now.”

Barbara said nothing more, but sat, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring at the fire. Her companions looked at each other, and reached an unspoken agreement. There was no real point in arguing further tonight. One by one, they bedded down.

<>

Monsieur Ovono insisted that they stand watches in the night, and Barbara drew the last shift. Liv poked her awake a little after three in the morning, and she spent the last hours before dawn watching the darkness, and watching the dark, huddled form that slept next to her.

Thursday woke up once, opening her eyes abruptly and sitting bolt upright, the very picture of a disoriented child waking up in the wrong bed, confused by strange surroundings. Barbara watched her intently, wondering what she would do, and instantly resolved that she would not prevent Thursday from running away. Maybe she would die in the wild, but she at least had the right to die free. If the morning came and the others woke to find the australopithecine gone, Barbara could claim she had dozed off. Barbara watched eagerly for some sign that Thursday would run, make a bid for freedom, but instead, the australopithecine grunted and scratched her crotch as she looked around. After a moment, she seemed to remember where she was, and lay down and went back to sleep.

The incident depressed Barbara, and left her with a sense of obligation to her new charge—she could not, would not, use the word ‘slave’. The moment made it clear that Thursday had decided she trusted Barbara, and chose to stay with her rather than make a bid for freedom.

What was the old Chinese idea? If you saved a man’s life, you were responsible for that life, that person, from then on. Something like that. So what claim did a near-human have on a person who accidentally freed her? And what claims went the other way? Barbara didn’t want any part of those obligations, but it was too late to refuse them now.