The Bone House (37 page)

Instantly, all poking and prodding and chattering ceased. Silence claimed the clearing as the woodland swallowed the sound. Big Hunter pushed through the mob, taking charge of Kit with a proprietary gesture of control and possession: cupping a heavy hand to Kit’s head, then thumping himself on the chest with a closed fist. The others appeared to understand this, and the nature of the interaction changed; the whole proceeding became immediately quieter and more respectful.

In this simple act, ground rules were established that even Kit could not fail to understand. One moment he was a strange new animal that had been hauled in for observation and comment, and the next moment Kit was a guest. A new status had been claimed for him and boundaries established. He was not to be poked and jabbed with sticks; he was not to be yapped at or buffeted about for their amusement. Still, the others stared and murmured.

Ignoring the behaviour of his fellow beings, Big Hunter touched him on the arm and beckoned Kit to follow him. Kit was led across the clearing to the biggest bower in the camp; a log lay lengthwise across the entrance and, before the log, a ring of large river stones encircled a heap of glowing charcoal embers. The setup was exactly the sort of bivouac Boy Scouts would have fashioned for a forest jamboree—a generous hearth with benches.

It was almost dark in the glade, though patches of sky glimpsed through holes in the leaf canopy still held a bit of pale pink. Kit was made to sit on the log while dry branches were broken up and tossed onto the smouldering embers of the previous fire. In no time, the glade was lit with a flame that continued to grow as more and more wood was thrown onto the pile. The older primitives busied themselves with some activity or other—huddled together as they were, Kit could not see what they were doing—but while their elders worked, the younger ones gathered around to watch Kit watch the fire.

Presently, a long green reed was produced on which was threaded strings of meat. Kit did not see what kind of animal produced these gobbets, but it was red and fresh. More of these makeshift spits appeared and were put into the fire, and soon the entire group was sitting around the ring toasting meat on thin skewers. The scent of sizzling fat and meat juice brought the water to Kit’s mouth, and though he was seated in what was surely a place of honour, everyone ignored him. Apparently, where important matters of life were concerned—such as cooking and eating—ceremony could wait.

When the first skewer was done, Big Hunter took it and bit off a healthy chunk. The others watched him as he chewed. He gave a lift of his chin and everyone else proceeded to pull their spits from the fire and commenced to eat. Rising from his place at the fire, the chief came to Kit and held the reed out to him. Kit, nodding and smiling, reached to take it; he pulled a morsel of roasted meat from the charred reed and popped it into his mouth, much to the delight of the others.

Big Hunter made a rumbling noise and took up two more uncooked skewers; one he gave to Kit, keeping the other for himself. He sat down on the log beside his guest and then, with gestures and grunts, instructed Kit in the art of cooking meat on a reed. Kit proved himself to be a ready and able student—as if he required any schooling—and his evident ability to feed himself so expertly seemed to meet with the approval of the gathering. The others murmured among themselves and, with much nudging and many a sly glance, let Kit know they were discussing him.

As grateful as he was for the food and the chance to sit and rest a little, Kit could not help feeling that his next act must be to escape. There was little hope for that, he decided, while they were all still watching him. He would have to wait until the camp was asleep to make his move.

Kit planned to return to the ley line and find a place to wait for Wilhelmina to show up—if she was not there already. If he had done that in the first place he would not be in this improbable situation now. Just thinking about how Mina was no doubt searching high and low for him, muttering dark oaths against his name—deservedly so, he had to admit—made him that much more eager to be on his way.

Then another and altogether worse thought occurred to him: maybe he had already missed her. What if she had arrived as planned, seen that he was not there, and promptly left again to search somewhere else? What then?

It did not bear thinking about—so he tried not to, but the glum thought cast him into an apprehensive and fretful mood. The meal went on for a considerable time, and at a pace that could only be described as leisurely. Kit grew increasingly anxious to be on his way. When at last the younger primitives began to drowse and fall asleep, some of the older ones picked them up and carried them into the nearby bowers. Finally, as the food disappeared, the others drifted off—most to bed down in the shelter of their leafy hovels, but a few of the young males simply curled up in the root hollows of the larger trees or on the ground near the fire ring. Big Hunter crawled into his shelter behind the log and gestured for Kit to join him. With reluctance bordering on dread, Kit acquiesced, thinking that any refusal on his part would only delay the inevitable, or worse, rouse the suspicions of his host, who might then take steps to forestall any escape.

So Kit crawled into the bower to wait. The problem was that the interior of the rude, branch-constructed hut was much more comfortable than he imagined possible. The floor was carpeted with alternating layers of moss and leaves covered by dry grass; there were even pillows—animal pelts rolled into bags and stuffed with grass and, of all things, fragrant lavender. The excitement of the day—which had begun a long time ago and far, far away—combined with a good stint of healthy exercise, served to smother Kit’s resolve. He drifted off to sleep on clouds of lavender and was soon dreaming of lambs frolicking in sun-dappled meadows.

He woke again with the sound of a whippoorwill singing in a nearby tree. Otherwise the camp was peaceful and quiet, and dawn, he guessed, still some way off. Big Hunter was sound asleep, his breathing deep and regular, so Kit gathered himself and, creeping as quietly as he could, backed from the hovel and, rather than cross the camp, slipped around the side and directly into the forest behind.

Once away from the camp, he paused; the moon was low, but there was still enough light to navigate his way without stumbling around. He listened for the river, then followed the sound until he reached the stony bank. The rounded stones appeared like humps of overgrown mushrooms, grey and white in the soft moonlight, the water gleaming all slithery and silver.

It was, Kit decided, merely a matter of retracing the route back through the valley until he reached the place where he had entered the gorge. He had a fair distance to travel, but time enough if he did not dally along the way.

He started out with a determined step and hope in his heart, his pace quick but measured. Fed and rested, his spirits high, he covered ground at a respectable rate, pausing now and again to listen for any sound of pursuit. Each time he continued with greater assurance that he had made good his escape and would reach the meeting place in reasonable time, counting on the fact that it would be morning by the time he approached the vicinity and he would recognise the turning when he saw it again in the daylight.

Assuming, that is, he lived long enough to see the light of another day.

CHAPTER 30
In Which Kit Embraces the Stone Age

I
gnorance may be bliss, but it is still ignorance, and Kit, hoofing through the night-dark valley, had not the slightest twinge or premonition of the danger into which he had blithely wandered. To give him a little credit, Kit saw the three black humps beside the river, but took them for stones—one large, two slightly smaller: boulders in a field of boulders strewn along the river path. It was not until an unseen fourth stone, off to his right, reared up on its hind legs that he realised his mistake.

By then he had already passed the point of no return.

It was a bear, black as an ink stain, beady little eyes glinting in the wan light of a fading moon as it swung its head left and right to pick up the human scent that had aroused it from a midnight snack of crayfish and clams. There were, as Kit now understood, four of them—a mother and three half-grown cubs. And without knowing it, he had made the most elementary error—the one transgression every schoolkid on a field trip is warned against committing in the wild: never get between a mother and her young.

Scenting him, the bear gave out a half-strangled cry of alarm as it stood motionless. A scant few-dozen paces across the field of stones, the mother bear’s massive head came up sharply in response to her bawling infant. The great dark muzzle swung first one way and then the other as the creature homed in on him, nostrils twitching. Then, rising on its hind legs, it spread its massive arms, opened its toothy maw, and loosed with a roar to shake the stars from the heavens. The raw, feral snarl of an enraged meat-eater loosened Kit’s bowels, instantly giving the animal a new and more pungent scent to follow.

The great beast shuffled forward on its hind legs—a move Kit missed because he was by then frantically searching for a tree to climb. Unfortunately, the only trees near enough to offer sufficient shelter were behind the bear that was even now gathering itself to charge. When the animal roared again, Kit was already backpedaling, making for what he imagined was the safety of the wood behind him—
too far
behind him.

There was no better option. He turned around and within three steps was in full arm-flapping retreat.

Kit ran with the abandon of the truly desperate, scrambling over rocks large and small, stumbling, splashing, banging his knees and shins, picking himself up and floundering on over the lumpy, treacherous ground. The bear had no such difficulty. It surged ahead with the fluid momentum of a runaway freight train, gathering pace with every step. The smaller bears joined in the chase.

A stand of slender white birches stood shimmering in the moonlight a few hundred paces away. If he could make it to the grove, Kit imagined it just might slow the animals down long enough for him to find a tree big enough to climb. Gulping air, he drove himself to greater speed, willing strength to his legs and fleet to his feet. And for a moment it seemed as if he actually gained some ground on the pursuing beasts.

Alas, whatever imagined advantage Kit might have enjoyed was instantly lost when, skittering over the uneven surface, his foot slipped on a moss-slick stone and he fell hard, whacking his chin on the river rocks. Mother Bear was on him before he could get his feet under him again. Squirming onto his back, he faced the beast, kicking and screaming as if that might drive the enraged animal away.

The bear, seeing its quarry helpless on the ground, reared for the final assault, jaws wide, claws extended. It made a mighty sweep with one great, death-dealing paw. Kit anticipated the blow and rolled to one side, narrowly avoiding having his entire stomach ripped open.

He shouted and kicked out blindly. The toe of his shoe struck a leg solid as a tree trunk.

Astonishingly, that kick appeared to confuse the bear. It paused midlunge and shook its shaggy head. Emboldened by this unwarranted success, Kit kicked again. The blow was accompanied by a loud, meaty chunk. The bear reared back.

Before Kit could launch another kick, there was another thunk, and another. The bear swiped at the empty air, and fist-sized stones began to rain all around. Thick and fast they came. Striking, glancing, bouncing as they smacked mercilessly into the animal’s bulky frame.

The bear staggered back in confusion, and Kit heard a sudden loud cry erupt behind him; he twisted his head around to see three primitives break from the birch grove, all with fist-sized river rocks in their hands, and all shouting and heaving stones as they ran, throwing with unerring accuracy; every missile struck home with a satisfying thump.

The great ferocious beast cowered under the attack. After being struck a few times on the head and chest, it turned, lowered itself to all fours, and beat a hasty retreat, crying for its cubs to follow. The young bears did not wait for the stones to begin falling on them. They hightailed it after their mother, mewling all the way.

Then hands were thrust beneath Kit’s shoulders, and he was hauled to his feet by his armpits. While two other primitives continued to hurl stones at the fleeing bears, Big Hunter patted Kit around the body as if feeling for wounds.

“I’m okay,” Kit told him, knowing full well he would not be understood. “I’m only a little skinned up. It’s okay.” He gripped the heavy hand. “I’m all right.”

This brought a response from Big Hunter, who ceased pawing at him.
“Gangor,”
he said, plain as day, his voice coming from somewhere deep inside him. It was the first word, if word it was, that Kit understood. He said it again and pointed to the bears.

“Gan-gor,” Kit said, trying to repeat the sound of the word as near as he was able.

Big Hunter’s eyes went wide with amazed delight. He called to the other primitives, and when they had returned and gathered around, he said the word again, looking at Kit with an expression of anticipation. “Gangor,” said Kit, eager to oblige.

The effect was electric. All three primitives began jabbering at once and patting him—stroking him like a dog that has just learned a new trick. Kit endured this enthusiastic buffeting. “No, really. It was nothing,” he told them. Turning to Big Hunter, he pressed the primitive’s hand. “Thank you.” He gazed into the bearded faces around him and, with all the sincerity he could muster, said, “Thank you all for saving me.”