CHAPTER 1
Shug, Stalker of Hare, was enjoying a warm day on the Ridge. A day north of him, the village nestled against the Great River. He was here to meditate, and hopefully hunt something more impressive than hare. He had a deerskin spread over the brush as a shelter, another to sleep on, his spirit bag, knife, spear, and some dried meat.
It was the nicest day so far this year, and one of the nicest he recalled in his motions of seasons. The sun was lowering toward the ground. For now, he had good shelter, a good view, and two more days to find a sign and game. He was alone and could think. It was as perfect as life could get. He dozed off.
The thunder woke him, and he jerked awake. He’d slept long enough for a storm to move in. From where? He hadn’t felt it in the weather.
Then he realized the sky was still blue. It was earlier in the afternoon. Had he slept that long? It was warmer, too. Hot, in fact.
The moon was in the wrong place.
He was in a gouged hollow.
Grunting noises caught his attention, and he looked down the ridge.
There was a game path, a huge one, where one had never been before. Huge beasts, much bigger than bison, moved along it in a single file. They were fast, too.
Another noise startled him, and he looked to see a huge, strange-looking bird roaring as it lowered toward the ground. He could swear it had smoke coming from its backside.
He clutched at his spear with one hand and his spirit bag with the other. Was he in the spirit world? But he felt alive, and didn’t have any signs of injury.
The spirits must have gouged out the land he was on. That’s how he was here. He called to them silently, arms against his breast, for guidance.
That done, he scanned the horizon.
It might be best to wait for dusk to look around. The beasts should be settled by then.
He sought shelter. There wasn’t much here, but he did see some scrubby brush. He ambled over, pulled out his digging stick and scraped a slight hollow, and lay down. Covering his feet in dirt, with the tip of his spear out beyond his head, and brush above, he had some shelter and protection. He lay back and breathed deeply.
The air was scented and awful. It smelled like burned resin and dust. He could hear the beasts growling steadily as they charged endlessly along that path.
All he could do was wait.
His sleep was intermittent, and he was thirsty and hungry. The sun dropped behind the hills, tired and red and needing to sleep itself. He wished it a good rest and cautiously scrambled out of his hide.
Down below was strange. It must be the home of the spirits. Many lights showed, but they weren’t fires. They were more like small moons hanging from tall trees, or on the backs of beasts. The beasts’ eyes shone the same way as they moved.
People moved among the beasts and huts. The huts were very nice, very straight and even. Around it all was a strange net of woven vines tied to stakes, and a trench wall. The entrance was marked and that’s where all the beasts entered and left.
Up in the sky, another bird came in from the west, with more trapped moonlight, and a loud roar.
It must be the spirit world.
Shug braced himself and gathered his possessions. If this was where he was, he would go to meet the spirits bravely. Perhaps that thunder had killed him. Or perhaps this was a vision.
With his spear, gourd, and bag, he clutched at his totems and started down the hill.
The terrain was irregular, and he let his weight pull him forward, bouncing on his legs as he went. There were more beasts on the path, and he didn’t want to get too close. They might spook. He was at least two spear throws back when one of the moonlights suddenly shone at him. He held up a hand over his face.
There were shouts, but he didn’t recognize the speech. There were men running toward him, and surrounding him. There were six, then more.
He held his spear across as a block. They carried…things. They acted as if they were armed, but he didn’t see spears, though some had what could be knives on belts. They were all massively built, wearing tight-fitting leggings and tunics that were splotch colors. The clothes must be dyed, braided fiber. The men were obviously hunter-warriors.
One of them was close and grabbed his spear. He didn’t know how to react. He could fight, but there were so many. They hadn’t actually attacked, though. They just seemed to think he was too close to their territory. Was he not allowed in the spirit world?
The spear came out of his grasp, and he saw one of the men pointing at the ground while shouting. He assumed they wanted him to sit. But he already wasn’t a threat. What more did they need?
One of them spoke slowly, but it wasn’t speech, just noises.
He lowered down and sat.
The gesturing man walked around behind him and grabbed his arms. He started to struggle, and was rewarded with a knee in his back while his hands were bound.
This was not good.
They raised him to his feet, patted him all over, and took his pouch and spirit bag. How was he supposed to reach his spirit guides now?
He walked with them, one on each side, until they came up to one of the beasts. It was rumbling and noisy, but holding still. What wizards were they?
Its ass was wide open. The men started walking up inside the ass of the beast. He had no idea what this was about, and it was very, very disturbing. He struggled again, and they just picked him up and dragged him, then put him down on the ground inside, if it could be called ground. It was hard, flat, and rough, like coarse rock.
After that, he couldn’t follow what happened. The beast’s ass closed, there was dim light inside, and the animal seemed to move, bouncing them along. Shortly, it stopped. He was lifted up and they walked back out to the ground. It was night overhead, but brightly lit here, with moonlights shining in his face from all over.
They took him inside one of the lodges, and it was sunlight bright inside, with strange chairs for sitting, and shelves in front of some of the chairs. Spirit objects were everywhere—the walls, floor, ceiling. There were the spirit suns shining brightly. All the men and some women wore heavy clothing that had to be too hot in this weather.
Then he realized it was cool, almost too cool inside. He wore leggings, a breech, and a light shoulder cover.
One of the men spoke to him, and he noticed the man was very pale, but most of the others were even paler.
He had no idea what the man was saying. It wasn’t speech of his people, or any people. The sounds made no sense at all. They all spoke in noises.
He hunched in on himself. He knew he should be brave, but he had no idea what the rules of the spirit world were. It seemed he wasn’t supposed to be here, and perhaps they would send him back to the people world?
He spoke back. “I am Shug of River Bend. I am a learning hunter.”
They chattered back and forth in weird noises, and tried to speak to him again. He didn’t understand a sound they made.
They led him past the chairs and down a cavelike passage. They weren’t mean, but they weren’t gentle. They led and pushed, he went as they told. It seemed safest for now.
Shortly they came to a wall made of perfectly flat rocks. It must be a magic place, to have so much attention paid to fitting stones. There was an inset that opened, like a flap, but sideways.
They unfastened his hands and directed him in. He went.
It was the most unusual lodge Shug had ever been in. The sides were flat as stretched hide, but made of rock.
They closed the cover behind him, and it made a strange noise, almost like that a large rock makes splashing into deep water.
He assumed that thing was a raised bed, and it was. It was very soft, as was the woven bedskin with it. In fact, there were very thin, very soft bedskins, and thicker, slightly coarser ones. At least he would be comfortable. Possibly he’d have to learn spirit speech, though he always thought they heard him. Whoever these people or beings were, they didn’t know people language.
Martin Spencer and his best friend, Bob Barker, were working. Their business, started the previous year, was a survival school, teaching everything from shelter and firemaking to improvised water filters, cooking, and even metalworking. They taught backward from a reasonably well-equipped car to wild materials only. They were only a couple of hours from St. Louis, but this area was nearly complete wilderness. They did spray for mosquitoes. Otherwise, it was a very wild September, cool in the mornings, warm later. He was used to extremes after eighteen years in the Army, a chunk of it in Iraq and A-stan.
Currently, Bob was teaching a fire-by-bow drill, first with a bootlace, and then with peeled bark. The man could get a fire going in two minutes even in the damp. It was impressive.
The class was attentive as he demonstrated finding a piece of wood for base, a spindle stick, a socket, and tinder. They formed a circle and watched.
Barker said, “The thing to remember is this is a technology. You need a coarse, fibrous wood for the drill and base, a smooth hardwood for the cap, and a stringy bark for the bowstring. You’re just sawing to get black oxidized tinder at first. Then a wisp of smoke…”
Along for the class was a well-known TV personality. Martin liked the show, but the guy was always a bit of an ass, even out here. While grinning smugly, the dude pulled out a cigarette and made a flamboyant gesture with his lighter.
Yes, lighters are more efficient, Martin thought. When you have one.
A couple of students were distracted by the act, and looked around.
Time to make a point.
“Hey, could I get a smoke?” he asked.
“Uh? Sure.” Still grinning, the big man waved the pack so one cigarette came loose, and offered the lighter.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the cancer stick and fumbling the lighter. It slipped from his hand into a muddy spot on the ground.
“Whoops!” he said, while turning and stepping on it.
He looked around and said, “Oh, here it is.”
He bent down and retrieved it.
He clicked it. It was a piezo at least, but even those had issues with mud. Click. Click.
He said, “The mud’s going to have to dry out before it works. Hey, Bob, help a guy out here?”
Barker said, “Sure thing,” and bore down on the drill. With a dozen brisk strokes he got a smoldering, smoking ember, which he tapped into the black carbon dust, into the bark strip tinder underneath it. He picked it up, blew on it, produced a flame. Stepping forward, he waved that under the cigarette until it lit, then folded the bark and grass over it, bent down, and stuck it under the fire lay he’d built.
Ten seconds later, the fire was flaming, Martin handed Bob the cigarette because he’d quit, while the smart-ass looked irritated. There were even a couple of chuckles.
Martin said, “You should definitely use the best technology you can, but always have a default. Anyone remember that family that almost froze to death in their car in the Cascades a few years ago?”
There were a couple of nods.
“They had a car with a battery, gasoline, oil, flammable seats, and they were in a forest full of trees, and they couldn’t get a fire started. Our Stone Age ancestors could strike or rub up a fire in a few seconds. With all the technology those people had, they couldn’t.”
“We’ll practice this after lunch. First with premade kits, then we’ll show you what to look for. For lunch, Emily is going to show you how almost every plant you’re stepping on right now is edible. Emily?”
Emily, dark, quirky, and energetic as always, said, “Hi! Did anyone else see the wild garlic at the edge of the trees? Mixed in with the dandelions?”
The day went well. He should be happy. At the end, he locked the trailer, shouldered his pack, and climbed into the Suburban. Emily was already off in her old ambulance. Bob waved as he got into his F150.
The drive home was dirt road to secondary to state highway, to another winding secondary, then dirt again.
The house was great. He’d found a hunting lodge, log and plank with a wraparound porch, roomy enough and with some shop and garage space, at a very good price. Part of that was there weren’t major jobs out here, so other than retirees and wealthy retreats, it was vacant. The land was cheap.
Andrew was supposed to be in from Georgia Tech this weekend. The boy needed to work harder on his classes, too. Beverly was doing well in her first year at U Ark in Fayetteville. It was just him and Allison most of the time.
He’d been looking forward to that, and it should be wedded bliss.
He sighed as he parked, then got out and walked into the house proper. Wooden door, wooden paneling, wooden floor. Good thing there was a fire suppression system, but it looked and felt like home.
“Hey,” he announced.
“Hi,” she muttered back from the kitchen.
He approached and waited until she turned from the stove.
“How’s the class?” she asked.
“Full, paid, and in progress.” He said that first because money was important, but it was about the only part of it she cared about.
“Good.”
“How are you doing?” he asked. It shouldn’t be this awkward to talk to his wife.
“Fine. I leave for work in an hour.”
“Yeah.” She was inpatient administration at the nearby hospital, though not earning as much as she had near Fort Bliss. At least this was a permanent position, not subject to him getting orders. She should be grateful for that. And night shift paid an extra $2/hour. He couldn’t quite help but wonder if she’d chosen that shift to avoid him.
“I’ll bet it was fun, having tea with the local women while the men cleared the area. Or was it more fun to pat them down?”
“Yes, yes, we’re all lesbians,” she said. “That must be the only reason we don’t like men.”
“Or you just can’t find any on a Chair Force base.”
He continued, “The only reason for females in the military is as comfort women for the men doing the real work.”
A red haze clouded her, and she realized she’d just slammed the base of the plastic beer pitcher with the heel of her hand. It cracked, so did his teeth, blood streaked through the rivulets of beer streaming down his face, and the rim left a mark on his forehead, too.
She knew she was going to jail for this, and because of that, she was damned well going to have a reason. While he still looked confused, she punched him in the guts. He slumped and bent, she grabbed his head, and smashed it into the table. She latched onto his ears for a second swing, as hands grabbed her and pulled her back.
He came up a bloody mess with a flat face, and two big guys grabbed him, too.
“Woah, woah, woah!” Brant said. “Shit, get him to the clinic, he’s a mess…no, seriously, dude, you got fucked up; sit down and hold this.” Brant shoved a napkin at the man and guided his hand to his nose.
Then another man was in front of her. Obvious older NCO. “Let me see your ID.”
Someone let her right hand go, and she fished it out of her pocket. She held it out. She was still breathing hard and her pulse hammered. Goddammit, that had felt good, shutting that dickless little bastard’s face.
“Well, Staff Sergeant Jennifer A. Caswell, I’m Sergeant First Class Ronald Fulmer. I am an MP. You are under arrest…”
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