The Uprights, page 11
Dahrun is surprised – and pleased – by the way he replies.
“I’ll stop talking then. You listen. You’re good at that. You’re not much good at anything else, I’ve been told. You won’t mind if I sit down? Shut my eyes for a while. You keep guard. Wake me up before Ohp. You’ll do that won’t you?”
Dahrun can’t respond because he cannot think of what to say, but he does know he will keep guard properly, just as Ohp has ordered and Bahnor has assumed. And later, as the sky begins to lighten, he will go over and shake the shoulder of the male he detests. Just as he has been asked to do.
As the hard light of the moon sharpens the upper branches, the night gets darker and colder. But it’s never silent. Behind him, the hunters move and cough and snore. Above, the leaves rustle in the wind. Further away, he can hear wings beating, tiny feet scampering for safety, bracken creaking and bending. Bahnor has been right about one thing. He will never hear the approach of a leopard.
But now, from a new and nearer vantage point, the leopard can hear – and see – the camp and its uprights. One is standing, while all the others are lying down, making that peculiar noise of theirs’. He can hear and see well, but he can smell so much better. There’s so much to smell. Piss. Shit. Sweat. Especially, sweat of uprights at ease, unaware of his nearness and clearly not ready to fight.
Whiskers quivering and eyes steady, he drops to the forest floor. Then he eases his muscular body through the thicket and around a tree. But now – suddenly – the sweat he smells isn’t so good. The odour coming from the standing upright changes, gets stronger, makes him hesitate.
Dahrun has seen nothing, but he is sure the hunters are no longer alone. Did he hear soft paws touching the ground, shoulders pushing foliage aside, bracken being broken? Perhaps, but it’s neither his eyes nor his ears which makes his heart pound. Their messages remain muted, uncertain, contaminated by the forest and everything in it. Rather, it’s his nose, his throat and his tongue. He can smell – almost taste – leopard. There’s one nearby, ready to pounce. Ready to pounce on him.
He screams out the alarm.
Still half asleep, but trusting the warning without question, the rest of the hunters open their eyes, get off their capes and line themselves up either side of Dahrun. If the guard believes there’s a beast coming out of the darkness, they’re not going to argue. Not Bahnor. Not Ohp. Not one of them, because what they do then is what they always do. The only way uprights can survive. They fight and defend as a pack. Advancing towards the enemy without delay or fear. Shouting defiantly, throwing stones with all their power and swinging their clubs so fiercely that the leaves on the trees flutter in awe.
In response to all this, the interloper hisses and snarls and bares his teeth, wanting to bite and slash, or at least hold his ground, but he knows he is out-numbered and decides instead to return to the denseness – and safety – of the forest. He will have to come back for the monkey meat another time.
*****
Although the sky is still dark and brooding, the morning call of the birds awakes the uprights, as it always does, however short the night before, however long the day ahead. Within breaths they are all on their feet and ready for their orders.
Orders. Yesterday, Ohp wasn’t sure what to say. But somehow, during the night and using senses he has no knowledge of, he has decided what they must do. And it isn’t to spend another day chasing beasts. They have to get back to the settlement as soon as possible. He will show Tahk – no, he will show the elders – that he can be relied upon.
Soon the camp is all movement and noise. Some hunters are given the task of digging up the beasts. Others fill the skin-bags in the stream. A few, only too aware that the sound of uprights travels far in the forest, fan out among the trees to make sure the pack is safe from leopard attack. One or two gather around Ohp. All of them are talking and happy. Their mission is complete and they are going home.
First though, they have to eat. But not from the pile of flesh and bones heaped up on the carrying skins in front of them. That’s to impress the elders. To prove they have done their duty. Enhance Ohp’s reputation. That they will take back.
Instead, it will have to be roots and berries and fruit. Especially fruit, for it is all about them. Scattered on the ground. In full view. Some good and whole. Most brown and rotten. But all soft and sweet. Juicy in the mouth. Fizzy on the tongue. So satisfying to the belly.
The pack sits down and eats its fill. It’s what Ohp orders. But it’s not what Tahk would have done. Not with fallen fruit. Not with brown fruit. Not with fruit that is fizzy on the tongue.
Only Dahrun, second son of Tahk, remembers the rule.
*****
The leopard was driven off in the night, but he didn’t go far. Why should he? He knows uprights don’t walk far in the dark. So all he did was climb a tree, and ignore the crashing and shouting below: now he can observe what is going on in the clearing. Observe, but more importantly breathe in the odours wafting up to him. And they are so exciting and pungent that he is tempted to drop to the ground immediately and claim what he wants, there and then. But he restrains himself: there are too many hunters between him and the meat. It’s better to wait and see. Perhaps they will hunt again and leave their spoils unattended. But that’s not what happens. Far from moving off, the hunters stretch out, eat, talk, sing, put their weapons to one side and shut their eyes.
He looks and listens again, and this time sniffs more carefully. Now the pigs and the monkeys are no longer buried, it’s only to be expected that their smell is stronger. The smell of upright shit and piss is the same as before, but the smell of sweat is different. Neither more nor less. He doesn’t know why. It’s like the sweats he knows. Of sleep. Of injury. Of dying. It’s all of these, yet none of them. Whatever it is, it isn’t the sweat of rage. The hunters aren’t about to chase him away again. He’s sure of that.
*****
Dahrun looks at the other hunters with distaste and confusion. They are being so noisy their presence must now be known to every beast in the forest. And why are they laughing, when he hasn’t heard one funny word? Lying down, when there is so much work to do? And what is Ohp doing, propped against a tree, eyes drooping when he has orders to give and a pack to lead? He’s not sure he understands, but it must be to do with the fruit on the ground. It is proving to be bad for them, just as Tahk says it would be.
*****
At first it’s the merest sensation, so slight he thinks nothing of it. Not enough to make him open his eyes, or put his hand under his cape to find out what it is. It’s sharp. Not unpleasant. Not moving like a crawling one. Nor bad and getting worse as would be the case with a bite. Just a gentle – a very gentle – feeling. Then it moves very slowly along the length of his club. His club lifts, hardens, asks for more.
“Dhi.”
A voice calls out his name. It’s a male voice, but he keeps his eyes shut and pretends he hasn’t heard.
It’s a scratch. Like a scratch, except now he’s aware of something else. The slightest pressure where there is already so much pressure. Not all over. Small pads of pressure, touching, holding, exploring. The softest of fingertips. The smallest of fingertips.
“Dhi. Dhi.”
It’s his father. He knows he should respond.
Nails. Fingertips. Fingers. It’s Wuhn. Lying beside him. So still. Breathing as if still asleep. Yet it’s her hand. Gripping him. Possessing him. Not tightly. He can hardly feel it. Yet he does. He turns his head towards her. Looks at her face. Her eyes. Closed. Her lips. Parted. Is she smiling?
“Wake up. Tell me about your visit to the caves. I want to know about the leaders. Dhi!”
The hand tightens ever so slightly. Then moves. Down. Down. To the bottom, where the club came out of his belly. The grip relaxes. Why? Why? Why doesn’t she carry on? She’s teasing. Then he can feel her fingers holding his stones. Probing the loose skin. Pushing. Squeezing. Cradling.
“I can tell you are awake. Are the leaders coming? Speak to me. I want to know.”
She has his club in her hand again. More tightly. It’s more urgent. Moving faster. To the tip. And then back down. Up. And down. Up and down.
“What about my meeting? Have they agreed to come to my meeting?”
He can hear. He could answer. Except it can wait and he can’t. He has to hold her now. Touch her. Smother her. Enter her. He hopes his father will understand.
*****
It’s that smell again. The leopard must have returned. He feels cold. His chest heaves. The skin on his neck tightens. Dahrun instinctively knows the other has the advantage this time and it’s the hunters who will, in spite of their numbers, struggle. He’s almost too scared to look up and return the gaze of a beast, in power and weapons, second only to a lion. Yet he does so for none of the others will and the eyes are there, just as he feared, at the edge of the clearing. Small points of lighter green against the darker green of the forest, intense, moving, yet remaining fixed on him. He – they – are being slowly encircled.
Even before Dahrun finishes calling out his second alarm of the trip, he unleashes two of his stones. They miss. He reaches for the next salvo and realises there aren’t many left. Why hadn’t he refilled his bag? And what are the other hunters doing?
Some are still on the ground, but a few are struggling to their feet and as they have been trained, preparing their weapons for the fight. But they are doing everything too slowly and clumsily. Not getting arms through the slings of their bags in one smooth action. Sometimes grabbing hold of the wrong club and then arguing about it with the hunter next to them. Chanting their battle song, but not altogether and without saying the right words. Rushing around, looking for the enemy, going in different directions, falling over the legs of those yet to stir. Cursing. Screaming. Laughing.
Even so, there is still time for Ohp to take command and bring them to order. Of course, the leopard has come back, but it isn’t rushing at them. Instead, it’s going around the outside of the camp, jaws agape, fangs exposed, wondering how best to steal the meat. If only Ohp got to his feet and shouted at his pack, they could still stand together, shoulder to shoulder. Advance towards the intruder. Show defiance.
The lone beast has no experience of uprights like this and it makes him wary. Yet his nose – the smell – the sweat – is telling him there’s nothing to fear, no reason why he shouldn’t ignore their strange movements and sounds, and sink his teeth into their meat. No reason at all.
It’s now apparent he is intent on stealing their meat and bones, and not fighting the hunters. That’s something, because in their state, they have little hope of driving him away. Of course, losing some of their spoils is bad, especially when they didn’t have enough to begin with, but at least they can save themselves. Avoid the dreadful slashes. The festering wounds. But that will happen only if those who are able to walk move away from the open skin of meat and those on the ground roll or crawl to safety. Ohp just has to give the command.
But he issues no such orders. Instead, he roars like an animal, not at the hunters who are in his charge, but at his adversary. For coming into the clearing when he has been so careful to guard against it. For catching them when they are unprepared. For daring to steal what has taken them two whole days to collect. But mostly, because he can see his prospects of proving himself – and taking over from Tahk – fading with every quickening of the other’s step.
Angered beyond words, Ohp struggles to his feet, lurches, nearly stumbles, but his obvious intention to defend what’s theirs, jolts the others into action. Within a few breaths, the hunters are at the beast. But it isn’t as it should be. Instead of forming themselves into a tight pack, they act independently. Rather than overwhelming the big male with a controlled volley of stones, the missiles are thrown randomly. Although many miss, one strikes home, with a thud, a growl and a sharp intake of breath. The leopard stops, reaches back and tries to assess the damage. It’s nothing. The skin’s not broken. He isn’t even sore. He has been right. These uprights are not going to deny him. Not this time. Not when they are like this. He lowers his shoulders and lunges towards his goal.
Almost before they are aware of it, he is within a few paces of the meat. The ragged cordon of uprights has proved to be no obstacle to his progress and the one hunter still between him and what he wants will be no problem. How can he be when he’s lying on his back, able to do no more than lift himself on his elbows and look around blearily? Does he have teeth? Claws. Stones. A club. Nothing. He’s defenceless.
All the same, he is in the way. Blocking his route. No matter. There’s no need to waste time walking around him. Trying to keep out of his reach. He will step over him. Ignore him. In that condition, he isn’t worth bothering with.
Kihp cannot believe what’s happening to him. Didn’t he hunt bravely, sleep well and eat the fallen fruit: do everything just as he was ordered? Why then does he feel so dizzy and tired, and why can’t he use his legs to get his body off the ground? Even worse, why is the leopard coming towards him? Is he going to be attacked? Mauled to death. Eaten alive. Perhaps not, for it is looking right past him. At what? At the meat. If only he had some strength, he would move out of the way. But he doesn’t and then it’s too late. The beast looms over him, eyes and snout and drooling tongue intent on the contents of the skin. The leopard’s smell is hateful. The limbs determined. He puts one front paw and then another on his chest. Why can’t he do anything about it? Then it’s the turn of the back paws and they are placed on his belly. They’re even heavier. The animal drops his neck. Picks up one of the monkeys. Starts crunching the bones. Shaking his head to sever the tendons. His throat gurgles in anticipation. His belly rumbles to show it’s ready. These are the worst sounds he has ever heard.
Kihp wants to be elsewhere. Standing. Next to his brothers. His cousins. Shoulder to shoulder. Shouting, advancing, throwing. But he isn’t. He’s on his own. Lying down. Defenceless. But he doesn’t have to take it. He must try to wriggle free. Pull himself away from that sagging belly. And those back paws. Such heavy paws. But he has no control over his body. He’s pinned to the ground. Trapped. The paws won’t release him. He can’t get up. Run away. Save his life. Just a breath, his throwing arm is free. He should be able to do something with that. Anything to escape from the humiliation. Being no more than a stepping stone to another’s meal. An upright with all his superior skills, pressed to the ground by nothing but a beast. He will be knowing. Use his head. He can hurt the leopard. Make him regret coming this way.
A hand finds his fighting bag. It’s within reach. His fingers fumble. Shake. Somehow, are able to open it. Delve inside. Grasp a stone. Hold it tightly. It mustn’t slip. Fall. His eyes water. Mist over. No longer work. He gulps. Blinks. Now everything becomes clear. He sees what he has in mind. Right in front of him. If he hits them, the spotted one will know.
“Now. Now.”
Kihp shouts out with all his strength. He will prove he’s the master. A worthy hunter. He doesn’t take his eye off the animal’s hole, disgustingly brown and leaking in his eagerness to satisfy his hunger. The stiff tail above waving from side to side in the ecstasy of eating. The male stones beneath, in their dangling bag of skin and tangled fur. They’re what he’s after. What he’s going to destroy. With his hand. With what’s in his hand. His hand and its contents arc through the air. Smash unerringly against its target. Upright smashes against beast. Stone smashes against flesh.
The leopard’s body shudders. Twitches. Loses all its power. His jaw falls open. In mid-bite, he drops what’s left of the climbing one. Vomits two or three previously swallowed limbs. Gags. Coughs. Brings up slime. Unrecognisable bits from an earlier meal. Shakes his head in disbelief. Tries to snarl. Show his rage. Work out what is happening to him. But he’s shocked. Pained beyond endurance. Thinks nothing of what he’s doing. Where he is. The hunter beneath his paws. Possible revenge. He just has to escape. Seek refuge in the forest. Return to the fork in the tree which has so often been his lair. Now. Immediately. Before there’s a repeat. And to do that, he taps into unknown strengths. Uncoils his haunches. Pushes down hard. Digs in deeply. Leaps up and away.
The weight. The crushing weight. Heavier than he has ever known. He cannot breathe. His chest collapses. Desperate, scrabbling claws tear open his belly. Exposes – rips – his guts. Punctures his inner organs. Releases his blood. His nature, even. Kihp cannot move. See where the leopard is going. All he understands is that it’s no longer standing on him. Shaming him. Eating the beasts he and the other hunters have killed. Denying Tahk what he most wants. But that’s enough to comprehend before the blackness comes and he knows no more.
5
Crossroads
Dhi gives Wuhn a final squeeze, rolls over and lifts his head. He cannot ignore his father any longer and nor does he want to. On the contrary, he is eager to find out how Tahk is feeling and tell him the good news about the many leaders coming to the meeting. Now, at last, he is happy to get off his bed.
Wuhn barely stirs, but as soon as Dhi’s hands leave her, others take their place. Smaller and less sure of themselves, they stroke her hair, follow the contours of her nose and press her weary flesh. They seem to be everywhere.
Dhi’s infants know enough to keep away while their father is with his new mate, but as soon as he moves away, they are all over her, laughing, questioning, touching. And it’s not just the infants. Their mothers come over as well, impatient to see their new mate-sister. A new female from another family is always exciting, especially one from Jehkmin’s family. They are always somehow – different.
