The Uprights, page 23
*****
It’s not dark, but they feel tired. Some sleep. Many are close to sleep. Only Dhi remains awake, sitting up, fully alert once again to the unknown dangers ahead. He expects nothing. He expects everything. Even so, he – and the others – are equally startled – almost overwhelmed – by the loudest report so far. The unstopping scream of hot wind. The lack of air to breathe. Then something else. Something that hasn’t happened before. A sense of foreboding. An immediacy that’s new. A closeness that defeats the eyes. The hill is far away. It hasn’t come nearer. The flames and fumes are where they were. But now the noise isn’t in front of them. It’s above them. Coming down on them. Loud. Getting louder. Deafening. They look up. There’s black. Smoke. Fire. Fire above! Falling. Down. Towards them. Onto them. It’s hot. So hot. They’re in the fire.
*****
Slowly she lifts her head and, for the first time, looks around. The male is to one side, still asleep, breathing heavily and noisily. To the other, is a small rise and beyond it, the ground seems to fall away. Is that there where the stream runs through the trees? The route he used to creep up on her so quietly. The way she might escape. She can’t see it, but she can certainly hear the water babbling over the stones, telling its story to all who want to know that it has come from the top of the hill. And is on its way to the lake. That’s where she is going as well. The stream proved to be her undoing: now it will be used to save her.
She rises onto her elbows. She’s not silent, but nor does she make much noise. The male snores on, unaware what the female by his side is thinking – planning – doing.
Now she sits up. She needs her hands to do that and they break through the crust of dry, fallen leaves. The male coughs, holds his breath, twitches. Then he coughs again. For a moment, she freezes but then his movements resume their regular rhythm. She can see more. Not yet the stream, but her beast-skin, her bag and things that aren’t hers: his bag of stones; his cape; his club.
Her whole body aches and lower down, she’s torn and bleeding. But she has survived. Her face hasn’t been touched. Her lips, her teeth are still hers. Hers to share with Dhi. The other parts of her will recover: she’s young and when she gets back to the settlement, she will eat well. She will insist on it – she knows her mate-sisters will be only too happy to give their portions to her. But now, alone, hungry and sore, does she have the strength to pull herself to her knees? Climb to her feet.
It isn’t easy and she can’t do it quietly, but she has to try. It’s no good. The male turns over, calls out, opens his eyes, tries to grab a foot. She whisks it away. He lunges again. This time he gets a hand to a slender ankle, but he’s still half-asleep and she manages to pull it from his grip.
She backs away a little and, for the first time since leaving the clearing, is able to see him clearly. His skin, so much darker than Dhi’s. His face, dirty and black. His forehead, disfigured with its unsightly blemish. His eyes, full of lust and determination, but also other things. Care. Concern. Regret. She must be wrong. How can that be when he has just done those terrible things to her? Nearly killed her. Even worse, wants to stop her getting away. The look in his gaze. Like she has seen in her mate’s eyes after he has been angry with her but is not yet able to say sorry. She’s sure she’s not mistaken. Does it mean she can talk to him? Plead with him to let her go.
She doesn’t retreat any further and he makes no effort to catch hold of her again. For what seems like many breaths, neither changes their position, nor says anything: perhaps each one of them is thinking about their next move. Wuhn certainly is. She looks again for the stream. Her bag. Her beast-skin. His stones. His club. His club! It isn’t far away. Nearer to her than him. She can get to it before he does. She’s sure of that. Then what? She has never swung a club before. Doesn’t know how far to pull back her arm. What part of the male to aim at – the head, the target hunters always choose – or the soft bits lower down that have done her so much harm. She could never kill him, not with her strength. And if she just hurt him, he would be incensed. Maybe talking to him is better. Promise that she won’t tell Dhi and Tahk what happened.
*****
Guhgral isn’t sure what to do either, but his indecision is nothing to do with any uncertainty about letting her go. What bothers him is that he cannot readily work out how to stop her running away. He doesn’t just want her now, or the next time. He wants her for the rest of his life and with her spirit – the very thing that makes him rejoice he followed her, and not another female – he has to tie her up until she has forgotten Dhi. Forgotten her family. Forgotten her cave. Only knows him and the forest. Becomes his willingly and without protest. And, in the end, without cords.
Is there anything suitable hanging from the trees? He makes an effort to get up. To have a look.
*****
His movement, sudden and purposeful, frightens Wuhn, but at least it forces her to make up her mind: she will pick up his club and hit him before he is able to defend himself.
She drops down and feels for the length of wood at her feet, and in so doing, has to take her eyes off the runaway. But it’s just for a breath. No longer. Much longer. Yet not long enough for him to do anything. Or for her to change her mind. Then she is standing, closing, swinging. He blocks the first blow with an arm and screams more with surprise than pain. She must do it again. There’s no choice now. Harder. Under his guard. Aim for his belly. Chest. Anywhere it will hurt. She gets through. She hears him gasp. Another cudgel to his head. His forehead. His eyes. He falls down. Again. Again she hits him. But he’s so big. So difficult to kill. So difficult even to stop him moving.
Then she stops. She’s too tired to hit him anymore.
10
Escape
The cave is much smaller than the one he knows so well. He cannot hear any crying or shouting – sounds that irritated so often in the past, but would now happily remind him of his family. Nor is it comfortable, cool when the sun is overhead and sheltering when the winds are at their coldest. Instead, the inside of the cave is bright and hot. So hot he can hardly bear it. He has to get out. Escape. If he doesn’t, he will burn. It’s too late, he’s already on fire. The flames are slapping against his body. Enveloping him. Making him gasp. Hurting. He has to keep moving. Faster. Faster. Away from the flames. He has to reach the opening. There he will be able to breathe. But the cave goes on and on. The ceiling drops. The walls come in. The ground beneath his feet gives way. Loses its firmness. He tries to run, walk, crawl, but makes no progress. How can he when his limbs flail the air? Touch nothing solid. The cave is endless. It’s getting even hotter. Just like the sun. Perhaps the cave is no longer in their hill. It’s moved. Lifted. Soared into the sky. Gone to the sun. Become part of the sun.
*****
Tahk stands on the summit, transfixed by what he sees and smells and hears. His senses take everything in, but he doesn’t understand anything. He has no knowledge of what is happening to the sky, the far hills, the sun. To himself even. Nothing is as it was before – as it has always been. What he experiences is different from everything in his past. He is different. And the less he understands, the more he feels compelled to do something. Not just stand and stare like a beast at bay. Something – anything – to remind him who he is: an upright – a hunter – a leader. So he punches his fists together and rejoices in the sensation of pain; the sight of blood dripping onto the ground. His fingers are badly hurt, but it doesn’t matter. He can feel them. And his fingers can feel his cape. It’s the one he put on this morning. The skin is as he remembers it. He can even recall stoning the beast that gave up its life to feed the family. His hand goes to his face. His beard is where it should be. Long. Straggly. Grey. Except it isn’t grey now. He lifts the wispy ends. Tries to make out their colour. They keep changing. Black. Grey. Red. It can’t be his beard. But it must be. It’s attached to his jaw. It doesn’t belong to any other male. Yet somehow it isn’t his.
The sun isn’t really the sun either. One breath, it’s there, the next it’s gone. Then it comes back, swirling, moving, green, yellow, orange. Sometimes too powerful to look at, sometimes so weak he can stare at it without discomfort. Is this the same sun that greets him every day? Walks so slowly across the sky that its progress cannot be seen. So constant. Predictable. Yet now it looks as if it is about to split into two. Break into pieces. Die. He cannot tell if that is going to happen. Anything seems possible.
Then he thinks of his son and the pack he is leading. How could he have forgotten all those young males? Have they been burned to nothing? Their natures lost for ever. It would be terrible if they perished because of him and his plan.
No. It isn’t happening. So many hunters dead because of him. The sun dead or dying. The whole sky blacker than the night. Heavy with dust. Burning, black dust. Falling from above. Falling on his head. He can see it. Feel it. Smell it. It’s death. That’s what death smells like. Yet he isn’t dead. He waves his arms in the air. Shouts. Shouts out Dhi’s name, not once, not twice, but until he drops to the ground, exhausted.
*****
“Zohka. Kahple. Are you there?”
Dhi opens his eyes. Tries to move. Work out what has happened.
“Can anybody hear me?”
He isn’t in the cave any more. It’s no longer bright. In fact it’s dark. So dark he can’t see anything. Nor can he stretch out his arms and push himself up. He’s trapped by something heavy. Too heavy to lift. It must be the pall of death. Yet he isn’t dead. Dead uprights can’t breathe. Run their tongues over their lips. Speak.
“Is anybody alive?”
Is it a dream or is he really in a cave? At least, the far end of the cave, where it is deep in the earth, far away from the brightness of the sun. It must be that because he can’t see anything. He calls out again. To another of the hunters.
“Bohrid. Can you hear me?”
It’s still dark and so very hot.
“Are you injured?”
A voice. Not his voice. He didn’t say that. He makes another effort to lift himself up. But he can’t.
“Bohrid. Bohrid.”
What’s pressing down on him? It feels like his cape. Yes, that’s what it is. His cape has lifted over his head and now covers his eyes. But why can’t he move it? His cape isn’t so heavy.
“Bohrid, I can hear you. I’m here. Under my cape. Can you see me?”
Did he hear Bohrid’s voice? He can’t be sure. There’s so much noise. So much rumbling and crashing. But why is Bohrid in his cave? Or if he isn’t in a cave, why is the other hunter in his dream?
“Dhi. Dhi.”
This time he knows he’s not alone.
*****
She has been attacked and hurt, yet the forest carries on as if nothing has happened. How can it be so unfeeling when it has witnessed the terrible things that have taken place in its midst? Shouldn’t it lament? Protest. Show pity for her wretched state. Why are the trees still reaching for the light so hopefully, when they should droop and shed their leaves, like so many tears? And the lianas, clasping each other in supportive embrace: shouldn’t they twist themselves around the runaway’s neck instead and hang him from high? And the birds. What are they singing about?
Yet the forest’s very normality is also her comfort. It’s undamaged. Unyielding. Continuing. Well if it can do that, so shall she. After all, the runaway hasn’t broken any of her bones. Her skin is badly scratched, but not torn into pieces. And her face, her mouth, her teeth haven’t been touched at all.
She understands she has to stop thinking about what has been done to her and escape. The stream isn’t far away – that she knows. But where is her beast-skin and bag? She remembers them being torn from her body and dropping to the ground. But they aren’t to be seen. Not by her feet. Not hidden under the foliage. Nowhere on her side of the runaway. That means she has no choice. She has to force her way through the knee-high bracken and walk around his body. She will have to move and that means she will make a noise. It can’t be helped. She will be careful. Watch for any signs of life. Go round an outstretched arm – his head with its mane of long, black hair – his broad and powerful back – his lean rump, now as naked as hers. And underneath it, protruding from the flesh, trapped by his full weight, must be the things she wants.
She has to have them whatever the consequences. There will be no consequences. Not if she is quick. Can get onto her hands and knees. Crawl within reach. Reach out. She’s there. Oh so nearly there. Is he stirring? How can he? He’s dead, isn’t he? Gasping for air. After all the blows she landed on his chest. Groaning. It doesn’t matter. Within a breath, she will have what she wants.
It isn’t easy. In fact, it is proving to be impossible. She pulls with all her strength, yet nothing happens. He’s so heavy. But how can she leave her beast-skin behind? No female of her age would walk into the cave without a cover around her waist. Even more importantly, she doesn’t want anyone to see her bruises. Her cuts. Her blood. She will try again, even if her efforts bring him back to life. He has taken so much of hers already he is not now going to keep her protection. Nor her bag. Her bag especially.
There is no alternative. Somehow, she has to force herself to put her hands on his filthy, hated rump, lean into his bulk and push with all her strength. He moves a little to one side, moans and then falls back. So he isn’t dead after all. Not dead, but he hardly appears to be alive. And he certainly isn’t aware Wuhn is next to him, pushing, pulling and when she has what she wants, determined to return to her family. Another heave with what is left of her pathetic energy, only this time helped by Dhi and Tahk and Jehkmin, whose massive strength she has summonsed for just this last effort. So she – they – push. And he moves. Then he wakes up. Well, he doesn’t wake up so much as kick, lash out and bellow in pain. But he also shouts because he understands, with an awareness that has little comprehension, that the female he wants for the rest of his life, is about to get away. He turns towards the sensations. And then is startled – almost into consciousness – by her cry of fear and pain, as first his upper leg and then much of his body, rolls on top of her.
*****
“Dhi.”
“Bohrid. It is you, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I said it was me.”
“Good. Good. What’s pushing down on me? It’s heavy. What is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Get closer.”
“I think it’s a body. It must be a hunter’s body.”
“Who is it? Pull him off.”
“Zohka. It’s Zohka.”
“Why is he lying on me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell him to leave me alone.”
“He doesn’t hear you.”
“Then you must help me get away from him.”
“Wait. Let me hold his arm. I’ve got it now. I’ll pull.”
“Good. That feels better. No. I’m still trapped. I can’t get up yet. Pull him again.”
“A breath. Just a breath, Dhi. I can’t get a proper grip. My hands keep slipping.”
“Hold something else. You must free me.”
“Don’t shout. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Good. I can get to my knees now. Look. I’m standing.”
“You seem all right.”
“Bohrid.”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Where have you gone?”
“I’m here. In front of you.”
“Why can’t I see you?”
“Wipe your face, Dhi. You’re covered in dust.”
“Dust? I can’t see any dust.”
“You must have dust in your eyes. Wipe your eyes.”
“That’s better. Oh, it hurts. Why is the dust so hot?”
“All the dust is hot. Aren’t your feet hot? Mine are.”
“I can see you now.”
“Good.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure how many of us are left. I’ve only seen you and Zohka.”
“You’re shaking, Bohrid. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.”
“Are you sure? Good. How is Zohka then?”
“He still doesn’t move.”
“Why is he like that?”
“Something’s wrong with his arms and legs.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
“Look for yourself? Get closer. He’s down there. Behind you.”
“It’s too dark for me to see. You have to tell me. Why doesn’t Zohka get up?”
“He is burned all over. His skin is black. I can see his bones. He must be dead.”
“Zohka dead? No. No. Not dead.”
“He must be dead. He cannot live like that.”
“Call his name again. You might wake him up.”
“No. Nothing makes him move.”
