He forced her back to the mud and overcame her.

She lay on her back, panting, and the entire camp was leaping about in mad abandon. He grinned down at her and she smiled, this time without derision.

“Stubborn would be a good name for you, but I don’t think you’re afraid of women at all.”

“Ha!” came an exclamation from beyond the fire, “I see I got back just in time for the entertainment.” The speaker entered the firelight. Jean would have known him even if his express pistol had not hung at his side like a badge of authority. His pale hair had turned white, but otherwise his face and frame were ageless. Jean grinned up at him, never letting go of Mist-on-water’s struggling form and said, “Welcome back, Papa.”

Jan Andrax squatted down beside his son, ignoring his squirming rug, and nodded with satisfaction. “I don’t know how you got here, but I’ll bet it’s some tale.”

***

Jean ate that night with Jandrax and his wives and retold his story, including the details of his encounter on the island. Jandrax shook his head and asked, “Did you tell anyone else this story?”

“Of course. Everyone else has heard it.”

“Damn! How did they take it?”

“With skepticism.”

“Only skepticism, not outright disbelief?”

“No.”

Jandrax cursed. Jean was taken aback by his vehemence. “Come, Papa; even Mentor Louis Dumezil recognized the possibility of further enlightenment.”

“Jean, we aren’t even speaking the same language. You know that the original crew members were cast out for religious reasons.”

“Yes,” Jean answered, “But only Nur Mohammet was not a Monist, so Helene told me; you were tarred with the same brush, but you surely haven’t all become Muslims since then.”

Jandrax got up to pace. “Jean, for twenty years Helene has been preaching Monism and I have been scoffing.”

Jean was bewildered now. “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t accept the Monomythos? That’s absurd.”

Jandrax opened and closed his hands spasmodically.

That old, hated, trapped feeling had returned at this reminder that he was enmeshed in a community too small for anonymity. “I do not believe in your presence,” he said, “or your winged girl. I do not accept the Monomythos or any supernatural being. I believe only in life, death, and oblivion.”

“My God! That’s horrible.”

“At times, Son. At times – do you want to be a prophet?”

“No!”

“You will be if you don’t watch yourself. I have infected the tribe with enough of my discontent to make them susceptible to a new doctrine.”

“I am a Monist,” Jean snapped. “I don’t want to start a new religion.”

“Neither did Jesus.”

Jean could only shudder at the blasphemy.

“They are ripe for a religion tied to this particular planet. Earth is three planets and five generations removed. They no longer need the Gods of Earth.”

“I cannot deny what I have seen.”

“Visions always come to lone and lonely men, cast out from their people and suffering great personal tribulations. They are nothing more than projections of unconscious needs in conditions of deprivation.”

“No. I saw what I saw.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“And if you are wrong?”

Jandrax scowled still more deeply. “Then I would truly fear. I have seen what men can do under the delusion that they have a god’s approval. If they really had it . . . unthinkable!” more tomorrow

Jean sat beside the fire one night as Vapor made the rounds of the young girls, teasing each in turn and caressing where they would allow it. The girls were as fiercely independent as their brothers and their prowess as hunters and survivors was no less. Vapor dropped beside Jean with a grin and began his customary teasing. As always Jean took it in serious silence.

“Jean Dubois. What a name; you need a good name like mine. Vapor – now there is a name.”

“Vapor is the promise of substance which fades away when confronted,” called one of the girls who was watching from the edge of the firelight. Vapor snarled back at her, then turned his attention back to Jean.

“Let’s see, what would be a good name for you? Turtle for your speed, hey. I’ve never seen a turtle, but you remind me of the tales the Old Man tells.”

“1 am happy with my name as it is.”

“Ha, girls, do you hear that? I try to do him a favor and he is ‘happy with my name as it is’,” Vapor mocked. “What you need is a name to suit you. Let’s see, Mud? No. Herby? No, you aren’t domesticated.” The girls broke into laughter at this.

“I know what I’ll call you – Stubborn. Then every time you refuse to answer to your name you will be proving it.” 

Jean looked straight at Vapor and said, “Go ahead. Call me Stubborn and I’ll call you Big-mouth-without-teeth.”

Vapor dissolved into laughter, rolling on the ground and leaping up to pound Jean on the back. Jean smiled within himself; he was learning to hold his own with these wildly independent people. He knew that his solitary march had been watched for weeks before he was contacted and that if he had not made it on his own, they would not even have bothered burying him. But he had made it, and they were willing to accept him because he had shown himself not to need them. It was backward logic by his own life-way, but he respected and understood it.

Mist-on-water stood up and cast her knife aside. Even around the fire the tribe seldom went unarmed. “Stubborn-Jean,” she said, “I think I’ll call you Afraid-of-women. Eleven times I have said that I wrestle better than you and eleven times I have been spurned. I swear, Stubborn-Jean-afraid-of-women, that I will never ask you again.”

Jean realized that the entire camp was silent, watching, and he knew that there was more to this challenge than met the eye. Helene sat near the fire, watching, her eyes sparkling slightly. He stood up, casting his blade aside also. Vapor whooped and Mist-on-water charged.

She hit him low on the left side, driving her shoulder into his scarred thigh and striking up at his crotch with her fist. Completely unprepared for this, Jean took both blows and went down in agony. His head swam and his throat tightened on the surge his stomach sent rising. He rolled over and looked up to where she stood, legs straddled, her firm breasts pushing against her fur vest, head cocked to one side, taunting. The others were hooting their derision.

He staggered to his feet and ignored her, starting back toward the fire. All around him were taunting voices. Mist turned away in contempt and he moved when she turned, lunging forward on his good leg and reaching for her. His fingers caught in the waistband of her hide trousers and he heaved as he fell, jerking her down so that her rump hit the muddy ground with a splat.

He was upon her before she could retreat and they fought in earnest. She had been schooled by Jandrax himself, but Jean’s training had been but little worse and he was both angry and aroused. She was vicious, kicking, biting, and tearing his hair, but he would not be moved. He forced her back to the mud and overcame her. more tomorrow

Nightwind in turn had taken a wife from the daughters of the colony – Paulette Dumezil.

She was called Moccasin for some reason Jean could not comprehend. All of the tribe except the elders took fanciful names for themselves. Why Nightwind had taken Paulette instead of one of the girls of the tribe was a mystery to Jean. She was quiet and reserved, clearly a captive rather than a member of the tribe, while the others were laughing and forward. Jean was quite unused to their actions.

One, called Mist–on-water, was particularly trying.

She never failed to show off her prowess with a bow or lance in Jean’s presence and offered twice daily to best him in a wrestling match, ignoring his crippled condition. It shamed him as nothing had done before and bewildered him as well. Helene watched the proceedings out of wise old eyes that told nothing.

Jean could not get Mist out of his mind, nor could he forget Paulette. His training cried out for him to rescue Paulette from her slavery but he was powerless to do so. He tried to get near enough to speak to her on several occasions, but it was a danger to do so for she was Nightwind’s woman. She in turn evaded him, perhaps in shame.

Jean kept up with the company well enough but could not hunt with them. They hunted in quintets; two would go out without warding amulets while the other three would circle about scaring game toward the waiters. Then all five would close in to share the kill if the animal was dangerous.

They did not need rifles and Jean felt worse than useless. Twice he slipped away in the night and stalked a herby or humpox, killing them with his rifle along the path the tribe must take.

The elders did not make the trek entirely afoot, though Helene and Valikili were fit enough. They often rode in the flatboats made from light wood cut in the mountains and drawn by domesticated herbies. These creatures were another of Jandrax‘s triumphs and they made the nomadic life easier by serving as beasts of burden. Domestic herbies were not eaten since there was an abundance of wildlife to serve that purpose. The boats were slim, flat boxes which would float in water and could be dragged like sleds through mud, allowing them to be used in the two media which were the natural habitat of the tribe.

The Old Man had gone off alone as he was wont to do and none of the tribe worried for him. Of them all, he was the fittest and the one most immune to discipline. His fierce independence had affected them all.

He would return when he chose, bringing with him prime furs, or precious wood for the repair of the flatboats, or perhaps some precursor relic.

Jean became a mass of ill concealed excitement at the mention of the precursors, but the tribe took them in stride. Jandrax had found numerous ruins of an ancient civilization and was always looking for more. What, Jean wondered, would he say to his son’s tale of the island?

*****

As a matter of full disclosure, the idea a species or civilization predating our own is a very old one, and has frequently appeared in science fiction. Atlantis comes to mind. My own strongest personal debt in that direction is to Andre Norton, who always seemed to have some elder race lurking in the background. I call mine precursors because she has already used the better word, forerunners. more tomorrow

Chapter 16

Jean had traveled with the others, who referred to their collectivity as the tribe, for three weeks before the Old Man returned. The Old Man got his name not because he was especially old, but through his singular character. He was not the Old Man, but the Old Man. He was Jan Andrax and he was Jean’s father.

Helene had explained it all. The refugees from old Marcel Dumezil’s pogrom had taken to the hills knowing they were too few to survive. When the melt returned and the hunters left the colony, Jandrax – Jean still thought of him by the name the colonists called him – and Sabine Conners had stolen all the children under the age of six, and the refugees and the kidnapped children had gone on to follow the melt. They had been on the move ever since. Helene remembered twenty-two separate circuits and they had long since come to know their trek as well as a farmer knows his fields.

Jandrax had outdone himself. Every member of the tribe, however young, whichever sex, had learned at his knee. All were trained in scout lore and geology, geography, natural history, and survival on the planet they called simply – the land.

On the second circuit, Jandrax had spent three days hiding in the rafters of a house in the colony and none had known of his presence. He learned that Angi Dumezil and Lucien Dubois had married, knew they had an infant son, and knew, by simple arithmetic, the son was not Lucien’s but his.

Helene had advised him to steal the child and had offered to raise it herself but Jandrax refused. He still loved Angi, Helene was sure, and would not deprive her of her child. Jan watched the lad’s growth each year. He saw his son become a toddler, then an adolescent, then a man. Then he saw him as a man preparing for the hunt.

The last circuit he had not seen him at all, but the rumors were there for any who chose to listen outside the hunting kraals. It was a game that the young ones played for fun and the elders for information. Jandrax learned that his son was now a cripple through the inattention or malice of another and that he had disappeared.

Jandrax had told no one but Helene and Valikili. Even his wives did not know what had happened to his first born, and old Henri, the other surviving elder, was too senile to trust with the information.

Jandrax had many sons and daughters by his two living wives and by his first wife, now dead. In the early years, the refugees stole wives as they needed them and Marie and Helene had not objected, for survival had depended on increasing their numbers. Still, Jandrax was concerned for his firstborn, probably in part out of memory of Angi. When Vapor told his tale, Helene had known immediately that the stranger was Jean.

Jean in turn told his story. Helene was impressed and the youngsters, who were constantly underfoot, were enthralled. Even those of his own generation gave him respect, though they smiled their skepticism of the events on the island.

Vapor and Jean became friends of a sort, but Nightwind remained distant. They were of the first children stolen from the colony, though they remembered only the tribe and the marches. Nightwind in turn had taken a wife from the daughters of the colony – Paulette Dumezil. more tomorrow

Why was it here? Someone/thing had left it, of course, but for what purpose? To see what he would do? To exchange it for something of his?

He had nothing to match its quality except his rifle or his blade, both of which were indispensable. Finally he took a fishhook, line, and sinker from his supplies and draped them over the spear as an offering. Whoever wanted to contact him would have no difficulty in doing so and Jean’s leg would make it impossible to track that one down. Nevertheless, he took time to examine the tracks left by the spear’s owner. Moccasins; he memorized their design, rolled his coracle, and went on. If the owner of the spear wanted an interview, the opportunity was his. As for Jean, he would simply go about his daily routine.

Nightwind was pleased. The stranger had not taken the lance; therefore he was either honest or cautious. He had left a gift and a fine one. The fishhook was obviously of offworld manufacture and therefore to be treasured. In leaving a gift the colonist had shown himself to be generous – or cautious. He had not left a gift of meat to taunt Nightwind’s hunting prowess, nor had he tried to lie in ambush.

Nightwind hefted his spear and trotted after Jean, thinking to devise other tests. It was not to be.

***

Jean woke to the gentle rocking of the coracle and the first slant of sunlight. He was uneasy about the lance he had found the previous morning and when he raised himself to look toward shore his uneasiness proved itself. This morning he saw not a lance but a dozen moving human forms. They waited for him to pole to shore.

For an instant he considered poling to the opposite end of the pond and running – where? The futility of that action was so apparent that he discarded the thought as soon as it formed.

Trying to seem unafraid, he poled directly toward the crowd on the shore. His heart beat heavily with both fear and anticipation. He had seen no human face for many months.

At the center of the group stood one commanding figure, a gray-haired woman. Her physical stature was slight, but she radiated confidence and authority. At her side stood what had once been a mighty man, very dark and short, now stooped with age. Beyond him stood a young man of Jean’s age, his face welcoming, and another of the same age but less friendly. This last one carried the lance Jean had seen the morning before.

Jean grounded the coracle, noting how the remainder of the party held back, and staggered ashore, shamed by the clumsiness his wound engendered. He faced them across a little space, his finger on the trigger of his rifle, both hammers cocked. The woman noted this and smiled. “Welcome home, Jean Dubois. I am Helene Dumezil.” more tomorrow

Chapter 15

Following Nightwind’s instructions, Vapor soon reached the tribe. They were camped on a hillock overlooking a shallow lake where the children were playing with boats of bundled reeds and floating on inflated trihorn stomachs. The smoke from the central fire rose in a cloud, driving back the tiny insects that plague a man, and the scent of several dozen personal amulets made the air slightly acrid.

The barges were drawn up to dry and the elders were gathered in their customary place of comfort near the fire. Vapor could smell the cooking humpox and herby. He was greeted with shouts and teasing as he trotted into camp and Mist-on-water handed her brother a large chunk of steaming meat which he then carried to the fire.

His mother greeted him with a kiss, then let him have several bites in peace before she began her interrogation. She was a strong woman and one of the most outspoken of the elders. Vapor was very proud of her, and no less proud of his dark, taciturn father.

“Tell us of this stranger. Is he a colonist?”

“Yes, Mother, but a strange one. He is self-sufficient. He lives in the world, not hiding in a burrow, and he came across the lake to this place.”

“Searching for what?”

“I do not know, but he has adapted well and looks likely to survive.”

She fed the fire as she considered. “I wonder what is his purpose here?”

“There is one way to know.”

“Ask him?” She seemed amused.

“Yes.”

“And if we do not like his answer?”

“Kill him; but I think that his answer will suit.” Vapor paused dramatically, “He is a cripple, you know.”

She looked at him suddenly and he realized that she read some message there that he had not meant to convey. “How is he crippled?”

“His left leg is stiff from some old wound and gives him pain.”

“How does he bear it?”

“Well.”

“What color is his hair?”

Now Vapor knew something was up. “Pale yellow, like Mud-runner’s.”

“Ah!” She seemed both surprised and pleased. “I told him to take the child, but he would not listen. I told him that the boy was a true son of his father.”

“What?”

“The Old Man, you fool, the Old Man. Do you think his hair was always white?”

***

Jean stared at the lance, completely bewildered. His first thought was that some colonist was here; his second thought was that he had unknowingly returned to the vicinity of the colony. Then he realized that it belonged to one of the others.

Who were the others? The elders would not discuss them and Jean only knew that from time to time, always during the hunts, children or young women would turn up missing and their disappearances were always attributed to the amorphous others. Were they the winged people, or yet another intelligent species? Or were the disappearances engineered by the presence he had known on the island?

Jean pulled the lance free and examined it. It was of some wood he did not recognize, certainly not lal, siskal, or greenhorn. Something from the mountains, then. It was adorned with leer feathers and paint in bands of many colors and headed by a fine blade of iron. That the blade had been fashioned with care was obvious.

Why was it here? Someone/thing had left it, of course, but for what purpose? more tomorrow

Vapor was anxious to return to his people, to milk his weary weeks for all the glory they would afford.“I will go at once. Will you stay to watch the stranger?” Nightwind said that he would and Vapor took up his amulet and set out at a soggy trot along Nightwind’s back trail.

Nightwind had agreed to watch the stranger, but he was not bound to do so in the same manner that Vapor had chosen. Vapor had remained out of sight; Nightwind was more inclined to give the stranger something to chew on. He slipped back into his moccasins as soon as Vapor’s footsteps had retreated, then walked noiselessly down to the edge of the lake. There, in the center of the stranger’s firepit, he thrust his ornate spear.

***

Jean woke late and lay for a time, lulled by the gentle motion of the coracle. He was secure now in his ability to survive – always barring accidents – and for the first time he could relax and let some of the tensions of the last weeks drain away. The melt was a beautiful time – or a beautiful place, depending on one’s orientation. For the colonists it was a time, a season of excitement, of blood and meat, of planting and harvesting. During the melt, the colony rose from its cranky somnolence to prodigious feats of labor, only to sink into lethargy for another year when the melt had passed.

But the melt was always present somewhere on the planet; in Jean’s new perspective it was not a time but a place, a moving, eternal spring. The colonists never saw the beauty of the melt for they were too deeply engrossed in harvesting what it offered against the bleak months of winter. While Jean had trekked north, busy with his own survival, the beauty of the place/time had soaked into him, making him thankful for the misfortune that had forced him to follow the melt. Now, lying quietly in the coracle, he watched the sun rise and drive away the night’s chill. The edges of the water were lacy with ice here on the forefront of the melt, making delicate patterns of sunsparkle. All around him were the waxy yellow lal flowers growing on the fast-sprouting bushes, mingled with the green of new leaves. If he stayed in place for many more days the yellow would be supplanted by the red siskal flowers and the purple of the greenhorn, but he need only trek hard once again to reach this region of yellow where the leer abounds and the melt makes war on the last regiments of snow. He felt a curious peace and luxuriated in the beauty around him. His only tempering sadness was that he alone was present to watch the miracle that was the melt.

Surfeited with laziness, he poled to the water’s edge. He stopped, the pole dripping forgotten in his hand.

There, thrust into the ashes of yesterday’s fire stood a proud, feather-ornamented, steel-bladed lance. more tomorrow