Survival of the Fittest Read online

  He flapped a contemptuous farewell but some of his followers glanced back, fear whitening their faces as the enormity of their choice washed over them. One subadult—Bone—scampered toward her, deserting a friend who chose Rainbow because the new leader promised he would become a hunter.

  Xhosa couldn't help but ask herself why so many rejected her leadership. Did she not explain herself well? Was it a mistake to allow Rainbow to speak? How many more setbacks would there be before her People found a home like their last, where they lived—thrived—side-by-side with Sabertoothed Cat, Wild Beast, and Mammoth, sharing food and respect.

  Most worrisome was whether they had in fact left the Big Heads behind.

  She kept these dark thoughts to herself and resolutely headed away from those who had abandoned the People. Within a finger of Sun’s passage, her group descended into a bleak valley and lost sight of Rainbow. The crunch of loose pebbles beneath their feet loudly announced their presence but Xhosa saw no trace of life. By the time they reached the bottom, her eyes burned and her throat ached from breathing the parched air. To her strong side, steaming vents, boiling lakes, and molten lava lined her passage. Explosions of fire and sizzling embers showered down, so bright, she had to shield her eyes while slapping at the cinders that scorched her skin. To her weak side stretched a massive bubbling lake, the color and consistency of vomit. On its shores grew beds of finger-sized spikes, sharper than any rock Xhosa had ever seen. Among these white and yellow spires gurgled a clear liquid Xhosa first hoped would be drinkable but instead, was so toxic, it blistered her finger.

  “Keep moving!”

  The People moved guardedly, so treacherous was the passage. One child died when the ground beneath his feet dissolved, sending him tumbling into the miasma. His mother grabbed for him but got only a savagely burned arm for her effort. His screams fell silent as the boy sank below the green fizzing surface.

  Finally, the boiling ponds were behind them, replaced with dusty brown ground so hot they had to wrap their feet in leaves to avoid blisters. The wind pummeled the People, forcing parents to carry their small children or watch them blown away. Thankfully, this soon gave way to a cooler crusty white substance that stretched as far as she could see.

  Xhosa sniffed and exclaimed, “Salt!”

  Xhosa had offered Rainbow some of the People’s supply but behind her back, he took all of it. Without this sparkling white stone, they would die. To come across this so early in their travel was an amazing find.

  The bristly blocks shredded the leaf wrappers on their feet but spirits soared. No one had ever seen a salt patch this immense. Quiet happy chatter accompanied the labor of digging it up, breaking it into chunks, and stuffing it into neck sacks.

  Nightshade approached Xhosa. “The scouts find no Others, no Big Heads, but also no dust from herds, no sign of carrion eaters, and no trace of water.”

  “The food we carry,” in their neck sacks, “will last.”

  As the days passed, not only did they find little water and less meat but the trees that provided homes to the beetles, ants, slugs, and birds that could feed them went from sparse to gone. Everyone rationed supplies and sucked pebbles. No one complained. Most of the weak had gone with Rainbow.

  The fact that the People seemed to be alone in this desolate land didn’t stop Xhosa from worrying. In her former home, birds could chirp all they wanted, insects could sing, Wolf could call to his pack and her instincts didn’t twitch because she recognized each sound. But here, all the noises, scents, and shadows were strange and unknown. Without cliffs, trees, brambled bushes, or any other protection, they slept in the open. Nightshade ordered extra guards and Xhosa joined them often, unable to sleep.

  It became evident that the People were completely alone. Of course they were. Life couldn’t survive here.

  The days passed and the column lengthened as elders struggled to keep up. Xhosa and Nightshade always led with Pan-do and Sa-mo-ke at the rear. Behind even these two, limping gamely, was Ant, still slowed by the grievous boil on his leg. The wound would heal or not. He would keep up or fall behind. Xhosa would not slow to his speed. He always caught up when the group rested and never complained when they left as he arrived, as though they’d been waiting for him.

  By now, the differences between her People and Pan-do’s had disappeared. Each helped the other, lending support where needed and sharing supplies. Xhosa mentally cut Rainbow from her thoughts. She could do nothing for him or those who chose his path.

  After traveling for more days than fingers on a hand, Lyta joined Xhosa, her eyes as always curious about everything they passed. “Water and animal dung are ahead,” and the girl skipped away.

  Xhosa beckoned Nightshade and scrambled up a treacherous hill, ignoring that she was skylined to any below. If Lyta was wrong, it wouldn’t matter because they would all die shortly from thirst or starvation.

  Nightshade motioned, “There, trees.”

  Chapter 22

  The grove of trees was a glorious find. She and the People stripped the limbs of their round brown-and-green fruit and drank the pond dry. Hunters discovered an animal trail and downed two pigs. The People feasted and then rested for the balance of the day, feeling like everything would be alright.

  That was before Nightshade returned. He grabbed his warclub, motioned Xhosa to follow, and hurried out of the grove, jogging until the hard ground gave way to gravelly talus. The sticky heat tickled Xhosa’s scalp and chest, reminding her of the cool shade of the trees she’d left behind.

  “Footprints of Uprights, watching us. Maybe a hunting party, too small to confront a group our size.”

  The hard surface made it impossible to tell whether these Uprights were Big Heads or Others. His lips thinned and he pointed ahead.

  “I lost them at the base of the mountains.”

  “They probably live there rather than this desolation.”

  Nightshade made a noncommittal gesture. “Or knew enough to hide their steps in the scree.”

  Xhosa huffed. “Maybe we drank their water and ate their only food.” She scratched the lice nested under her ear. “We had no choice. The People were starving.”

  They left the next day with Sun, thirsts quenched, stomachs full, shadows to their weak sides. Lyta matched the rhythm of trotting feet with a sonorous hum, punctuated by animal calls, tapping on her chest and slapping her leg. When others joined in, she added her perfect bird songs.

  Xhosa set a fast pace but not grueling. Thanks to the abundant food and water, everyone kept up. Before Sun moved a hand overhead, the pleasant grove was far behind and they were back to a landscape of stark rolling prairies broken here and there by gullies, ridges, and hills. Xhosa squinted against Sun’s glare as it bounced off the land and pounded their bodies with blistering heat. Scouts reported more of the same—thirsty grassland, no herd animals, no predators, no Uprights, and no end to the Rift.

  “This looks like Lucy’s path,” Xhosa muttered to herself, referring to the ancient female in her dreams, but that couldn’t be.

  Finally, with their shadows mere slivers at their feet, she motioned the People to rest. For her, it didn’t last long.

  Pan-do trotted over, barely sweating despite the heat. “Come see this.”

  He was calm as always but breathless. Xhosa followed him to the Rift where Nightshade studied something hidden from view. When he moved aside, her face lit with excitement.

  “Cairns, and they’re old. See how the wind swept them smooth. These must be from my father.”

  Nightshade motioned, “Or someone who expected others after them.”

  “If these are my father’s, we are going the right direction!”

  Nightshade glowered. “That would mean we should be close to the first of the rivers. I see neither.”

  Pan-do interrupted. “That’s not all I found,” and he trotted into the foothills. “Prints from an Upright, maybe the same ones you saw yesterday,” the mildness of his hand movements at odds wit
h the tightness of his jaw.

  She bent over. “They aren’t as long and narrow as Big Heads, more like ours, but dried in the mud. It hasn’t rained since we arrived.

  “They travel away from us, on our backtrail.” Nightshade’s mouth twitched. “Why would they do that?”

  No one responded.

  Xhosa shared the news of the cairns with the People but not the strange prints. When they left after the brief rest, their steps were lively and hands moved in happy conversation.

  When they had been moving for a hand of Sun’s travel overhead, Xhosa motioned to Pan-do, "You lead effortlessly, Pan-do, despite the challenges we encounter every day."

  He snatched a rock rat and ate it while dodging a deep chasm. "Nothing here compares to what we have already seen, traveling from our homebase to yours. You want the journey to end. We are fine if it continues.”

  He pulled a dry worm from his neck sack and offered part to Xhosa. “Soon, your People will recognize that traveling—like migrating—is what they are doing. It becomes the means to an end."

  As he slowed to join a female who called him, Xhosa realized that Nightshade was like Pan-do in many ways. His stamina was boundless. His spirits never flagged, as though he flourished on adversity. He never faltered, never quit, was never happier than when challenged by insurmountable problems. He bounded forward, steps huge, arms pumping, head swiveling in search of threats.

  She caught up with him later and asked, “Nothing surprises you, does it?”

  He grinned. "We were too comfortable. We knew how everything worked so our days had no challenges. That is not a world I want to live in, Xhosa.” He paused to study something in the distance before continuing, “I like it messy.”

  Xhosa furrowed her brow and tried to ignore what burst into her brain, but it must be said. “Maybe Big Heads overwhelm us in numbers and skill.”

  Nightshade’s jaw tightened and his face reddened. “Do you blame me because they destroyed us with fire?”

  “That’s ridiculous, Nightshade. If you’re at fault, so too am I, as Leader.”

  His eyes shuttered and he stared into the distance. “Fire as a weapon—Xhosa, that is brilliant! When we confront our next enemy, I will do the same!"

  She pushed her lips together. I’ll ask how he plans to capture and control fire the next time we need it as a weapon.

  Sun came and went more times than fingers on her hand. The tingle of desperation that started after leaving the last waterhole grew to mind-wrenching worry by the time the scouts brought good news.

  “Ahead is a Fire Mountain.” That meant stones for knapping.

  Xhosa tingled. Her choppers were almost gone, worn away from digging into the hard dry earth.

  The scout wasn’t done. “Past it is the land bridge across the Rift.”

  The bridge! It must be the one her father spoke of.

  She called the People together. “Tomorrow, at Fire Mountain, fill your neck sacks with as many rocks as possible—make new sacks if needed,” and passed out the stomachs and bladders of old kills. The durable lining that served the animals well would expand to carry many stones. She had tried the stomachs of dead warriors but though similar, were too small.

  “This may be our last chance for weapon-hard stones.”

  The next day, they picked their way up the scree slope of Fire Mountain, stuffing their neck sacks with as many stones as could be carried. Xhosa and Nightshade were the first to crest the rim. Dark clouds rolled across the landscape.

  She motioned, “The water will be welcome but climbing over wet stones is treacherous.”

  Nightshade motioned, “We can cross the crater and clear the mountain before the storm arrives if we hurry.”

  Xhosa nodded and motioned to everyone, “As we descend, step where Nightshade and I step. Stay in line. Walk with care. Mothers, carry your children!”

  They descended the gravelly slopes, shades of gray and red, into Fire Mountain’s scorching interior. The air became muggy, each step threatening to blister the skin despite the travel-hardened soles of their feet. Xhosa increased the pace as she tiptoed around smoldering rocks, avoiding ground so fragile it would collapse beneath her feet. Some places, steam vented high into the air. Other spots glowed red as though molten blood pulsed just below the earth’s skin, looking for a soft spot to punch through.

  They dropped onto the cracked bottom without incident. The crater walls were so high, they hid the dark clouds but not the taste of dampness in the air. As she congratulated herself that no one was injured, a scream boomed and then frantic voices.

  "Grab him—get him out!"

  Ant—again—lay curled in a fetal ball, his injured leg fiery red, eyes bulging, drool running from his mouth as he shrieked. Xhosa leaped over a steamy vent and a bubbling mud pool while tugging herbs from her neck sack.

  "His knee gave out and he fell into a fissure," Wa-co from Pan-do’s group offered, mixing her voice with hand motions to be heard over Ant’s cries.

  "Ant. Stop screaming. That does nothing to help."

  "It's on fire!"

  "No, it's not. You will never become a warrior if you whine about everything," she chided as Sa-mo-ke and Snake yanked the boy further away from the bubbling fire. "Every warrior suffers worse than this."

  "Leave him here." Nightshade motioned, annoyed. "There is no time to wait for his leg to heal—again."

  Xhosa ignored him and searched the few herbs in her neck sack. The blue-flowered plant would be her first choice but that had been exhausted long ago. A small supply of roots for pain and sap for infection remained but nothing to salve a burn.

  "Here." Pan-do handed her a thick-skinned leaf the length of a finger. "Break it and paste the mucus over the injury." He scowled at Ant. "If you whine, it hears you and rubs itself off. Plants, like People, hate whining."

  Ant stared at Pan-do, confused, while Xhosa did as instructed. When she finished, Ant stood unsteadily, forehead prickled with perspiration but face a mask of determination. He grimaced with every step but refused to stop.

  "Where do I find this plant, Pan-do?"

  “Many places. It seals wounds and salves burns but also reduces inflammation.” He grinned and added, “It even moisturizes skin.”

  The clouds broke as they left Fire Mountain’s crater, pouring rain on the mountain while twisting wind screamed down the steep crags.

  When they reached the valley, Pan-do motioned to a gray smudge just off to the side. “A cave.”

  A streak of fire lit the sky followed by another boom and everyone dove into the cave.

  Chapter 23

  Pan-do ran out of the mucous plant so before going to sleep, Xhosa crushed leaves, dampened them to form a compress, and pasted the concoction over Ant’s wound.

  “Keep the salve on your leg if you want to prevent the red fingers of death.” She motioned to the hulk of Pan-do’s mucous plant. “Look for this as we travel.”

  “I will help him.” Siri appeared at Ant’s side. “I am alone. My children are with Rainbow.”

  As Rainbow’s pairmate, she surprised everyone by joining Xhosa.

  In the end, Ant would keep up or he wouldn’t, with or without Siri’s help.

  The next morning, Xhosa awoke as the first faint orange glow lit the sky. Standing quietly, she breathed in the last cool air of the day, eyes locked on the land bridge that stretched across the Rift, still almost at the horizon. It would take most of the day to get there but just the sight energized her. Before setting out, everyone sucked rain from puddles and licked it off rocks.

  Sun was almost overhead when Pan-do motioned, "That way,” away from their path.

  "Why?" She wanted nothing to slow their arrival at the land bridge.

  “Lyta smells water."

  Within a finger of sun’s passage overhead, everyone was drinking at a small waterhole. Good cheer filled all as children splashed in the shallows and everyone stuffed water-soaked leaves into their neck sacks. Pan-do’s females gi
ggled as they evaluated Xhosa’s males—warriors and subadults—for potential mates. Ant walked with the help of a stick and Siri stayed with him. He made no complaint, no whine or groan. When healed, he would be an admirable warrior. They would need every one of them to protect their new home.

  Sun had moved well-beyond overhead by the time the group stood at the mouth of the bridge. Across from them was green grass. As one, they smiled.

  At the entrance to the bridge, Xhosa found her father’s cairns. As though that was all they needed to see, the People raced forward.

  “Stop!” Xhosa bellowed. “I go first in case it fails.”

  Pan-do stepped in front of her. “I appreciate what you say, Xhosa, but we should select the heaviest member. If the bridge holds him, it holds anyone.”

  “That would be Stone.”

  Stone was not as tall as Xhosa but larger in every other way. He grinned, poorly-healed jaw chronically painful but warrior attitude undimmed. Nothing about a bridge that could collapse and send him crashing to a painful death intimidated him.

  The People gathered to watch as he stepped onto the bridge, bearing confident and movements steady. Without a trace of fear, he walked forward, steps sure, not running but not dawdling either. When he reached the far side, he growled his excitement.

  Everyone lined up, mothers with children, males interspersed, Pan-do in the middle of the line and Xhosa and Nightshade at the end.

  “One at a time. One crosses; another follows when they are safely with Stone.”

  It would have worked if the People continued one at a time but invariably, the next in line started before the last finished, and then several went at the same time until a stream of the People packed the bridge. No one heard the first crack. The next startled a child who jumped back and knocked the person next to him off the bridge which caused everyone else to scream.

  “Stop!” and Xhosa forcibly shoved the next female off the bridge, preventing anyone else from entering the narrow opening until those already on were cleared. Pan-do stood still, partway across, a step from the crack.