Survival of the Fittest Page 6

  Usually, he was right.

  She sighed, seeing more clearly why she hadn’t yet pairmated with this strong, loyal warrior. Yes, she must establish herself first, as Leader, and definitely, carrying a baby would slow her down but one reason overshadowed all others: Leadership had changed Nightshade. The male who grew up with her once considered violence a means to an end, the end always peace. Sometime following her father’s death and after Nightshade lost the leadership to her, he forgot that. Peace became what killed her father, a weakness to be avoided. It showed in his mating. Many females refused him rather than suffer the painful bruises and stinging slaps, sometimes broken bones. It frightened Xhosa. Not only did that attitude disgust her in a pairmate, it didn’t serve the People.

  Nightshade might be right, that violence was the answer, but her father’s voice spoke as though standing beside her. “Confront them in our territory where you know every trail, waterhole, and predator.”

  Chapter 8

  Nightshade pushed. "The meat is unprotected. We steal it as they stole ours. While I distract them, you grab it.”

  Xhosa wanted to say no but he’d already left. The hill he headed toward did provide good coverage and her position allowed easy spear shots. Tree-tall boulders would protect their exit.

  There she waited as did the warriors. Sun moved a finger across the blue sky while she inhaled the humid air, as quiet as snake in the shade of a rock on a smoldering day. She looked where Nightshade should be but saw no shadows, no awkward sway of grass, no telltale animal responses to an intruder in their midst. Nightshade and nature were one.

  Suddenly, the Big Head yips increased and they picked up their spears as though to leave.

  "If he doesn’t start soon, it will be too late," Xhosa muttered to herself and then tensed. The Big Heads weren’t leaving. In fact, from the edge of the clearing, Nightshade’s blind spot, many more arrived.

  She hooted Cousin Chimp’s warning call, one Nightshade would hear and heed, but it was too late.

  A whoosh, a thunk, and a Big Head collapsed. The group twisted as one toward Nightshade’s hiding spot, their muscles tense, faces dark. Xhosa identified a leader and flung a palm-sized stone at the sensitive spot above his ear. With a smack and a hiss of air, he crumpled. When their rage switched to her, she roared and sprinted forward, spear in one hand and a missile in the other. Her warriors charged with her, screaming, brandishing clubs, and unleashing a hailstorm of rocks. They would grab part of the meat and flee, forcing the Big Heads to stay with what remained.

  That didn’t happen. Part of the Big Heads flooded toward the attackers while the rest guarded the meat. Xhosa heard a wet thwump and one of her warriors fell, fingers clasping a Big Head spear. She bent to help him—Ngili, a name popped up—but he pointed, warning of a Big Head spear flying at her. Xhosa ducked as it scraped her hair and loosed her last stone, crushing his nose and embedding itself in his forehead.

  This isn’t working. There are too many.

  She warbled the command to flee. Nightshade grabbed Ngili and Xhosa led the warriors past the tilted baobab and the cracked wadi, beyond the chimps screeching about the smell of fear that filled their territory. Xhosa's breaths became ragged gasps. Her chest burned, and her head pounded but never was resting or slowing a consideration. Her callused feet moved lightly, almost flying. She could run forever though not at this speed. The scree slopes ahead would hide their tracks. Her calls exhorted the warriors forward even as the Big Heads threatened to overrun them. One of their strange spears whizzed by, its stone tip digging a deep groove in her arm. Her mind conjured up her father, never quitting despite the odds, never giving up on his warriors.

  With a lurch, she stopped and whirled to face the charging Big Heads.

  "Here. I. Am!"

  Warclub ready, head up, she widened her stance, howling while waving a handful of branches, hoping the Big Heads would be too far to know it wasn’t a weapon. The lead Big Head skidded to a stop and shoved an arm out in front of the rest. He tipped his spear down, gripping it so hard, his knuckles whitened against the dark hair of his hands. His body glowed in the sunlight, slick with sweat and tight with muscle.

  “Wind,” she remembered.

  When the bloodthirsty rabble behind him pulled up in a ragged line, roaring and bouncing, brandishing weapons, fear stumbled across Wind’s face and then kindness.

  Impossible.

  Xhosa aligned herself with him, spear too toward the ground, and used hand motions he would know. “You killed my father.”

  He stepped away as though hit. “You confuse me with my brother. I am sorry for the death of your Leader.”

  He was as tall as she with broad shoulders, muscle-bound chest, straight black hair that hung well below his neck. His scarred hands spoke like the People.

  “You sent your warrior to kill me, in the cave—”

  “No! That cave—he wanted to use it for hunting. If I had known you were there, I would have told him to avoid it, and saved his life.” His face froze, stricken, as his eyes turned inward. “He was a friend.”

  Sadness filled his eyes but quickly disappeared. “When he didn’t return, we tracked him to that cave, to the pit. My warriors—they call you divine.” He bobbed his head back. “They do not want to kill you. They want to possess you.”

  What did he mean—divine?—but she wouldn’t ask.

  “It was you I smelled watching.”

  “Yes. I am Wind. I have been searching for you. My dreams told me to protect you, to make up for the death of your father. ”

  Her thoughts flashed to her own dreams of Lucy. That’s impossible. She examined his face and body, analyzing the movements he used to communicate. There was no denying the truth in his words.

  “We—my people—we wish you no harm. But we do want you to leave.”

  She stuck her chin toward his weapon. “Yet you attack us.”

  As though surprised at the weapon in his hand, he tossed it aside and repeated, “I am not here for that.”

  “Tell that to my warrior, Ngili,” but her hands spoke softly.

  Nothing about him screamed danger. In fact, the cast of his eyes, the quiet authority in his bearing, the way he balanced on the balls of his feet as though relaxed but ready to spring—everything declared truth.

  Before Wind could explain further, a figure shoved him aside. This male bore Wind’s build, same color hair and skin, same stance, but also a white scar across his cheek as though from Cat’s claws. His nose hung crookedly which only added to the sense of menace that pervaded his presence.

  “Go, Thunder! I can handle this!” From Wind.

  Laughter rolled like a snarl from Thunder’s mouth. Fear coursed through Xhosa, from her ears to her toes, but she kept her face blank. Without willing it, her body prepared to fight or flee.

  “My brother Wind is weak. He would save you. I want to dominate you. We are more vicious than even your warrior, Nightshade. You can’t defeat us.”

  Xhosa faced Thunder. He looked her in the eye, blood coating his chest, carrying his body like a warrior used to winning fights.

  “Yes. We can.”

  Her hands moved with sureness, her words clipped. She had never seen a male who could throw a spear faster with more accuracy than hers. A blink was all the warning he gave as he launched his spear. Her first thought flashed to how anyone could be that quick and then she lost herself in the weapon, detached completely from her imminent death. Like a butterfly drawn a flower, the spear slowed the closer it got to her chest.

  A warble made her shift and Nightshade batted the weapon from the air, his reflexes so fast his rival gasped. That’s all Xhosa needed and she launched her spear. It embedded deeply into Thunder’s arm, the tip poking out the back. Thunder’s face reddened with rage.

  “Oh, you’ve never been beaten by a female? Get used to it, Big Head!”

  Thunder’s anger overflowed like lava from a volcano. He threw his head back, raised his arms, and howled
. Nightshade yanked Xhosa away.

  She squirmed free. "No! We must stay—our warriors need time to flee!"

  “Your warriors have fled. They need you alive!”

  With a last glare at Thunder, Xhosa pivoted and fled. She looked back once and saw Wind watching her, a smile playing around his lips, preventing the Big Head warriors from advancing despite his brother’s injury.

  Finally, Thunder howled, “You are a frightened hare awaiting your destiny! And we shall deliver it!”

  Xhosa sprinted until her legs felt like logs, disconnected from her body, finally stumbling forward onto her outstretched arms. Nightshade caught up, an injured warrior over his shoulder and another he dragged by the hair.

  “They won’t follow. They want the meat.”

  His chiseled face radiated energy and passion. Her people feared neither death nor combat. It was part of life. Children battered playmates, clubbed them over the head, banged them in the chest with rocks and dull spears, brutally yanked their fragile child limbs. That was play. Unless children toughened, and quickly, they fell to predators. A favorite game involved using any means necessary to keep an object away from competitors. The entire purpose was to prepare children to be adults.

  Although, nothing equipped her to combat a quicker predator, smarter and more agile than any she’d ever seen. If her band became their prey, they would lose everything her father fought for.

  She set a fast pace, no slower than the fleeing Hipparion, with no stops to eat or rest. When the group reached home, they would leave, move as far from these Big Heads as possible.

  Chapter 9

  It wasn’t until they reached the safety of the People’s territory that Xhosa allowed her exhausted warriors to rest. They collapsed, wheezing, skin damp, faces slack, glazed with fear and fatigue. While Nightshade sent scouts to cover the backtrail and talked with his Second, Snake, Xhosa strode from one warrior to the next, providing salve for pain, filling wounds with honey and covering them in moss dabbed with sap.

  A young warrior caught her attention, his face ashen, lips colorless. A broken spear dangled from a wound in his upper arm. Without warning, she yanked out the shaft and staunched the bleeding with honey and crushed leaves. He grunted but didn’t move.

  “Where’s your neck sack, warrior?”

  Each warrior—in fact, every one of the People—carried a neck sack stuffed with choppers, cutters, travel food, a handaxe, and healing herbs. No neck sack meant he had eaten nothing all day.

  He patted a gash on his other shoulder, crusted with blood. “A spear broke the vine. I couldn’t retrieve it.”

  She handed him dried berries and a stout root. "Eat."

  When finished tending injuries, she moved off by herself to observe unobtrusively and undisturbed. Instead of the idle chatter that usually followed a hunt, there was only silence. Everyone looked frightened, mouths open as though asking, How did this happen? Many stared at the ground while others watched her, wondering at her first loss so early in her leadership.

  Xhosa didn’t wonder. Cold fury raged in her body. The violence to her People—her father’s People—ate at her until everything beneath her skin hurt. A low pounding in her head became louder until there was no other sound.

  I must do something or explode.

  A warm wind whipped across the landscape and fluffy white clouds floated over the light blue sky. Ignoring her fatigue, discouragement, and the still-dripping gouge in her arm, she closed her eyes, soothed by the voices of the birds and the chirruping of the insects going about their daily business as though a major assault hadn’t just ended. After a finger of time, Nightshade joined her.

  “The warriors need you.”

  Her mood was as dark as the worst of her fighters but that didn’t matter. She stood in front of the warriors, head up, eyes looking at each warrior.

  "Warriors, feel no shame that we faced a stronger adversary. Instead, savor the pride in a battle well-fought. Rest. Eat."

  Nightshade might have berated them but that wasn’t her way. Happy grunts replaced the murmurs. Xhosa ran down a mental list of warriors, ticking them off on her fingers.

  "Nightshade, did Ngili survive?"

  He shook his head. “Ngili was young. He ignored the lessons we taught him."

  Xhosa agreed. After one more glance, she and Nightshade left the warriors and hiked up a brushy slope to a berm where they could study the landscape. Worry furrowed Xhosa’s brow and tension knotted her insides.

  “Is the Big Head Thunder right, Nightshade? Did they already win?”

  Her hands spoke so low on her body that Nightshade missed the question. Xhosa didn’t care. The answer to the question was meaningless. What she wanted was to protect the People.

  She spread her arms in front of her, palms up, waist-high.

  “This is our home, Nightshade.” Her eyes glittered with exhilaration. “There the trees knocked down by migrating mammoth. There in the open woodland, Giraffid browses. Beyond that, the river flows, dry this time of year but overflowing during the rainy time, and surrounded by the most succulent, delicious vegetation.”

  She stopped, unable to continue, her throat tight. The earth fed them well after gazelle and Hipparion and Mammoth migrated to avoid the searing heat. The People consumed the food closest to homebase first and then moved outward. When finding it took longer than a day, they moved outward again or relied on less-desirable food like grass, seeds, and acacia gum. This was why their land must be so large, spread so far.

  “This, what we see, my father fought for. It is the only home many of the People have known their entire life. Here—here!—we are the strongest.”

  She slapped her chest, eyes moist.

  Nightshade curled his lips up. “If you ignore the clouds of biting flies, so impenetrable we can scarcely see and so small they fly into our ears and nose. Sometimes, I wonder if they are stronger than us.”

  He paused, face reflective. “The worst part of this day, Xhosa, was losing the injured Giraffid.”

  Xhosa chuffed a laugh. “I saw no sign of its death. It survives despite what should be a fatal injury.”

  A weight tumbled off her shoulders. The People could be Giraffid.

  A familiar sound rang from a copse of trees beyond the spiky tussock grass that marked an underground pool, Cousin Chimp calling his family. He did this every day at this time. Life continued.

  She breathed evenly, shallowly, waiting for the beat inside her chest to slow, and then motioned, “Can this Thunder drive us away?”

  Nightshade hooted to deploy the scouts along the forward path and the backtrail before answering.

  "These Big Heads are unlike Others. That makes them a challenge." A quiet intensity filled his eyes as he looked back on their traveled trail, as though he could see the enemy. "They entered our territory. We responded with strength. They will respect that.”

  “We can leave, peacefully."

  “We cannot run, Xhosa. They entered our territory. They take our plants, kill our animals. They want to own what is ours.”

  Xhosa stiffened at his anger but continued, "Wind wants to help us.”

  Nightshade barked, “Wind is not Leader. The one called Thunder leads.”

  "Would Thunder risk lives to assault such a powerful People as us?"

  Nightshade exhaled in frustration, as though he spoke to a child. "They are not like us, Xhosa. Do not expect them to live by our rules."

  Xhosa stood straighter, forcing her shoulders back. “You forget, Nightshade. Sabertooth, alpha over all animals, tolerates others as long as she dominates. As did my father.”

  She looked into the distance, hands softening at memories of how her father allowed others to hunt the People’s land. He said it protected the People. If the surrounding tribes were well-fed, they wouldn’t attack and it provided a buffer from Others that might.

  Nightshade’s hands chopped, frustrated. “Thunder wants nothing less than to replace your father.”

  Xh
osa took Nightshade’s face in her hands and gently forced him to look at her. “My father often talked about wanting to get along with Big Heads. It’s why we moved to this homebase between a pond too deep to cross and a cliff too steep to climb.”

  Nightshade’s shoulders sagged. “That’s not what Big Heads want to do.”

  She started to argue but he interrupted. “Do not worry, Leader. I have a plan.”

  Chapter 10

  They followed their backtrail through the same scree slopes that brought them out, up and down the humps and trenches of eroded riverbanks, past the remnants of a recent hunt where a few desultory vultures picked old shreds of flesh from yellowed bone.

  Each warrior shouted his call sign before entering the homebase. Within moments, the camp exploded with excitement. Pairmates greeted warriors, children the hunters. Only Ngili’s female remained alone. Nightshade approached her and motioned something quietly. She blanched. Her head fell and her chin bounced on her chest as a keening shriek escaped her lips.

  Xhosa dismissed it. Ngili wasn't the first or last to die. Illness, injury, and the boldness of their lives killed equally, invariably. Only aggression forestalled death. The more aggressive, the longer life lasted.

  She needed to show the pairmates of the injured how to care for the wounds.

  "Mulch these leaves and smear them over the wounds. Wrap them in leaves, layer on mud, and let them dry.” “Soak this moss in honey…” “Chew this bark and force him to swallow…”

  Next was Ant, the boy responsible for today’s hunt and Ngili’s death. It shocked her how much worse he was since morning. The ulcer now stretched heel to shin and a thin sheath of bloody tissue covered it. When she pressed, pain flared in his eyes and his face paled.

  Once he could breathe again, the boy gasped out, "Where is Ngili?"

  “If he lives, Big Heads will enslave him. We can do nothing."

  Either way, a warrior died due to Ant’s stupidity. The People cherished each individual, valued their contributions to the whole. Though crossing into another band’s territory was dangerous, it was worth the risk if it cured Ant. Otherwise, it was a waste.