John Norman - Time Slave

Tree leaped to his feet and, laughing, as they fled away, slapped both on the back of the head. “Let us hunt,” he said.

Hamilton, smiling, secure, had held the child to her. She felt its hunger, its eagerness.

“Cricket!” called Hamilton, wandering about the camp. “I have something for you!” She held a handful of the largest, juiciest berries, taken from the sack, in her right hand. “Butterfly,” said Hamilton, “where is Cricket?” “I do not know, Turtle,” said Butterfly.

Short Leg, for more than two years, had been fed by Stone. But Stone was not a leader. He was strong. He was hard. He could follow like a bear or horse, but he was not a leader. And she was not close with him. He fed her, little more. Short Leg, who was an intelligent woman, considered the Men with care. Who, she asked herself, after Spear, will be first among the Men. She did not think it would be Knife. Stone, for some reason, did not like Knife. The others had not accepted Knife. Who, among the Men, she asked herself, was it who first proclaimed Spear again the leader. It had been one of them only, at first. It had been Tree. It had been he who had asked Old Woman who was first. It had been he who had, following her words, unemotionally declared for Spear. The others had followed. Tree, too, was strongest, and tallest, and the finest hunter. It had been he who, among the men, had first again declared for Spear. The others had followed. Short Leg had smiled to herself. After Spear, she told herself, it will be Tree who will be first among the Men. He did not want to be first, but it would be he, she did not doubt, whom the others would have as first among them. She could not see them, among the Men, following any other. It would be Tree, after Spear, who would be first. Short Leg was no longer young, but she could bear young; she could work; she knew what transpired in the camp; other women feared her; and she was wise; she could be a great asset to a leader. Short Leg was not the only one who could read the signs of the future. Flower, too, after Knife’s repudiation as leader, and the restoration of Spear, calculated that Tree would be the successor. Accordingly, when she could, she slipped away, usually to meet Tree on his return from the hunt, to lie beside the trail, on the grass, and, as he returned, to hold her arms out to him, and lift her body. “Feed Flower,” she would beg. “Flower will do anything for you.” Tree would look upon her, her uplifted hands, her eyes, her lifted body, begging for even his casual rape. Tree, a hunter, throwing his kill from his shoulders to the grass, and one angry with Hamilton of late, for she no longer gave him the totality of her undivided attention, but spent much time suckling and loving her child, was not one to refuse this free gift of beauty. Sometimes, furious with Hamilton, Tree would throw the startled Flower on her side and using one of her lovely legs as a fulcrum for his body, freeing it of the ground, release the full spasms of his irritation upon her, pounding her, she gasping, clinging to him, mercilessly, and then, leaving her, standing over her, she half shattered at his feet, her eyes looking up at him, her legs now drawn up, he would look down upon her. “Knife will feed you,” he would say.

Once Tree let Flower carry the antelope he had killed to the camp. She did so, proudly. Hamilton was angry. Knife beat Flower. Flower did not care. But that night Short Leg, with a chipped knife, crept to Flower. She held her hand over Flower’s mouth. When Flower opened her eyes, she was terrified. She could not move. She felt the clopped blade of the flint weapon pressing across her throat. “Stay away from Tree,” whispered Short Leg. Then she added, “Tree will be mine.”

“Did you see Cricket, Pod?” asked Hamilton, the berries in her hand.

“No,” said Pod.

She gave the toddler a berry.

“I will help you look for Cricket,” said Butterfly. “I will help, too,” said Antelope.

“Cricket!” called Hamilton. “I have something fox you!” She clutched the berries more closely.

“Tooth,” asked Butterfly, “have you seen Cricket?”

“No,” said Tooth.

“Arrow Maker, have you seen Cricket?” asked Butterfly.

“No,” said Arrow Maker.

“I will help you look,” said Tooth. “Ugly Girl!” he called. “Let us find Cricket.”

She came, nostrils distended, filtering the scents of the camp. Her sense of smell was superior to that of most of the Men. She stood still in the camp. Then she began to walk about its edge.

“Short Leg,” said Antelope. “Have you seen Cricket?”

“No,” said Short Leg, looking down, scraping a skin. She smiled.

“Where is Cricket?” asked Tree of Hamilton.

“I am looking for him,” said Hamilton.

“Oh,” said Tree. He did not look up. Hamilton turned away, the berries in her hand. When she was not looking, Tree rose to his feet. Perhaps Cricket was by the river. He liked to throw stones in the water. Tree was thirsty. He would look. He would see, on the way, if he could pick up a trail. It would not be out of his way.

Tree did not much care for Short Leg. She had been Spear’s woman. She was not beautiful. She was now fed by Stone. She was a cunning woman, and hard and sharp. Her mind was quick, her tongue cruel. Many times she had knelt behind Tree, but he would not throw her meat. He threw it to Turtle. Then Short Leg would hobble to Stone, and take her place behind him, and he would give her meat. Sometimes Hamilton, herself, thrust her away from Tree. “Tree is mine!” Hamilton said to her, though she would not have dared to say this within the hearing of Tree. “Stay away from him! He is mine!” Once she threatened Short Leg with a heavy stick. “You will be fed by Stone,” she said. “Go away!”

Although Tree did not want Short Leg, he was not displeased that this powerful woman wished to be fed by him. He was more pleased that Flower had begged for food. But Flower, for some weeks now, had not pressed herself upon him. She no longer met him on the return trails. This puzzled Tree. Once, in the camp, he took her, making her cry out, moaning, with unwilling miseries of pleasure, but she had seemed frightened; he had had, literally, to rape her; then she had fled away from him, terrified. He supposed that Knife had threatened her. “I can please you more than Flower,” had said Turtle, begging him for his touch, taking his hand, putting it on her body. “Tend your son,” had said Tree to her, angrily. She had wept.

Although Tree was careful to show little attention, and certainly no favoritism, to the boy, Cricket, it was clear to the women in the camp, and to many of the men, that he was much pleased with the boy, and that, somehow, his relationship to the boy was not simply that of one of the Men to one of the children of the Men. Tree had been present when the boy had taken his first steps. It was with pride and pleasure that Tree had laughed. It seemed strange to several of the men that Tree should be thus pleased. Did not all the children of the Men walk? Did he think that Cricket would not be able to walk?

“Old Woman, Nurse,” asked Hamilton, “where is Cricket?”

“I do not know,” said Old Woman. “I do not know,” said Nurse.

About the edge of the camp, followed by Tooth, Ugly Girl had dropped almost to all fours. She bent over, nostrils wide. The knuckles of her long arms, on the thick, short body, brushed the ground. She took scent deeply.

At the river Tree, angrily, examined the near bank. None of the camp were there.

Short Leg had seen that not all was well between Turtle and Tree. Tree was angry with her, many times. This pleased Short Leg, but, to her puzzlement, he continued to feed her. Sometimes, when Turtle suckled the child, or fondled it, and played with it, paying Tree no attention, he was clearly angry. At other times, he seemed fond of the child, inordinately and inappropriately so for so powerful a hunter. Why should he so care about the child of Turtle? Even if it was his seed, it was not important; it was the son of the mother, and the mother’s alone, until the men should want it and take it from her, to make it a hunter. Turtle’s son, Short Leg understood, was, for all his irritation, important to Tree. It made Turtle, to him, somehow different from all the other females of the camp. If it were not for the boy, Short Leg reasoned, Turtle would be to him no more than Cloud, or Flower or Antelope. If Tree would feed Short Leg, Short Leg would not object if he took Flower or Cloud, only that she, Short Leg, would be first woman. Flower would be behind her. She would not be first. It would be then as it had been with Spear. Short Leg would be the woman of Tree, but he would have others, too, which he might feed, and use for his pleasure. Stone could have Turtle, or Runner or Fox. Or, she could be traded to the Bear People, or the Horse People, for another girl, a new girl, not knowing the group, who would do as Short Leg told her. Short Leg had seen Tree’s anger with Turtle. Why did he continue to feed her? It had to do, somehow, with Turtle’s son.