Julia Elliott - The Wilds

Jeff pulls a wineskin from his rucksack and offers it to me. I take a swig.

“I feel like I’m watching TV,” I whisper.

“Exactly,” says Jeff. “That ineffable feeling of narcissistic dissociation.” And then we find ourselves in that awkward yet primordial predicament, mouths hovering so close that our breath mingles. I’m drunk enough to lean towards him, but then somebody screams.

Zugnord the cave king is cowering behind a boulder. His guards scramble for their javelins. Cave babes stand around with crossed arms, looking annoyed. Into the firelight steps a small woman clad in a tunic of leaves. Her hair is long and matted, her face caked with blue mud. When she hoists a bow and arrow and aims the contraption at Zugnord, I recognize her petite silhouette.

“Watch your ass, Wilbur,” she says. “Did I not express my discontent with your plan to build another Neanderthal village near my personal territory?”

“Yes, but. . I didn’t authorize it,” says Zugnord. “The Neanderthals are kind of out of hand. Some of them were in this guerilla theater troupe and really get into what they do.”

“Bullshit,” says the mysterious woman. “You’ve planted your thugs to keep an eye on me. Instead of indulging in pseudo-pagan sex bullshit, you’d better do something about your Neanderthals. They’re the ones you should be worried about, not me.”

“I’ll take care of them. First thing tomorrow. Promise.”

The woman vanishes into the forest. Zugnord’s henchmen shovel sand onto the fire. And then they all head back toward Hominid Hotel.

We creep out into the sacred space. I stand there awkwardly, feeling a sick stab of guilt, as Jeff takes pictures of bloodstained stone, a fur bikini top, a used condom. The pagan monument glows in the moonlight, casting eerie shadows. A few live coals smolder in the fire pit. The woods are thick and deep, full of shape-shifting beasts and fake Neanderthals. The sky, spangled with myriad blobs of burning plasma, is infinite and eternal. The next morning, at the Leaf, Nut, and Berry Buffet, Jeff snarls over the mizuna trough.

“Not exactly the kind of thing you want to eat in the morning, you know?” he says.

We heap our plates with greens and fruit. Sit down at our favorite stone booth.

“Hungover?” I ask, hoping he’s forgotten about last night’s near kiss.

“Hard to tell. Didn’t get much sleep. Spent the night Googling, chasing Paleo fanatics through chat rooms, trying to get to the bottom of last night’s mysterious Amazon queen.”

“She was on the small side.”

“Dwarf Amazon, then. How’s that?”

“Oxymoronic.”

“Anyway, this morning I interviewed a few former personnel. A disgruntled waitress. A chattering chambermaid. I tried to get ahold of Kungar, but she wouldn’t answer my texts. Get this: the mysterious Amazon is Zugnord’s ex. She’s known him since he was fat, dumpy Wilbur Sims. Goes by the name of Zongar.”

“Wow. I don’t envy her, asshole that he is.”

“It gets better. They were once this insufferable power couple. They started Pleisto-Scene Island together, and then Zongar got sick of Zugnord’s womanizing and went apostate. Last year, she started her own thing in the woods, some kind of earth-loving, vegetarian, chimpanzee-diet thing, which is, of course, anathema to the Paleo carnivores. Every now and then, a few of Zugnord’s customers get lured into her cult. Since last fall, a podiatrist, a personal trainer, and a realtor have disappeared into the forest. Families are concerned. Lawyers involved. Neanderthals are on the case, slinking through the woods.”

“So that’s what the fake Neanderthals are up to.”

“Not all of the fake Neanderthals, apparently, just this one tribe.”

“A bit much to digest this early in the morning.”

“No shit. I’m going to do a little deep-forest exploring today, see if I can catch a whiff of the Earth goddess in question. You up for a hike?”

Clad in earth-toned Patagonia, equipped with a backpack, a canteen, a picnic lunch of jerky and fruit, I regard myself in the mirror. I look leaner, more ferocious, something carnivorous and feline in my mock snarl — from the side view at least. I’m about to head out when I hear a knock on my door. I open it, expecting Jeff.

My fiancé stands there, rumpled from travel, his eyes huge — the magical eyes of a rare nocturnal monkey, I used to think, though now they look terrified and feverish, like a refugee child’s. He’s wearing khakis, a vintage plaid shirt, these mouthwash-green dead-stock 1980s Pumas he spent two weeks stalking on Etsy. He looks smaller, as though the journey has deflated him and he needs a pump of air. He treats me to his sly smile, which used to wreak havoc on my nervous system, but now I feel nothing.

Then I smell him — his fruity shampoo, his high SPF sunscreen, the darker animal brine of his armpits. I detect a hint of metallic mineral in his sweat, bespeaking the trauma of his trip across the planet. These smells, which send obscure messages to my blood, give his eyes resonance again. And my stomach is a mess, a weird turmoil of lust and repulsion.

“So, I figured I should, you know, like, come out here and see what’s going on,” he says, trying to play it cool.

“Nothing’s going on,” I say, noticing that my hands have spontaneously tensed into trembling raptor claws. I hide them behind my back.

“You sound defensive.”

“I’m not. Just surprised. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“I didn’t know if I’d be able to go through with it.”

There it is again, the elated smile. I’m supposed to hug him, to praise his bravery.

“Besides,” he says, “you wouldn’t answer my texts, my calls.”

“Isolation is part of the full Paleo experience. I told you that.”

“Whatever. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Of course. Come in. But I’m heading out for my morning hike. Part of the regime.”

He squeezes around me into the room, tosses his duffel onto a chair, reclines on the bed, and smirks — a sweet expression from the old days, mischievous and inviting.

“I’ll be back soon,” I say. “It won’t take long.”

I give him a quick peck on the cheek and dart down the hallway, jog through the lobby in my clunky hiking boots. When I finally reach the patio, I collapse against a wall of purple clematis. I sink into the riot of flowers, taking deep breaths of perfumed air.

And there’s Jeff, strolling through the flowering arbor, dressed in shorts and hiking boots, equipped with backpack and water bottle, twinkling, ready for adventure.

“Great day for a jungle trek,” he says.

I’m about to tell him that today’s not a good day, when, for some reason, he reaches out and touches my shoulder. He motions toward the trail that curls into the forest. I hear insects chanting their mating dirges deep in the mysterious woodland gloom. I picture my fiancé, bored already, looking around for a television, scoping the faux-stone walls for a mounted screen.

I walk into the woods with Jeff.

As we tromp down the foraging trail, Jeff chatters wittily about Zongar, prehistoric matriarchal societies, Earth Mothers and herbalists, moon goddesses and sacred menses. I respond with the occasional polite grunt, feeling sick about abandoning my fiancé, scanning the trail to make sure he’s not tailing me, half expecting to see the wild-eyed creature making his tentative way through the woods.

We cut down a side path and enter deeper forest, the forest within the forest, where the trail dwindles to a scruffy footpath. Locating a stream that a waitress told Jeff about, we wind along its meandering bank.