Page 20 of Caveman Alien's Heat
The chief studies him, then glances at the ashes of our fire. “Food? What food? Something you hunted?”
It’s plainly useless to lie about that. There are still alien-turkey bones on the ice.
“Everyone needs to eat,” Nator’ax says. “We hunted what we needed, unaware that your tribe claims this as its turf. What is the name of your tribe, Chief?”
The caveman’s gaze slides past him again and settles on me. “I am Prak’ox of the Gar tribe,” he says. “I am not the chief of our tribe. But our chief must decide what we shall do with you.”
Up close, the men are even more intimidating than they looked from a distance. Tall, broad, scarred, wrapped in thick white and grey furs. Their bone masks hang at their belts or on cords around their necks.
And every single one of them is staring at me like I’m a miracle, or a treasure, or both.
One of the younger hunters finally blurts out, “Is she truly a woman?”
Nator’ax answers before I can. “She is a woman of the Borok tribe, warrior, but not the only one.”
The hunter looks stunned. “There are more? The Borok tribe has women?”
“We count some women among our members,” Nator’ax gently corrects. “It would be wrong to say that we have them. They have themselves, but most are married to men of our tribe.”
“Married?” one man asks, dumbfounded. “What’s that?”
“To be married means that the woman is bonded to a man for life,” Nator’ax says. “And the man is equally bonded to the woman. None may break that bond. It is impossible.”
“Ah,” Prak’ox says, clearing his voice. “Then you are married to this woman here.”
Nator’ax gives me a glance. I understand his concern — it would be easier if we could say we were married, and so gain some protection behind the sanctity of marriage, if these guys believe in that.
“I am not married to Riley, nor is she married to me. But I am sworn to protect her. And I shall, to my last breath.”
There’s such finality in his voice that it makes my stomach feel weird, despite the clearly serious situation we’re in. He’s not kidding.
“Hopefully you haven’t taken your last breath yet,” Prak’ox says. “But that time may be coming. You are trespassing on Gar turf. And by your own admission, you have hunted on our ice. Judging from the tracks and blood spots all around us, you may have hunted more than twostokas.”
“We were attacked by two Bigs,” Nator’ax says. “And be it your turf or not, it is the law of the jungle that any man may defend himself on any turf when attacked.”
“That is the law on the ice as well,” Prak’ox says. “You come from a jungle tribe, then. That must be why you’re so strangely dressed. Do all jungle tribes have things that fall from the sky?” He nods to the saucer.
“No, just the Borok tribe,” Nator’ax says. “It was conquered from the Plood.”
“Nothing of the Plood is welcome here,” Prak’ox growls. “This is all very strange.”
Another man circles slightly closer, studying my face with intense concentration. “She is smaller,” he says.
“Yes,” another agrees. “And the face is different. But she’s not a Plood.”
The leader lifts a hand, and there’s instant silence. He steps closer to us. His grey eyes move slowly over me, not with hunger exactly, but with careful curiosity. “She is not of your people,” he says. “She smells wrong. She looks wrong. She comes from elsewhere. From the Plood.”
Nator’ax inclines his head slightly. “She is unusual. But she doesn’t come from the Plood. She comes from Earth, and crashed in the jungle inthat.” He nods to the saucer. “The Borok tribe found her and several other women. Later, Riley and I entered this saucer in order to understand it. It started flying without us wanting it to. It flew by itself, and we could as easily control where it flew as a man may control an irox. It flew in the air for a long time. Then it fell here. If we have intruded on your turf, that was not our intention. But I think you know that already.”
The hunters shift uneasily. “Nothing good comes from the sky,” one of them mutters.
“She did,” Nator’ax says and looks at me. “And she has been good for our tribe.”
“I can imagine,” Prak’ox says with a neutral tone, while his gaze runs me up and down.
“We not dangerous,” I say quickly. “We just crashed here. We trying to leave.”
Several hunters look at me with fascination when I speak. “She talks strangely,” one of them says.
