Page 66 of Caveman Alien's Heat
I look up. The sky has gone a dull, empty gray.
The wind rises slowly at first, as if it’s testing the edges of the village. It moves through the structures with a low, uneven sound, tugging at hides and loose bindings, slipping through every gap it can find. The men respond without being told.Entrances are tightened, coverings pulled lower, fires adjusted so the smoke doesn’t choke them once everything is sealed.
I move along the edge of the open space, keeping out of the way, watching how they handle it. There is a rhythm to it, a pattern I’m only just starting to understand. The same men check the same things. The same paths are used to carry supplies. No one gets in anyone else’s way.
A group passes me carrying thick bundles of fur. One of them slows when he sees me. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he says. “When the wind comes stronger, it’ll be difficult to move.”
“I’ll go in soon,” I say. “I want to see how you prepare.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods as if that makes sense. “Stay near the caves. Don’t go beyond the boundary stones.”
I look toward the half-buried boulders that mark the edge of the village and the beginning of the wilderness. “I understand.”
“Beyond them, there’s only death. Nobody will come for you.” He moves on.
M-hm,I think to myself.Sure they won’t.
There may be only death outside the village. But perhaps that’s not the worst way to go. The storm will pass, and after that is the day when they kill Nator’ax. Freezing to death is apparently not that bad—you just fall asleep and never wake up.
A gust of wind sweeps across the village, stronger this time, carrying a fine spray of snow that stings my face. I turn my back to it and pull my fur tighter. The sky has lowered, the gray thickening until it presses down on everything. The mountains in the distance are already fading as their outlines soften. And yeah, the air does actually carry the metallic taste of blood.
Near the center, the chief is still directing people. His voice is steady and his movements precise. Crelt’ax hasn’t moved far from his place, either. A few men remain with him, watching the sky with an odd kind of anticipation.
“The storm comes,” I hear him say as I pass close enough. “It’ll pass us by, as always. At least we know the dragon won’t come at the same time.”
One of the men nods eagerly. Another glances toward the chief and hesitates.
“How do we know?” the chief says from across the space, without raising his voice. “Something in the secret knowledge, Shaman? The storm always takes someone with it.”
Crelt’ax smiles at that, a thin, knowing expression. “Any shaman knows much that’s hidden from others. It is known that a dragon can fly. But if it were to fly in a Blood Storm, it would perish.”
They both sound pretty sure of themselves. I move on before either of them notices me listening. A Blood Storm? That sounds worse than a regular blizzard.
The wind picks up again, harder now, pushing at my back as I head toward the caves. It would be easy to disappear into mine, to the warmth, the furs, and the fire, to do exactly what Nator’ax told me to do and wait. The thought of sitting in the dim warmth while the storm closes in does have its appeal. But this could be my chance. If this is the moment when things loosen, when attention slips and routines strain, then hiding from it would be a mistake.
I slow near the entrance to the cave we’ve been using and step aside instead of going in. From here, I can see the open space,the boundary stones, and the movement of the tribe as they finish their preparations.
The wind howls louder, and this time it doesn’t fade. Snow lifts from the ground in twisting sheets, blurring the edges of everything and whipping at my face. Shapes become uncertain at a distance. Sound carries strangely, stretched thin or swallowed entirely. The mountains can’t be seen anymore, and the clouds have a blackness in their centers.
I press my hand against the cold stone beside me and watch. If there’s a way out of this place, it won’t come when everything is calm and controlled. It’ll come when something forces these men to choose between holding on and letting go. And we don’t have time to wait for another chance.
The first real blast of wind hits hard enough to make me brace against the stone. Snow drives sideways, stinging any skin it finds, and the open space of the village starts to shrink as the air fills with white. Men move faster, finishing what they can, hauling the last bundles inside, checking the bindings on the cave coverings again. Several of them gather by the totem pole, with the shaman in the middle. I can’t hear what they say, but it looks like some kind of prayer.
Nator’ax passes by. “Go inside,” he says. “This will be bad. Do you have your spoon?”
“I have it,” I tell him. “You think I’ll need it?”
He looks away. “It’s just a good thing to keep nearby.”
Something in his eyes makes me step into the cave at last. The change is immediate. The wind becomes a muffled roar, the light dims, and the air fills with the smells of fur and smoke. The heavy dinosaur-skin hanging that separates the cave from theoutside moves in the wind, but I think it’ll keep the cave free of snow when I weigh it down with the flat rock that we use.
I’m relieved that Nator’ax intends to come back here, but he’s so strange now that I don’t know what to think. Join me in the cave? As in, staying inside until the storm is over, as opposed to making our escape and letting the tribe think we’re dead?
“Anyone in here?” asks a voice from outside. “Dame Riley?”
I guess it’s too late to change that impulsiveDamething. It sounds really weird, and I don’t think it ever did much good. “I’m here,” I reply as I pull the hanging open a couple of inches. “Prak’ox. You should be in your own cave.”
“Oh, it hasn’t started yet,” he smiles before he hands me a basket woven from long twigs. “But it may last a while. So you’ll need this.”
