Climate of Change

  “But he has done the one, and we must do the other.”

  “Let me do it,” she said. “When the drought ends, I can appear. I am the one he raped; I have the right to vengeance.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “Yes I can. If I surprise him alone, with my knife ready. Let Haven lead him to me.”

  She felt his nod in the darkness. “He would follow her, if he thought to finally catch her alone.”

  “Yes. And he doesn’t know I’m alive. So he can know that all our family is accounted for, yet be surprised.”

  “It is right,” he agreed reluctantly. “But you must make sure you kill him.”

  “I will make sure,” she agreed grimly. “Meanwhile, stay close to her. Protect her.” That was her penance for doubting her sister’s loyalty.

  Soon he had to leave, lest he be missed, even in the night. They could afford to give no hint that Rebel was alive and almost well. She kissed him, much cheered. Not only did she have the reassurance of his continuing love and desire, she had a clear plan to achieve her vengeance on Bub.

  Near morning Haven came, with more food. “I can’t stay,” she said. “It’s hard to take food without it being missed. I fear Bub is suspicious.”

  “Yes he is.” It was a man’s voice at the entrance. It was Bub! “I wondered why you were sneaking out at such an odd hour, so I followed you.”

  Rebel’s shock crystallized. “Flee, sister!” she cried. “There is no help for me anyway.”

  But Haven hovered near, unwilling to desert her charge.

  “Go!” Rebel hissed.

  “You can’t escape,” Bub called. “There is no other exit from this cave.” His voice was closer. He was tracking them by sound, and he was alone. Obviously he had no fear of women.

  Haven retreated, realizing that Rebel had something in mind. She knew Rebel was far from helpless, having by now recovered almost completely.

  Satisfied, Rebel grasped her knife. She groaned, then spoke to the man. “So you come to finish the job you started,” she said, making her voice sound weak. “You raped me and almost killed me, and now you want to do it again.”

  Bub moved cautiously forward, feeling his way, still guided by her voice. “No. I doubt you are very appealing in your present condition. I will simply kill you, then at last get to rape your sister.”

  “You monster!” Rebel gasped weakly.

  He came close. “Keep talking, wench. This time I will make quite sure of you.”

  “Oh,” she wailed. “You would never be able to do this, were I healthy.”

  “Too bad for you.” He leaned over her. She was tracking him by his voice, as much as he was tracking her by hers. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to him that two could play this game.

  She reached out with her free hand and found his leg. She hauled hard on it, making him stumble. As he lost his balance, she sat up suddenly and stabbed upward with the knife.

  She was aiming for the groin, the most fitting target, but got him in the belly instead.

  Or the loincloth; her knife snagged in it. She tried to wrench it out, but Bub was jerking back, and her knife was yanked from her hand.

  This was trouble. He had more muscle than she, and was not just recovering from injury. He could and would kill her this time, if she didn’t find a quick way to prevent it. But what could she do?

  Even as she struggled mentally to devise a strategy of combat, she was acting physically. She flung her arms out and found his legs. She grasped his ankles and hauled on them, trying to pull him down. But the effect was to draw her body into him.

  Well, maybe that would do. He was bending forward, reaching down. She knew he would stab her with his knife in a moment. She had to keep active. She clung to his ankles, rolled halfway on her back, and kicked up with one leg, trying again for his crotch.

  She missed, again. Her foot jammed into his belly. But this had an effect. It pushed him back, breaking his balance, but he couldn’t step back to recover it. So he fell, with an exclamation, landing hard on his back. She heard the knife skitter away across the cave floor. Good—she had disarmed him.

  But she needed that knife herself, for she couldn’t outwrestle him. She let go of his legs and launched herself in the direction she had heard the knife go. But he was reaching for it himself. She flopped prone on his extended arm and shoulder, pinning them to the ground. She reached beyond, casting for the knife.

  But his fingers were already grasping it. She was too late. She had to get away, if she could. She twisted, trying to scramble clear of him, so she could lose herself in the darkness. But his other arm came across to cover her legs, pinning her.

  She wrenched herself around, trying to get to her feet. But his arm clasped her legs, and she fell back across his body, this time with her head on his belly.

  “I’ve got the knife,” he said. “I can kill you now. But if you stop fighting, I’ll merely rape you, completing what I didn’t do before. You’re a lot healthier than I thought.”

  She paused. “Didn’t?”

  “Don’t you remember? You fought so hard I had to bash you instead. Then I thought you were dead, and dead women lack appeal, so I threw you away. But now I am reminded what a fine body you have.” His hand worked its way up her thigh to her bare buttock, and squeezed. “I’ll let you go, after, if you behave.”

  She had not been raped! Only bashed, costing her her memory of the occasion. What a relief.

  But she couldn’t trust him. Once he had his will of her, he would kill her anyway, and then kill Haven too, to prevent them from talking.

  “Do you agree?” he asked, running his fingers in between her buttocks. She was aware of his penis stirring in the darkness; he was getting an erection, spawned by his exploration of her taut bottom. Her thighs were not as thick as Haven’s, and her buttocks were less fleshy, but men had always found them supremely interesting. “I want your word.”

  He knew her word was good, though his wasn’t. But if she didn’t give it, he would simply stab her through the back until she died. What choice did she have?

  “Haven too?” she asked, forcing her body to relax, though that encouraged his traveling hand. At least that was a considerable distraction to him, perhaps putting him somewhat off guard.

  “Her too,” he agreed as his questing fingers found her cleft. His member was now quite hard; she felt its radiating heat near her face.

  Rebel held herself still and physically relaxed despite her revulsion at his touch and obvious lust. Her sex appeal was making him negotiate, and that gave her brief respite. She realized that his statement was ambiguous. “To let her go.”

  “After I rape her,” he agreed, trying to work a finger into her. The angle was wrong at the moment, but he would soon correct that. He knew she resented his intrusion, and that surely excited him yet more. Just as many men preferred to get illicit peeks at women’s normally hidden flesh, some men liked to ravish unwilling women. “I mean to have that plush body.”

  Rebel wondered whether she could leap free without getting stabbed. She was pretty sure she couldn’t. But it seemed to be a choice between getting stabbed to death now, or after he raped her. He was already working his way into the rape. The irony was that his own bared genital region was within her easy reach, but she lacked any desire to explore it in retaliation. A further irony was that she might have been interested in having an affair with him, had he not tried to rape her; he was an interesting man, in his abusive fashion. Had he come to her with an offer, instead of—but of course she was married. So there was nothing there. She had to escape him.

  Then she saw a way. It would take nerve and control, but was her only chance.

  “Well?” he demanded, trying to twist his hand around for a better angle. He was almost there; she knew it better than he did.

  “No.” She remained quite still

  He moved the hand with the knife. She knew it was poised to stab into her back, severing her spine with the first strike
. “Are you sure?”

  Suddenly she moved. She swept one hand across his belly, finding his hot, throbbing penis. At the same time she hunched forward, bringing her face there. She took the end of his member into her mouth, setting her teeth firmly but not biting down, while her hand took a solid hold on his scrotum.

  Bub froze. He realized that he could quickly incapacitate her with one stab of the knife—but not before she bit off his penis and crushed his testicles. She would die, but he would be castrate. Even if he then managed to catch and kill Haven, so as to prevent the secret of his deed from getting out, he would never rape another woman.

  Rebel could not speak, but didn’t need to. She squeezed slowly, giving him a hint of what was coming. She didn’t much care how she hurt him, and he knew that. She had nothing to lose.

  “Truce!” he gasped.

  She released her pressure just slightly, and waited.

  “I will let you both go,” he said.

  She began to squeeze again. She noticed that his penis was not losing erection; he found her hold on his anatomy exciting despite its threat.

  “Without rape,” he added quickly. “I will simply depart, saying nothing.”

  Rebel eased up, then began to squeeze again.

  “I take your silence to mean agreement to the truce,” he said. “You will let me go, if I let you go.”

  She eased up slightly with her hand, but nipped slightly with her teeth.

  He knew what she wanted. “Here is the knife.” He moved his arm slowly across, until his hand touched hers. His fingers relaxed, letting the knife drop to the ground. Her fingers clasped it, and carried it beyond his reach.

  Only then did she lift her head, releasing his member. But she clasped his scrotum a bit longer. “Get your hand out of my cleft.” That seemed ironic, considering where her own hand was.

  The hand withdrew. Now at last she felt a softening in his penis, as he accepted the fact that he would not be raping anyone this hour. It was a better signal of his intention than his words were.

  She loosened her grip without giving it up entirely. “Remain still while I get off you. If you move, I will use the knife.”

  “Agreed.” He knew she was not bluffing. She would be fair, but would strike where it counted if he gave her reason. It was the only way to handle a man like him.

  She held the knife ready, let go of his member, and rolled off him. She got to her feet and backed away. “Now go. We will not speak of this if you do not.”

  “Agreed.” He rolled to his feet and walked to the mouth of the cave.

  She remained still, watching his outline against the pale light of dawn beyond the cave, and following him with her ears too. She needed to be sure he did not wait outside in ambush.

  He did not. She heard his footsteps departing the area. She went to the mouth of the cave, peering out to make sure. She saw his retreating back.

  “He’s gone,” she said to Haven. Now at last she could truly relax. She felt weak; she had not recovered as far as she had thought.

  Haven came from the deeper recesses. “How did you make him go?”

  “I got hold of something he valued more than my life, or yours.” Rebel took a breath. “He’s gone—but I think it will not be safe for our family any more. We’ll have to go—now, drought or not.”

  “Yes. And you can’t stay in this cave, now that Bub knows about it. I wish I’d been more careful, so that he hadn’t—”

  “He was bound to get suspicious. You couldn’t take such good care of me without risking discovery.”

  They picked up their things and stepped out of the cave. It was a glad yet sad moment: Rebel’s long confinement was through, but at the cost of the welfare of the family.

  Rebel felt something. She paused. “What is that?”

  Haven stopped. “What?” Then she felt it. “Rain! It’s starting to rain! Our Wandjina has come to our aid.”

  Their ancestral spirit, associated with their totem animal, the wallaby. Wandjina were not all-powerful, but did what they could when they could. Now, just in time, theirs had acted.

  “The drought is ending,” Rebel said. “Now we can survive on our own.”

  “On our own,” Haven agreed thankfully.

  We don’t really know the history or interpersonal relations of the Australian Aborigines before the white man took over their continent. But their diet and legends are as presented here. They did not have pottery or the bow and arrow, as these things seem to have been developed after they crossed to Australia, but did have the spear, atlatl, war club, and boomerang. They did not practice formal agriculture, but did preserve yam plants and spit fruit seeds into fertilized ground as described. So they understood the principles of planting and nurturing, and surely would have taken it farther had it been expedient. They did just fine, until the more advanced technology of the Europeans intruded.

  Rebel’s dream visions were of two kinds: Dreamtime legends existing among various Aborigine clans, and re-creations of the ancestors of humankind. They were correct in essence, if not in detail; she tended to fill in details she knew in her present, such as dingo dogs, that had not been domesticated two million years before. She was tracing the development of her species, in her fashion, as she sought to recover her faculty of language.

  The thing that most clearly distinguishes mankind from all other species on Earth is his giant brain, monstrous for a body his size. Theories for its development abound, and there may be no consensus, but the evidence is growing that it was symbolic language that powered the brain’s ascent. When our ancestors diverged from the chimpanzees, they started out with similar mental capacities. But Australopithecus may have stumbled on a better way to get along: the first organized verbal symbols. Many animals have verbal expressions for danger, pain, warning, comfort, alarm or whatever, and these can be considered symbols, as a cry of pain is not the pain itself. But they are fixed; the animals do not organize or manipulate them. They never say, “If you get bitten by a rattlesnake, you will be in pain.” They don’t have language. Neither did our ancestors, originally, but somewhere along the way they took the step that led to the first very simple language. It may have consisted of all proper nouns, with each significant tree or rock or path given its special name. It may have developed adjectives to qualify those nouns: the good berries, the bad leopard, making communication more flexible. They may have discovered prepositions: leopard in the berry patch, fruit under the tree. That may have led to verbs: the leopard is in the berry patch. We don’t know how it developed, just that it did. Slowly, over the course of millennia, of eons, true symbolic language developed. Because even the simplest language was immensely more complicated than mere animal sounds, it powered an enormous increase in the size of the brain. This in turn forced other significant compromises, such as the reduction of body fur and promotion of sweating as a cooling mechanism, because that burgeoning brain had to be cooled. But it was worth it, because with superior communication came superior intelligence and group organization, leading to the eventual conquest of the world by mankind. Appreciation of symbolism also brought the arts, including storytelling, which encouraged further development of language.

  And so our species became what it is today, distinguished by its huge brain and its appreciation of all the arts, powered by the gradual development of ever more sophisticated language. There are no simple languages today, but there were two million years ago.

  11

  LEGEND

  The mountain range of the Pyrenees served as an effective barrier to invasions in either direction. On occasion conquests were made, but generally the lands to the north and south were in different hands. In 711 AD the Moors defeated the Visigoths and took over the Hispanic peninsula. In 732 they pressed on north into France, but were balked by the Franks, and settled down in Spain. But schisms in the Muslim realm weakened it, and the Basques were among those peoples able to maintain a fair amount of independence. To the north, the Franks consolidated their
power in France, and established control over the Basque territory north of the Pyrenees.

  In 768 AD Pepin, the king of the Franks, died, and left the kingdom to his two sons, one of whom was Charles, who was interested in enlarging his domain. But the Moors were too strong in their territory for him to attack without a secure base in Spain. In 777 he received a surprising visit: a Moorish delegation petitioned him for help in a rebellion against another faction. In exchange, Charles could have the city of Saragossa, a stronghold in northern Spain. This could be exactly the base Charles needed to displace the Saracens, striking a blow for Christianity, not to mention increasing his own power. He quickly agreed, and in the summer of 778 sent two armies south. These were formidable forces, 40,000 to 70,000 men in all, with their supporting apparatus, surely sufficient to push back the Moors if given a suitable base of operations. Charles led one force himself, crossing the Pyrenees and occupying the city of Pamplona in Navarra. The second force took a longer route around the eastern edge of the mountains and down to Barcelona. There was no significant resistance, though the folk of the countryside did not like the intrusion.

  The setting is the Basque territory of Navarra, 778.

  Haven and Keeper were in the city of Pamplona when it happened. The city was Basque, but under the control of the Moors. The Moors were tolerable as long as they didn’t try to press their heathen religion on the natives. They were here to trade for supplies, staying with their friends Flo and Jes. Jes’s husband was rich and generous, which helped.

  “The Franks are coming!” Jes exclaimed, having gotten early news.

  “The Franks?” Haven asked, amazed. “How is it possible?”

  “Suleiman Ibn al-Arabi, the governor of Barcelona, invited him. The cities are not fighting at all.”

  “Well, we Basques don’t want the Franks here,” Haven said. “We prefer our independence.”

  “We certainly do,” Flo agreed warmly. “But I think we had better keep our mouths shut while the Franks are here, as we have no army to oppose them.”