The Chronicles of Amon book 1 LINK

  INTERLUDE

  The clan grows.

  Broc had been a part of the clan for almost 15 years. He, his parents, and one other seeded couple had joined with Amon’s family when they were both just toddlers. Within a few weeks of their meeting, another baby arrived, another male, who was eventually named Nahm. A few months later two more couples joined them. Each couple had female infants.

  By the time Broc was a year old, he, Amon, Nahm and the females had begun developing the first spoken language. Between the mute parents and the vocal children a unique, unspoken language also developed. With the exception of guttural grunts and a few other primitive noises, inter-species communication was completely silent. Body movements took on more meaning. Postures in varying forms took on specific meanings in a specific circumstances. Those same postures, in different circumstances would convey a different meaning.

  When Broc was not quite three, his family happened upon another clan. The family had remained in one encampment now for almost a week. The provisions were plentiful, if you could get to them.

  What remained of the season’s crop of fruit swayed temptingly, high up in the uppermost branches. Only the smallest of primates could climb anywhere close to them. The rest was fair game for the birds and insects.

  Broc’s simian father had been watching the lush fruit swaying to and fro, so high up there. He had been thinking about a way to get to it. He knew he couldn’t climb that high. He was just too big. But maybe he could throw something that high.

  He found an old dead limb lying near by. He picked it up and hefted it, feeling it’s balance. It didn’t feel quite right. It was too heavy, and too cumbersome. He discarded it in favor of another, smaller one. This one felt better, but not quite right. Maybe just a little, broken off here. Now. Try that. Hmm. He balanced it gingerly in his hand. It had weight, but not too much. He took it by the end and did a few practice swings. Good. He’d keep this one.

  He tossed it a short distance to see how it flew. As it toppled end over end through the air, one of the tiny branches still attached to it got caught in some low hanging vines several yards above the ground. There it hung, swaying to and fro.

  Momentarily perplexed, he stood there, trying to think of what he should do next. He remembered the limb he had tried and discarded. It was heavy and hard to balance, so he broke off as many small branches as he could, each one separating with a resounding snap. He was unconcerned with the noise he was making. All he was interested in was retrieving his missile. Besides, the river running near by made more than enough noise to mask his sounds. He turned to his work with confidence. He didn’t notice he was being watched.

  The dark form was there, crouched behind the stump of a huge old dead fall. It had fallen across the river long ago and was covered in moss and vines. Most of its branches had broken when it fell, but a few remained, their dry, leafless fingers splayed toward the heavens. When the tree fell it had left a hole where the roots had been ripped out of the ground. Now, after so many years, the hole was now little more than a shallow depression a few yards across. Long strands of musty, dry moss hung from what few roots remained. There in that depression the observer lay, belly and chin to the ground.

  He was a scout. It was his job to stay well out in front of his clan, searching for food and water, and watching out for danger. Several hours ago he had come upon the tree. He had been following the river, staying well back into the ground foliage, using it for cover. He saw the long, scraggly branches pointing into the sky not far ahead.

  There were several birds flitting about from branch to branch, making a racket. He paused for a moment, watching their antics.

  After a few minutes he decided to see if he could cross the river here. Dead falls were the only bridges available for crossing a river of any size. Humans were born with the ability to at least keep their heads above water, under ideal circumstances, i.e.: calm water, calm person, unencumbered with additional weight. Rarely, if ever were there rivers, or people, which filled these criteria. So, better to take advantage of what is provided than to risk drowning unnecessarily.

  From a security standpoint it was absolutely necessary to know the area in which you were travelling, particularly if the others you travelled with included young ones. Children were by nature noisy, always exploring their world. It was hard to restrain their enthusiasm, let alone keep them quiet.

  His daughter was just three and already she was teaching all the parents the new sign language. She was giving names to things in the forest. Trees and water and other things. He could remember the sound when he saw the thing. This was a wonderful thing, this “awareness.” No matter how he tried, he just couldn’t get used to how it was so much different than it was “before.” That was a word Ilia had taught him. (Ilia was the name his daughter had given herself).

  “Before” meant what the first family was. Before she had come . . . before mother or father had seen each other. “Now” was him and his mate and their daughter and the others who had joined them.

  As he worked his way closer to the old dead fall, he heard a faint crack. It was barely audible, nothing particularly out of the ordinary. But part of being scout is being aware of anything out of the ordinary, no matter how inconsequential it might seem.

  He approached the tree, keeping it between him and the sound. As quietly as he could, he inched his way up the side of the trunk, trying not to slip on the moss-covered branches.

  He got to the top, laying flat and still, his chin resting on the rotting bark. He heard nothing out of the ordinary. Just the rustle of tiny feet as a small brown beetle made it’s way across his field of vision.

  He waited, trying to relax, watching, listening. The only movement his eye detected was the beetle, trundling slowly down the side of the trunk. He became aware of his heart, thumping against the hard old bark. He was afraid someone, or some thing else would hear it.

  Still no sound. The flutter of wings overhead. The buzz, going from high pitch to low as an insect flitted past his ear. The pounding in his ears as his heart thudded against the tree’s decaying bark.

  Still there was noth. . . . Crack! A chill ran down his neck as he tensed. This time the sound was much louder. It didn’t sound too far away. Carefully he began shifting his weight, gradually crawling forward, like a reptile.

  The cracking sounds continued. Some were louder than others, and irregular. He covered more than twenty feet under the cover of the noise coming from ahead. His eyes took in every feature that came into view.

  The first thing he saw there ahead was the scraggly tip of a tree limb waving about at an odd angle. The giant trunk obscured what was causing the limb to move in such a manner.

  He froze in place, his breath caught in his throat. The limb waved about for a few more seconds and then disappeared below his field of view. He heard more small snaps, followed by what sounded like footsteps. Then the limb appeared again, flying through the air, this time minus several smaller branches. It slammed soundly into a clump of moss hanging from another tree limb. An object of some kind (it looked like a short stick) tumbled out of the tangled mass and fell earthward. There was a faint rustle, like walking.

  Suddenly the rustling stopped. . . . Nothing. Not a sound. Not even a bird. Time seemed to stand still. His heart felt like it would explode. He dared not move. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He was frozen; caught in that moment when he wasn’t sure whether he was still the predator or if he had just become prey.

  In the distance he heard a twitter, then another. Then a chirp, followed by a hoot. The sound of the jungle was returning. Over head he saw several birds hover and then land on the thin branches high above. One of the branches bent under the added weight, flinging it’s fruit out into the air and then down into the tangled vegetation below.

  Something flew up from below, crashing into the high branches, then falling back. A few birds flapped anxiously, keeping their balance. Others continued feasting, ignoring the intrus
ion. He thought he heard more sound from ahead and below him. But the sound was being swallowed up as the normal sounds of the jungle resumed.

  Once he was no longer over the river, he inched his was back over the edge of the trunk, keeping it between him and that sound. He made it back down to the ground just at the waters edge. One foot landed partially in the water, sending another chill down his neck. He shuddered slightly, then crawled forward noiselessly, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

  As he neared the huge entanglement of rotten roots, he got back down on his belly. The musty dampness of the jungle floor, this close to the water, smelled of decay, rot. It made the hairs in his nose tingle. He needed to scratch, but he dared not. He flexed his nostrils. The itch persisted. His eyes started watering. Now he needed to sneeze! He had to do something. He couldn’t remain here forever. The clan would be catching up soon. He had to get this resolved. The itch began to burn. His eyes were on fire.

  Ignoring the madding itch, he worked his way forward, water streaming out of his eyes. He blinked the tears away and readied himself. Being careful not to disturb the low-hanging moss and draw attention to himself, he moved forward a few more feet. There, just at the end of the tangled root, was a low spot in the ground. He worked his way up to the edge and slid down the shallow embankment, head first. He slithered across the bottom and slowly worked his way up the other side. Using the moss as camouflage, he peered over the edge into a small clearing just a few yards beyond.

  There at the far side of the clearing a male simian squatted, a short stick in his hand. He was facing away, not moving.

  This was not one of the ‘others.’ He could sense it. The way the body was posed. That was not the way one of the ‘others’ would have posed. This one was erect, balanced on both feet and an arm. The other hand held the stick, it’s tip just touching the ground. This one was poised, ready to respond.

  What should he do? This was not one of his clan. He knew that. He could smell it. Was he hostile? Why was he holding that stick? How could he defend himself? His mind reeled.

  Rising slowly, using one of the mossy roots as a shield should it be needed, he grunted softly.

  The other one’s head snapped in his direction. The stick he was holding loosely before, now was brandished like a prod. There was no charge. This was a defensive posture. Nor was there a challenge. The figure stood motionless. It was too far away to see his eyes.

  There seemed to be no malice in the other’s pose. It looked more like a beckoning than a threat. Gathering his courage, he moved slowly out and away from his cover. With both hands held to his side, palms forward, he took a small step forward, then dropped to his haunches.

  The father of Broc knew immediately this was one of his kind. Though he couldn’t see his eyes this far away, his posture told of his intentions. As he stepped out from behind the root, there was no crouch in his stance. He was not poised in any overt way. He was standing erect, a sure sign that he wanted to be noticed. His movements were slow and deliberate so they could be easily seen and scrutinized. He carried nothing in his hands. When he sat down he placed his palms in his lap, a submissive posture in simian society. It was not normally displayed during a first-time meeting between mature males.

  Emboldened by the stranger’s gesture of submissiveness, but reluctant to take undue advantage, the father of Broc dropped his weapon and took a slow step toward the center of the clearing.