Human (50 page)

Neil watched the plait of hair swing back and forth in the latter man’s hand. It was unlike the hair on these men. Their hair was black and glossy in the sunlight. The severed cord of hair was different, thicker with hints of rusty brown. It was dirty and caked with blood at one end where it had been bunched unevenly.

In a moment of clarity, the realisation hit him.
The ape-men.

These hunters didn’t want a hostage. They were as unwitting in the chimp’s plot as he had been himself. These men were out to hunt and to kill.

This hair was hers. The dead one.
Neil’s stomach turned a little at the thought. He'd watched two days ago as the sun came up in his usual spot. But instead of her morning swim, the redhead had brought the old man with her and washed the dead female’s body by the river. When they were done, she carried it back up to the cave. Neil had noticed the body's crudely cropped hair – an anomaly in the cave dwellers. He'd assumed it was some sort of a burial ritual and left it at that. Despite that, it was clear that her wounds were severe, and now, it was obvious.
This lot killed her. And now they're spoiling for a fight.
He wondered what she could have possibly done to provoke a death so barbaric.

Neil watched the men around him argue, their tempers heightened by the promise of violence and his own unwelcome disruption to their plans. They didn't know what to do with him. Most seemed scared by his appearance. Others looked suspicious and angry and no doubt would slit his throat without a moment's hesitation if given the chance. Some again, like the older, muscled hunter, looked increasingly intent on finishing him, if only to continue to their goal. They wanted the ape-men dead. Neil steadied his breathing as another spear was pushed dangerously close to his ribcage. He felt fabric gather on its tip as his chest rose and fell. He could die here and now.

Or he could fight. On strength or skill, he would lose. But perhaps, a different kind of fighting was required here. He closed his eyes for a moment, shutting them all out. An advantage wasn't given, it was created.
And where there was violence, there was potential…

The red-beaded hunter won his argument. For almost two hours, Neil was pushed and dragged through dense forest. The hunters took him North, bound at the wrists. He watched the trail closely, memorising what he could. A half dozen spears jabbed his skin to keep him moving and when he stumbled and fell, he was kicked to his feet again. Neil considered his options. He didn’t know where he was being taken or how long he had before they reached their destination. Once there, he had no doubt that his life would once again be contested. Neil glanced surreptitiously to the red-beaded man who scowled at him. Once again, Neil felt he was being evaluated. There was only one thing for it. Neil glared back with a silent message.
Do your worst.
The man grunted, surprised. He turned away with a thoughtful look, continuing his lead.
This one is different, Neil realised.
For whatever reason, he had kept Neil alive. To remain that way, was clearly goal number one.

They were hunting the ape-men when they found me, so they're angry with them. And if that hair is any indication, the animals will come off worse in a fight.
Neil saw the ape-men in his mind's eye, dead or scattered, leaving the redhead alone. Vulnerable. With the black stone tied to her wrist. The ape-men were already on the wrong side of a losing battle. Against these humans, they didn't stand a chance.
There's no blood on my hands either, they're already marked.

Instead of fighting for his own life, Neil could make the humans believe they had to fight for theirs.
Goal number two. Use these humans to get the stone.

There was potential here. Neil scowled at the broad shoulders of the man in front of him. The bright red beads snapped against the hunter's neck as he moved.
So, the enemy of my enemy…

The remainder of the journey was swift. Dark strategy again became his ally.

For the remainder of that day and through the night, Neil waited while his fate was argued. During the night he’d grown dead cold and looked longingly to the flickering campfires occupied by his captors. By midday the following day, the oppressive humidity and unrelenting sun had turned his skin red. There was no chance to escape. To dissuade him from trying, two hunters stood spear-ready by his side at all times. Of those that took turns guarding him, none had seemed too pleased. They too shared his discomfort of the elements while waiting, their moods fouling as they grew more cold or hot.

After the initial unwelcome by the human tribe, a number of elders had retreated to the cool recess of their limestone cave. Neil assumed his own life was the topic of discussion. While Neil waited, he learned, never letting an event, however trivial, pass unnoticed. There were approximately eighty men that came and went at various times of the day. Mostly however, they sat in small groups on the far side of the camp, drinking and talking, or sleeping under bamboo shades. Neil had counted another sixty or so women, going about their daily chores with children at their heels, avoiding his eyes and skirting his virtual prison with a wide berth. The only exception was a young woman with blue feathers in her hair. Upon the direction of the red-beaded hunter she had delivered water to Neil several times in a cured bladder, and then scurried away, leaving the faint scent of salt and herbs behind. The hunter sat nearby, watching Neil closely as he hafted a quiver of wood with his knife. It was clear he was irritated at his exclusion from the council.

No time like the present,
Neil thought
.
He wiped his face with his filthy tie and knotted it around his forehead to slow the stream of sweat that stung his eyes. Neil pulled his mobile from his pocket and flicked it on, holding it toward the watching hunter. Immediately, the red-beaded man approached. He muttered a command to the two guards and they left.

Neil spun the phone slowly in his fingers. The hunter watched him suspiciously, kneeling, with a long bladed knife casually resting against his knee. The implication was clear. One wrong move and Neil’s temporary reprieve would be gone. The hunter grimaced and shifted his chin toward the device.

The enemy of my enemy…
With quick flicks, Neil opened the last photo in his gallery. It was a clear shot of some of the little beasts by the river, taken from his brambled hollow. With a look of deliberate collusion, he turned the screen face to the kneeling hunter. His reaction was just as Neil had anticipated. Yelling and stumbling backward, leaping to his feet, grabbing his knife. Its stone blade came to rest inches from the screen, the photograph still glaring like a miniature prison for the creatures displayed. He shouted again, looking fiercely between Neil and the device.

Neil knew what he did was risky. But it was a calculated risk. With no comparable concept, the very idea of capturing the image of a person onto a surface was heinous. Blasphemous even. Surely it would be taken as clear evidence of evil, this act of capturing a soul. Neil hoped so. To steal a soul represented power, evil or not, and only a god would be capable of such an act. Neil knew nothing of religion, but assumed primitive cultures venerated some kind of deity, perhaps more than one. It didn't matter to him which ones. Surely they feared their god, or feared the wrath of bringing evil spirits into their village through disobedience or disrespect. Neil figured there could be only two alternate repercussions for his attempt at feigned supremacy - he would be murdered or idolised. He desperately hoped for the latter. If Neil was a god, he couldn’t be punished. In fact, he would have to be obeyed.

Quickly, Neil flicked to a second photo, not wanting to lose his audience. The man growled at the reflected image. Relentlessly, Neil forced more photographs before the hunters' eyes. His detailed chronicle of the daily lives of the ape-men illustrated his obsession. With each photograph, the hunter grew less fearful and more critical until his face betrayed open curiosity.

Finally, Neil tapped hard on the knife still clutched in the hunter’s fist. With deliberate provocation, he tapped on the image of the pregnant ape-woman remaining on the screen. He drew his own hand across his throat.

Kill it.

Again Neil pointed to the knife, and again, another photo.

Kill it.

The imitation left no doubt as to his intention.
I want them dead too.

The red-beaded hunter nodded, eyeing the mobile device. Neil sensed his distrust of it.
But he doesn’t need to trust the machine,
thought Neil.
He needs to trust me
.

Neil decided it was time to establish the only two spoken words he felt he should know. After a few minutes of miscommunication, the first word was this man’s name -
Charat
.

Then the photographs prompted the second name.
Ebu Gogo
.

The mood between the two men shifted imperceptibly. A glimmer of understanding passed between them. Neil had clawed his first inch of respect.

As dark descended, the humid air turned cold, and chilled the sweat clinging to Neil’s skin. Trailing from the cave in small groups, men and women crowded around him. The faces of the council flickered behind the firelight. Each one was heavily adorned in shells and carved bone with ochre patterned across their skin. They held no weapons which only served to symbolise their power. At their slightest indication, any number of hunters would spring forth to protect them.

Neil was not used to feeling intimidated. He pushed his tense shoulders straight and lifted his chin against their authority. He refused to let his fear reach his eyes. Neil imagined that to the Ebu Gogo, these humans must be terrifying. They stood twice as high and were broad shouldered and strong. Humans outshone them with sophistication and culture. They must have religion and tradition and the inevitability of dominance over their natural world. The Ebu Gogo were nothing. They simply couldn't compete and for a split second, Neil almost felt sorry for them. Almost.
It's them or me
, he reminded himself.
If I don't get that stone, I'll die here.

The entire tribe had turned out for the spectacle, eager to hear his fate. Behind him in the darkness, the guards shifted closer. Charat addressed the council while Neil stood, awaiting his part. Finally, the hunter turned and signalled him to come forward. His audience was waiting.

Neil strengthened his resolve, internalising his commitment to act by the Art of War.
Let your plans be dark and as impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

Neil garnished his face with his typical intimidating glare, daring his audience to doubt him. Anything less and he would give himself away. Neil walked deliberately to the council of elders and held his mobile to their faces. When he was sure the majority could see, he opened the first photograph. The image elicited a reward of fearful cries and shouts. Neil waited for all council members to see and then flicked slowly through his selection of photographs. The luminescent screen face was all the more fantastic against the dark night.

His images seemed grotesque and otherworldly, like souls trapped and frozen in time. The crowd pushed forward to get a closer view. An old woman wailed and fell away shaking and a rabble of feverish chanting broke out across the group. A number of young men yelled to Charat. Neil recognised some of them as belonging to the hunting party who had captured him. Although he didn't understand their words, Neil guessed by their expressions they were seeking direction. Charat answered his men with a violent shout and nod. It did not escape Neil’s notice that the man enjoyed this power.

Fear isn’t enough here. I need to be a god. I need awe.

Neil felt in his pocket for his talisman. He spun it mechanically in his fingers and felt a rare shot of gratitude to his ex-wife for the gift. The polished silver lighter briefly reflected the firelight as he brought it up to his face. He turned to Charat, who was now coolly regarding the frantic crowd. They had an accord.
Power for power.

With a hard nod, Charat turned his back to Neil and roared at the gathered tribe. With disquiet they complied. Charat was now their connection to the soul-stealing stranger and that fear lent him a new authority. In his hands he held an unlit torch of bamboo. Its fibrous knob had been soaked in flammable oils, ready to ignite. Charat turned to Neil expectantly, a knowing glint in his eye.