Chapter Three
.
The sinister howl - which had been the main reason why I left willingly with this primitive stranger in the first place - gradually fades to nothing. I don't think any wolves are pursuing us. This is obviously a good thing. However, my worries only escalate as we weave our way through the darkening forest. Every so often, the wild man in front of me checks over his shoulder. I think he's making sure I haven't given him the slip.
He is right to be concerned.
What am I doing? Have I gone insane? Hardly a second goes by without me wondering if I'm making a huge mistake. I put all my trust in a guy who probably hasn't finished evolving yet. I have no idea where he could be taking me, or what his intentions are after we get there. What if he put on a nice guy act just to get me to lower my defenses?
Do cavemen even know how to put on an act?
Guess I'll find out soon.
In spite of the potential danger he poses, I have to give this to him: the man moves like a ghost. His footsteps are feather-quiet against the dry leaves. Mine are loud as fuck. My feet seem to rejoice in snapping every single twig they can find. And his sense of direction is unreal. There is no trail to follow or anything else to give you an idea of your general location. He relies solely on his instinct to get us out of this wooded labyrinth.
His pace quickens seemingly for no rhyme or reason. Curious, I squint into the distance. The light looks brighter up ahead. A few more minutes of walking (aka, a few more minutes of tree branches scratching up my face) and we finally break free from the forest.
I stumble to a stop and stare dumbly at our new surroundings. The sun is on the verge of setting. The sky is coated in gold and lavender. The scenery might be considered pretty if the landscape itself wasn't so empty of life. Waist-high grass stretches for an eternity. A cold, unforgiving wind blows from the north, stirring the grass into a wild dance. The eerie rustling puts me on edge.
What creatures lurk within that ocean of grass? Are they watching me, waiting for just the right moment to spring out and attack?
My overactive imagination cannot handle this. The grassland is far more intimidating than the forest we just left. So when the man motions for me to follow, I stick to him like glue. Fear of the unknown is worse than whatever threat Mister Caveman poses.
Our journey is shorter than I expected. He leads us to a spot still within sight of the trees. The grass has been flattened in this area, reminding me of a crop circle. There's a small tent, much to my surprise. I assumed he would live in a cave seeing how he's a "caveman". Rustic is the best way to describe his humble abode. The tent is made of animal skins slung over a frame of branches. Two people at most could fit inside the thing - as long as they don't mind living in tight conditions.
His residence has a few other touches of domesticity. I spy baskets of varying size here and there, containing everything from bundles of tree bark to animal furs. Nearby is a large pile of wood. And, in the exact center of the camp site, is a ring of blackened stones.
The man leans his spear against the tent and grabs an armload of wood. He carries them over to the ring of stones and stacks them into a pyramid shape. Underneath this wood pile, he stuffs a clump of dead grass. Next, he takes from a basket a saucer-sized dried mushroom. He proceeds to bang together two rocks over the large fungi. Sparks fly. It takes many strikes before one of those sparks lands on the mushroom and ignites. A smoking ember is born. The man blows life into the tiny flame, helping it grow in size and strength.
Before the last rays of the sun disappear, the man uses this self-made lighter to start a blazing camp fire.
He glances at me while sitting on his haunches. I'm currently doing a great impression of a dummy. I'm not sure what I should do, so I haven't moved a muscle since we got here. Or, perhaps shock has finally set in and that's the reason why I'm frozen in place. Whichever the case may be, the man takes action before I can. He leads me to the fire by my elbow, as though I'm a child he found instead of a grown woman. A gentle push to my shoulder is all it takes to convince me to sit. My legs crumple underneath me. I've lost every ounce of strength.
After being hurled backward through the space-time continuum and running away from a wooly mammoth in a matter of minutes, exhaustion has officially kicked my ass.
The fire throws off plenty of light around the camp site. Wonderful heat thaws my cold hands. While warming up, I keep tabs on the man. He seems to have a problem staying still. He stows away belongings, organizes baskets, and sweeps away some wood shavings with a "broom" made of a pine branch.
Interesting. Cavemen can be neat freaks. Too bad this neatness doesn't extend to his personal hygiene. There's enough dirt on his face to plant a garden.
As I amuse myself with this thought, the man does something unexpected. He grabs a basket, and without so much as a word, vanishes into the surrounding grassland.
Night has officially crept in, and I am completely alone. I wonder what part of the world I've been sent to? The landscape is unfamiliar. And I've never seen a more starrier sky - not even in rural Forks. Normally light pollution hides a majority of the fainter celestial bodies from view. This is further confirmation that there are no towns or cities in this day and age. Nevertheless, I find myself straining my ears for the familiar signs of civilization. Engines. Car horns. Blaring music. You know, comforting sounds.
All I hear is the crackling of the fire.
Just as I start to believe the man has ditched me for good, he returns lugging the basket. He sets it near me. Out of curiosity, I peek inside. It is filled to the brim with sloshing water. There must be a stream within walking distance. The basket is made of tightly woven reeds. Dried clay is caked all around, sealing all the cracks. I suppose that's why it's able to hold water.
He goes inside his tent for a short spell. Upon crawling out again, I see that he holds a plain wood bowl. I'm sure it's something he carved himself from a small piece of wood. He dips this bowl into the basket, mimes drinking from it, and lastly, offers it to me. It's not until this very moment do I notice how dry my throat has become. Without breaking eye contact, I take the bowl. The water is cold and rejuvenating. I feel alive again.
I lick the moisture from my lips. "Thank you."
He doesn't respond verbally. This comes as no surprise since he can't speak English.
After putting away the bowl, he sets up a tripod made of branches over the fire. From the tripod, he hangs an animal hide. That strikes me as a weird thing to do. Like, is he cooking it? Tanned animal skin couldn't possibly taste good. My confusion grows when he pours half of the basket's water inside the animal hide. He adjusts the height, making sure the hide remains several inches above the flames.
Gradually, the purpose of all this dawns on me.
He's not going to eat it. The animal hide is being used as a cooking pot.
The man takes a seat close by and removes his fur cape. His clothing can be seen easily now, so I take the opportunity to study them. The tunic he wears is sleeveless and made with fabric about as fancy as a potato sack. His leggings are animal hides stitched together. To top off this man-of-nature look, there's a belt strung around his waist made of some sort of rope. He uses this like a tool belt. From it hangs exactly two things: a leather pouch that I've already seen, and a rabbit.
He's been carrying around a dead rabbit all this time? Ew!
The rabbit dangles from the belt by its leg. The man lays it out flat and begins hacking off body parts with a rock. That's right... a fucking rock. Though in a freakishly odd turn of events, that same rock slices and dices as good as any kitchen knife I've seen. That edge must be deadly sharp.
While he butchers the poor thing, I get queasy. I'm sure my face has turned a lovely shade of green. Don't get me wrong. I love meat. Hamburgers are the food of the gods, in my opinion. But watching a furry little creature being gutted is never a pleasant experience. I did not want to know the last thing Thumper ate before he died - yet here I am with that knowledge anyway.
The man spears the meat with a long, pointed stick. It looks like a kabob without any vegetables. He holds it over the hot coals of the fire and turns it every so often. When he finally pulls the stick away from the flames, he speaks to me.
"Ēdmi."
I haven't the foggiest idea what he just said, so I don't do anything in response. He waves the stick closer to my face and repeats himself. What he wants finally hits me.
"Oh. You want me to eat this?"
I cast a wary eye on the offering. The meat is charred black in places. If it was accompanied by beans and potato salad, this would make for a decent barbeque. I tear off a leg/thigh combo and give it a sniff. It smells all right, I guess. So I probably won't die of food poisoning.
Look at me. I'm thinking positively for a change.
I take a cautious bite. It's a little on the rare side but perfectly edible. Actually... the meat tastes pretty good as long as you ignore how it's owner was happily hopping around only a few short hours ago. And after a few more bites, my stomach stops caring entirely about the moral dilemma of where the food came from.
Damn, I'm hungrier than I knew.
While I eat, the man eats as well. He also watches me like a hawk. It reminds me of how Dad used to eat dinner in front of the television - except I'm the entertainment tonight. The attention isn't entirely welcome on my end. Why would he want to stare at me? I have boring-brown hair and this weird, little upturned nose. I'm nothing special even by primitive standards. I'm sure there are plenty of cavewomen babes out there that look far better than I do.
I focus my gaze on the fire. Hopefully, he will take note of my lack of interest in him and direct his own elsewhere.
My tactic appears to work. Like any good dinner host, the man cleans up the dining area at the end of our meal. The bone is taken from my hand and tossed into the fire, where it will presumably reduce to ash.
Well... I suppose that's one way to dispose of unwanted things in your household. I bet Marie Kondo never thought of doing that.
The man rises from the ground and strolls over to the wooden tripod. He dips a finger into the animal hide cooking pot. Then, he gives one pleased nod and glances over at me.
"Ārri da."
I shrug, reminding him of our language barrier. He repeats the phrase and rubs water between his palms. I think he's saying I can clean myself up if I want.
Honestly, that sounds fantastic.
I move to the other side of the "pot". The water inside is hot but no where near boiling. I wash off my hands, face, and scrub out the grime from underneath my fingernails until I feel human again.
Since I wasn't too dirty in the first place, I am done relatively quick. I take a seat by the fire again. The man, on the other hand, appears to be just getting started cleaning himself up. He washes his neck and face, taking extra care to scrub out the dirt from his beard. The result is a big improvement. He looks more tame than wild. Put him in some jeans and a flannel shirt and he would be identical to your average lumberjack.
He pulls the tunic over his head and wipes down his arms and chest. I can't help but admire the view. His physique is fit and lean, hinting at a life spent doing hard manual labor. Following a good scrubbing to the torso, he decides to tackle his lower half. He yanks down his leggings, leaving him standing there in a flimsy loin cloth. Before my brain is able to accept that this visual stimulation is real, the loin cloth gets whipped off too. And even with the chilly night air, I see he isn't affected much by shrinkage.
I choke on my own spit.
So far I've called him Wild Man, Crazy Man, and simply The Man. Guess I'll have to add Naked Man to the list now.
With a thumping heart, I avert my gaze to the safety of the sky. I hear him babbling a series of words. Judging by his tone, I'm assuming he's wondering what's wrong with me. I refuse to look in his direction. What if his... things are still flopping around? One wrong move and he might poke one of my eyes out.
He walks into my field of vision. This makes it impossible for me to ignore him any longer. His expression is one of confusion. He drops down beside me. I give him a cautious peek. His tunic is back in place. It covers him all the way to his knees. I finally relax... until he leans forward. My body goes stiff as a board when he touches my head. His eyebrows jump. Before I can stop him, he lifts the ends of my hair to his nose and sniffs.
"Alil," he whispers.
I gulp. I don't like how close he's gotten. Carefully, I pull my hair from between his thick fingers and back away a short distance. I try to reduce the tension by smiling. Unfortunately, it probably just looks like I have gas.
"Uh. You like how my hair smells? Thanks. The scent is from my shampoo. Garnier Fructis. Bought it on sale through Amazon. I hate supporting such a big, money-hungry company, but you can't beat a two day delivery."
During my mindless chattering, he eliminates the space I put between us. His gaze is warm as the fire. Rough fingertips ghost across my cheekbone. "Damara."
My eyes narrow in remembrance. That word... He said it not long after we first met.
"Damara?" I repeat.
He pulls out a leather cord hiding underneath his tunic. I didn't know he has a necklace. He takes it off and hands it to me. The pendant is of a woman without a face. Rounded hips, ample breasts, and curves a plenty. It's made from a reddish-brown stone polished to a shine. The color nearly matches the unique shade of the man's hair.
"Damara," he says proudly.
I tilt the necklace toward the fire so I can get a better look at it. "Hmm. What is this stone? Carnelian, maybe? I've seen a figure like this before at the museum, but this one is much more beautiful." My eyes reconnect with his. "Damara must be what you call your fertility goddess."
He furrows his brow, clearly not understanding what I am saying. I hold up the pendant and enunciate my next word. "Goddess. Can you say it with me? Goddess."
He eagerly wets his lips. "Ga...dez."
I gasp. No way. He understands what I want him to do!
I calm myself down and continue teaching him. "No. God-dess."
My correction doesn't discourage him. "God...dess?" Emboldened by my head nod, he says it again with more enthusiasm. "God-dess!"
I smile at his accent. It's like he's on the verge of singing. As an added benefit, the fact that he's even trying to communicate helps put me at ease. Cavemen with evil intentions wouldn't participate in a vocabulary lesson beforehand, right?
Still surfing a high, he jabs a thumb into his chest. "Ewar."
"Is that your name? Eh...wahr?"
He reaches for my hand. Despite there being a part of me still worried about him, I allow the contact. He places my palm flat against his chest. "Ewar," he confirms. His own hand lands on my heart. He stares deeply into my eyes. "Damara."
I shake my head in the negative.
Confused, he tries again. "God-dess?"
I snort this time. I've been called a lot of things in my life, but never that. Poor guy must live a sheltered life if he's confusing me with a goddess.
"No, Ewar. My name is Bella. Bel-la."
This strange new word comes as a challenge to him. I've seen similar facial expressions on people trying to solve the New York Times crossword puzzle. Then, he experiences a eureka moment. His eyes sparkle. He says his next word with the triumphant tone of someone who just invented the wheel.
"Bella."
Before I can congratulate him, he hangs the fertility pendant by my face and grins.
"Bella god-dess!"
I give myself a facepalm.
Oh, boy. He still doesn't get it. He thinks I'm a fucking deity. I have a sneaking suspicion this belief will eventually come back and bite me in the ass.
00000000000000000000
A/N -
Now you know the wild man's name. Did you know Ewar refers to people who review fanfiction stories as "Damara" too? And, best of all, both of us will worship you afterwards.
Thanks for reading. :-)