At the exhibit, throngs of patrons entered while she watched from a dark corner. She buttoned her sweater; even all the body heat that radiated from the crowd couldn’t take the chill from her bones today.
The cacophony of voices echoed off the walls and the ceiling. She couldn’t understand them; all she could do was watch. Children ran from mothers who scolded them, couples held hands and strolled through the bedlam trying to reach the brightly lit case, and all, no matter how bored some looked, marveled at the woman who had traveled from another age to be with them today.
Jon walked over to her and gave her a knowing smile.
“You were right,” Cassie tried to say over the din.
Jon just motioned to his ears and shrugged his shoulders.
~~~
A group of five men more refined in their looks than the males in her tribe approach them cautiously. Like them, the strangers are similarly dressed in skins and furs tanned from animals that had provided them food and now provide them warmth. Their faces hold a regal symmetry and are painted with what her waking self would recognize as manganese dioxide — brownish-black streaks beneath each eye to catch the glare of the sun. They hold spears as agile as their bodies must be, and whether they are friend or foe, no one in her tribe can tell.
They call out, but neither side can understand the other. That doesn’t matter to her, though, and for perhaps the first time in her life she isn’t afraid.
One man stands out to her and his eyes compel her to approach. The others in her tribe call out to her. She hears them only dimly and can’t understand their words — but even if she could, she wouldn’t care. Dropping her spear, she trusts that simple act of supplication to convey the understanding that she means no harm. In acknowledgement, the men lower theirs as well.
The man with the compelling eyes watches her as she walks toward him, and she can’t tell if it is confusion or recognition that shows on his face. The same face with dark eyes; narrow nose; and thin, inviting lips that she, having now found, can’t imagine being without. And she finds the ability to say these words that mean nothing and yet mean everything that she has ever wanted to say and has ever wanted to express:
“Unka sabo uv.”
And all he can do is stare.
~~~
She watches her life unfold from this moment as her tribe integrates with the early humans. Love blossoms in the spring and grows stronger in the summer. The birth of a new spring also brings the birth of her child — one, like so many others, that heralds the birth of the modern human race. For the first time, she is alive, so alive that the heartache intrinsic to a harsh existence is as fully realized as her new-found joy. She allows it all to wash over her; at least she isn’t cold anymore.
~~~
Cassie sat, enjoying an iced latte in an outdoor café. Spring had arrived and today the weather was as idyllic as it had been in her childhood. She wasn’t cold or warm but in that perfect place between extremes. Looking out at the passers-by, she thought she caught a glimpse of someone familiar walking down the far sidewalk. But his features were obscured by distance, telephone poles and other walkers.
Cassie left her cup on the grated metal table and walked past the partition that corralled the patrons who drank their drinks and continued their conversations. She hurried across the street, approaching the man at an angle.
He dressed similar to her in a navy suit and dark shoes. In his face, she saw familiar dark eyes, narrow nose, and thin lips, although this face was slightly fuller and the beard had given way to a clean shave. And she found the ability to say these words that meant nothing and yet meant everything she had ever wanted to say and had ever wanted to express:
“Unka sabo uv.”
And the man in the suit could do nothing but stare.
~~~
DAVID NORTH-MARTINO’s fiction has appeared in Dark Recesses Press, Afterburn SF, The Swamp, and New England Horror Writer’s inaugural anthology: Epitaphs (http://www.amazon.com/Epitaphs-Journal-England-Horror-Writers/dp/0982727593). He is also hard at work on his first novel. A graduate of the University of Massachusetts, he holds a BLA in English and psychology. When he’s not writing, David enjoys studying and teaching martial arts. He lives with his very supportive wife in a small town in Massachusetts.
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/dnorthmartino
Blog: http://davidnorthmartino.wordpress.com/
Blog: http://davidnorthmartino.blogspot.com/
TWEEN TIMES
Mythic tales and near-future accounts that could have been and could easily still be
With human hunters decimating his sleuth, Kerg concocts a desperate plan for survival. Just one problem — he isn’t the only one looking out for family.
TWILIGHT OF THE CLAW
by Adam Dunsby
I swing my paw at the man’s head. His hair twists in my claws as he dies. A grunt alerts me when the remaining man throws his spear. It passes over my shoulder, cutting a small channel in my fur, drawing a line of blood. I reel, but instead of killing this small thing immediately, my frustration bursts from me, and I roar, my breath blowing the long, black hair from his face.
“Go,” I bellow. “Go from our land!”
I wait to see if he will run. He doesn’t. His face says defiance. I bite and shake — not fast, for I am no longer young, but firmly, as only an age-toughened body can — and the man dies with a weak groan. I’m surprised he gives me that small satisfaction.
Tur lies dead. He was a mighty bear. I swipe at the ravens that peck his wounds. I’ve left them plenty of men to feed on. A spear protrudes from Tur’s throat. A lucky hit. The men are not even good throwers, but there are many of
