Genellan: Planetfall Part 18

Tinn'a's scouts retreated, converging from either flank. Tinn'a silently unfurled his wings and pushed mightily down a shallow slope. Braan noted with alarm the quick turn of the eagle's head as it registered Tinn'a' s movement. The eagle pounded the airand rose higher. It wheeled and, with the wind at its back, closed the distance with alarming speed. Braan had no choice; the hunter leader screamed again, but this time the order to attack. Braan leapt into the air, thunderously deploying his wings. He pushed forward, laboring to gain speed and alt.i.tude, brandishing his shortsword.

The intrepid scouts responded to Braan's command. Their wings cracked unfurled, and they bravely rushed to intercept the eagle, skimming across the damp downs. Tinn'a swung hard around to join the a.s.sault, his wingtip shooting up a rooster tail of water and hail stones from the sodden ground. Braan' s forward velocity and Tinn'a's momentum to the rear caused them to pa.s.s in opposite flight, separating the warriors more than good tactics would dictate, but action was joined, and they could not delay. The hunters screamed the death cry and closed on their great rival for the skies.

The eagle's glare was fixed on Tinn'a. Yet as the hunters narrowed the distance, Braan detected a shift in the predator's attention. Undaunted, Braan bore straight ahead, aiming his sword thrust at the eagle's malevolent yellow eye. The eagle, disconcerted with the directness of the small creature's a.s.sault, maneuvered, but Braan sharply adjusted and met the eagle head-on, striking a vicious blow. The collision knocked the hunter into a tumbling spin. Braan flared his wings and cushioned his splashing jolt onto the soft ground. The indomitable cliff dweller somersaulted and leapt back into the air, struggling for alt.i.tude.

Screaming horribly, its momentum carrying it high, the enraged eagle regained contact with the hapless Tinn'a. Now half-blind and furious with pain, the eagle dove at the trailing hunter, obsessed with ripping the small winged creature to pieces. Tinn'a, far below the eagle's alt.i.tude, could not attack, but neither could he run. Tinn'a bravely held his glide, and just before the eagle impaled him with its grasping talons, the crafty hunter dipped sharply, trying to evade the overwhelming attack. Too late. One of the crazed eagle's talons struck Tinn'a a murderous blow across his back, and the hunter was hurled like a stone into the ground.

The two scouts converged on the eagle and wheeled with it, trying desperately to keep up with the faster and more proficient flyer. Braan, thrashing air to gain alt.i.tude, watched the three flyers head back in his direction. Tinn'a' s inert form lay on the ground. The huge eagle descended toward the stricken hunter, talons spread wide. Braan, much closer, folded his wings and plummeted, landing heavily beside the immobile warrior. The hunter leader's hands moved with blurring speed; Braan unsheathed his shortbow, drew an arrow, nocked it, and bent his bow to the target. The eagle, sightless in one eye, canted his cruel beak to the side, the better to view his prey as he dove. Braan loosed the arrow; its iron-tipped shaft sliced the air and dug deeply into the glaring evil orb, finding the great brute's small brain and shutting out the creature's last light. With a tortured screech the eagle feathered its ma.s.sive wings, halting its dive. It collapsed from the sky, blinded, and mortally wounded.

The scouts landed on either side of the shuddering bird, bows taut, ready to shoot. Braan nocked another arrow. The hunters, lungs heaving against rib cages, warily circled the fallen raptor. The eagle trembled in its final death throe and was still.

"Let us-" Braan gasped, "see to our comrade." The warrior lay in a twisted heap, still alive, his breathing quick and shallow. Braan carefully arranged the injured hunter's limbs, trying in vain to make Tinn'a comfortable. The warrior's back was broken. Tinn'a's eyes fluttered opened.

"I was not quick enough, Braan-our-leader," the hunter whispered.

Braan said nothing; a most difficult duty lay upon him. Braan looked to the skies and began the death song, but with subdued volume and measured pace. His keening wail spread over the downs with mournful slowness and softness. Tinn'a's scouts added their voices, and even Tinn'a, given the honor of singing his own death, joined in feebly. The hunters wept without shame. When it was right, Braan knelt on Tinn'a's chest and carefully, affectionately, grabbed hold of the injured hunter's head and twisted it fast and hard, breaking his neck and snapping the spinal cord.

They dug a shallow grave and covered it with a rock cairn. Tinn'a, clan of Botto, a warrior in life, was buried holding the eagle's head-a glorious warrior in death.

The smell of cooking meat and the clatter of implements brought Buccari awake. Reluctantly leaving the warmth of her sleeping bag, she crawled painfully from the tent. The morning was frigid; a layer of h.o.a.rfrost coated the landscape, and a few lonely wisps of steam flowed upwards past the cliff's edge. Beyond the timid mists the hard line of the eastern horizon promised a new day,the first rays of sunlight spilling over the unrelenting margin of earth and sky. A single high cloud glowing salmon-pink against the neon-blue sky testified to the impending brilliance of the unrisen sun. MacArthur and Chastain hunched over a small fire. MacArthur looked up.

"Morning, Lieutenant," he said too cheerfully. "Got lucky and caught a marmot in our trapline. We can save the dried fish for dinner."

Buccari swallowed hard and exhaled. More greasy meat.

"You okay, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked with genuine concern.

"I'm fine, Corporal," she replied, correcting her facial signals. "Just a bit stiff."

"You aren't the only one. Had to kick O'Toole out of the rack this morning, to get him up for his watch. He could barely move. It's that soft camp life."

She looked up to see O'Toole breasting the rise, returning from the stream.

"Where's Bosun Jones?" she asked.

MacArthur pointed to the tent with his thumb, just as Jones groaned loudly, the sound of a large man in agony. The tent flap moved aside and Jones's wide face and burly shoulders emerged into the chilly morning, his head and back covered with a blanket.

"She-it! It's cold!" Jones shivered, his eyes barely opened. "Excuse me, Lieutenant," he quickly amended, seeing Buccari. "I meant to say that it was right pleasant out. Refreshing even." He slowly straightened his back and stretched mightily. His liquid brown eyes blinked slowly, and then he took notice of the cooking marmot.

"My, that smells good!" he drooled. "But I hope you got more than just one of them rock rats for us to eat."

"You going to eat the whole thing, Boats?" O'Toole asked as he walked into the camp. "Just like you hog the whole tent. I feel like we're married. You sure you're not Irish?"

Jones smiled. "It was cold. Best time to make friends," he mumbled.

"Speaking of friends, Lieutenant," O'Toole continued. "Your notebook disappeared sometime after I came on watch. I checked it first thing, and it was there, but it wasn't about an hour ago, and there were tracks in the frost. They headed over the cliff."

"Finally," she sighed. "Did they leave anything in return?" "Not a thing, sir."

By the time the sun rose above the distant eastern horizon, the salt expedition had trekked many spans. The dusky odor of musk-buffalo drifted into their awareness. Scouts sighted a herd to the east. The hunters chewed thickweed and altered course to stay clear. Predators of all types, rapacious and long inured to the stink, doggedly stalked the great herds, worrying the fringes, attacking and killing the old and sick. Braan veered further west, hoping to avoid the inevitable growlers. They were nearing the salt lakes.

Braan moved forward to join the scouts, the terrain lowering sharply to flat desolation; to the north were the white-tinged lake beds. Herds of musk buffalo ranged to the east, and constant activity dotted the plains in that direction. Brown dust filtered into crystalline skies, tumbling up from the pounding hooves of the plains animals. A scout signaled, and Braan' s attention was jerked forward, not by the scout's alarm but by a shrill, banshee ululation wafting over the downs-buffalo dragon. Striding into view across the rolling tundra were two of the ferocious beasts. One monster halted abruptly and whirled to glare menacingly at the hunter columns. Its powerful fluted neck stretched upwards, lifting its terrible head above a thick-plated dorsal. Canting its head, the reptile sniffed at the air, spiked tail twitching nervously. As suddenly as it had stopped, the creature pivoted and ran after its mate. Braan sighed with relief.

It was unusual for dragons to be about in daylight. The splendid animals were efficient killers, but for reasons unknown to Braan, the dragons avoided the hunters, as if they were cognizant of the cliff dwellers' potential for retribution. Braan was thankful for this mystery, for he respected the terrible beasts. He had seen dragons bring down charging musk-buffalo with an indescribable power and ferocity.

"Braan-our-leader!" twittered a scout, pointing. "Growlers!"

Upwind, well clear of the hunters and posing no threat, a large pack of growlers moved at a trot, warily following the dragons. Their gray manes and silver pelts already turning, in two months they would have thick, white coats. Instinctively Braan turned in the opposite direction. He saw more growlers coming at that flank. A scout screamed the alarm. There were only six, but they cantered directly at the hunter columns, skinny tails flailing the air like nervous whips.

The downwind scout rose into the air and slanted for the oncoming danger, circling slowly away from the cliff dweller columns. The experienced scout hit the ground awkwardly, only strides from the startled scavengers. The burly beasts leapt abruptly sideways and reared onto their hind legs, baring yellow fangs and efficiently hooked claws. A ferocious rattling, grumbling explosion of their displeasure rent the air, a preternatural harmony of growls and howls.

The wily hunter stumbled and hopped three or four times before flapping noisily into the air. The growlers, tails erect, recovered from their surprise and lunged to the chase. The scout landed frequently, shaking the fatigue from his wings, but always jumping into the air just as the growlers pounced, staying tantalizingly out of reach. Braan watched with approval, and the column veered further west, moving rapidly behind the chase. When the growlers were clear, the exhausted scout worked into the air and glided to the rear of the column, leaving the scavengers directionless and frustrated.

Chapter 23.

Encounters The hunter columns marched onto the stark flatness of alkaline lakes, the landscape barren, surreal, without perspective. Life was reduced to two dimensions, existence pulled down to utter flatness, distances obscured by shimmering lines of cold heat rising from silver mirages. The hunter leader ranged ahead of the expedition, using scouts as messengers. The columns of impatient hunters pa.s.sed old excavation sites, smooth from winds and rain. Braan knew the advantages of getting salt of the highest purity; every grain of salt carried over the distances was dear. An extra pound of pure salt refined from the harvest would justify the added hours of hiking.

Braan stopped. Through thermal distortions rippling from the surface of the bright white salt could be seen small, erect animals. Alert to Braan' s presence, their postures were frozen and poised to action. The wind was from Braan' s left and carried no dangerous scents, nothing but the stale, acrid odor of the salt flats. Braan whistled softly to the closest scout, ordering him to fall back to the main body with instructions to form for attack. Braan motioned for the other scouts to spread to the flanks. Warily testing for rising air currents, should retreat be necessary, Braan continued forward. As the distance closed, the bleary air cleared and a familiar scent reached his nose. A tribe of mountain dwellers materialized from the wavering whiteness.

Braan halted a hundred paces short of the encampment, displaying his bow and sword openly, but without menace. His scouts held their positions a shortbow shot out on each flank. The mountain dwellers had seen Braan coming and were waiting with pikes and knives at the ready. Only a few carried shortbows. Braan made a quick head count; close to seventy mountain dwellers werespread over the salt digs. Their leader, a furtive creature with a knife held threateningly in his wiry grasp, limped toward Braan, stopping ten paces away. He was a hunter, the same as Braan, only smaller and darker, pitch-colored to Braan's charcoal, and there was no cream-colored patch on the smaller hunter's chest. The little warrior was old, a veteran of many battles, with ma.s.sive scars waffling his wrinkled countenance. The mountain warrior's peculiar eyes were the color of pale tea.

"We here first, cliff dweller," said the mountain dweller chief. "No dispute, warrior-from-the-mountains," Braan answered. "Be at peace."

The aged warrior peered across the wavering distances to the cliff dweller scouts and past Braan, trying in vain to discern the magnitude of the cliff dwellers' main body. Braan sensed the mountain dweller's anger and frustration at being surprised.

"No need for fear, warrior," Braan consoled. "Thou art wise to use all thy hunters to gather salt. The snows of winter will soon be upon the land."

"We done this day," the surly creature said, his dialect difficult to comprehend. The mountain dweller chief glowered at the taller cliff dweller. Some dweller tribes, particularly those of the mountains, raided other tribes, stealing harvested salt rather than expending arduous efforts mining it. Some tribes captured hunters with the salt, forcing their captives to carry the salt back to the raiding tribe's colony, where the prisoners were enslaved or killed.

"An excellent site," Braan said. "The salt here is pure."

The gnarled and gimpy hunter, brandishing his knife, snarled. "Do not attack, tall one," he said. "Go away or we fight. My warriors have much battle. We not run."

Braan allowed his vision to drift over the head of the ravaged leader to scan once again the skulking gaggle of mountain dwellers. They were tired and malnourished. A desperate foe was a bitter adversary.

"Threaten not, warrior-from-the-mountain," Braan replied evenly. "Continue digging and depart in peace. We pose no threat unless thou make one of us by foolish acts." He turned and unfurled his wings. He paused and returned to face the twisted visage of the mountain dweller.

"Thy hunters are hungry. We have killed an eagle. What can be spared of its flesh will be brought to thee as a gesture of good will." Braan turned and cracked his wings, catching the air. A weak thermal boosted him, and Braan used the height to glide toward his expedition. The scouts retreated on foot, covering his movement.

Autumn had touched the riparian underbrush along the great river. Isolated islands of yellow and copper fringed the more prevalent darkness of spruce and fir foliage, providing depth and perspective to the narrow, tributary defiles veining into the larger valley. But the autumn glory revealed during the days of hiking along the great river paled in the splendor and fullness of MacArthur's valley. Buccari' s patrol arrived in the valley near first light of day. Breasting the slanted outlet falls above the river, the din of thrashing rapids pounding, Buccari stared over the placid lake waters into the deep and magnificent setting. Beams of pure gold from the low morning sun crafted rainbows facet in the mists, and autumn hues glowed softly, doubled by reflections from the mirrored surface of the long lake. In the distance, a festival of earth tones gave way to tracts of blue-green mountain forests, through which a waterfall fell in multiple cataracts, dashing from the steep-sided foothills at the base of the towering mountains. Nestled high above, a white-frosted, blue-green glacier flowed sinuously around white-shrouded peaks and tors, all resplendently reflected in the serene lake.

"Oh, my! It's wonderful!" Buccari exclaimed, her breath taken away by the pureness of the vision, the painful weight of the pack forgotten. "I never want to leave this place."

"I know what you mean," MacArthur said, reaching down with his foot and shattering the crystalline film of ice on a puddle. Visible puffs of warm air spewed from the speakers' mouths, punctuating their wonder.

MacArthur walked past her and she followed, stumbling, unwilling to divert her gaze from the gaudy landscape. Great flocks of waterfowl exploded from the lake, the noise from their wings rivaling the sounds of the river left behind. The patrol picked its way along the gravelly lake sh.o.r.e, moving deeper into the valley. Buccari finally brought her gaze back down to her feet and noticed a tall, bushy thatch growing abundantly in the marshy shallows. Birds fluttered around and through the tall gra.s.ses, perching frequently to peck at the golden reeds.

"Hold on for second, Corporal," she ordered. "I want to look at something." She removed her pack, sat down, and took off her boots.

"Time for a break anyway," MacArthur said, shedding his pack. "You got blisters?"

"See that bushy-headed gra.s.s?" she replied, wading into the frigid, ankle-deep water. "Looks like a grain." Buccari inspected the chest high thatch for seeds and was delighted to find dense rows of ricelike grain. She picked the tiny husk-covered seeds and sh.e.l.led the chaff, leaving behind pale white germs in the palm of her hand. Her instincts told her that she was looking at food. Buccari hacked off some stalks and carried them to sh.o.r.e. She sat down, and the corporal joined her.

"I've tramped by here a dozen times. Never thought to check for grain," MacArthur said.

"You wouldn't have seen anything until a few weeks ago," Buccari replied. "This is small stuff." She stripped the seed into a cook pot.

"Can I help?" MacArthur asked. He grabbed a stalk and started stripping it. Buccari watched him work, his hands agile and sure, his face a study in concentration. They made quick work of the stalks. Done, they looked at their meager collection. It was food-the makings of bread, the staff of life. Buccari looked up and started to speak but caught MacArthur staring intently at her. She looked away quickly, her demeanor eroding before involuntary emotions.

"You have to take the husks off," she said, fingering through the seeds, separating the lightweight sh.e.l.ls from the germ, her voice as husky as the grain. The pressure again; she was feeling the pressure of living in a natural world, a world of animal drives. Her world had been reduced to fundamentals. It no longer mattered that she could fly a s.p.a.ceship; her computer skills were useless, her military rank irrelevant. She was facing the prospect of learning how to be a woman-a woman in a primitive world. The thought was not consciously formulated, but her instincts shouted the dictate, echoing it through her subconscious being. She felt the pressure.

The mountain dwellers disappeared in the night. Braan knelt and examined their abandoned equipment, the signs of panic written in the remains. He had seen hunters from other tribes only a dozen times in his long life, and each time the meeting was characterized by extreme fear and distrust. Braan contemplated the blatant differences between his own cliff hunters and those of other tribes, the tribes of the mountains, and was bewildered.

"Where should we dig, Braan-our-leader?" Craag interrupted. His lieutenant had posted the perimeter guard as Braan had ordered. Braan studied his capable and intelligent lieutenant, and was grateful for the cliff dwellers' advantages.

"Concentrate on areas already excavated, but do not dig more than the depth of a field pike. If more area is required, dig upwind, and ensure the top layer is removed."

"Bott'a has found the excavations to be fouled," Craag said angrily.

"Fouled?" Braan replied, startled.

"Dung-slugs, ashes, excrement. They did not want us to have the advantage of their work. Perhaps we should have fought them."

"No, my friend," Braan replied thoughtfully. "We were right to let them go. Start new excavations. At least we have an understanding of their fears. Let them continue to wonder about us. In the long run it will be to our advantage."

"Mac, you and Chastain finish scouting the valley," she ordered. "I'll keep Boats and O'Toole here. We need the food." She was angry, angry that she could only take a limited amount of the precious seed back to the plateau. Why hadn't they moved to the valley? She was also angry because she would not get to see more of the valley. That would have to wait until spring. She tried not to show her foul mood.

"Aye, Lieutenant," MacArthur replied. "We'll be back in three days."

Buccari watched the two men head out along the lake sh.o.r.e and disappear around a point of land. She was both relieved and sorry to see MacArthur disappear-his presence was disconcerting.

She went to work, directing the two remaining men. O'Toole and Jones hacked great sheaves of lake gra.s.s and carried them to an area of cleanly swept granite, where the seeds were stripped. Once a quant.i.ty of raw grain was acc.u.mulated, it was put in a tent bag and pounded against the rocks to break down the husks. After threshing, the grain was tossed into the air over the flat rocks, allowing the wind to blow through the airborne mixture, catching the lighter chaff and sweeping it downwind. This beating and tossing was repeated until the husks were flushed from the grain. After two days of laboring in the sun and wind, the three s.p.a.cers were burned and sore, but they had acc.u.mulated almost thirty kilos of white grain.

"Ready for the return march, Braan-our-leader," Craag said. Harsh winds blew straight as a nail, driving stinging salt into red-rimmed eyes and white-crusted fur.

Braan walked the line of burdened warriors, checking physical condition and providing encouragement. Heavy salt bags strained fragile frames, unnatural loads for airworthy creatures. He came to his son and slapped him solidly on the back. Brappa turned and lifted his chest, proud and capable, saying nothing.

Brappa checked his own ponderous bag of salt, shrugging it against the set of his shoulders. Braan lifted his sword, pointed to the south, and started hopping slowly between the columns. Craag and the rear guard, not carrying salt bags, waited until the columns moved away. Scouts and pickets turned to their missions, ranging far ahead and to the sides.

The salt flats were left behind. The hunters scaled the rising downs, returning to the rolling tundra. The unwieldy salt bags rode heavily, and the hunters perspired under their loads, despite the chill bite of the quartering northerly. A gray layer of clouds scudded overhead, letting fall an occasional splatting drop of rain. The young sentries steeled themselves to their loads, antic.i.p.ating the cliffs of home. The experienced warriors, knowing better, blocked their minds to all things.

On the second day growlers attacked, a modest pack, fourteen animals, led by a silver she-beast. The rear guard spotted them loping over the crest of an adjacent rise and whistled the alarm. The picket moved to intercept. The columns halted but did not put down their salt bags. Salt bearers shuffled in position and sniffed nervously. Dropping and retrieving the salt bags would only tire them. Braan expected the rear guard and the pickets to turn the pack. He screamed into the wind and the columns staggered forward.

The she-beast halted before the crest of the rise and stood erect on her powerful haunches, raising her eyes above the near horizon. Hunter whistles and screams floated in the wind. The growlers dropped low and skulked over the hill, turning slightly away from the columns. A hunter picket and two of the rear guard took to the air. They wheeled together and glided smoothly over the low ridge straight for the stalking growlers. The picket confronted the scavengers first, followed in rapid succession by the two guards, swooping low, tantalizingly close. Jaws snapped, tails twitched, and guttural growls lifted into the breeze; the beasts jumped to their hind legs trying to intercept the darting hunters, but to no avail. The hunters landed beyond the pack and sucked hard to regain their wind, waiting for the growlers to pursue. The she-beast followed the flyers with cruel eyes. The pack rumbled nervously as the wily scavenger smelled the wind. She looked to the nearby hunters standing alert on a knoll of tundra and then back to the ma.s.sed columns in the distance. The she-beast growled deeply and headed downhill toward the more numerous opportunity. Her pack grudgingly followed.

The rejected lures struggled into the air, screaming. Braan heard their urgent alarms, ordered the columns to halt, and moved to face the oncoming fangs. Craag' s attack cry pierced the wind as that brave warrior and the balance of the rear guard hauled themselves skyward. Braan screamed the order to drop salt bags. He deployed six warriors to the opposite side of the ma.s.sed hunters, positions vacated by the defending scouts and guards. It would not do to get surprised.

Braan ordered the left column to face the charge with weapons ready. The right column would be his reserve. He dropped his own salt bag and flapped tiredly into the air. The growlers, no more than a long bowshot away, bounded down the slope at the formed hunters, their horrendous grumbling increasing in volume and intensity as they neared their kill. Craag' s hunters dived on the lead beasts, firing their arrows in a glide, a difficult and inaccurate tactic. Craag was buying time-time for the rest of the rear guard and pickets to marshal. The pack reacted to the perils of Craag' s missiles, slowing and slinking sideways. A growler fell, an arrow impaling its throat.

The she-beast barked, encouraging the pack's charge, but the delay allowed five of Craag' s warriors to form a defensive rankdirectly in the growlers' line of attack. Craag and two pickets joined the rank as Braan neared the action. The defenders spread apart in a gentle crescent, intending to enfilade the pack with deadly shortbows. The growlers, heavy viselike jaws slavering with foam, yellow eyes rimmed with crimson, closed on the hunters' defensive position. Craag screamed. Bowstrings sang, and arrows buzzed into the ranks of the charging predators. Three tumbled to the ground, dead or mortally wounded, but the charge carried through the hunters' position. Craag's warriors scattered into the sky, pivoting into the wind and crawling desperately above the maws of angry growlers.

The attack lost its weight. The she-beast limped forward with an arrow dangling from her shoulder. She stopped abruptly, s.n.a.t.c.hed the arrow with her jaws, and pulled until it ripped from her hide. The pack moved past her, toward the strong smell of prey, but at a wary lope. She followed, blood running from her head, where another arrow had plowed its furrow.

Braan was ready. The columns separated, and the column closest to the attack moved in line abreast, steadily up the grade, preparing to fire an overwhelming barrage. Doomed, the dumb beasts advanced, breaking into a gallop, growling and snarling. At thirty paces Braan signaled and half the bows in the facing column-those of the novices-fired. Three growlers fell and two others staggered back, limping. Braan screamed again and the arrows of veteran warriors sang viciously through the air. Four more growlers dropped in their tracks. The few still capable of running, arrows bristling from their hides like quills, turned in rout. The hunters cheered l.u.s.tily and then chanted the death song in tribute to fallen foe.

"Well done, warriors!" Braan shouted. "Retrieve thine arrows. The march continues." He watched in satisfaction as the jubilant hunters scoured the ground for their precious missiles. Craag' s guards butchered the vanquished creatures, rolling the skins tightly-trophies that would soon become grievous burdens. Braan said nothing, for he had proudly brought his first growler skin home and many others thereafter.

"Hey, it's Corporal Mac and Jocko!" O'Toole exclaimed, pointing down the sh.o.r.e. O'Toole shouted and waved at the returning men. They carried a pole over their shoulders from which hung considerable cargo. Buccari enviously squinted across the distance, guessing at their burden. As much as she had wanted to scout the valley, she knew she had made the correct decision. She stared proudly at the large backpacks filled with seed.

"They killed something," Jones said. O'Toole jogged down the beach and joined MacArthur and Chastain, taking one end of the bough to which a beast had been tied. "It's a little deer. Look at the antlers!" Lumpy tent bags also hung heavily from the shoulder pole.

"Welcome back!" Buccari said, offering her hand. MacArthur looked down, struck dumb and stupid by the simple gesture. He looked back at her face, smiled largely, and took her hand with a firm grip. Smiling, she pulled away from MacArthur' s lingering grasp and took Chastain' s big hand. Chastain' s grip was gentle, and his smile eclipsed MacArthur's.

"Mac, let me show Lieutenant Buccari the roots you brought her, er...the toobers!" Chastain said excitedly. The big man lumbered over and yanked off one of the tent bags.

"Corporal MacArthur, you brought me a present?" Buccari asked with affected girlishness, and everyone laughed. MacArthur looked down at his feet, color rising through his thick beard.

"Go ahead, Jocko," MacArthur said, recovering his composure. "You can show 'em to the lieutenant as easily as I can."

Chastain wasted no time. He walked over to Buccari, hulking above her, and held open the bag. Buccari gingerly reached in and pulled out a russet, fist-sized nodule. It looked like a potato. Buccari looked up smiling.

"What's it taste like?" she asked.

"We boiled'em," answered Chastain. "They taste like sweet potatoes."

"We saw bears dig them up," MacArthur said. "Most had gone to seed."