Liz hesitated. "I'm not much of a tracker. We always had trackers on the farm, and my brother learned a lot from them. But I never really bothered. But there is a lot of game here."
Jim McKenna looked startled. "I haven't seen anything. I thought you were a marine biologist."
"I've seen several buck, sign that looks like bushpigs and some squirrels. And everybody grew up somewhere. I grew up near Hoedspruit. Next to Kruger Park. On a game farm," she added.
"Where's that?"
"Northern Transvaal. They call it `Northern Province' these days." Nobody looked any the wiser. "South Africa." She looked at them, clearly embarrassed. Particularly, she looked at Lamont. "I never asked to get born there. And it is a democratic country these days."
Jerry suddenly understood why she insulted everybody except Lamont. He hadn't really been aware of how she pussyfooted around him—until this moment. Lamont was an even worse punster than he was, but Jerry always took the rap from her.
"Look. I can't help where I come from. I've got several black friends from university. I don't have a problem with it."
"Never said you did," said Lamont easily. "Come on. We've got to get moving." He pushed forward into a mass of dogwood.
And found he was sharing it with a large animal. A large animal that hadn't liked having its slumber disturbed. Broad-spaced, angry little eyes peered shortsightedly at the intruder. The black snout wrinkled and a short, angry grunt emerged. Liz was just behind Lamont. She grabbed his shoulder and yelled: "RUUUN!"
The boar was a monster. Not quite the black beast of Thessaly. Not quite—but still very damn big. Cruz and McKenna and their makeshift spears looked very small. Those tusks would gut a man in a single jerk. Fortunately, the beast was obviously shortsighted. It paused. Sniffed and then pawed earth.
"Don't be idiots!" yelled Liz, now trying to help the frantically hobbling Jerry. "Climb a tree!"
The boar decided on McKenna. A toothpick would have had more effect than the spear. It was ripped out of his hands. Only luck and fast reflexes saved his life. Cruz's attempt to throw his makeshift spear was not successful either. It stuck, briefly, in the flank of the boar before the pig turned again. Cruz pulled McKenna to his feet and they ran. Behind them the boar nosed the air, foam on its muzzle.
Cruz, moving like a quarterback on the charge, grabbed Jerry and continued to run. McKenna tried to do the same with Liz. She fended him off, nearly sending him to ground in front of the snorting piggy from hell.
Somehow, they scrambled up the oak tree just in time.
* * *
"You know," said Cruz, from the branch where he sat looking down at the boar, "you were right, Ms. South Africa. There is plenty of game here." The monster pig was rooting angrily around the dropped jackets, spears and M16s, but had as yet not found Lamont's precious boombox, thrust in a fork of the tree a few yards up.
Jerry felt his ankle. It had not enjoyed the walk up to here, and it had enjoyed the last run even less. "Yeah. Only trouble is that no one explained to the `game' that we aren't the `game.' "
Smoke was almost curling out of Liz's ears. She was nearly incandescently angry. "Listen to me, you two. You. Sergeant. And especially you, Corporal. If I say run, I mean fucking run."
"Sorry, sir," growled McKenna. "We make our own decisions." He inspected the slashed fabric of his trousers. The tusk had been that sharp and that close.
Her voice would have cut glass. "Listen, Corporal. I was dealing with meathead he-man parabats—those are our paratroopers—when you were still sitting on your mummy's knee. Get this straight. You're a soldier in the service of your country. Your job is to protect its interests and its citizens. And to do that, shit-for-brains, you have to stay alive. Wasting your life stupidly is not going to help anyone. We need you to keep Jerry and . . . and Lamont and even keep me alive."
She shook her head angrily. "I grew up on a farm adjoining one of the largest wildlife reserves in Africa. I don't think I'm the great African hunter, but I know a fuck of a lot more about it than you could have learned on a couple of weeks' worth of survival course. I am not inclined to panic. I'm not going to tell you to do something just for fun. I'm not going to tell you how to fight men. That's your call. You say `jump' then, and we'll jump. But when it comes down to dealing with wildlife or ships you're nothing but a goddamn boot. And I don't care how many `training' sessions they sent you on. They were still training. This, just in case you hadn't noticed, isn't. We've got to work together or we'll all die."
She pointed at Jerry. "You've particularly got to look after him. Because, in case you haven't worked it out, Dr. Lukacs is the only one who knows this mythology stuff. If anyone can work out a way home, he can. Or don't you want to get back?"
The pig at the foot of the tree snorted.
"The pig seems to think you're right," said Lamont dryly.
McKenna shook his head. "Look, we were trying to provide you with cover to get away . . . "
"She's right, Mac," Cruz rumbled. "If that pig had taken you out, that would have left me to try and look after these guys. We've got to get our mindset into `run first and fight when we haven't any damn choice.' It's different 'cause we're dealing with civilians."
"And if that pig had mauled you, we'd have been worse off," said Liz quietly. "Look, I lost my cool. But seriously, try listening to me, okay?"
McKenna took a deep breath. The pig stood on its hind legs and snorted at the tree. That helped to format his reply. "Yes, ma'am."
She grinned. It transformed her face, making her look like the kind of trouble she'd undoubtedly been at fifteen. Jailbait. "That's a good boy," she cooed.
The pig squinted up at her and snorted again. As if, again, it thought she was right.
Jerry took a deep breath. He hated telling anyone what to do. But somebody had to. "We need some sort of plan of campaign. Circe's `castle of dressed stone' is in here . . . somewhere. If I remember rightly, there was also a crag, but most of the island is low-lying. Odysseus caught sight of the smoke from her castle from the top of the crag."
"So we need to find the crag," said Cruz.
"Which is virtually impossible from down here in the forest," grumbled Liz.
"Well, maybe we could see it from the top of a tree," suggested McKenna.
Liz smiled nastily. "Up you go then, Corporal. We've got lots of time to kill until Mister Piggy loses interest in us after the little holes you made in his hide."
* * *
Salinas spoke his phrase of Classical Greek. Odysseus seemed . . . surprised. John Salinas said it again, smiling and patting his chest. The Achaeans seemed amazed. He was reassured. He felt sure that he'd made the right decision, although it would have been pleasant to have that long-haired translator around to confirm it.
At least the Achaeans knew where they were going. This forest was confusing. He was nearly exhausted when, at last, they came out in front of a fortresslike building of painstakingly fitted dry stone. It was set in a soft meadow—and guarded by wild beasts.
Salinas nearly turned and ran. That . . . that must be a wolf. And a leopard . . . And lions. They were coming forward. His bowels turned to jelly, as the creatures ran up to Odysseus. For a moment he was too terrified to even run. Then the prince cuffed them aside, and beckoned to Salinas. Warily, the police lieutenant followed as Odysseus pounded on the polished metal doors.
The doors were flung open. A woman with lustrous hip-length hair stood in the doorway. She looked anything but delighted to see them. John Salinas decided it was time to try his Greek phrase again. After all, they'd be glad to have him. He could show them such a lot.
He was quite right. She was obviously pleased. She sat him down on a settee and then brought him food and a bowl of wine. It was a weird sort of porridge-like stuff, but he was starving. And the red wine, if sweet, was really nicer than the Cabernet Sauvignon he pretended to like for social purposes.
He made a bit of a pig of himself.
18
<
br /> Alias Allium.
The view from the crag top proved that they were on an island.
Just like the Doc said it was, thought Cruz. He was quietly but enormously relieved to find that the absentminded-looking professor had known what he was talking about—again. The tough sergeant was developing a genuine respect for Jerry Lukacs.
There was no sign of smoke to show where the home of this "Circe" was. All you could see was a lot of forest. It was an island all right, but not a small island. Maybe fifteen by twenty miles of island. Searching it was going to be next to impossible.
Among the rocks and out of the forest it was hot in the sun. Hot enough to make Anibal remember the stream—and just how far away it was . . . especially as that South African girl had pointed out those paw prints in the mud. The leather that their canteens had turned into made the water taste odd, but it was better than walking back.
The sergeant repressed a shudder. Lions! First that boar. And now lions. And if Doc Jerry was right there'd also be leopards and wolves. The little guy said that ancient Greece had them. Bears, too. And a whole lot of monsters on top of that, if all the mythical stuff were true.
He sighed softly. Ranger school had taught them every damn thing. How to live off the land. How to stalk. It had been physically and mentally demanding—more than surviving here had been, for the most part. It just somehow hadn't included wild boars and lions and legendary monsters at the same time, along with the other uncertainties of this place. It also hadn't included keeping untrained people alive.
Still, they were doing pretty well. Cruz knew that although he and Mac could move at twice the speed, they'd not have survived so far if it wasn't for the civilians. But they really needed something better than those spears if they were going to go on surviving. Fire was good for predators. It was also difficult to get going in a hurry. He resolved to look for a good dry branch full of twigs. It could be more useful than the M16s that they were lugging along. As far as he could work out, they were just dead weight. He decided to try burning some of whatever the stuff was that was in a cartridge now. That might be useful . . . more than some other things. Even being good at powerbreaking wasn't going to help in this wilderness.
He sighed again. He was a city kid, fer chrissake. You knew where you were, there, just like you did in the Army. And, sure, Ranger school had been tough. But it was school. You got out at the end of it. And you didn't have civilians to worry about.
Which led him into the other truly scary idea: They could be here forever. One of the most precious things that any soldier can take into battle is the knowledge that if he survives—he can go home. It wasn't true in this case. You only got shipped home if you got a bad case of "dead."
He looked across the forest again. Yeah. They were in deep shit. They were going to struggle just to survive the animals. Not to mention all of this "magic and gods" crap.
His eyes nearly bugged out. At first glance he'd thought they were horsemen. It was only at second glance he saw they really were horse-men. Centaurs. With bows. And they looked pissed.
Really pissed.
* * *
"Quick! Over the cliff!" shouted Cruz.
Liz had been musing, gazing over a panoply of forest greens that certainly was nothing like the modern Greece she'd visited in that long ago time with Nick. Her wandering thoughts—about just what impelled logic and hormones in the female of the species and why they seemed to work in diametrically opposite directions—was disturbed by a yell and the clatter of hooves. A second's glance was enough to tell her that Cruz had the right idea.
Alas, climbing down is never easy. It was touch and go on the lichenous rock. And then, when she reached the overhang—clutch and grow . . .
But that overhang was a blessing. The centaurs had showered a good few rocks down after them.
"It's a good thing they're half horses, not half goats," said Jerry, massaging his ankle with a grimace.
Liz smiled. "One thing we primates can do better than horses, and even goats, is climb. And run long distances too, for that matter."
"Run? I didn't think we could outrun those things," said Lamont, checking his homemade jacket-and-bandolier backpack, complete with his precious boombox.
"The size of their mouth and lungs is going to make sufficient respiration interesting," mused Liz. "They're probably much less efficient runners than a horse, at a guess. And humans can outrun horses, over a stretch."
"Well, I certainly couldn't outrun them. Not now—or ever," said Jerry. "Although I could eat a horse right now."
"That lot looked more ready to eat us," complained McKenna. "They just saw us and went on the hunt, no questions asked. Good thing they didn't catch us out on the flat."
Jerry chuckled. "True. So here we sit like a row of monkeys on a ledge instead."
Lamont smiled. "Me see-no-evil, you hear-no-evil and him speak-no-evil. Who are the last ones then, Jerry?"
"Well, the corporal is feel-no-evil, now that Odysseus is gone," said Liz, with a wry grin, "and in my case, I'm smoke-no-evil." She sighed. "I'm going up to have a look-see. Been no rocks or noise for a while now."
Feel-no-evil looked up. Listened carefully. "Yeah, but where do you want to go to, Liz?"
Smoke-no-evil stood up and felt for a handhold above the small overhang. "In search of dinner. If we go back down to the coast I can always catch something. Even up here we might be able to snare some small game."
"Yes, but what about the centaurs?" said Jerry.
She shrugged. "We'll just have to keep a lookout. If we get down to the beach again we can probably swim away from them. Although there are probably sharks and sea monsters and heaven knows what else in this water. It's that or sit here and starve. I've been meaning to go on a diet for a while, but this is a bit radical."
* * *
It went without saying that the only sign of the ship on the beach, when they finally found their way back there, was the keel mark on the sand.
Off to one side of the bay, there was a low cliff with steep and seaweedy rocks around its base. "Should be safe from centaurs along there," mused Cruz, looking at it.
Lamont nodded. "We'll have to see if we can find an overhang or a cave or something. You guys scout. Jerry needs to sit for a bit."
"I'm fine," said the mythographer.
"If you weren't sunburned, you'd be as pale as a ghost," said Liz grimly. "You look as if you're about to fall down."
McKenna nodded his agreement. "Yeah, Doc. Take a rest."
Jerry sat down on the sand. "Liz is as much a `Doc' as I am."
McKenna grinned. "I think I'd rather call her `Sir.' "
Liz threw the rock she'd been carrying at him.
* * *
"It smells and even looks like garlic," Jerry said doubtfully.
Liz nodded. "It's certainly a species of allium. And this is definitely fennel. I saw some sage back there, too. And there was lavender at the edge of the gorge."
"You certainly know your herbs," said Jerry, impressed.
She scowled fiercely. "My mother. She's kooky about all that herbal stuff. I have drunk more vile-tasting tisanes than I care to think about."
"Well, at least we can flavor anything we catch," he replied, pacifically. "And if the worst comes to the worst we can eat the herbs."
She pulled a face. "Yuck. I'll try my hand at fishing." The cornucopia-shoulderbag had yielded a spool of dental floss. The changes had probably altered its nature but it was still a fine strong line. She'd claimed a five-yard piece as her own, before offering the rest for future bird snares. There were no pins or safety pins, but the bag debris had yielded no less than seven paper clips of different sizes. Liz had been painstakingly trying to fashion hooks, when Lamont had come along. "Can I do it for you, Miz?"
She held it out to him. "Please call me Liz. Please." She smiled appealingly.
Lamont was not proof against the smile. "I'm a maintenance man . . . Liz. I'll turn those into hooks."
&n
bsp; Liz smiled again. "I'm not handy. I'd be glad if you did."
Lamont picked up a rock. Looking at it, Jerry thought it had been beach sand not long ago in its geological history—assuming this weird place had a geological history.
"Going to be hell sharpening anything with this," grumbled Lamont. "I'll try to rub a hole through it."
"There are some good rocks back at the stream," said Jerry.
"Wait a minute," said Liz. "Do you really think you could make holes through this rock, Lamont?"
Lamont regarded the fist-sized but flattened piece in his hand. "I think so. Why, M . . . Liz?"
"I read every Gerald Durrell book ever written." She had a nostalgic smile on her face.
The two of them looked at her blankly. "Naturalist. Grew up in Greece. Well, for some of his childhood. And then he collected animals all over the world. Anyway, in the one book about South America he had described this thing called a . . . bolas."
Jerry nodded. "Ah. Yes. I know what you're talking about. Weights on a rope that are thrown to entangle things."
Liz pulled a wry face. "Well, my brother and I made one with ball sinkers. I killed a guinea fowl with it."
Lamont raised an eyebrow. "Liz, are sure your name isn't really `Indiana Jones' or something?"
She looked embarrassed. "It was a tame one. And Dad nearly killed us. I cried."
* * *
Cruz and McKenna had gone off with the newly contrived bolas and, in case that didn't work, their spears. Lamont had just painstakingly constructed a hook . . . when Jim McKenna realized what he was doing and pulled out a sewing kit which also contained several hooks. But Liz had insisted on using Lamont's. She was fishing.
Gathering black mussels was all that Jerry was judged to be fit for. It was stationary if wet work. Lamont had first collected some firewood and then promoted himself to gulls'-nest-robber-in-chief on the low crag above their Robinson Crusoe beach-cave camp.