Entropy first contact, p.23
Entropy (First Contact), page 23
Anuk positions himself ahead of the small tribe of outsiders on an old trail, waiting for their approach, wanting to understand their composition. He climbs up and crouches on the limb of a branch reaching over the track, and peers out from behind a parasitic fern growing on the bark. As he expected, the outsiders never look up. They think only on one plane. They don’t see the layers within the jungle. They’re suspicious of the jungle, but only the bushes around them, not the trees above them. They’re dumb. They will die.
Two women.
Three men, two of whom are warriors.
And one more warrior out wide, hiding in the forest.
Anuk is interested in their formation. It’s deliberate. Purposeful.
An old warrior leads them. Grey hair and wrinkled skin speak of experience. From the way the others defer to him, he is their leader. He’s much older than they are. He wears the same clothes as the warrior Anuk killed. He brandishes a fire stick with confidence. Anuk will not make the mistake of underestimating him. Then there are those he grabbed earlier. The tall man’s leg, though, is no longer bound. He walks without a limp. The young woman who fell from the sky keeps pace beside him, not wanting to walk in line behind him. She’s scared.
From where he is on the limb of a tree reaching over the track, Anuk looks down on them as they approach, watching, learning, thinking, planning. He is half-hidden by the trunk of the tree, blending in with the bark, appearing as little more than another shadow in the darkness.
And it’s then he gets a good look at her. The other woman. The strange woman. Anuk recognizes her. He saw her briefly in the canopy. He killed her. He watched as his spear cut through her neck and light exploded from within. And yet, here she is again, alive once more. This troubles him. Can she be killed? Will she come back to life once more? And what about the warrior he dispatched just moments ago? Will he also come back to life? Anuk feels threatened. He’s unsure what he’s up against. It is not just the fire sticks he needs to be wary of, but the ghosts themselves.
Out of all of them, this woman seems the most observant. She sways as she walks, scanning the jungle to either side. She has been here before, perhaps not this part of the rainforest, but she knows how to read the motion of the wind and how to catch the movement of animals in the undergrowth. Anuk knows he needs to be wary of her. At one point, she glances directly at him, and for a moment, he wonders if she can see him behind his caiman mask, but her eyes fall away. Like the first warrior, all she saw were shadows.
Anuk decides he’ll kill her last of all. In his tribe, women defer to men, but this woman seems confident. He may not understand the words she speaks, but he detects authority in her voice. Out of respect, he will spill her blood as the final act that seals their defeat.
Rather than heading down through the valley to the river, this small outside tribe is tramping sideways around the hillside, avoiding the main trail, using an old animal track, but it’s clear to Anuk that they’re heading for his village.
At the rear is another warrior with a fire stick. Anuk guesses this warrior is no older than him. He’s distracted. He looks at his boots as he trudges through the mud. He’s carrying a heavy pack. Anuk understands his role is in support. The old warrior has aligned them like an arrow with himself at the point of the sharpened stone. Anuk has already killed one of the outlying defenders. He will kill the other with ease, but it is this warrior who presents a danger to him. Being at the rear, he is able to see more broadly any attack as it unfolds, and his fire stick will allow him to use his distance to retaliate. Anuk could easily shoot him with a poisoned arrow or throw a spear at him, but the thrill of the hunt and the respect he has for these warriors demand that he risk his life to take theirs. Anything less would bring dishonor on him and his tribe.
The others walk beneath him, talking, but there is no alarm in their voice. As each one passes, they’re obscured by the limb of the tree Anuk is crouching on. As the last warrior walks by, Anuk drops behind him. His body is elongated, stretching like the jaguar, landing softly in the dirt. His legs crouch, absorbing the impact in silence. The warrior hears something, perhaps the rush of what must seem like the wind swirling behind him, rustling the leaves. He turns. Horror descends on his face as he sees the dark caiman mask and the mud and grime covering Anuk’s body. He brings his fire stick around, but Anuk’s knife is swift. With two cuts, he severs both sides of the man’s neck. Blood gurgles from his throat as he dies in silence with his back turned to the group. And as quickly as he has come, Anuk disappears into the jungle. The thump of the warrior’s body on the track behind them alerts the smart woman.
She turns and screams as the fire stick clatters on the ground.
Even though he’s already off the trail and hidden by ferns, Anuk climbs rather than runs. He clambers up another tree bordering the trail and clings to the bark like a lizard. As the woman tends to the dying man, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood, the old warrior runs into the jungle. His fire stick sways before him, tracking with the motion of his eyes, looking for movement among the trees and branches.
The wind rustles distant leaves.
He fires.
Thunder breaks throughout the jungle. Birds take flight. Monkeys flee, swinging through the canopy. Anuk stays still. He looks down at the old warrior. From here, he could drop down and slice through the skin on the man’s neck before he could turn with his fire stick, but the woman has picked up the other fire stick. She’s behind the old warrior, looking in a different direction. Whether she could kill Anuk is unknown, but it is a risk he will not take. One kill is enough. There will be time to take the others. Patience is as much a skill as accuracy when hunting.
It surprises Anuk to observe the sorrow the others have for the fallen warrior. Once dead, what more is there? And yet, they make his corpse comfortable, laying him to the side of the track with clothing draped over his face, not that this will deter the jaguar.
They seem reluctant to leave him. Do they not fear the loss of their own lives? They talk among themselves, but the distress in their speech suggests they are grieving rather than planning. They have no idea how close Anuk is, how close he remains, how easily he could pick off at least one of the women before they could react, but the fire sticks worry Anuk. He saw the way bark splintered from distant trees when the old warrior unleashed his thunder. For now, he waits.
Anuk knows there is one more seasoned warrior on their flank, but that formation would only work in deterring a broad attack by a tribe, not a lone jaguar like him. And as he expected, the old warrior recalls the remaining fighter, bringing him back to strengthen the group. After talking to them, the young warrior steps off the track and pisses against the tree on which Anuk is hiding. His head hangs down, watching the stream rushing from his penis. The stench rises.
Anuk considers his options. Rather than dropping and alerting the others, he loops his legs over the branch, keeping the curl of his knee in the crook of the trunk and leans down, hanging beneath the branch. With one hand, he secures the man’s mouth, with the other, he slits his throat with a single slice.
The man staggers through the undergrowth, unable to speak.
He clenches his hand over the wound.
Blood runs from between his fingers.
But Anuk’s cut is not deep, and that is deliberate. Anuk needs time. He needs to be able to slip away. As the man clings to his bleeding throat, Anuk swings down and lands in the leaves. The wounded warrior tries to talk, but all that can be heard is gurgling. As he staggers forward, stepping back onto the animal trail, Anuk creeps into a hollow, slipping below ground level and into a creek running down the hillside. Anuk respects the fire sticks. He knows they throw out arrows at an alarming rate and that they pierce the jungle with ease, so he opts for hiding rather than running. He smears his back and shoulders against the muddy sides of the creek, renewing his camouflage as he slithers away like a lizard, remaining low, scraping against the rocks and mud beneath the ferns.
“No, no, no,” the strange woman says, running to the warrior’s side as he collapses in the mud on the track.
The old warrior ignores the injured man. He rushes into the bushes with his fire stick, but this time, he doesn’t fire blindly, and that worries Anuk more than when he unleashed his thunder. It suggests the man is deliberate rather than panicked. He’s hunting Anuk. He steps forward slowly with twigs breaking gently beneath his boots. He seems to sense that the creek provides natural cover, but Anuk has rounded a boulder and is peering between the fronds of a fern further down the gully.
Anuk understands the way light and dark work in the jungle. Light exposes. Darkness hides. He remains still, becoming like the rock, and the old warrior glances at him, pointing his fire stick directly at him, but the man quickly scans wider, not recognizing him. He’s looking for familiar shapes, not the distorted, craggy bumps and lines of the caiman, which at that distance would look like the bark of a fallen tree or the edge of a rockslide.
There is much talking, but Anuk only understands the few words that have filtered down to his tribe from nearby tribes bordering the farmlands. ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ are simple, as are emotions like anger and fear. There’s much debate, and that tells him there is uncertainty. And uncertainty leads to panic.
Anuk watches the old warrior through the leaves. The others want to move on, but whether that is to advance on the village or retreat to the river, Anuk is unsure. The old warrior, though, seems to understand what is happening. They’re not going anywhere. This is where they will die. To rush off in any direction is to invite attack. Their only hope lies in fighting back, but Anuk is a shadow. Anuk is the caiman. He’s the jaguar. The anaconda. He fears no one. His blade will drink more blood. He will recount his victory to the tribe and gain the respect of young and old. He will have the elders bow before him. And the old man on the track seems to realize this. The old man knows Anuk could have targeted the weak. He sees how Anuk has brought down the strongest first. His kind uses fear to project strength and push attackers away, but Anuk has no fear, and the old man can feel death coming for them.
Anuk would love nothing more than to fight the old warrior hand-to-hand with blades, not fire sticks. It would be fitting for both of them. Honor would be earned. But the smart woman and the man who crashed in the jungle have taken the fire sticks from the fallen warriors. Anuk, though, wonders how well they can fight with them. He suspects they are like the women of his village. They can hold a spear and skin a deer with a knife, but they cannot wield them with passion. They’d hesitate. And that would buy him time.
The old warrior positions them on the track with their fire sticks, pointing them at the approaches. They crouch, staying low. They’re patient. Anuk respects the old warrior’s discipline. He is no fool. Calm descends on them. Being organized brings the illusion of safety, but time is on his side. They cannot remain on the track forever.
Anuk waits for the noise of the jungle to return. The insects never left. They have no fear of thunder. Slowly, birds return, followed by monkeys, and that is Anuk’s cue to probe, looking for weakness. With his mask covering his face and fresh mud and leaves rubbed on his body, he circles one side of the track, observing them, thinking about his approach. Once the old warrior is dead, the others will fall within minutes. They’ll panic. They’ll run like deer. They’ll leave a trail a child could follow. And they’ll die one by one before they reach the river. All Anuk needs now is the blood of the old warrior. Rain falls gently from the sky. It’s cool. Disarming. Deceptive. It will give them relief when what they need is vigilance.
Anuk stares at the old man through the leaves, peering at him out of the shadows, wondering what he’s thinking, curious about his reaction to being hunted. This man is a hunter. He is calm, skilled. Were the situation reversed, he would hunt Anuk with relish.
Night is falling.
The shadows grow long, hiding him from sight.
Jaguars will come for the fresh blood. Anuk can use that as it will distract them. Darkness is his friend.
To his surprise, the old warrior stands. He walks forward slowly, leaving the others, measuring his steps, keeping his fire stick pointing directly ahead. He’s smart. Anuk knows. He understands. The old warrior is offering himself as tribute. He’s backing himself. He’s trying to lure Anuk into the open. The two women and the tall man remain where they are. They don’t look at him. They watch their assigned approaches. This is good, Anuk thinks. They are worthy. They prove themselves to be more than mere prey, like pigs or deer. But Anuk is smart. He knows how to lure the enemy of other tribes. He’s made them pay for encroaching on the hunting grounds of his people, taking lives as though he were killing a monkey caught in a snare. The thrill of multiple kills causes the veins on his neck to pulsate with blood, urging him on. He must be patient. Timing is important. It is the difference between life and death.
Anuk knows what is coming. He shadows the old man, creeping through the jungle beside him, keeping pace with him, staying on the edge of his vision, ducking beneath vines, weaving through ferns without moving their fronds, enjoying the deception, knowing his quarry has no idea he is so close. Anuk is waiting. He may not know when or where, but he understands the jungle. Blood is a curiosity. It’s free. It attracts attention. And attention is what he needs to hide his attack.
Twigs break, snapping on the other side of the track.
Branches shake behind the small group cowering on the trail. They all turn, thinking it is him, but Anuk would never be so clumsy. It’s probably a forager, like a wild pig, curious about the smell of fresh blood. Such animals will tear at a carcass for a meal, wanting to feed before a jaguar arrives to haul away the kill. As the pig approached, it must have realized humans were still there and panicked at their scent, unleashing a torrent of chaos as it fled.
Further along the trail, the old warrior turns away from Anuk, not as much as the others, but he, too, is distracted. This is the opening Anuk has been waiting for. All he has to do is step onto the track and attack. He’s slightly ahead of the old man. Rather than rushing and triggering a reaction out of the corner of the man’s eye, Anuk chooses stealth. The side of the track has eroded. It slopes away into the rainforest. Water must wash along the track after the rains. With night falling and the light fading, Anuk lies flat in the hollow, positioning himself so he’s on his stomach with his arms up by his chest, ready to spring to his feet. His head faces down and forward, but the mud in his hair and on his back will hide his appearance. No sooner has he lowered himself into the shallow ditch than the ferns and fronds growing there rustle back into shape, hiding him from sight.
The old warrior is no more than a few paces away, creeping around the bend. Soon, he will be out of sight of the others. They call to him, wanting him to come back. They’re worried. Their voices fade as rain falls. Anuk looks sideways, peering at the old man from the ground, watching as his boots tread lightly in the mud. He knows. He may not know how or where, but he knows Anuk is close. He is being hunted, and he knows a snare has been set, and he knows he’s taking his last few steps in this world.
The old warrior may not be able to see Anuk, but he can feel him. His steps slow. Rain splashes in the puddles. Drops of water dance on the leaves. Lightning crackles through the sky, casting a dim light through the canopy. Thunder rolls with anger, scalding the night. A boot squelches beside Anuk’s head. Both men pause, holding their breath. Death is close. And the old warrior steps forward. Anuk feels as though he’s about to explode. The energy surging through his body cannot be contained, and yet he remains still, feeling drops of rain falling on his back, slowly washing away the mud on his skin.
The old man steps forward again, but he seems reluctant. His boots linger in the mud. He knows he’s missed something. He knows he’s strayed too far from the group. He can no longer be protected by the fire sticks of the others. Darkness surrounds him. With one more step, he comes to a halt, peering forward into the jungle, longing to see Anuk, watching the way the leaves move with the falling rain, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but the danger is behind him.
Anuk rises like a mist. He unfolds, getting to his feet slowly. The old warrior is as still as the tallest trees in the rainforest. He stares ahead, looking for clues in the distance, not knowing death comes from behind. Mud drips from Anuk’s hands. Rain mattes down his hair. From behind his bone mask, he savors the moment. Anuk raises his stone knife high in the air and brings it down, plunging it into the side of the warrior’s neck.
Anuk’s aim is precise. He’s not trying to kill the man, not yet. He wants to look into his eyes. He wants to see the man’s life slip away like the rain washing down his face. Anuk wants the old warrior to know. His blade slices into soft flesh at the base of the man’s neck, just inside the collarbone. His strike is designed to disable, not kill, and the effect is instant. The warrior drops his fire stick. He cannot help himself. He crumples as pain surges from his neck, through his shoulder and down his arm, effectively paralyzing him in the moment, robbing him of the chance to react. He wheels around and staggers. His boots splash in the puddles as he struggles to stay on his feet. He grabs at the blood surging out from the base of his neck. The fire stick clatters on the trail, falling idly to one side.
Slowly, Anuk removes his mask. He wants the last warrior to see him. He tosses the caiman skull to one side. Rain washes over his face. There’s no fear in the old man’s eyes. He will not disgrace himself by pleading for his life. Anuk raises his knife to the man’s throat. The old warrior makes no effort to run or fight, but to Anuk’s surprise, he looks over Anuk’s shoulder.
In a quiet voice, he says, “No.”
Wait, it’s not “No.”
He’s not pleading for his life.
It’s a similar word, but it’s not the same.
