[50024 Years Ago/ One Month Later/ The Lake]
Mike took hold of his walking stick, then emerged from his yurt into the bright sunlight of early morning. He breathed in the scent of grass blown in by a cool wind.
He smiled. It was a good day. It was the first day he'd woken without pain in his leg. He studied it, noting it was thinner than his other leg and shorter by an inch. His smile left him.
He could no longer run, he could no longer hunt, he could no longer play the field games of his tribe. He looked to the east. And he could no longer hope to have Heba as his mate.
"But I can swim," he said, driving off the feelings of self-pity.
He took a careful step with his bad leg and nodded. There was no pain. He took several more steps, then paused to look at the camp that was becoming a village. The older members of the tribe who had been left behind hadn't been lax. At Mike's suggestion, they'd gathered rocks from around the shore to use for the huts rather than sticks as had been planned. The stones were mortared with a mixture of mud and dry grass, making huts that were tall and sturdy and aesthetically pleasing.
Only a few of them were completed, with thatch roofs and doors made of sticks—another of Mike's innovations—but he had a goal of finishing all of the huts before the tribe returned, and now that he could move more freely, he would be helping to attain that goal.
He continued on toward the Lake in a slow and stilted way.
"Hey, gimp."
Mike stopped at these words. He saw Pult in the shade of a blood tree and surrounded by his friends. All had smiles as they looked at Mike. Even Dugg.
Mike sighed and said, "Good morning, Pult. You have returned. That's good, you were missed."
"Yes," Pult said. "It was quite a run back from the pilgrimage, but we did it in the night. You could have joined us had you not failed in your hunting. Your stunted leg will be a constant reminder for you to pay attention and to do as you're told by those who know best."
Mike nodded to this but said nothing.
Pult continued, "If you had only listened to me, you'd be well on your way to becoming a solid hunter, like young Dugg here."
Dugg smiled in appreciation.
"And you'd have a chance to become a great warrior when the foreign tribe comes."
Mike frowned. "But the pilgrimage is meant to stop them."
Pult gave a dismissive wave. "They will come no matter how many prayers are said. And when they do come, we will have war!"
His men cheered.
"And then will win glory for ourselves!"
His men cheered again.
Mike looked at them with concern. Fighting for the sake of glory seemed foolish to him. And irresponsible to the tribe.
Pult looked to Mike and said, "But still, all is not lost for you. You had aspired to be a lazy fisherman and now you have an excuse for lazing about all you like."
The hunters laughed.
"I suppose you're right, Pult," Mike said, looking to the Lake and wishing he could run.
"You were the one who failed," Pult said. "That's how you remember that day on the plain, don't you, Mike?"
Mike looked to Pult, then to each of the other hunters. All looked back sternly, though Dugg was showing effort to do this. "I don't remember anything of that day," Mike said. "My fever took those memories from me."
"It's for the best," Pult said. "And I hope the memories never return, for your sake. It would be most painful if they did."
"I have no doubt," Mike said, then turned to the Lake.
The hunters laughed at something Pult said, but Mike couldn't hear it. He focused on the water and went faster. He took several steps, increasing his speed, but when he put his full weight on his injured leg, a pain shot up from the sole of his foot, through his leg, then up his spine.
He stopped and gasped from the pain and stood on his healthy leg waiting for it to leave him. It took a full minute before it ebbed enough for him to continue.
Mike set his stick down on the sand, then went into the cool water. It was soothing to his leg, and the buoyancy it provided allowed him to take the pressure off the newly mended bone.
He went further in until he was swimming, then breathed out in relief. Relief from the strain of holding himself up and the relief of being away from Pult. He swam further out, using only his arms, and occasionally a kick with his good leg.
He looked ahead to see leaves on the water. They were moving slowly north. There had been no noticeable current in the Lake when they'd first arrived, but now it was growing as the water level of the Lake was rising.
The people left in the village had noticed both these phenomena weeks earlier, and one of the old women, one who had seen much, believed there to be a spring in the southwest that had begun flowing to refill the Lake. She said it was another gift from the gods, and all believed her.
Mike would have gone to find the spring if he weren't healing from his injury, but for now, his only concern was making his leg as strong as it could be.
He gritted his teeth and gently kicked with it.
Pain shot through his body and the echoes of it sizzled through his leg. He gagged on the water he inadvertently swallowed, then coughed and spat.
"Maybe tomorrow," he said.
He turned back to see Pult walking the shoreline. "Or maybe I'll just stay out a little longer."
Mike closed his eyes and leaned back to let the sun shine on his face. He found satisfaction in this for only a short while. Visions of the day he'd been chased by the lion came back to him. He remembered every moment. He remembered Pult and the other hunters in the tree. He remembered killing the lion that Pult had brought back as a trophy. He remembered allowing the other lion to chase him to save the hunters. And he remembered the fall into the ravine.
"Hey, gimp! Catch!"
Mike was startled from his thoughts and looked back to shore. Pult was rising after an energetic throw.
The thing he'd thrown shot over Mike. He turned to see his walking stick land in the water far ahead.
"C'mon, gimp," Pult said, "you should have jumped for it." He laughed.
The other hunters had come to the shore and they laughed as well.
Mike looked at them standing there healthy and whole. All of them lived because of him, and they mocked him. His face burned with humiliation and anger. He wished at that moment he had told the tribe what had really occurred. But then Pult and his friends would have left, as would many who would have been fearful to be without their protection. The tribe would have been torn in two, only to appease Mike's pride.
He sighed. "It must be this way."
Mike focused on the dark line in the water far away. The stick had been caught in the current. It would travel north for some time, then curve with the curving shore of the Lake to find its way to the river. From there, who knew?
It would be easy enough to find a new walking stick, but Mike had grown fond of this one, and with Pult and his friends on shore with nothing else to do but torment him, he began to swim outward, following the stick. It was a dangerous thing to attempt in his weakened condition, but at the moment, Mike couldn't see a reason not to.