- Aurora -

For the first time in months I don't jerk awake and feel dread fill me when I remember where I am.

Sure, I'm still on Xren, the dinosaur planet, but I'm snug in a thick pile of soft furs and I can't hear any of the common jungle sounds. No screeches, no screams, no cracking of tree trunks like gunshots when a huge dino walks by a mile away.

The air is fresh, not stuffy like in the old cave. Above me I don't see irregular, black stone, but an even, light gray ceiling. Still stone, but a better stone.

Okay, that makes no sense. But I don't care.

I yawn and stretch luxuriously. The house is bright, and the sun must be pretty high in the sky. I've slept better and heavier than since long before I came to this planet. College life didn't always agree with me.

Trak'zor is nowhere to be seen. But a thin bundle of worn furs on the floor close to the fire tells me that he's been sleeping and that he's up now. And that he didn't sleep beside me.

I scratch my head. Didn't I invite him to come to bed with me before I fell asleep? Or was it just a dream?

Anyway, my kidnapper didn't take advantage of me, even if I was the cocktease of the century yesterday, and he walked around with a pretty permanent bulge in his loincloth. I think that speaks volumes about him. He could have easily taken whatever he wanted. But he didn't, allowing me to get my rest. He's pretty great.

What? Now I'm genuinely moved by a kidnapper not raping me?

But the thing is: if a kidnapper takes you to a better place than you were kidnapped from, and feeds you and gives you head and demands nothing from you, is he really a kidnapper? Or just a saint?

I get up and put my cavelady clothes on. I suspect my hair is in shameful disarray, even for a stone age woman. But I'm not cutting it. Not until I'm back on Earth.

The fire is burning and someone is obviously preparing breakfast. Or brunch.

I wander out of the house in search of a convenient bush. Even though this house kind of has indoor plumbing, I don't think it's of the kind I can use.

When I return to the house, Trak'zor is kneeling by the fire. He has another loincloth on now, one that looks newer. And he has tied his hair back with a piece of tree bark.

Has he taken extra care of his appearance today, just because of me? I hide a happy smile behind my hand.

He glances at me, and I do my best to look attractive in my shapeless dinosaur skin outfit.

“Good morning.”

“Aurora is up,” he observes. “Slightly after the middle of the day.”

“I not can help sleeping heavy. Trak'zor is to blame, make soft bed for innocent woman where must sleep for hours until sun is high over trees.”

Yeah, my grammar isn't the best this early in the morning. But I'll get better with practice. It'll be a challenge. The cavemen often address each other by name instead of 'you', and I'm not sure I understand the rules for when that's appropriate.

I sit down by the fire, feeling the last of the sleepiness leave my mind. “What you will do today?”

He hands me a steaming cup of some kind of brew that smells completely unlike coffee. “Today I have cut firewood, caught turkeypig, collected herbs, patrolled for Bigs and tried to catch more fish.”

I take a sip. It taste reminds me of how newly laid asphalt smells. Not bad, compared to some other things I've had in this jungle. “Did you catch more fish?”

He nods to a wooden post where one little fish is hanging from a wooden peg.

“Oh. One only. Is fine. More tomorrow, maybe.” My thought processes are still sluggish, but an idea or two have been dancing around in my head without any shape to them. Now I try to tease them out.

“Trak'zor must go across bridge to hunt turkeypig?”

“There are no turkeypigs on the island. Or other Smalls or Bigs.”

“Dangerous go into jungle.”

“Always dangerous,” he agrees.

One idea becomes clear in my mind. I might be able to do something about that.

I get the knife he gave me and point at the blade. “Trak'zor can make iron?”

He hands me a little leaf with a fried little fish filet on it. Probably yesterday's catch.

“Iron isn't made, it is found. Only then can it be made into blades. No iron around here.”

I nod. Makes sense. Cavemen like their blades and their smithing, but I can't see a forge anywhere around the house. So Trak'zor probably doesn't have easy access to iron ore.

“Never mind,” I say and bite into the fried fish. “We'll find way. Trak'zor has thin rope?”

He glances at me, then takes a coil from a peg on another wooden post and hands it over.

It's the twine he tied me up with.

I don't want to touch it. “You have thinner than this?”

He goes into the house and returns with something that looks like sewing thread.

It's a yellowish white, it's pretty thin and I have to use a lot of force to snap it. It just might work. “Is much good.”

I roll it up again and put it into my pouch of medical supplies. Then I point to my own chest. “Trak'zor feeling better?”

He half turns to show me.

“Where?” I get up and walk over to him, placing my hand on his hard chest.

Yesterday he had a shallow wound here. Today, there just a pinkish scar with a little bit of redness around it.

“It healed?” I can't believe it. I've never seen the cavemen back at our cave heal this fast from any injury. And Trak'zor was bleeding pretty profusely right after the arrow hit him.

“It healed fast,” he says calmly with a little smirk on his face. “Aurora is expert at healing and stopping infection.”

I stroke the suede-like texture of his white stripes, then reluctantly take my hand off his chest. “And the other one?”

He stands up and lifts the loincloth a little on the side where I shot him. Yeah, it's pretty much gone here, too. Just a shallow cut remains, but it's clearly healing fast.

I scratch my chin. “That is strange. I mean, of course Aurora much skilled at healing. But is healing faster than thought.”

“The Woman is divine,” he says simply. “She has healing hands.” Then he sits down and continues his work.

I look at my hands. I don't believe they're healing hands. Maybe the paste I smeared on him yesterday was especially potent?

But I'm glad he's fine. My shooting him doesn't seem to have done any damage.

Except to my freedom. Maybe.

“Any dangerous Bigs or Smalls on island?” I ask again, because you just cannot be too sure about those things here.

“Only irox from the air,” he replies. “Aurora going somewhere?”

“I want look for something. Something useful. Right back.”

He nods once, and I walk in the direction of the little not-quite-forest in the middle of the island. The rocks are pleasant to walk on, polished so smooth by some natural force that it almost feels like they're springy.

The trees in the grove are not as tall as the ones in the jungle on the mainland, except the salen tree, which is just the same immense height as all of them.

But I'll examine the trees later, for my second idea. Right now I have to check if the first one is viable.

The grove only covers an area of a tennis court, but it's very dense and has a great variety of all kinds of bushes and trees. I immediately spot a slender sapling that I know I could make decent arrows out of, and a couple of other young trees I could probably turn into bows. But my first act on the island that Trak'zor is so proud of is not going to be to chop down all the trees.

I can't find the thorn bush that I was hoping, but I find one with thorns that are a little shorter, but still have a cruel little curve in them. Perfect.

I gather a handful of them using the knife, and I come away with just a couple of scratches.

Then I look closer at the trees. The salen tree I leave alone, but I knock on the trunks of the other ones. Knocking on some of them just results in a nothing except a sore knuckle, and none of them give me much resonance. Oh well, it was just a thought.

I take a longer way back to the house, approaching it from the other direction. I find the spring that the water running under the house comes from. It's hard to miss, because it's a round, rocky pool of the clearest water I've ever seen. In the middle is the hole that the water comes up from like a little fountain. I squat and stick my hand into it. It's cool and fresh like no other water I've found here on this planet. Even the water in the lake doesn't seem this pure.

I scoop some of it into my hands and drink as much as I can. Yeah, this is what water is supposed to taste like. 

“Aurora likes to explore,” comes a deep voice from behind me.

This island relaxes me so much I don't even flinch. I'm glad he's here. “She does. Sometimes. This where you get drinking water?”

Trak'zor squats down beside me and uses his hands to drink, just like me. “Here and the lake. Both have good water.”

“But this water better.”

“Better,” he agrees and slurps more from his hand. “Sacred water, probably. Provided for the Ancestors to the man who dared enter the forbidden island. Another sign it should not be forbidden.”

In the distance the sun is reflected off the mysterious island further out in the lake. It's so different from everything else around it, so out of place. I nod towards it. “That island forbidden, too?”

“Not yet. But I'm sure it will be.”

I sit down on the polished rock. This is as pleasant a place as I've ever seen. I take out the string and the thorns and experiment with tying one thorn to the end.

“This is thing for catch fish,” I explain when Trak'zor looks at the project in my hands. “It not is perfect, but fish will bite on it from being curious. They want see, who is much stupid to think fish will bite on clumsy and pitiful thing like this. So they bite, eat hook. But sticks in mouth! Then Aurora pull ashore, kill and cook. Then fish think, 'much smart Aurora, not stupid after all'. Is much triumph!”

Trak'zor nods slowly, plainly not convinced. I don't blame him. Fishing hooks usually don't work quite like that, but this one better.

Back at the cave, the girls and I have sometimes come across bushes with long, sharp thorns on them. We have discussed how useful those would be to use as fishing hooks, but of course we'd never seen fish in any of the streams, so we never tried to use them for that purpose. This will be the first attempt, although these thorns are smaller.

I go through a few small thorns, experimenting with cutting little notches in them so the thread will catch on the smooth, shell-like surface. Unlike most of the work I've done on this planet, this is actually pretty pleasant. Probably that's mostly because Trak'zor is sitting right beside me, sharpening his sword with a gray rock and water from the spring.

And for some reason, I have no urge to fill this silence. We're both doing our thing, together, and I'm still feeling safe.

Trak'zor lifts his head to scan the sky about once a minute, and his casual vigilance puts me totally at ease, to the point where I'm able to let go of the tight anxiety that's been a constant element of my life since we were abducted from Earth.

I glance over at Trak'zor. I always liked watching men doing something they're good at. When I was a kid, I would often sit on the counter and watch my dad experiment with ingredients in his bakery. He'd try different kinds of flour, different amounts of yeast from different sources, various kinds of milk and fats and even spices. He would calmly chat with me about every topic under the sun, and his face would look just like Trak'zor's is looking now, relaxed and peaceful and just ... happy, I guess.

Then he would place the experiment in the oven, clap his hands together in a cloud of flour and come over and pinch my cheek or ruffle my hair or give me a little tickle so I would squeal happily. Then he'd let me help him clean up. Back then I really thought I was helping, but later I realized that a five-year-old trying to clean a large bowl of sticky dough residue must have been more of a hindrance than a help. Of course he only did it so I'd feel useful. And so I'd learn to clean up after cooking. And because he just plain enjoyed my company. Like I enjoyed his.

And then we'd evaluate the results of his experiment. He'd give me one still steaming piece of bread, wrapped in a clean kitchen towel so I wouldn't burn my fingers. And he'd ask me what I thought, and which flavors I thought I could detect. And I would do my best to figure out the little nuances, like it was a game. Nutmeg. Cardamom. Cilantro sometimes. And so often cinnamon, because he knew I loved it.

Oh, the smells in that little small-town bakery ...

“Aurora is injured?”

I look up. Trak'zor is looking at me with worry on his alien face.

I wipe my cheeks and sniffle once more. Shit, that homesickness really creeps up on me sometimes. This is not what Xena would do.

“No, no. Not injured. Thinking only.”

He puts his sword down, leans over and places one large, callused hand under my cheek, using the other to wipe the moisture off my face with a gentleness that tells me that he's done this before. Many times.