- Caroline -

As I watch him paint, so totally concentrated and humming without even knowing it, I try to make up status with him. So, he's saved my life multiple times. He's working alone to save his tribe. He's open to new ideas, even when they come from a woman. He's totally natural and confident in the jungle. He's as strong as ten normal men. He's a gifted artist. He fucks like a typhoon. And he makes me feel good about myself in the most breathtakingly natural and sincere way.

And he expects nothing in return. He never pushed me for anything. I had to initiate the sex. Who ever heard of a guy who protects a girl and then doesn't guilt her into a handjob at least? And this guy hasn't even seen women before, and he's been in a state of very visible arousal for several days straight now. Still, he didn't pressure me at all. It's like he respects me as a person! Now, which guy has done that before?

It feels a little like a dream, like I'm waiting for him to show his real self, for his front to crack and the bullshit to leak out. But it hasn't happened yet, and he's had a lot of opportunities. I can only conclude that what I see is who he is. There's no front. It's just him.

It's taken me a good while to realize because it seems to good to be true. I haven't known him for that long, but I've spent every waking minute with him, and he still hasn't cracked.

So then finally, I have to take his hand and tell him exactly what I think of him.

He looks away for a moment then gives me a shy little smile, the most boyish expression you could imagine. “And you are wonderful. I'm still trying to understand how it's possible. But it's too big for my mind.”

It's a simple answer, and from anyone else it would sound fake and conceited. From him, it's just how he feels.

I smile, touched by his sincerity. Then, I let go of his hand and lean back against the railing of the tree house, content to watch a really cool guy do something that he's really good at.

I briefly wake up when he's picking me up and carrying me to the hammock.

“You sleep here too,” I sleepily demand. “You sleep with Caroline.”

“Yes,” he says as he lays me down as gently as a parent will lay down a baby.

The next thing I know is that I'm feeling a certain need that can't be denied, so I get out of the hammock. Xark'on isn't there, and he's not painting. The torch has gone out, and I'm vaguely aware that Xark'on did finally sleep beside slash under me for a while.

I tiptoe around the giant tree trunk to the spot that has been designated for calls of nature. And there's Xark'on, leaning over the railing, looking out over the dark jungle.

“Troga,” he says darkly without turning around. “She's burning again.”

I immediately see what he means. Far away in the direction of the trap, there's a light. It's a blue-white light as bright as a welding torch casting its eerie light on the trees around. There's no sound, but I recognize that light from when she burned Xark’on.

“What's she burning?”

“The ground. Making her trench longer.”

“Do you think she knows about the trap?”

“If so, she's not burning it. She's further away.”

I'm suddenly worried about the girls. “How far away?”

“Far enough.”

“I think our cave is in that direction. Will she burn her trench all the way there?”

He just shrugs, which is reasonable enough. He has no way of knowing that.

Well, I'll worry about that tomorrow. Right now... “Could you please... I need this spot. Just for a moment.”

He gets it immediately, nuzzles my hair, and walks back around the tree. I squat and kind of enjoy the idea that I'm giving that dragon a good mooning. If she's looking. Which she's probably not.

I walk back to the hammock area, but Xark'on is still painting.

I stand and watch him for a while. “You're really enjoying yourself with that.”

He keeps concentrating on the picture. “We have to find enjoyment wherever it hides. It's a tough life in the jungle. Everything we do is just to survive as long as possible. This tree house was built to keep the irox from killing us. We spend a lot of time just hunting. We care for the Lifegivers. We make clothing. We forge weapons. It's all for survival. I feel a need to build. For something else. Not because it's desperately necessary. But because it's possible, because it's better, because it's progress. We don't build. There's no time. We just survive. I sometimes think that the life the Ancestors have given us is too hard. The jungle is too harsh. I see the tribe declining. There are fewer tribesmen now than there's ever been. Some of it is because of Troga. But not all. Even without her, the jungle is winning.”

He speaks slowly, still painting. He's giving me a glimpse into his inner being. It echoes some things I've been thinking myself, and it gives me an insight that's been percolating for a while. “The jungle is too harsh. It's not natural. None of us are supposed to be here.”

“You're an alien here,” he agrees. “But so am I.”

I put a hand on his arm. “Xark'on. When this is over. Come to my tribe. We build.”

He looks at me thoughtfully, bends down and nuzzles my hair.

“Still some hours left until sunrise,” I yawn. “You want to keep me company a little longer?”

He accurately places another little point of green on the skin. “I'll keep you company from right here.”

“Okay.” I guess artists have to make use of their inspiration.

I crawl into the hammock, and when I wake up again the smell of breakfast is in my nose. I’ve never slept as deep as I do here up in this tree.

“I have to go back to the cave today,” I announce as I sit down with Xark'on. “I have to see if they're all right. I will tell them about you. Do you mind that?”

“Tell them what you must.”

“And I'd like to come back here. Will you allow me?”

“What you do is your decision. The Ancestors will decide.”

“Okay. What I mean to ask is, will you be mad if I leave and come back? Will you hate me?”

“I don't think so. It depends on many things.”

“I'll go there and check on them, and then I'll tell them a little about you and Troga, and then I'll come here again. That's all. If you don't want me to bring anyone, I won't.”

“That's probably for the best.”

He's not super enthusiastic about me leaving, but he's not hitting the roof either. And this is one thing I have to do.

After breakfast we pack a lunch and walk fast to the trap hole.

I grab Xark'on's hand. “Okay. I'll be back later today. But I'll miss you while I'm gone.” I kiss him on the cheek, and he sniffs my hair the way he likes. I think that's a good sign.

Then he jumps down in his hole and starts digging. Okay, he's not thrilled.

I'm on the verge of asking him to come with me right now, but if he doesn't offer it himself, then it probably means he doesn't want to. I don't blame him. The cavemen can be weird about other tribes.

There's no reason to hang around, so I start walking the way I came several days ago. As soon as I'm out of sight of Xark'on and his bubble of safety, I feel the old jumpiness return. I clench my spear and feel the cold sweat starting. At any moment, a raptor could come bounding soundlessly and snag me into its long mouth, rip me up, and feed me to its hatchlings. Or a giant millipede could chase me. Or a scorpion the size of a kitchen table. Or any one of a thousand horrors. if I didn't appreciate Xark'on's protection before, then I absolutely do now. More than ever before, I feel the danger of the jungle.

For a moment, I seriously consider turning around. Fuck, I'd feel so much better if he were here with me. I'm sure he'd come if I pleaded with him.

But even I have some pride. I don't want to set feminism on this planet back fifty years before there are even any women here. I can do this. I've walked this way many times before with no incident.

I trudge on, freezing at every noise and jumping when a cold drop of sweat suddenly runs down my back. The jungle is damp and sticky, but the familiarity of the trail makes me feel a little more confident.

I walk between two tall trees and wonder at the sudden smell. Like dry sand. Or the fireworks on the 4th of July.

Then, I turn a corner and slip on something where I only expected dry grass, and I yelp and fall backwards. I land not on grass but on something very hard. My spear gets entangled between two saplings, and I have the presence of mind to not let go of it while the rest of me slides forward. Then, I'm dangling helplessly, hanging by my spear, where there ought to be only a gentle hill.

I crawl desperately, but I can't gain purchase on the smooth surface with my toes. It's as slippery as soap and warm to the touch.

In my panic, I realise what's happening: I'm about to slide down into Troga's new trench, the one she burned last night.

I'm barely holding onto the spear, and it is barely stuck behind the two saplings that are now bending, the spear stripping them of one thin branch after the other as it slowly slides up along both of the young trees. In two seconds they will bend all the way and the spear will come loose. And I will plummet into the dragon's rounded trench, from which nobody has ever escaped.

Then there's a crashing of bushes, as someone or something is coming for me at high speed. If this is a raptor, then I'm dead.

Strong hands grab my arms and pull me up and back from the trench. For a moment, I stay on the ground just sobbing at the grass. That was too close.

“Troga's been busy.”

I look up. Of course it's Xark'on. He's standing there surveying the new trench.

I don't reply, just lie there smelling the dirt, relieved to be alive and still steeped in stress hormones.

Xark'on bends down and takes my hand. “Are you injured, my love?”

“No,” I sob and embrace him. “I'm not. But I almost—” I can't finish the sentence.

“I saw it. I had no idea she had lengthened her trench this far.”

“Did you follow me?”

“The jungle is dangerous. I couldn't bear the thought of you alone here.”

I lean my head on his mighty, striped chest, shedding some tears of fright and relief. “Thank you.”

“I don't think you can continue this way. The trench might go very far.”

“But it's not going towards the cave. I think the girls are okay. Should we walk along it, try to find out how long it is?”

He shrugs. “There's nothing we can do no matter how long it is. I'd rather keep building the trap that will finally put an end to her evil doings.”

Right now, I'm willing to accept everything he says. He called me 'my love'. “Okay.”

We go back to his trap, he checks that I'm okay, and then he keeps digging after securing my promise that I'll scream immediately if anything at all happens.

I sit on the ground and watch him toss shovel loads of heavy dirt up from the hole until my heart rate is back to normal and I'm breathing right again. Fuck, that was close.

I slowly get up on legs that feel stiff. Then, I use the blunt end of my spear to dig up the pots we buried yesterday.

It cheers me up to see the result of boiling these leaves. It looks better than I remember. Maybe the night under the ground was good for the process somehow. Or, more probably, the light is better today than last night.

It's time to experiment. I pour some of the white clay powder into the first pot and stir it with a stick. It takes a good amount of the powder before it creates a paste that isn't too wet. The mix of powder and water has to be just right. But even when I get the balance right, the paste is too stringy. It's the fibers from the leaves that are still sticking together. I should try to get rid of the pulp from the leaves first. I have to find a way to strain them.

My mood lifts a lot. This is working out much better than I'd thought it would.

I saunter over to Xark'on's hole and peer down it. “Hey, warrior.”

“Hey, woman.”

“You work fast. How deep do you want it to get?” It's already where Xark'on, a man who's at least seven feet tall, can't reach the rim if he's standing on tiptoe. So it has to be ten feet deep or more.

“About twice this. I want Troga to be falling fast when she meets the iron spikes pointing up to meet her.”

“How will you get up?”

He grins then climbs up the vertical side of the hole like a fly on a wall.

“That's impressive,” I say when he's up and I can place a hand on his chest.

“I’ve dug special holes in the dirt there,” he says and points. “Handholds.”

I look up at his alien face, just because I like to look at my boyfriend, which he totally is now unless he says he's not. And I'm not going to ask him and give him the chance. “It will only be a couple of days before you're done digging. Unless it rains. If it does, you have a nice pool there but not a trap.”

“I can only hope it won't rain before Troga is dead.”

“Is that why you didn't start this right away, three seasons ago, when Troga first appeared? Because it was rainy season?”

“No,” he says and looks away. “It just wasn't as important back then.”

I lay my head against his chest again, feeling small and girly and still very, very safe. His slow heartbeat thunders in my ear, and I squeeze him. “I know you're doing this for your tribe. But you're also doing this for everyone who lives in the jungle. That dragon is just evil.”

“Nobody survives falling into Troga's trench. I don't know if other tribes have that problem or if it's only mine. It doesn't matter to me. My tribe is my life.”

“Is it?”

He ponders it. “It was. Now I'm not sure. These past days, my thoughts have been filled with other... things.”

“Iron and swords and tools and hunting and painting,” I tease.

“No! None of those. You. My tribe seems far away now. Unimportant. Only you fill my mind, and it confuses me.”

“If it's any help, you fill my mind too. But I don't think I'm as confused. At least not anymore.”

He looks into my soul with the light from those violet eyes. “No?”

“No. You called me 'my love'. That made me very happy.”

We stand like that for a good while, and then I punch his massive chest. “Let’s catch us a dragon, warrior. Oh, wait.” I hand him the water sack. “Here, drink some water. More. More. Okay. Now, do you mind if I ruin the water sack? I want to put many small holes in it.”

He gives me the only reaction possible. “Why?”

But I don’t want to tell him, so I give him a sweet smile instead. “It’s a secret.”

Then he shrugs and climbs back down into his hole. “Very well.”

I get back to my pots and empty the leafy paste in one of them into another.

I drink some water myself so it isn’t totally wasted then pour the rest into the empty pot and find a bush with spiky thorns. I take a thorn, sharpen it on a rock and then proceed to poke it through the thin but tough not-sheep skin of the water sack. After a while the thorn breaks, so I get another one and continue. It takes me a good while to make as many holes as I think I need. If I had some cloth, I wouldn’t need to do this, but actual fabric is hard to come by here on Xren. It’s almost as valuable as iron to the tribes, and I don’t think any caveman would approve of using any the way I intend to use this sack.

I empty all the leafy paste into the pouch, add all the remaining water and then squeeze it from the top, so the fluid comes out of the holes, but the fibers stay inside. I make sure to catch all the fluid in a pot.

When I’m done, I have about half a pot of the fluid, and after a careful assessment that I pull out of my ass, I decide that it should be concentrated more. I rebuild the fire from yesterday and heat the fluid to where steam is coming up, but it isn’t boiling. I’m not sure why. It just seems to me that boiling it is unnecessarily brutal and could maybe ruin the result.

I watch the fluid like a hawk, taking it out of the fire and putting it back in so it doesn’t reach the boiling point.