The Bone House (36 page)

Every few steps, at random intervals, he cast a backwards glance to see if he could catch sight of the shadow again. He saw nothing, but the silence of the gorge had begun to exert an uncanny pressure of its own—as if the entire valley were holding its breath in expectation of something dire.

Okay, that’s just silly. There’s nothing there
.

And then, just as he resumed his progress, he heard the unmistakable snap of a dry branch beneath a heavy foot. Whirling towards the sound, he thought that once again he saw a shudder of movement—a shadow fading into shadow. Swift and silent, but . . . massive. And this time he was certain he had seen it.

Certainty sent a sick dread snaking through his gut: he was being stalked. Into his mind burst an image of himself running, exhausted, chased by a pack of howling wolves until he fell and was ripped to bloody ribbons.

Before his fevered imagination could throw up another gruesome image, Kit lit out, skittering over the stone field along the river. Although it was rougher going, he decided to remain out in the open where he could see around him rather than take to the tree-lined marge where the thing stalking him had the camouflage advantage of shadows and timber. This decision sat well with him until he glimpsed, on the other side of the river, sloping through the trees, another shadowy shape keeping pace with him.

Kit was running flat out now, little caring that he was easily visible to the creatures stalking him. His feet flew over the uneven bed of water-smoothed stones of all sizes, clumsy in his haste, heedless of all but the driving need to distance himself from the pursuit.

In his flight, he blew past the turning that led up to the ley line trail. But he gradually became aware that he was no longer in territory he had seen before; the valley was the same—only different now. Glancing around desperately, he saw that the curtain walls of the gorge had opened out; the river was wider here, and more shallow, dancing across the rocky bed in ripples a few inches deep.

“Where’s the bloody trail?” he muttered.

Unwilling to backtrack to find it, he felt impelled to move on. He began looking for a place to hide and was heartened to see that the trees were larger here, the surrounding wood thicker. When the river kinked around another sharp bend, Kit decided to abandon the waterway and take to the trees. Almost at once he struck a wide path of bare earth; it snaked through the wood, passing around the boles of the larger oaks and larches. It was easier to run here, and he determined to put some distance between himself and his pursuers. He leaned into his stride and flew like a mad thing for freedom.

His feet pounded a mantra with every step:
I feel good. I feel strong. I feel good. I feel strong
.

Indeed, he was feeling good and strong right up until the split second he tumbled into the trap.

In the space between one step and the next, the ground gave way beneath him and he plunged through empty air. Time seemed to expand, and everything became almost unbearably clear: the golden motes adrift in shafts of sunlight, the clean-etched tendrils of a fern, a yellow butterfly hovering above a white flower with slow beats of its delicate wings, a blackbird taking flight from a branch overhead . . . All the world seemed to pause on a long intake of breath.

His first fleeting thought was that he had somehow made a ley leap. And then the walls of the pit closed around him, and he landed in a heap in the half light of a deep, square hole with a mass of broken twigs and leaves showering over him.

The force of his rude landing drove the wind out of him. He lay gagging, trying to draw breath but unable to make his lungs work properly. His vision grew dim and hazy. Then, when it seemed he would implode for lack of oxygen, his breath returned with a whoosh and he lay spent and wheezing like a broken bellows.

On his back, looking up at a perfectly square patch of blue sky framed by the dirt walls of the hole in which he lay, Kit took a quick mental inventory of himself. Aside from the mighty thump of the deadfall jolt that had knocked the breath out of him, there was no pain.
A good sign
, he thought. He patted himself down; he still had Mina’s ley lamp and Sir Henry’s green book safely tucked away and, so far as he could tell, all his faculties. He raised one hand, then the other, and waved them both around. He shook out his legs. All seemed in working order. No broken bones, then.

The light in the pit dimmed as he was taking stock, and he looked skyward to see that a face had appeared in the square opening above him. At the first glimpse of that face, he froze—not in fear, but stark astonishment. For it was a face at once familiar, yet utterly foreign; Kit recognised it instantly, but knew he had never seen it in the flesh before. The face peering down at him was attached to a swarthy, rugged, square head covered with a heavy pelt of hair so thick and matted it looked like yak fur. And the features were those of a clumsily executed caricature. In fact, if those same features had been carved out of timber with an ax, the result would have been nearly identical—except for the eyes. And it was the eyes in that face that astonished him and held him fast: big dark eyes so quick and intelligent and expressive they could only belong to a creature of at least modest self-awareness.

The fact that the creature seemed to be as surprised to see Kit as Kit was to see it completed the circle of amazement. He lay gazing up at that rough-hewn face, and with a childlike fascination, the sense of wonder was so overpowering it drove out all fear. Kit simply forgot to be afraid.

CHAPTER 29
In Which a Most Peculiar Predicament Arises

T
ime slowed to a trickle. Lying on the floor of the pit, Kit fought his way back to a more reasoned frame of mind: he was in big trouble. He was in a killing pit, for heaven’s sake! He was for the chop, and there was nothing he could do about it. Still, he did not
feel
at all distraught. Every instinct jangled noisily, insisting that he should be rigid with terror. Instead, more than anything—aside from the initial astonishment—he felt only relief.

There was a movement above him, and the face disappeared, replaced by a sturdy length of wood, smoothed and rounded, polished with use. The shaft of a spear? The implement hovered over him; when he made no move to touch it, the creature on the other end prodded him, first in the shoulder, then in the stomach. Kit brushed the thing away, but the blunt wooden pole continued to poke him, ever more insistently, until Kit realised that the creature on the other end of the stick wanted him to take hold of it. Tentatively grasping the smooth, rounded haft of the branch, he was pulled upright in a single, effortless jerk, and quickly scrambled to his feet.

The top of the hole was still two feet or so above his head, so the pole was offered again and, grasping it tightly with both hands, Kit was hauled bodily up out of the pit to stand before creatures whose existence was the stuff of myth and dusty museum dioramas. There were two of them. Large, shaggy, and extremely inquisitive creatures, they regarded him intently, bright curiosity burning in their dark eyes. One was larger than the other, older, but both were dressed in skins held together with strings and bands of woven rope and dried gut. Their flesh was a healthy nut-brown from the sun and weather; their hair long and dark, but sun-bleached at the tips; the older one was aggressively bearded, and the younger lacked any facial hair. Both were barefoot, with broad, splayed toes and thick calloused soles. Both held identical stout-shafted spears with stubby blades made of chipped flint.

Although no taller than Kit himself, they gave every impression of being giants—perhaps owing to their perfectly solid presence and heavy muscular build. They were magnificent specimens: broad of shoulder and deep of chest; with large, square heads on short corded necks and huge muscled forearms, legs, and thighs; short-waisted and thick about the middle, they appeared almost as broad as they were tall, yet there was not an ounce of fat on them, just pure, lean, hard muscle and lots of it.

They gaped at Kit, then at one another, then at Kit again—their wide, expressive faces registering unalloyed wonder at the sight of so strange a being hauled from their trap. Then, after a moment’s consideration, the younger one reached out with a thick, grubby forefinger and poked Kit in the chest as if to test his corporeality. It was the most natural gesture in the world, yet it made Kit’s knees buckle. He swayed and stepped back, whereupon the older one reached out and, taking his entire shoulder in one massive hand, steadied him with a grip so gentle and reassuring that Kit almost swooned at the touch. His heart skipped a beat or two, and his breath caught in his throat as the utter impossibility of this most peculiar predicament broke over him: he had been captured by cavemen.

Kit’s heart thumped in his chest, and he felt faint and dizzy with the surge of adrenaline and high-octane emotion crashing through him. His thoughts skittered off in every direction, leaving him with an utterly useless question.
What now? What, under holy heaven, now?

Without a sound or sign, the older of the two creatures turned abruptly and started walking away; after a few steps, the big hunter paused and with a curved hand gesture—the kind a child might make to a playmate—indicated that Kit was to follow. Kit, afraid to do otherwise, obeyed. The little hunter fell into step behind him, and the three moved off in single file together. For beings so stocky, they moved with the agile grace of wild things, silent as shadows; the only sounds Kit heard were those of his own making—swishing through grass, breaking the odd twig beneath his shoes, the rustle of dry leaves.

Every now and then, Big Hunter would pause and sniff the air in an odd doglike fashion, his wide, flat nostrils flaring; he seemed to taste the air as much as smell it and, after each reassurance, moved on again with a little backwards glance at Kit as if to say, “All is well, we go on.”

They walked a long time, and the day began to fade. They were deeper into the wood now, the trees larger, the shadows thicker and darker. Branches closed overhead to form a green canopy, and the river narrowed to a slow-running stream. Moss and lichen grew on the trees and rocks all around, and a scent like that of mushrooms filled the air. They stopped to drink from the stream, first Little Hunter, then Big Hunter—each keeping guard over the other—while Kit lapped water from his cupped hands. They resumed their trek, moving ever deeper into the wooded valley, pausing every now and then to sniff the air. Kit used these little rest stops to surreptitiously check the ley lamp on the off chance that he might find another ley. But there was never any sign of activity.

After the third or fourth pause, Big Hunter gave out a gruff snort and picked up his speed, moving through the forest with long, ground-eating strides. Little Hunter gave Kit a shove from behind that nearly knocked him off his feet, and Kit stepped up to double time. That was not fast enough, however, and soon he was having to trot just to keep pace.

This went on for a considerable time. When at last they slowed again, Kit was sweating and gasping and all but falling over. By his hazy estimate they were several miles from the ley line that had brought him to this world. If Wilhelmina were looking for him, she would not find him there. At first opportunity, he told himself, he would escape and make his way back to the ley and wait there as instructed. Kit keenly regretted having wandered off, but who could have foreseen being kidnapped by cavemen?

By now Kit was getting thirsty again, and footsore. During the next pause to sniff the air, Kit ignored his captors and knelt to drink. Little Hunter grew agitated and jabbed Kit with the butt of his spear a few times until the older one grunted a command that made his companion desist. Kit drank his fill, and when he was done, rose; Big Hunter stooped down and drank too—just a few mouthfuls slurped out of the palm of his wide hand, as if to be polite.

They moved on again, keeping the river on the left as they threaded through the undulating valley. And then, just as the light began to fail, Kit caught a whiff of a pungent stink: a rich, musky ripe scent, like he imagined a den of wolves might smell after a long, hard winter.

The three passed under a low-hanging bough and through a screening wall of bushes, and suddenly Kit was standing in a clearing amidst a collection of crude rounded domes made from branches pulled full-leafed from the surrounding trees and shrubs. They were home. Four primitives rose to greet the returning hunters; Kit saw their eyes flick to him, and all at once there arose a tremendous yowling of excitement. Five more creatures, all female, materialised, some emerging from the rudimentary shelters, others from the nearby wood, and all jabbering at once in what sounded to Kit like an excited, guttural yap.

One or two of the boldest primitives thrust forward and began touching him with little pats and prods. They touched his skin and hair and clothes. Meanwhile, the females formed a muttering, murmuring circle around him. The poking and prodding continued for a time, the chatter coming in waves, until one of the younger primitives, baring his teeth in a ghastly smile, picked up a stick and, in imitation of his elders, jabbed Kit in the leg.

“Ow!” Kit announced, not so much from pain as from the unexpected attack.

That response encouraged the youngster, so he stabbed Kit again, harder, with a sound that Kit could only interpret as laughter. This time Kit kept his mouth closed, which provoked a third attack and a rapid fourth. A slightly older creature joined in, giving Kit a firm punch in the ribs and then crying loudly for everyone to see what he had done—at which point Big Hunter, who seemed to be the leader of the group, loosed a low, rumbling growl that even Kit recognised as a command.