laughs. Stone will mount the woman. Stone will eat the woman.
‘No.’
The other new woman steps forward. Her hands pull the other woman behind her. ‘We are like you. Look! We are people. We are not meat.’ She points to the child.
The child has no hair on his face. The child has wide round eyes. The child has a nose.
Nutcracker-folk have hair on their faces. Nutcracker-folk have no noses. Nutcracker-folk have nostrils flat against their faces.
Running-folk have no hair on their faces. They have round eyes. They have noses.
Stone’s axe rises.
Fire takes a step forward. He is afraid of Stone and his axe. But he makes his hand grab Stone’s arm.
‘People,’ Fire says.
‘Yes.’ The new woman nods. ‘Yes, that’s right. We’re people.’
Slowly, Stone’s arm lowers.
The smell of meat is strong. One by one the people drift away from the new people, and cluster around the corpse.
Fire is left alone, watching the new people.
The fat new person is shaking, as if cold. Now she falls to the ground. The other puts the child down, and cradles the fat one’s head on her lap.
The other’s face lifts up to Fire. ‘My name is Emma. Em-ma. Do you understand?’
Fire carries the fire. That is his name. That is what he does.
Emma is her name. Emma is what she does. He doesn’t know what Em-ma is.
He says, ‘Em-ma.’
‘Emma. Yes. Good. Please – will you help us? “We need water. Do you have any water?’
His eye spots something. Something moves on a branch on the ground nearby. He has forgotten that he used these branches to make a bower.
His hand whips out and grabs. His hand opens, revealing a caterpillar, fat and juicy. He did not have to think about catching it. It is just here. He pops it in his mouth.
‘Please.’
He looks down at the new people. Again he had forgotten they were there. ‘Em-ma.’ The caterpillar wriggles on his tongue. His hand pulls it out of his mouth. He remembers how he caught it, a sharp shard of recent memory.
He makes his hand hold out the caterpillar.
Emma’s eyes stare at it. It is wet from his spit. Her hand reaches out and takes it.
The caterpillar is in her mouth. She chews. He hears it crunch. She swallows, hard. ‘Good. Thank you.’
Fire’s nose can smell meat more strongly now. Stone’s axe has cracked the rib cage. Whatever is in the new person’s belly may be good to eat.
The other new woman wakes up. Her eyes look at the corpse, at what the people are doing there. She screams. Emma’s hand clamps over her mouth. The woman struggles.
The people crowd close around the corpse. Fire joins them.
He has forgotten the new people.
Emma Stoney:
Her chest hurt. Every time she took a breath she was gasping and dragging, as if she had been running too far, or as if she was high on a mountainside.
That was the first thing Emma noticed.
The second thing was the dreaminess of moving here.
When she walked – even on the slippery grass, encumbered by her clumsy flight suit – she felt light, buoyant. But she kept tripping up. It was easy to walk slowly, but every time she tried to move at what seemed a normal pace she stumbled, as if about to take off. Eventually she evolved a kind of half-jog, somewhere between walking and running.
Also she was strong here. When she struggled to drag the woman – Sally? – out of the rain and into the comparative shelter of the trees, with the crying kid at her heels, she felt powerful, able to lift well above her usual limit.
The forest was dense, gloomy. The trees seemed to be conifers – impossibly tall, towering high above her, making a roof of green – but here and there she saw ferns, huge ancient broad-leafed plants. The forest canopy gave them some shelter, but still great fat droplets of water came shimmering down on them. When the droplets hit her flesh they clung – and they stung. She noticed how shrivelled and etiolated many of the trees’ leaves looked. Acid rain?…
The forest seemed strangely quiet. No birdsong, she thought. Come to think of it she hadn’t seen a bird in the time she’d been here.
The flat-head people – hominids, whatever – did not follow her into the forest, and as their hooting calls receded she felt vaguely reassured. But that was outweighed by a growing unease, for it was very dark, here in the woods. The kid seemed to feel that too, for he went very quiet, his eyes round.
But then, she thought resentfully, she was disoriented, spooked, utterly bewildered anyhow – she had just been through a plane wreck, for God’s sake, and then hurled through time and space to wherever the hell – and being scared in a forest was scarcely much different from being scared on the open plain.
… What forest? What plain? What is this place? Where am I?
Too much strangeness: panic brushed her mind.
But the blood continued to pulse from that crude gash on Sally’s arm, an injury she had evidently suffered on the way here, from wherever. And the kid sat down on the forest floor and cried right along with his mother, great bubbles of snot blowing out of his nose.
First things first, Emma.
The kid gazed up at her with huge empty eyes. He looked no older than three.
Emma got down on her knees. The kid shrank back from her, and she made an effort to smile. She searched the pockets of her flight suit, seeking a handkerchief, and finding everything but. At last she dug into a waist pocket of Sally’s jacket – she was wearing what looked like designer safari gear, a khaki jacket and pants – and found a paper tissue.
‘Blow,’ she commanded.
With his nose wiped, the boy seemed a bit calmer.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Maxie.’ His tiny voice was scale-model Bostonian.
‘Okay, Maxie. My name’s Emma. I need you to be brave now. We have to help your mom.
