Chalker, Jack L. – Watchers at the Well 01

She had to admit that she felt a little better that her cap­tors were women. At least she would be spared the horrors that she imagined she’d be subjected to by a tribe of prim­itive men. Still, there were children here—all female, she’d noted—and that meant these women had to have mates somewhere. Had the meteor wiped out the men? Were they all away? It seemed unlikely, but it only made the puzzle deeper.

Terry looked only slightly better for the experience than did Lori, but Terry was younger and in better condition and was the kind of person who never gave up hope. She, at least, lay in a deep sleep on the forest floor, oblivious to the world.

They were probably the story now, Lori thought. Maybe the hunt for them would be massive, but it wouldn’t last forever. Not in this jungle—and these primitive women knew the forest as no one else did; it was their entire world. Where was all this massive deforestation the environmentalists were always protesting about? She could use a little open clear-cut land right now.

Alama checked on her people, then saw that the white woman was still awake and made her way over to her. It would take a while for these soft Outsiders to build up their strength and become wise in the ways of the forest; until then they would be both captives and liabilities, a fact on Lori’s mind as well as she eyed the leader nervously and wondered what was next.

The tiny but tough woman knelt, and black almond eyes looked deeply into the scientist’s own. After a moment the leader pointed to herself and said, “Alama.”

Lori realized that the woman was at least attempting to communicate. Alama was probably a name, possibly a title. It didn’t matter. She pointed to herself and said, “Lori.”

“Lo-ree,” the small woman repeated, nodding.

Sutton pointed to her sleeping companion. “Terry,” she said.

Alama looked over at the newswoman. “Teh-ree,” she said.

Lori sighed. She was now convinced that this woman, so different in appearance and manner, could not have been a member of the tribe originally. She wished she knew some Portuguese or even Japanese, but her languages had been German and Russian. Not much practical help here. Terry’s Spanish might do, but Terry was going to be out for some time.

Still, Alama seemed adept at this sort of communication and appeared to want to teach some basics of the tribe’s language.

She pointed to her breasts and genitals. “Seku” She pointed at Lori. “Seku.” Pointing to others of the tribe, she said, “Seku, seku, seku,” and to the two bound and drugged men, “Fatah. Fatah.” Then to the guard next to them, “Seku.”

Seku. Woman. Fatah. Man.

Walk in place. Kaas. Run in place. Koos. The lesson pro­ceeded slowly, with much repetition when a new word was added. Alama knew what she was doing.

At the end of perhaps an hour Lori thought she under­stood the bare basics. Of course, when any one of the oth­ers talked, it still sounded mostly like gibberish, but that was to be expected. Attempts to return the teaching by matching words in English were abruptly rejected. This was not a lesson for mutual benefit and understanding so much as for the benefit of the tribe. The better to give orders, my dear, Lori thought.

Finally, Alama said, “Lo-ree sleep,” and it was under­stood. On the other hand, there was still no way to be as sophisticated as to convey “I want to sleep but I just can’t.” Alama, however, seemed to understand. She went away for a moment, then came back with a small gourd and taught another word. Kao. Drink.

Lori was still dehydrated, and she took it and drank. It was some sort of fruit juice again, with a slightly bitter af­tertaste. Still, after a few minutes, the pain seemed to fade away and the inner turmoil quieted. She went over her new twenty- or thirty-word vocabulary in her mind, settled down, and was suddenly as deeply asleep as she had ever been.

The next few days were unpleasant but in some ways less traumatic. The men were allowed to come out of their stu­por, although it seemed clear that repeated doses of the same drug on the blowgun darts kept them in partial paral­ysis. The guards were able to keep them quiet with a dem­onstration of what a Stone Age knife or ax might do to not only their tongues but their genitalia.

In the meantime the language lessons continued, some­times with Alama, sometimes with others doing the teach­ing to both women. No talking in any language but the tribe’s was permitted. Absolutely none. Even an unthinking comment uttered in English or Spanish was punished with a quick lash delivered with a vinelike whip to the back or buttocks. It hurt and could cause welts or even draw blood. As bad as that was, it caused amused giggles among those nearby, particularly the children, which made it embarrass­ing as well. They were under constant watch during the day and were made to sleep apart with tribeswomen during the terrible pitch-dark nights. Alama had forbidden all use of fire, and under the thick jungle canopy not even the late, waning moon could be seen.

Eating without cooking was another thing, and it was several days and a bad case of gastric distress before their bodies, if not their minds, fully tolerated the raw—well, creatures—that were offered them and which the rest of the tribe ate with relish. Indeed, both had to be forced, more or less, to eat anything other than the fruit and greenery, which was only slightly more palatable.

A number of times they heard helicopters, often very nearby, and the sound of small planes, but neither seemed to come close enough. Once the sound of voices caused the entire tribe to hide in the underbrush, tensely waiting to at­tack, but the voices soon faded away. Clearly, though, there was a massive search going on, but these women were in their element, and soon the searchers moved on, finding nothing.

The two men continued to have the worst of it, and it worried both Lori and Terry. Not that either had much sym­pathy for Juan Campos, whose manner suggested that he knew he was going to die eventually and wanted just one chance to die fighting. Gus, however, was a different story. He just didn’t deserve this, and his former irrepressible spirit had gone out of him, almost as if he’d retreated into a world of his own.

For the two American women it was a total immersion into a culture and life and language in which all their edu­cation and experience meant nothing. They lacked even ba­sic knowledge. What was edible? What would harm them? What animals were a threat, and how did one deal with them? What water was fit to drink? What water contained things that might harm or even eat one?

Still, the tribe quickly put them to work doing what little chores they could manage, such as walking with large gourds filled with water balanced on their heads. First they got lessons, then help, then they were on their own. Either they got it right the first time or they kept at it—all day, if necessary—until the job was done. They did fetching, haul­ing, even bathing the wounded, removing small bugs and other creatures from skin or hair. All the while they were derisively called dur or dua—child, or even baby—because they were so helpless and ignorant. They were in the tribe but not of it; to become one of the People, one had to earn and desire the privilege.

True to her nature, Terry did not lose hope that one day she would be able to escape or be rescued, and she kept seeing the book she’d write and the movie it would make. These thoughts kept her going, but they were also mixed with pragmatism: Such a time might not come soon, and until then, she wanted to be a member of the tribe, not a slave. In that sense, she was adapting better than Lori.

The scientist was in turmoil over the situation. She was no longer waking up each day surprised that it hadn’t been some awful dream; she wasn’t even daydreaming much about her nice apartment, bathtubs, showers, and flush toi­lets, but she hated this place and this existence. She was be­coming afraid again, not so much that she might die at any moment but rather fearful that she might actually live, and that she wasn’t sure she could stand.

The worst part was that she realized that Alama’s sophis­ticated immersion system was working as easily on her as it would on a woman from another primitive tribe. The only way to avoid that wicked little lash was to try to think in their tongue. Both Terry and had learned enough to be able to do that, but it required constant observation and at­tention. Many of the women seemed to make a game out of trying to force them to make an accidental slip, which would earn another lash.

The language was more complex than it seemed. Terry had the basics down pat, but there were subtleties and nu­ances that were still a mystery to her. For one thing, they had no real concept of time except on a physical level: baby, child, child bearer, old. But “day” and “night” were all the clock or calendar they had or needed. The language itself was basically all in the present tense, as if they had no need of a past or future. The ideal of this culture was that every day be like the last and the next; change was evil.

Lori hated it. Hated it and knew that if this kept on and on, well, one day she’d just snap. And yet somehow she had to admit that there was some good as well. While there was individuality here, the tribe came first, and sharing and helping others were simply taken for granted. They had a genuine love for this hostile steam bath of a jungle and seemed to really respect it and all its inhabitants, even apologizing to the animals and plants they would kill and use. There were no signs of jealousy, greed, envy, or hate. Alama was still a curiosity. There was mystery, harsh expe­rience, and much pain behind those enigmatic eyes. The tribe spoke of her not as a chief or leader but as some kind of deity; supposedly she had been here before any of them, never aging, never changing. But even with a deity living among them, there was trouble in the paradise of the Peo­ple.

“Mother, the men cannot stay,” Bhru pointed out one day. “There is much unhappiness in them. One just stares and barely eats. The other has our death in his eyes. Both are weak and grow sick. They cannot stay as they are. They cannot stay if they are free. They are no good to us.”

Alama nodded. “I know. I think much on them. I try hard to say not to kill them. I pray but do not find a new trail for them.” She sighed. “I wait for the scouts to come back. Then I will say of them what is done.”

“As you will.”

“The two women do well.”

“We see the wisdom of your way. We do not give them rest to think. Their feet and hands grow hard. They grow strong. They speak no Outside, even when we trick them. The dark one thinks she plays a game with us, but the game is just to stay not People. White woman knows she is with us but does not like it.”

“Yes, if things are as always, they will come around in the seasons. Things are not as always. The People need a safe home. The People need more babies. That may bring us close to Outsiders who hunt them. It will bring us close to tribes who speak with Outsiders. We cannot wait for them. They must know that they are of the People to death. They must not want to leave.”

“But how would this be done?”

“I know a way. I know more of how Outsiders think. There is danger to it. They can go mad. They can think of killing selves. Like the men, I see no other trail. Can you make the mark of spirit potions?”

“Now that you say we can have fire, yes. What little I do not have, the forest has here.”

“Good. Then make. Chsua has the thorn needles. I will speak to her and say what is to be done. Mix the sleep herbs in their drink so they will not wake. We will do this at dark.”

Bhru now realized what the Mother had in mind. “But they cannot marry the forest, Mother! Not now! They need to be ready!”

“Do what I say and believe in my wisdom. I know it is not what is done, but this will make them ready. Just do and see.”

Alama sighed, wondering again if what she was doing was right or wrong, doubts she could never express or share with the others. But they had to move and, depending on what the scouts reported, most likely back toward the thing that had burned the forest. What they’d already done, par­ticularly to the men, would cause them to be hunted down if it were known. It had to be done. Anyone could be bro­ken. Anyone. It was just a cruel procedure.

She knew that well, even if the specifics were lost in that mental fog. How many times had she been broken? she wondered. More than once, that was for sure.

Sleep was odd and restless, even in these strange circum­stances. When Lori awoke just after first light with the mists still hanging halfway up the forest heights, it was with odd memories of lights and chanting, but the memory was too distant for her to be certain if it was reality or dream. It wasn’t something to grab hold of; there were more immediate concerns. She felt, well, odd. Her skin tin­gled with a slight burning sensation all over, more an itch than pain, and her nose and ears actually ached.

She turned over, sat up, stretched, and reminded herself as she always did to think in the tribe’s tongue. She put her hand to her sore nose and touched something hard that hurt enough to bring her fully awake.

Something clicked softly on either side of her head, and she put a hand to her ear and discovered that she now had earrings of the type common to the tribe, fashioned from bone and held together with the epoxylike resins they dis­tilled from one of the plants. She looked down at herself and saw that she also now had on the bone bracelets and anklets also common to these people, and a necklace of fresh green carefully braided vines. But . . . her skin!

It was still somewhat dark, but she could see that her skin, probably her whole body, had been dyed a dull shade between olive and brown, and around her breasts, upper arms, and thighs somebody had drawn a series of bold, primitive designs in the flat colors used by the tribe to de­note rank and position. Those areas were particularly un­comfortable, with a stinging sensation, and she felt similar areas on her face. They also had cut most of her hair off, leaving only a thin fuzz on top.

“Lo-rhee pretty now,” commented Ghai, one of her keep­ers, sounding sincere. “Look like forest people. Is good, too, to keep hair short. Things live in hair.”

Lori wet her fingers and tried rubbing on a small part of a design on her thigh. It remained as it was.

“Spirit marks not come off,” Ghai told her, amused at the attempt.

Tattoos! They’d tattooed her! She was too upset at the re­alization to cry, although that might come later. That bitch Alama! She wanted to kill now but knew that she’d never get anywhere near the leader, and if she did, the leader would easily break her arm.

“Terry?”

“Same thing. You are wives of forest now. Do not worry. All pain goes away in one sleep, maybe two.”

Pain was not what she felt so anguished about. She sank back down, fully understanding the logic Alama had used. There would still be some kind of hunt on for them, and people would probably be looking for them for years. Not even this sort of group would be fully undiscovered forever. But now, tattooed, dyed, with bones in ears and nose—the last a cruel overkill, since few of the tribe did it—they would be indistinguishable from the rest of the tribe. Even if they were found, would they want to be rescued like this! With these tattoos and such? And even if the doctors could get the cemented bone jewelry out, removing tattoos of this size would be a massive job. They’d be just medical chal­lenges to the doctors and freaks to everyone else.

Damn it! It just wasn’t fair!

She was happy that there weren’t any mirrored surfaces around. She wasn’t ready to see herself as they’d remade her, not yet, but she got some idea from seeing Terry. Of course, they had done nothing with her skin tone, since that wasn’t necessary, but she was still barely recognizable: her hair shorn to virtually scalp level, large bone earrings with another through the inside nostrils from which a larger curved and polished bone hung almost like a ring, solid blue ovals tattooed from the eyes out past the brows, cheeks adorned with yellow finger-width lines to her ears. her lips framed in a pale white, and her body covered with very obvious and suggestive fertility signs. Terry was clearly to be a baby maker, while Lori, it appeared, was to assist the Fire Bringer and learn the potions and ways of healing.