James Axler – Demons of Eden

“At least we won’t want for food,” Mildred commented.

J.B. and Doc walked near the creek in search of wood dry enough to burn, and Ryan, Krysty and Jak collected armloads of twigs and branches from the copse of trees.

Once the fuel was collected and piled, Doc built a ring of stones and jammed a pair of Y-notched sticks into the ground over the tinder. He started a fire and, using his steel sword as a spit, cuts of hump meat were slowly roasted over the flames.

Joe was a true Amerindian gourmet when it came to ways of preparing buffalo dishes. He handed them saucers full of what looked like watery custard, but were in reality bone marrow mixed with melted fat. He dumped the buffalo’s tongue in a metal cooking pot and placed it directly on the flaming wood to bake. The aroma of wood smoke and roasting and baking meat slowly filled the campsite, and appetites grew.

Joe carried a grease-sheened coil of intestines over the fire, flipped them over the far side of the ring of stones, then dragged them slowly through the flames, searing them and blistering the blue-gray tissue, looping the guts meticulously at his feet, he sat cross-legged in front of them.

He held up one sliced end and asked, “Anyone care to join me?”

The question received polite “No, thank yous” and headshakes all around, though at one time or another, most of the companions had been forced to eat viands far less appetizing.

Joe shove the end of the gut into his mouth and began to gobble it down, not using his hands or even chewing. He swallowed yard after yard of the buffalo intestines, the entire length gliding easily down his throat, like a snake entering its burrow.

Ryan and J.B. watched the process in fascination. Mildred turned her face away.

In an astonishingly short span of time, Joe managed to bolt the entire length of intestine. Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, he reached over with his knife and stabbed the hump meat roasting on the spit. Fat and blood dripped sizzling onto the fire.

“Done,” he announced, “to a turn.”

He sliced off large portions of the rich, gamey meat. Ryan and the others dug in without hesitation. Though the meat was rare, it was tender and easy to digest. He knew the Plains tribes often subsisted on almost nothing else but buffalo meat for long periods of time. It was common knowledge that illnesses endemic to settlements, such as scurvy, were unknown to Indians.

After everyone had eaten their fill, Joe dug out the tongue from where it had been baking in the glowing embers. It was the last delicacy and it was so soft, its flavor so sweet, that even Mildred had to admit she had rarely tasted anything quite as savory.

As the moon climbed over the horizon, Doc loosened his belt and patted his belly. He sighed, tried to swallow a belch and said, “A time like this is when I truly miss my pipe, my slippers and my armchair.”

Ryan looked up at the night sky, the sprawling constellations glinting like powdered diamonds on a black velvet backdrop, and murmured, “Shining times.”

For a moment he wondered where that thought had come from. Then fireflies danced around the campsite, winking like stars. A night breeze stirred the grass and the cottonwoods, their leafy boughs rustling and sighing softly.

Krysty moved closer to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Shining times,” she whispered.

Chapter Sixteen

Ryan looked back down the shoulder of the gray-green mountain. The little line of people and animals crawled up the trail after him. The fourth day of their journey gathered toward the climax of a spectacular western sunset.

The treeless slope ahead of them went up to a hogback ridge. Against the blazing glory of fusing colors that fired the sky, Joe and his pony loomed like statues graven from granite.

Ryan was in a good mood, the best he had been in for longer than he cared to remember. He found keen pleasure in exploring new lands, and he found trekking through the wilderness very congenial. Other than his friends, he hadn’t seen another human being in two days, and the animals crossing his field of vision appeared normal, not mutated. Their provisions had held out, and the grass growing in the valleys was thick and rich enough to provide proper graze for the horses and mules. Even the injuries he had suffered in Amicus, from the laceration on his forehead to the wolf bite on his arm, were almost completely healed.