The Primeval World

THE ELEPHANT SLAYER-2

“Ah, ah! Here he comes. You see now, Eska? You didn’t hit him so hard after all. Our sleeper has awakened.”

I blinked, clearing my eyes, as the room swam into focus: as the floating spheres of light resolved into candle flames and the hovering pink blur became a face, which smiled—patiently, fatherly. Elusively, like a wolf.

“Welcome to the Roc’s Nest,” said the face—its skin cracked like bleached leather, its teeth straight and white. “Please, have a look around. I’m Gavin Carter. And this—this here is Eska. My adopted daughter.”

I looked at her even as I became aware of my pounding head: at her strange, harsh face and dense, un-manicured brows; her large, stout teeth—which were not straight and white—her eyes like chiseled obsidian.

“Go on, Eska,” said the man—Carter—who appeared to be in his late 50s. “Be a dear and give Mr. Hayes a smile. Show him some of that primal charm you have; and in such great abundance. Come, come, now.”

I watched as the corners of her mouth crept up, slowly, hesitantly. Indeed, she could be charming—even beautiful—when she wasn’t braining you with a board, that is (or whatever she’d used).

I looked around the room, which was more like a great hall—at the pillars made of immense tree trunks and crossbeams carved from maple or walnut; at the astounding collection of mounted animal busts which adorned every wall and flat surface.

At last I managed, “How—how do you know my name?”

“It wasn’t difficult,” he said, taking a sip from his wine glass, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. “You still had an I.D.”

I slapped my back pocket—my ankle catching on something as I shifted—but it was gone, of course. My wallet. That’s when I looked down—having heard the ka-c***k of metal—and realized I was shackled to my chair.

He frowned almost sheepishly. “An imposition, to be sure—but a necessary one.” He looked at something on the table which I recognized as my old military ID. “Can’t have a trained killer just wandering about the house—now can we?” He paused, studying my face. “I must say ... you don’t exactly look the part.”

“Well, people can be full of surprises, can’t they?” I glanced at Eska, who just stared right back. “Your ‘daughter’ is certainly capable of a few. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, most certainly,” said Carter—and added: “People, I mean. People are full of surprises. Not Eska. Not from me.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“I know her too well ... having reared her since she was a pup.” He paused, appearing wistful—even morose—before changing the subject; abruptly, I thought. “I, ah, couldn’t help but to notice you appreciating my collection. Do you hunt, Mr. Hayes?”

I looked at the nearest mount, a triceratops head with a broken horn (and a frightful visage), wondering what the circumstances of its death had been. Had it been charging—with the Flashback in its eyes, perhaps—and thus aware that it had an opponent? Or had it been unaware, just mulling its soft grasses, until the bullet entered its brain?

“No,” I said, finally, turning my attention back to him. “Can’t exactly say as I am. It—it’s never seemed like a fair contest to me.” I jerked my leg against the chain—twice—to make a point. “Does it to you?”

“Pshaw,” he protested. “You speak as if we’re enemies. As though this were some contest between you and I, personally. On the contrary, Mr. Hayes. It’s a collaboration.”

I’m afraid I just stared at him.

At last I said: “Okay—why not. I’ll bite. What are you talking about?”

“I am talking, Mr. Hayes ...” He stood and began pacing the length of the table. “—about legend. About myth and memory—and the securing of one’s place in the natural order of things.” He withdrew something from his housecoat as he walked—a pipe; but didn’t light it. “Posterity is what I’m talking about. A place at the table of the gods. That, and endings. Inevitabilities.”

He paused and struck a match. “One last and penultimate hunt.”

He lit the pipe and waved out the match, then turned, slowly, regarding me through a cloud of smoke. “Atatilla, is what I’m talking about. Queen of the Mammoths. The, ah, Leviathan of the Steppes, as they say. I intend to kill her. And you, my lost and wayward friend, are going to help me. By acting as my driver.”

“Your driver?”

“Yes. I’d normally call on Eska, but, as you’ve no doubt observed, she is—at present—incapacitated.” He glanced at her across the table. “Isn’t that right, Love?”

She took her eyes off me long enough to nod at him, stoically, silently.

“She, ah, understands, you see.” He moved around the table toward her. “And not only the language but, how shall I say it? The lay of the land.”

I watched as he took up position behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

At length I said: “What is it, Carter? And what is she? Cro-Magnon? Neanderthal? What do you mean— ‘the lay of the land?’”

“I mean, she understands who she is ... now. And also, where she belongs.” He fussed over her as she stared straight ahead—straightening her collar, repositioning her hair. “More importantly, she understands who I am. She can even say it—can’t you, Love?”

She looked up at him with what seemed like respect, even reverence.

“Go on,” he cajoled—gently. Softly. “Who am I?”

“Ma—ma—master,” she managed at some length. “You are ... Master.”

He veritably leapt with joy. “Very good, Eska! Oh, very good! Oh, that is absolutely wonderful. Most excellent. Now tell me, what I am the master of?”

She hesitated—as though searching her memory.

“E-everything,” she said at last, the words seeming to come easier, if not any faster. “M-m-me. The animals. All—all the world.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, and practically capered. “Very good ...”

He looked at me as though he assumed I’d be impressed. “Well? What do you think? Does she pass the test for Homo sapiens sapiens?”

But by then my anger had boiled over and I’d stood, abruptly, jerking the chain on my ankle as I moved toward him, dragging the chair after me.

“Look—you indoctrinate all the Cro-Magnon f*****g girls you want ... If you don’t have me out of here inside of 60 seconds I’m going to—”

“Genghis!” he shouted, and snapped his fingers, the sound of which echoed in the hall. “Come along, now. Right now.”

And before I could do much of anything he—it—was there, entering the room from a nearby corridor and snarling as it advanced, crouching and tensing as its foreclaws splayed; tapping its retractable sickle claws over the smooth, polished floor.

Stalking me as I fell, tangled up with the chair; and blanketing me with its shadow—as only a Utahraptor could.

––––––––