5. THE SAVAGES

A happy day starts to turn nasty...

Owongo and Binflo had reached perhaps the half-way point on their skidding rush back to the river bank and its cluster of busy caves. Their plan was to rouse the menfolk of the river-bank and sort Fart-fart out for good. They were well on their way back down when they heard a gasping series of crude shouts behind them.

“What is?” panted Owongo,

“Hide and look-see,” replied Binflo, “come!”

He grabbed Owongo by one arm and pulled him off what was really only an indistinct animal track but which was also what they had been following, and before many minutes the two fur-clad cavemen were huddling together in a patch of wild bramble-infested undergrowth.

“Me glad not summer-naked,” whispered Owongo, and Binflo grinned at him “Sshh!” he hissed, “See what!”

There was a clamouring from the direction they had been running, and the sounds of stone axes cutting a crude swathe where there had only been a rough track.

Then three men came into sight, and when they were close to where Owongo and Binflo were sheltering they paused for a few moments, clearly looking for signs that someone, maybe the two refugees, had passed that way. Owongo shuddered invisibly when he saw the nature of creatures that they were. And he noted that the skins they wore against the cooling weather were filthy, the stench of them obvious even at a distance.

They had a conversation of sorts, but it seemed to consist of little more than meaningless grunts mingled with the odd squeak. Owongo recognised the type of men that they were, crude strangers from a tree-settlement far enough away to be of little threat to the valley people, but whenever their type was mentioned it was with a shiver and a shudder in the voices of the speakers, for they were known for their cruelties, the way they treated their poor women, their attitude to prisoners, which they took whenever they could, prisoners they used as slaves for their brief lives.

They appeared to be searching for clues, trying to discover which way Owongo and Binflo had gone in their headlong escape, but the two had been careful in their race from the barely visible track and had not even bent a blade or caused a drying leaf to fall before its time. They were used to moving at speed through the woodland, careful not to provoke an attack from any creature of the wild before their spears were buried in its flanks and it lay still and dead.

The two huddled together, careful not to move a muscle while the savages held their grunting and seemingly meaningless conversation. They were used to it. Many a time Owongo had almost willed his heart to cease its clamour as a tiger, red in tooth and claw, padded within feet of him, its nose keen to catch any scent and its eyes alert for the least suggestion of danger. The tiger wouldn’t be Owongo’s prey, for tiger meat was unpalatable to the people of his tribe and only ever eaten by men if they are truly hungry, but if the tiger threatened he would reluctantly kill it and maybe take its striped skin back to Mirumda, for a nice new coat or extra bedding, if he had the time, that is, for a tiger is no easy creature to strip of its skin.

It seemed an age passed while the three wild men squeaked and grunted together, peering this way and that and shaking their foetid heads, and then they continued on their way, going down towards the river valley and its homely rows of caves. But this time the savages were leading the way and Owongo with his companion started passing along like shadows behind them, eager to see what the barbarians might be up to and careful not to be discovered. The two kept a safe distance, though, for they knew full well they would be no match should the pursued turn and offer battle.

No man in later times would be as silent as the two even though those they trailed were far from silent, hacking and hewing, often without need, and crashing ever closer to the cave settlement of Owongo’s people.

“Me not like this,” whispered Binflo.

“Me neither,” breathed Owongo, “what they after? Why they going ever downwards?”

“Blood. Maybe they want blood.” suggested Binflo, almost soundlessly.

“Or women.” Owongo was struck by a sudden painful thought. Mirumda was down there, the lovely, winsome Mirumda with her mouth-touching ways and happy smile. “Maybe they want women!” he repeated.

They reached within earshot of the caves when there was such a clamouring and a squealing that Owongo feared his heart would stop. And, in the midst of the vicious, random noises he heard, clear as a knife in the heart, the cry Owongo man mine, save me…

It was Mirumda, and he knew instantly that she was in great need. The wild men had grabbed her. The noises told their own story, and there could be no deceit or falsehood in it. He leapt to his feet, but Binflo put out a restraining hand.

“Owongo, stay!” warned Binflo, “Not help women if we get taken too!”

There was sense in what he said, and Owongo shrunk into the undergrowth, suddenly barely visible again. He listened hard, as did his companion, and together they worked out what was happening. Women had been grabbed from the caves and were being savagely beaten if they failed to obey every incomprehensible grunt of the barbarian men. And what was more, they were being herded back up the slope to where the two frightened men were hiding.

Owongo strained his eyes and soon could make out the leering faces of the bearded savages as they force-marched womenfolk up the path and into the forest, ever moving closer to himself and Binflo. And his heart quailed within him as he saw who was foremost amongst the group of prisoners. It was Mirumda, and she was being held by a giant of a man in a vice-like grip. He found himself straining to go on a lonesome attack, but Binflo wisely pulled him back.

“Soon, not yet!” he muttered.

Then the scene changed. A new voice called out, a voice warped by evil and corrupted by foulness. The pathway the savages had hewn with their crude stone implements parted, and the overweight and orange figure of Fart-fart emerged, flaccid hair, bleached and flapping.

His voice caused the savages to pause, and his face was one foul smile as he forced his way towards the pathetic group.

Then he reached them, and sneered as he examined the womenfolk with their weeping faces and angry scowls. It was clear that he was looking for one particular woman.

He started peering and prodding, pushing and squeezing, and with a toxic smile of evil joy he grabbed a fragile arm, and twisted.

With what must have been a vice-like grip he held on to one of the women and pulled her violently towards him. He had made his choice.

It was Mirumda, and even in tears she was beautiful.

TO BE CONTINUED…

© Peter Rogerson 14.04.17