Being Dead Part Five

No history book ever portrayed Cro-Magnon folk like this!

I don’t know what was in the drink in its crude wooden beaker that Cro offered me and I accepted for fear of upsetting him, but it went straight to my head in the sort of way that made everything around me seem very funny and even the dim light appear sparkly-bright.

I even dared to laugh at Cro’s skirt, little more than an animal hide roughly butchered to a shape that must have been getting on for being comfortable, and when he saw what I was laughing at he carefully took it off so that I could examine it without the need for me to touch it in situ, which amused Megan (who had also had a sip of Cro’s wee dram.) But the sight of the rippling muscles on my new friend was enough to sober me up because I would never ever be an equal to him, and I was well aware in more ways than one, as witness the impressed expression on Megan’s face.

“It is a little something I created from a deer’s hide, old thing,” smiled Cro, and he eyed my tee shirt and shorts distastefully. “I may have a spare one if you’d care to try it on?”

“Maybe later..” I muttered, not accepting his offer and not refusing it either. Then, to excuse what might have seemed like bad manners I added, “it’s been one hell of a day for us…”

He nodded. “Well, if you're feeling like getting forty winks please settle on one of our luxury padded chairs,” he said, proudly indicating the furniture that looked anything but luxurious or padded.

“Let’s get some rest, Peter,” smiled Megan and she produced an exaggerated and very artificial yawn, “And maybe you could try on one of his nice leather skirts?”

“I don’t think they’re quite me,” I protested rather weakly, probably because the contents of the wooden beaker he’d given me was still swirling around my head like nothing I had experienced before, and I’d often had a taste for a cocktail of ginger wine and whiskey.

“Then come on this seat with me and slip your shorts off,” she grinned, “you know you like it…”

The seat she had indicated was more comfortable than it looked, but only marginally, and Megan took advantage of my shorts by scrunching them up to create a sort of thin pillow.

Cro nodded critically. “Very good, old bean,” he murmured, “it might be a splendid idea for you to get some shut-eye because there’s always a chance we may be treated to a display of muscle from the Neanderthals who live on the other side of the stream.”

I hadn’t noticed a stream as we had clambered over the rough ground on our way to his lean-to home, but I’m quite sure there must have been one because some drying skirts were draped on a huge stone in one corner of their home, and I concluded that Emmakins must have been to the stream and washed them. But I was alerted by his use of the word Neanderthals which took me back to the same pre-history lessons I’d sat though when I’d discovered the name Cro-magnon.

“Why? Are they dangerous?” I asked.

He laughed at that. “Indeed no!” he said, they are so sweet and they like to demonstrate their latest gymnastic moves in displays that make the eyes water! And their voices… don’t you know Neanderthals? They have such manly faces yet such squeaky voices. Emmakins loves them, don’t you, petal?”

The very pregnant Emmakins giggled before saying “if they had such mighty weaponry under their skirts as you have, my love, I might even have run off with one of them…”

“Now you’re making me jealous…” quipped Cro, “really, sweet one, and in front of guests!”

“I’m only joking and you know it!” she laughed, “you’re the only man for me! And seeing our guest now that he had taken his shorts off, I am doubly convinced of that!”

“Oh, sweet one, what if Peter gets to be offended and produced a weapon with which to punish you?” asked Cro in a horrified voice, though his eyes were twinkling humourously.

“I wouldn’t dream of treating my hostess with anything but cheerful affection,” I assured the two of them.

“And I wouldn’t love him if he did,” added Megan.

“Tell me about your Neanderthals?” I asked Cro, “I have heard of them of course, but never met one of them.”

He smiled at me and nodded his head. “They may look a tad brutish,” he said, “what with their beetling brows and very little in the way of a chin, then there’s their squeaky voices, a bit like a boy soprano even when they’re fully grown, but they are so sweet and kindly. Why, when they noted that Emmakins and I were slow in producing a child of our own one of them stepped in to help! Didn’t he, precious?” he concluded, asking Emmakins.

“He did, and he pleased me greatly despite having less of a you- know-what that you have, my mighty man,” murmured the very pregnant woman supportively.

“And look at the sweet woman now,” sighed Cro, “if will be not so many hours, and we will have a child of our own!

“Oh,” I said, “a Neanderthal child?” I added.

“There may be some elements of our whistling friends, but we will love it none-the-less,” said Cro, frowning slightly.

“Then you are truly a good man,” I told him, at which he smiled at the two of us.

“Then you may as well take advantage of the fading light and do a little breeding yourselves,” he said pointedly, “and come the dawn we can only hope that our Neanderthal friends come from their caves and entertain us with their gymnastic skills! Why, you may learn something from them!”

I wasn’t so sure of providing my host with a display of twenty-first century passion and neither, I knew, was Megan. But recent events had drained me and I could easily have dosed off where we lay together, and to confirm matters I could just about detect a gentle snore coming from the love of my life. She, too, was tired. After all, it had been one heck of a day, what with both of us being shot dead and then awakening to find ourselves in what my old history teacher had called the stone age with two of the gentlest and friendliest strangers I had ever known.

At least, that was my judgement at the time, though at the time I didn’t know how quickly things might change.

© Peter Rogerson 27.08.24

xxx