Page 31 of Caveman Alien's Bride

“Those are some of the most precious items in the Borok tribe,” I tell her. “There’s a distant tribe that makes fine fabrics. The process is slow, and all the tribes want that fabric. We traded a great deal of fine steel blades for this. Put it on now.”

Bryar is clearly astonished by the fine clothing. But she nods towards Piper. “She?”

“We will make garments for your friend as well,” I tell her. “Tonight, she will have to wear what she’s wearing right now.”

My wife turns to Piper and tries to hand her the long sheet of white fabric, by far the most precious of the two pieces because of the unusual color. But Piper clearly doesn’t want it and Bryar gives up.

She indicates that she wants me to turn around, so Piper and I go outside in the darkness.

The night is pleasant, and there are the sounds of Smalls and Bigs from all around. The village is in darkness, so the pyre will be all the more impressive. It’s not uncommon to light pyres in a tribe as big as this, and it isn’t always a particularly sad occasion. But Shaman Gerut’on’s death has rattled me.

“I should have been able to kill that rekh before it got close,” I mutter, not caring that Piper is looking at me. She doesn’t understand much of what I say. “But I was always looking at my wife. I was too slow. I knew that the shaman wasn’t the best swordsman. He even dropped his blade!”

I look out at the night. In the far distance, I think I can spot the fires in the Tretter tribe. Perhaps they will see the light from the pyre and guess what’s happened.

“It bothers me that Gerut’on was the man who wedded us,” I admit. “I would have wanted him to live much longer, and enjoy the honor of being the only shaman on Xren who’s done such a thing. Is it a bad omen for the marriage?” I turn to Piper, as if I expect her to have an answer.

She just looks emptily back at me.

“But you don’t need to worry, Piper,” I tell her. “I have plans for you.”

Bryar comes out to join us. She looks beyond incredible in the light from the lamps. The skirt is both too long and too wide, but she has artfully made it look as if it fits. She’s wound the white sheet around her upper body in a way that emphasizes her chest, and the sight makes me speechless.

“Is nice?” she asks, turning around.

“Is nice,” I manage, my voice raspy. She’s the most astonishing and beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The two women talk in their own language while they both adjust Bryar’s clothing.

“It’s time,” I tell them, losing patience. “Let’s go.”

I extinguish two of the oil lamps and bring the third to the edge of the cliff so its small flame can be seen from the village down there. Then I start walking down with the two women behind me.

At the bottom of the stairs, my tribesmen have formed two rows that go all the way out the gate and over to the pyre.

Holding the oil lamp high in front of me, I slowly walk between the rows. Everyone is quiet, and the only thing I hear is the footsteps of the two women behind me. Yes, it was their noises that attracted the rekh that killed Gerut’on. I should have told them to be quiet, and I should have been quiet myself.

I reach the pyre and set the oil lamp on a pole that has been rammed into the ground. Gerut’on’s body has been laid on top of the pile, clad in his usual black robe. The missing head has been disguised with a short log.

The tribesmen gather around me, and I make sure to keep Bryar close.

“Shaman Gerut’on was the only shaman to have wed a man and a woman,” I begin my speech. “And he did it the way he did everything: with great force and skill. He was a powerful shaman, and now he has joined his Ancestors. We of the Borok tribe are lucky for having had a shaman like him! Always whenwe hear of other shamans from other tribes, we will now say: ‘He may have been good, but he was not Shaman Gerut’on.’”

My voice fails me and I grab the oil lamp, blow on it to make the flame stronger, and then fling it at the pyre. It smashes against a solid log. The oil catches, and soon the whole pyre is burning brightly.

The tribe’s drummers start pounding their instruments in a slow rhythm and the Elders start chanting, their old voices having a strangely comforting effect.

I stand quietly, feeling tears flow down my face. That never happens during a funeral pyre. I didn’t know that I cared so much for the shaman. But I’m grateful for what he did for me as his last official act. Perhaps that’s why the Ancestors decided he had to join them now — he would never be able to do anything more profound or holy than wedding me to Bryar.

Something touches my fingers. It’s Bryar’s little hand. She grabs mine and squeezes it.

My heart swells from her gesture.

The crowd moves away from the fire, which is getting really hot. Mugs are given out, and then we all drink somefritwhile the drums keep playing and the old men keep chanting.

The pyre crackles and burns. It will attract Bigs and Smalls, curious about the light. It’s time to leave.

Still holding Bryar’s hand, I slowly walk back through the gates, and the tribe follows me.

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