Page 74 of Caveman Alien's Touch

I yawn and stretch. “I’m sure you clever girls will figure something out. Sorry, I’ve had a long day and no sleep last night. Astrid, the clan asks if you would do the funeral ceremony for their member who died.”

“Oh,” she says, taken by surprise. “I was actually not going to do any of that shaman stuff. They have a bunch of guys here who can do it much better than me. They speak the language, too.”

“They asked specifically for you,” I tell her, exaggerating just a little. “I don’t think they’d appreciate a random Borok man to do it. And Melr’ax is too feeble to make the journey.”

“He’s tougher than he looks,” Astrid says. “Get him riled up about religion, and he’s all fire and brimstone. But okay. This once I guess I can officiate at a funeral, if Melr’ax tells me what to say and do.”

“It’s different from the tribe,” Piper says. “I’m not even sure what they do. But Melr’ax will know it.”

“It’s a one-time thing,” Astrid warns. “It doesn’t mean I’ll be a shaman.”

I go over and hug her. “We get it. Thank you. It will mean a lot to Nok— to the clan.”

The girls exchange glances.

Alba stretches her legs out. “How are things with you and that guy with the head? Noker?”

“I think they are good,” I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral. “He has some thinking to do. And so do I.”

“Don’t thinktoolong,” Piper says. “This isn’t Earth. We don’t have time to think much, because today may be our last day alive. Sorry to be dark, but it’s just a fact. And a guy who keeps saving your life probably deserves to be thoughtwellabout.”

“I’m taking everything into consideration,” I promise as I walk over to the edge of the plateau and gaze out at the jungle below. The setting sun lights it up in red and orange and every shade of yellow. Still it can’t compete with Noker’s head fan when he’s mad. That’s practically a light show.

I locate the place where I think the camp might be. It looks like any part of the jungle from up here. A part of me wishes I was there right now, swaying slowly back and forth on a platform, hearing the soft murmur of the clansbrothers, and then leaning back into a broad, strong chest...

“I’ll get some sleep,” I tell the girls. “The funeral is the day after tomorrow, Astrid.”

“All right,” she sighs. “I’ll do my best to learn the procedure tomorrow.”

I go down to the ground level and check that Sprisk and Trat are okay. I find them in Melr’ax’s hut, where they’ve clearly told him what’s happened. The mood in his hut is solemn.

“I’m glad Astrid will do it,” Melr’ax says when I tell him. “She has the bearing and the mind for a shaman. And for practically everything else she’d want to be. I’ve never had my beliefs shaken as much as when she was here to talk to me, Bronwen. And my worldview has changed considerably. That’s not easy for a man my age.”

“She’s special,” I agree. “Thank you. I will go and get some sleep. Have you been given huts, Sprisk?”

“The Borok tribe has generously allowed us the use of the hut next to this one,” Sprisk says. “They have provided food and great hospitality. I must admit that I didn’t expect the Borok tribe to be this friendly to us Foundlings.”

“It surprises us all,” Melr’ax creaks. “Chief Korr’ax was a remarkable man in the first place, and his wife has only made him stronger. Good night, Bronwen. I wish I could see the clan again myself.”

I climb up to my cave, the less-than-perfect rope ladder not bothering me so much after having survived another deadly danger just hours before. Getting comfortable on the skins, I wish I had company. Maybe someone who could hold me tight, make my chest tremble with the bass in his voice, touch me so a delighted shiver goes down my back, and make me feel safe and even excited about the future…

- - -

“That’s very good,” I enthuse. “You found so many!”

Trat glows with pride, but does his best to not smile. “They’re easy to find. The leaves are so big.”

There’s eighteen of the drap roots on the table. Finding them was the special job I gave Trat on the walk here yesterday, and he did incredibly well. He could have found more, too, but I stopped him about halfway because he was disappearing into the jungle a little too often for my peace of mind. I wouldn’t want him to get in dinosaur trouble because of me.

“Now we need fire to dry them in,” I tell him. “We try different ways and see which is best.”

We carry the roots up the stairs to the plateau, and up there the boy stands amazed at the view. The girls gather around him and point out where they think the camp is, the ocean, and the Tretter village. Trat seems to enjoy the attention a great deal, despite a shyness that’s perfectly charming.

Together we experiment with the drap roots. We scoop them out and dry the pulp on rocks and in pots, we cut them in half and dry them over a fire, we cook them without peeling them first, and we slice them up and dry them that way.

The sweet leaves I collected back at the flast bush had withered when I found the place I wanted them to dry. They were not sweet anymore, just brown and dead.

“None of these methods areideal,” Alba says, examining a drap root that’s been burned to a crisp. “But I guess you have enough to see if it behaves like flour.”

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