Chapter 32

Tiva waited three days before attempting her escape. The full moon illuminated the trail to the river and she had already cut the bamboo rods and the strips of vine. She could tie a rudimentary raft together in a matter of minutes and float, like Huck Finn, down the river to the sea. Then a simple swim to shore and she would be on the beach and within walking distance of the neighborhood.

Tiva’s muscles were sore the day after she went hunting with the group, but by the second day she had recuperated and was ready for a long run. Of course, when she returned triumphant from the hunt, walking into camp directly behind the Alpha Male, Igor was there, not to greet but to reprimand her.

She could see Igor was irritated that she had gone off with the others without his consent. Tim McFoley had often acted the same way. Typical male, he thought he owned me, she mused. Just like Tim. Igor carried a small stick, about the thickness of a thumb, and Tiva sensed it was an early version of “the rule of thumb” in which medieval husbands could whip a wife, but only with a rod that was no thicker than a thumb. She certainly never thought her “Gender History” college class would come to life in a circle of Neanderthals. “Jesus help me,” she mumbled, an idea forming in her mind. Tiva reached out and tapped the Alpha Male on his back, gesturing for him to let her borrow his knife.

Armed with a knife, Tiva was ready for Igor when he came at her, flailing the stick awkwardly with his right hand. Like a backpedaling boxer Tiva bobbed and weaved and evaded Igor’s rod, then pivoted and turned and cut his right arm with a glancing blow. Igor howled and dropped the stick. The tribe members began laughing and Tiva saw that a Neanderthal’s face could go as red with embarrassment as a human’s; she sensed she had made her second enemy that day, although, by the same measure, she had showed everyone that she was not a female to trifle with. She returned the knife to the Alpha Male but he gestured for her to keep it and gave her the knife’s sheath so Tiva could wear it. Then he indicated for her to follow him.

He led her to his lean-to, which was occupied by a woman and a little male toddler. Now what, she thought—a ménage a trios? The Alpha Male indicated that she could take her alligator skin and make her own lean-to and be next to his tent. She sensed this was quite an honor and no sexual favors were expected. She wasn’t merely a woman, she was a part of his team, and he was treating her like she was one of the men. Boy, are you ahead of your time, Tiva felt like telling him. That first night after the hunt she spent some time fashioning a loincloth from the alligator skin, but she didn’t wear it. No, the loincloth was for her reappearance in the neighborhood. She contemplated making an alligator skin bra for propriety, but didn’t have enough skin for a lean-to, a loincloth and a bra. And frankly, in the days since her breasts had been out of their artificial harness she had felt incredibly natural and at ease. She hated braziers. They were unnatural and constraining. The neighbors should be thankful she even bothered to cover her genitals.

That first night back from the hunt Tiva joined the others in a form of funeral service presided over by the Hobbit male who had served as master of ceremony for Lundgren’s beheading. The Neanderthals seemed to treat that one particular Hobbit like a spiritual leader, and she wondered if Harry Hobbit, as she nicknamed him in her mind, was as crazy as Jeffery Lundgren had been. Gabriel sure had deserted Jeffery, she thought, feeling her own foolishness return. You followed Jeffery as easily as Jeffery followed the non-existent angel, she chastised herself, and then another part of her psyche took over and she told herself, Don’t beat yourself up. You have no time for self-pity. You won’t survive if you start feeling sorry for yourself. Get a grip!

Tiva watched the funeral service. Harry Hobbit was in his regalia, his face painted, a few bones in his hair. He waved two ornamental rattles and sprinkled some liquid over the grave as the Neanderthal females, weeping, threw a variegation of flowers into the pit. Then the males took long-handled crude wooden scoops that operated like shovels and tossed dirt atop the corpse. Tiva was struck by the similarities to a modern funeral, although if she were playing the organ she knew the hymn would have been How Great Thou Art; that was her favorite funeral hymn and it was the recessional in many of the funerals she had played in that bygone era before Hurricane Camilla. She was happy to have been the organist for the neighborhood and hoped that, if she could make it back, they would let her resume her playing. She felt at peace when she played the church organ, and she needed to recharge her spiritual battery, for this experience was draining all of her religious reserve, testing her faith. The lyrics of An Old Rugged Cross ran through her mind. Jesus, sweet Jesus, help me, she prayed silently. Let me make it back and let my children forgive me. Would they take me back? The neighbors hadn’t banished her as they had Jeffery. So wouldn’t she be welcomed back? Jesus help me, she asked again.

The two days after the funeral the Neanderthals treated as holidays; the hunters stayed in the camp and engaged in sporting games, including running and a form of wrestling that seemed to have few rules, save that the match was over when one wrestler was on his or her back. Males wrestled males and females wrestled females, and as Tiva passively watched, Buffy pinned three women in a row. After Buffy’s third pin one of the males shouted out what Tiva thought sounded like “On,” and the other males began chanting the same sound and looking at Tiva. “On” was what they were calling her, Tiva realized, and they wanted “On” to wrestle Buffy. Oh oh, Tiva thought. What now? Well, at least she can’t kill me…can she?

Tiva stepped into the middle of the crowd, which backed off to give the two women room. Buffy smiled confidently and sneered at Tiva. She came charging at Tiva, but Tiva sidestepped out of her way and Buffy went headfirst into the dirt. The crowd laughed and shouted, “On On.” Buffy made another run at Tiva, but when Tiva began to sidestep Buffy anticipated the move and grabbed Tiva around the waist, throwing her to the ground. Tiva landed on her stomach but was quickly on her feet before Buffy could jump atop her. Buffy hit Tiva across the face with a forearm and Tiva fell down for a second time, blood trickling from her nose. As it dribbled into her mouth she felt a new strength and sprang to her feet. Buffy was circling her, getting ready for the kill. The forearm was a cheap shot, Tiva realized. She wondered if Buffy could take a punch. As Buffy ran toward her Tiva hauled off and met her with a haymaker, square on her chin, and the punch lifted Buffy off her feet. She fell unconscious on her back and Tiva jumped on her for the pin. Then she jumped up, raised her arms in triumph and screamed as loud as she could. She had never felt so alive in her life.

The crowd, stunned by what they witnessed, was silent until a smiling Alpha Male started chanting, “On On” and the rest of the crowd chimed in.

Buffy was unconscious for the rest of the day, and the following morning the once proud Buffy cowered when she saw Tiva. Tiva realized that she was the Alpha Female and she had replaced Buffy in the pecking order of the tribe. Buffy could no longer meet her eye to eye and Tiva felt sorry for her. She wondered if Buffy would regain her status after she had escaped from the camp. She hoped she would. She had no resentment toward Buffy. I’m the interloper, she thought.

That second night the Alpha Male had entered her lean-to. She knew what he wanted and she was surprised at herself that she wanted it to. He was the most masculine creature she had ever met and she willing submitted to him. For only the third time in her life, a male gave Tiva an orgasm. The Alpha Male, not surprisingly, did not stay around to cuddle. He returned to his own lean-to and Tiva realized the Alpha Male now considered her his second wife. Tiva assumed her submission would allay any suspicion that she was about to escape.

On the third night Tiva waited for hours until she was fairly certain that all of the Neanderthals and the remnants of the Hobbits were asleep. It was odd, she thought, that the Neanderthals didn’t post a guard at night. But then, what did they have to fear? Tiva mused. Probably the only thing that could threaten the Neanderthal existence was the humans from Tiva’s neighborhood. And that was another reason to escape—to inform her neighbors the Neanderthals were peaceful. There was no need for genocide, as Jeffery had tried unsuccessfully on the Hobbits. The chicken pox virus, as far as Tiva could discern, had probably killed most of the Hobbits, save for a hardy few whom she guessed had some type of immunity or had been saved by some form of divine intervention, like her neighborhood had during the Category 5 hurricane. On that point she still agreed with Lundgren: God had saved them, even if it wasn’t the Garden of Eden. And Tiva believed God would keep her safe all the way back to the neighborhood.

She gathered up her knife and sheath and tied the cord around her waist, connecting it to her alligator loincloth, with which she modestly covered her crotch. She scanned the sleeping Alpha Male in his lean-to, his mate with her head on his chest in peaceful slumber. You are a lucky woman, Tiva thought, as she smiled at the female. She remained as quiet as was humanly possible, hoping that was on par with Neanderthal stealth, and made her way through the camp quickly and silently. When she came to Igor’s lean-to she gave it a quick glance, and for a second she sensed that Igor was awake and saw her, but then dismissed the feeling as an optical illusion created by the moonlight.

She made it to the trail from the camp to the river and picked up her step to a slow jog. She felt proud of herself for outfoxing the Neanderthals and yet ambivalent leaving them, for Tiva had never felt so alive in her life. This was such an easy escape, she thought, amazed that she had not been discovered. Thank you, God, she murmured. Thank you, Jesus.

About a mile from the river, Tiva stopped to catch her breath and listen. There appeared to be footsteps behind her. One pair, she guessed. She left the trail and hid in the foliage and watched as Igor, carrying a spear, ran by her.

Shit, she cursed to herself. It wasn’t going to be as easy as she thought. She waited in the foliage to see if any others were coming, but no one passed and she heard no footsteps except the ones fading in the distance. What to do with Igor? She hoped she wouldn’t have to kill him. Was he trying to save face? He could save face by capturing her and bringing her back to the tribe, Tiva thought, dragging her by her hair into the camp. So he probably wasn’t trying to kill her, just capture her and take her back and prove to one and all that he was a man—that he was higher up than the Alpha Female. Damn the male ego, Tiva thought. Why couldn’t males just leave things alone? The sound of Igor’s running faded from Tiva’s ears as he pressed on to the river.

Tiva jogged the rest of the trail, a hand held on her knife, ready to unsheathe it instantly if the situation warranted. Igor was at the riverbank, scanning the river for signs of Tiva, his back toward her as she approached as quietly as she could. But her foot snapped a twig and Igor turned, brandishing his wooden tipped spear.

She saw the hatred in his eyes, the eyes that resembled a drunken abusive husband, the father she had known as a little girl, the man who had beaten her mother and then left his family to fend for itself, the man who three years later died in an alcohol related car crash. Igor had the same appearance, and she was wrong, she realized suddenly. Igor was there to kill her. He could save face by killing the ungrateful female. He thrust the spear toward Tiva, but he was too far from her to strike her.

She grabbed her knife, raised her arm then brought the blade down sharply, thwacking the spear in two. Igor looked like a man whose penis had suddenly gone limp on him for some inexplicable reason. Fear had replaced the hatred on his face. He threw down the remains of his spear and he fell to his knees as if begging her for mercy.

Geez, what a pitiful caveman, Tiva thought. She placed the knife under his chin and sighed as Igor’s knees knocked. She lifted up his head with her knife, stared into his eyes with her best menacing glare then drew the knife away and indicated for him to rise. When he was up, she pointed her knife down the trail and gestured for him to run home. She didn’t have to repeat the gesture. He was a fast runner, she evaluated, surprised by her own calmness. Igor was typical of a bully; he wasn’t as tough as he puffed himself up to be.

She uncovered the bamboo and quickly built her raft. She assumed that Igor would be back with a posse in a couple of hours. But she would be long gone, down the river, she hoped, before the tribesmen could return and before the alligators went shopping for their breakfast.

As she worked on her raft she attempted to understand why she had become Jeffery Lundgren’s acolyte, why she had deserted her family as she had to follow a man who, she now realized, was demented. Yes, she didn’t love her husband, but she did love the children. But she always felt that Tim was the better parent. Tim had never abused her; she would never have stood for what her mother had put up with. But the sparks between them were long gone, even the embers were cold. Had there ever been any heat of passion? But why had she chosen Jeffery Lundgren to replace Tim? Was it a higher calling or something else entirely?

It was embarrassingly Freudian, she realized; Jeffery Lundgren was a father figure for her. A few days with the Neanderthals had been worth a good year or two of psychotherapy, Tiva mused with a smile. Or a case of smelling salts. She slid her raft into the river.