Two weeks had passed since Tom and Little crossed the northern corner of the great Temblor Sea. Though he’d taken the sail, he left the raft where she’d run ashore, thanking her for the voyage. Then they set out once again on foot. He would have preferred to go the rest of the distance on the raft, but after the incident with the Megalodon, he ruled that avenue out.
The going on the beach was easier than the forest, as there were fewer obstacles to have to climb over or around. Yet there was still some of that, seeing as the tide carried every fallen tree back to the shore to roll endlessly in the waves or to block a path with lateral obstruction. Soft sand could bog one down too, so when they could, they stayed on the wetter sands near the tide.
As the miles dropped away, Tom discerned that, where on the plains they’d trekked in almost uniformly hot weather, now, with the coastal influence of the Temblor, the temperatures were mild and splendid.
As expected, there were a variety of coastline denizens to navigate. More marine crocodiles, for one. When rounding a headland and noticing them, Tom immediately stopped, then backed up. He and Little then climbed and scrabbled, with some difficulty, up the gravelly hill behind the foreshore and walked above them.
On the bluffs, they encountered bunches of Giant Coreopsis, attractive yellow flowers on tree-like trunks that stood ten feet tall, and Tree Lupine, also with yellow florets and similar height. After passing through them and past the band of crocs, they were presented with a choice: either climb back down, no easy feat, or continue along the rise above the beach. Because it was mostly open land with only small inclinations, Tom decided upon the latter.
The hillock afforded dazzling views of the vast sea, the sun glinting from it like a million blinding diamonds. Looking south with the binocs, he thought he could see where the other side of the Temblor ended in the far distance, but a haze there made it hard to tell for sure. As there seemed to be less obstacles and fewer fauna to deal with here, except for some small species of Tomarctus hunting nesting shorebirds and a few other minor animals, they kept mainly to this route for the next two weeks. However, gullies frequently forced them either to moderately higher ground or back down to the beach.
Fortunately, there was only one other group of the violent Paleoparadoxia, which they happened upon a few days after leaving the raft. It was a much smaller band, though, and these were considerably less animated; contented to simply lie on the beach and sun themselves. From the safety of the overlook, Tom got a mischievous air and lobbed a rock down at the biggest one. It bounced off the tough, blubbery hide and the great animal lifted its head, but not finding the culprit, set it back down and went again to sleep, no harm done.
There was yet another delight in store for Tom which first began to manifest itself a week after rafting day. The tide, the waves of water that rushed onshore, were actually glowing a luminous phosphorescent blue/green, a phenomenon especially apparent on moonless nights, and he wondered what in the world could be causing it. After the first night, they went to the beach at sunset the following day and waited for it. Tom strode into the water to wash cakes of sweat and sand off and Little caught crabs to eat. She knew better than to get near the largest of them though. Tom dug up giant oysters a foot and a half long, with shells an inch thick. Little tried her best to open them, but her human, fearing a broken tooth, forswore her this pastime. He ended up reburying them.
When it was dark enough, they sat and watched the bright emerald waves with delight. Then, deciding to go for a stroll, he walked along the wet sands for a while. He was soon startled to see that their every step ignited in olivine radiance.
What he didn’t know was that the green he saw was being caused by dinoflagellate “blooms”, billions of microscopic, bioluminescent plankton, later called Lingulodinium polyedrum, or similar species, and diatoms, which were in turn caused by the presence of nutrients in the seawater washed down from the mountains and valleys by the frequent rains. What they were seeing, though, was but a scaled down representation of the truly huge blooms on the outer coastal Temblor and Gabilan ranges by massive amounts of phosphorous and other organic nutrients.
The phosphorus was churned up by “upwelling”, an upward movement of seawater from the bottom to the surface, present along the California coast during middle Miocene. Offshore winds, aided by a strengthened California Current, pushed the water away from shore, forcing cold, nutrient-rich deep waters to the surface. The current itself was triggered by the gradual cooling of the globe. Phytoplankton fed on the nutrients, and when these organisms died they accumulated on the basin floor in truly epic numbers to create organic-rich shales that in times past included the Eocene “Kreyenhagen,” and now the Miocene “Monterey Formation.” With time, heat and pressure acted on the buried organic matter within these shales to create oil and gas, the source of California’s famous rich reserves.
In the middle Miocene though, when the formation was still in its infancy, sea birds, whales, and fish converged in these zones to feed on the sardines and anchovies, which were in turn attracted by the plankton and krill.
It was a spectacular show, and, once again, Tom marveled at the beauty that was; and although a long way off, he mourned the eventual loss of that beauty in the future.
There was an unforeseen cost to his choice of this pathway by the sea, and Tom discovered it one afternoon after having to remove his shoe for the third time in a short while to let some minute, but annoying, debris out. Salt water had been working on the resins that held the shoe together.
Disaster! One of my so-called “indestructible” shoes has split. It now admits water, sand, stones and small sticks. Further, the tread on the underside of both has worn down. So much for technology. Will have to figure out a way to repair the bad one or replace it. If that weren’t enough, all of my shirts and pants are ripped. Those I can sew, but I’ll have to consider the long term. Argh!
Tom’s selection of solution for his shoe, tying a piece of cloth around the toe end, was short-lived, as he suspected it would be. He tried to sew it, but snapped one of his needles off attempting to push it through the polyurethane. As he only had three needles total, he didn’t want to risk another. So he stuck a wad of cloth inside and kept walking. Meanwhile, he put his mind to a solution. Certainly, when preparing him for the trip, Karstens had not anticipated that Tom would be doing so much traipsing. The shoes were meant to last a good while of normal use, longer than the best commercial brand, but sooner or later he’d have to replace them. Looked like it might be sooner, than later.
Tom tried several concepts, he found a piece of bark from a large tree and kept it soaking in a stream while he explored an area of sun and shade. Hours later, he returned and removed it, finding it appropriately soft for cutting. He shaped it roughly according to his shoe size, then he smoothed the inside. Lastly, he tied some string around it to hold it on, finishing his sandals.
Lashing them to his feet, he was eager to try them out. But after a few dozen steps, the uncomfortable things began to fall apart. Tom swore and kicked them off, then, head resting in his hands, he thought. The bark was too dry; maybe he needed fresh, inner bark. Procuring it, though, would be something else. He would have to keep a look out. Meanwhile, he hit on an idea almost as good. Hanging from some species of palm trees were woody, half-oval shaped structures, two to three feet in length and a nearly a foot wide. They were the tree’s flower bracts. After safe development within the hard structures, the bracts opened along a seam, allowing rows of small flowers attached to a stem to come out. Upon pollination, the flowers became fruit and the bracts then dried and fell from the tree. While tough, the bracts were smooth inside. Their thickness was about a quarter-inch.
Tom attempted to carve them, shaving long strands off with his knife, but it was crude. He tried the soaking method again, weighting them with rocks in a stream, and again it helped to soften the material. When it was soft enough, he carved it into a shoe shape, curving it around, then tying the two sides together at the top with some string. The string he wove through holes he carefully punched with his scissors. Socks he wore aided in preventing skin to shoe slippage and thus blisters. Then, after drying them in the hot sun while still on his feet, he tried them out. They worked tolerably, and he justifiably felt a certain pride in his craftsmanship.
“Well,” he said to Little, lifting a foot and turning it around for her benefit, “What do you think?” She sniffed at it, then seemed to shrug her shoulders as if to say, “What do you need those things for?” and with that, ambled off to something more interesting. Tom harrumphed. Now having alternative footwear, he wrapped them in a cloth and tied them to his backpack. He’d use those he had on until they were too worn to keep.
Like a meandering river, the weeks and months drifted by, and Tom lost all track of time. Just the same, he became an astute student of all he saw. They followed cliff birds to their homes massed in caves, carvings and overhangs in the crags and bluffs. Wandered mysterious paths that wound in and out of eerie shadows, full of enigmatic secrets. Took side trips to explore endings and beginnings. Rivers, canyons, pasturelands, highlands, escarpments and lowlands. Always, though, he was conscious of his Southward calling. Some places tempted awfully, begging for exploration, but, regarding them from grand overlooks, he demurred if he could see that their peregrinations would take them too far out of the way. Even so, interspersed with the more straightforward regions, were numerous setbacks and reversals when they’d come to an impassable section, or high precipice, and were compelled to find a way round. All told, these diversions cost the pair a lot of time.
In an empty riverbed, Tom, roaming through an area where one summer dried watercourse joined their own, heard a plaintive cry up the other and decided to check it out. The ground here was parched and cracked, and yet Tom got a feeling, an indefinable sense, that all was not as it seemed here. Something — deceptive.
The bleat came again, louder now. Little ran ahead to see, and intercept if necessary, but Tom, on a hunch, called her back. She’s a fine companion, he thought, and now obeys me without argument. Coming around a bend in the waterless river, he soon realized the mistake he’d made. While the surface was indeed cracked and dry, below it the ground was saturated. It could have fooled anyone. His steps sank just a bit; a moment later, he was in up to his knees. Any further and he may never get out. Quicksand. Ahead of them was an antelope, a Cosoryx. It was caught and had sunk to its chest. Twelve feet away were two canines of the Tomarctus clan. They were standing at the bottom of a sandy bank just outside the hazard area, pacing, trying to think of a way into the mud and to their next meal. Seeing Little though, they both lit up the side. At the top, they turned again to see if they were being pursued.
Tom tried backing up, but the mud held his legs tight. He thought he might lose his shoes in the suction. With much exertion, though, he did get loose and now stood considering the situation. Evidently, the Toms had been pursuing the hapless antelope, which, in its flight, had jumped clear of the bank upon which they now stood, and landed, unfortunately, in the quicksand.
The Cosoryx continued its pitiful bleating. Its voice somewhat stifled, a gasping rasp between cries was now audible. The weight of the mud was pressing against its chest, making it hard to breathe. In another hour it would be dead from suffocation — if the Toms didn’t get to it first. Should he shoot it and put it out of its misery? No. He decided to rescue the poor lope instead.
Across the dry channel, on the other side, was a big rock. Retrieving his rope, Tom tied one end firmly around it and walked back to the edge of the hazard. He made Little lie down, then removed his shoes, and, with no small amount of fear, he slogged in. Little did as she was told, but clearly was not happy about it. When he was again at knee depth in the muck and heading toward the frightened Cosoryx, she stood back up and walked to the edge of the quicksand.
“NO!” Tom commanded. “SIT!” So she sat — and whined. Tom pulled on the rope to assure himself of its security and continued in. When the sludge was mid-way up his thighs, he was no longer able to move. In fact, he too was sinking. But he was seven feet from the Cosoryx. He needed to get the rope around it. Tom tossed the line and it slapped the antelope against the side of its face. It bleated, then made pathetic feints toward Tom with its head, trying weakly to ward him off.
“Sorry, my friend,” Tom apologized. No, he couldn’t get the rope to swing all the way around the animal’s head and back to him. He needed to make a loop and get it over its antlers. So, slowly sinking, Tom made a circle with the rope and tied it with a square knot. Then he tossed and re-tossed. It took him fourteen tries before it fell around both antlers.
Above his waist now, Tom shouted “YES!” Now he had to get himself out. He wrapped the boulder side of the rope around his wrists and pulled. A flash of panic shot through him when he found that he couldn’t free himself with just that gambit, so, after a moment’s thought, he bent at the waist and lay upon his front, then straining on the rope, began to pull one, then the other, leg upwards. He wanted get level on top of the mire. Instinctively, he knew that if he did this he should be able to extract himself, crawl on, and out. It was easier in concept than practice, but after a couple of minutes, he was clear and hauling himself across. At the other side, he stood, covered head to toe in mud. Little greeted him by jumping up, almost knocking him back into it.
None too sure that he’d be able to do it, Tom now gently drew the rope taut, then braced himself and began to tug and pull. At first the Cosoryx resisted and pulled back, but then it changed course and put its flagging energies into trying to extricate itself. With great effort, it jerked up and flailed. Tom pulled harder now. In a minute, it was mostly out.
It continued its wrenching, but fatigued itself quickly, breathing hard, tongue lolling to one side. Tom pulled again and dragged the antelope further. When finally it was free, but lying on the ground, Little came around for an inspection while he removed the tie. She sniffed at it, but seemed to understand that this was not going to be food. She sat on her haunches and stared, mouth in a wide grin. The poor Cosoryx, seeing the Aelurodon so close, lay still, ears flat against its neck, and barely moved. Like Tom, it was gray-brown with muck.
“Are you alright now?” Tom asked. He looked up to see the two Toms still pacing at the top of the bank. He knew that, sure as the sunrise, soon as he and Little left, those two would be after the Cosoryx again. But he did not just risk everything for nothing, so he shouted at them to be off. Failing that, he threw rocks. Finally, he sent Little out after them. She made a strange yowling noise at his command, then ran at the bank they were on. The Toms jumped in alarm and back. Little dashed up a narrow slope and after them. Tom knew that she hadn’t much chance of catching them, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He only wanted them gone long enough to allow the Cosoryx time to recover and be on her own way.
Minutes passed, after which, perceiving that she was no longer in mortal danger, the diminutive Barstovian deer stood. She allowed Tom to reach out and scratch her ears. “Now don’t go falling into anymore quicksand, little one,” Tom admonished. “Okay?” With shaky, halting steps, the Cosoryx turned and tiptoed away. It climbed a gentle slope on the other side, turning for a last look, before passing from sight. In the meantime, Little had reappeared and now stood on the same bank-top the Toms were at just before, and watched her go. She was puffing and too tired for a chase anyway.
Tom felt good; he’d done a good deed. Climbing out of the dry riverbed, he walked to a shaded grouping of trees, and in a pool of water, washed out his clothing, hung them up to dry, then lay down for a rest.
And thus, on they went, while the days blurred together, marvelous suns, magical moons, and Tom felt that he was becoming a part of this land, a part of this time. In truth, he was already half-feral. He knew the animals now by sight, by their call. Knew which plants were edible and which to avoid. Knew the best times to travel and when to stay put. Tom had learned empirically what others learned only through years of study in books.
Like tallgrass in the breeze, he was moving with Opal’s rhythms. And with each sunrise, the future seemed more and more remote, increasingly unreal as, one by one, the angers and hates, the fears and worries, the pains and regrets — the hallmarks of man — were dissolving away.
For a certainty, there would be more hazards, yet Tom was adapting. Adapting his mind. Adapting his heart. He was changing to meet the earth, not the other way around. Wildness was not far behind.
A raven sounded above. Tom looked up and sun fell on his face, in his eyes. He shielded them, caught the edge of wings as they glided by. The land was drying now, getting hotter. On the plain, a dust devil wound up and spirited away, dancing lightly over the ground. Half a mile beyond was steep, oak covered mountain. At its margin, where it met flatland, a river curved. Within those trees, all manner of fauna abode in precarious truce, panting or sleeping out the hot afternoon. Tom and Little walked along the waterway, in and out of the sun.
O Land, O Earth, O Sea, O Skies, how beautiful you are to my eyes.