"Visitors.. powerful visitors, elder," said the somber Braan. "Loud noises come from their flying machine. Each time it soars, noise rends the air and more strangers are come."
"Bear people?" the facilitator asked.
"Not bear people," Braan replied. The hunter leader proceeded with his detailed report, rapidly exceeding the limits of cliff dweller knowledge. Braan was interrupted with astonished exclamations. The hunter leader begged to proceed, endeavoring to answer with the whole tale. There were mysteries for which he had no answers.
"They are not gods. They are tall and strong and have clear eyes, but they fear injury and death," Braan stated, hearkening to the rockdog incident. "Yet they kill like gods—from a distance, using sticks that spout loud noise and flame. Weapons we cannot match."
"'Tis the stick that kills, not the being?" a steam user asked. "The long-legs kill with the stick," Braan affirmed.
"Have they wings?" a fisher asked. "Did not initial reports attribute to them the power of flight?"
"No wings. With the exception of the silver machine, they cannot fly or soar. Or at least were not seen doing so. They walk slowly and clumsily wherever they go."
"Thy recommendation, Braan, leader-of-hunters?" Koop asked.
Braan pondered and said nothing. This was not rude, for a direct question was an invitation to consider deeply. The facilitator sat back, content that he had asked an important question.
Braan's answer, when it came, was not unexpected. "Our knowledge is insufficient to make a choice. Our alternatives are to kill them or to become their allies. Both alternatives offer consequences. Killing them could only be done at dear price, for they have powerful weapons. Yet kill them we can, for they are few, and we are many." Braan paused and looked about the chamber. The elders each fixed him with a stare of undiluted fear. Braan worried for the future.
"Becoming allies is likewise a dangerous path," Braan continued, "because it can only be done if the long-legs so desire. By offering ourselves to their compassion, we lose the advantage. If they prove treacherous, the cost in dweller lives would ultimately be far greater."
"Should we not attack immediately, before more long-legs arrive?" Bott'a-the-hunter asked impetuously—and rudely. The elders stirred.
"The young warrior's question is appropriate," Braan said. "To attack swiftly would increase the likelihood of victory. But it would also eliminate all other options. We would become enemies—a difficult condition to alter."
"Thy recommendation?" the facilitator persisted.
"Their numbers are not yet a cause of concern. It will take many landings of their flying craft to threaten us. If they are to be our allies, we must first test them," Braan said.
"Test? And how?" Koop asked.
"I know not. yet. Continued surveillance will reveal our path. Hunters will maintain a sentry until the snows come. Perhaps the cruelty of winter will resolve the matter."
The council talked briefly among themselves. Koop stood erect. "Braan, leader-of-hunters, thy plans are our plans. Perhaps the long-legs will define their own fate—and ours—regardless of our wishes. We meet next in one cycle of the small moon."
Braan bowed in good form and led his party through the grand assembly and out into the blustery night. Pouring rain and thrashing breezes eliminated all thought of soaring; Braan walked to the lift. He looked forward to seeing wife and family, but he remembered Brappa, still in the field. The warrior Craag would take care of his last son.
The night grew old. Rain fell hard, blown sideways by gusting squalls, while silver-white lightning danced in the clouds, shooting salvoes of strobing illumination. MacArthur, wiping rain from his eyes, stood back from their handiwork and waited for a blast of lightning to highlight their creation. Chastain knelt and used a stout stick to crank tight the bindings on the last of the cross-supports. He deftly secured the knot and tied off the bitter end.
"That'll hold," Chastain said proudly, rolling back on his knees. Continuous lightning, striking closer each time, splashed his features with white-blue brilliance. A ragged, air-boiling bolt struck the river bank but a stone's throw away; thunder exploded in their faces, loud beyond comprehension. Their ears rang, and electricity hummed in the air, tingling fingers and toes. Ozone stung their nostrils.
"Holy smokes!" Chastain shouted.
"Yeah, no kidding," MacArthur laughed nervously. "Too close. Let's move behind that gravel bar and set up shelter. Wait it out." Another blue-hot streak of lightning flashed to the tree tops on the hills beyond the river. A shock wave blew against their cold, wet faces.
Hours crept by. Finally, the wind abated, and the lightning moved off, flickering to the west and north; but the rain fell even harder—a deluge. MacArthur checked the raft. The river was rising. The rain-swollen river crept inexorably beneath their makeshift craft.
"Time to go," MacArthur shouted. Unbelievably, Chastain had rolled over on the wet rocks and fallen fast asleep. MacArthur envied his companion's stalwart nature and debated waiting for morning, but the rising river was answering his worst fears. There was no telling how much water would be coming down the channel in the next few hours, but MacArthur had a hunch it would be significant.
Chastain rousted out and dragged both packs to the raft, diligently securing the equipment. MacArthur tried to help, but his body responded poorly. His head and shoulder throbbed. He removed his glove and slipped a hand beneath his coat and clothes, exploring clammy, bare skin. The shoulder felt wet, but then his clothes had been soaked through for hours. MacArthur pulled his hand out. His fingers were sticky and slippery at the same time, and even though it was dark, he knew the hand was covered with blood.
"You all right, Mac?" Chastain asked.
"Let's go," MacArthur replied, reaching for a corner of the raft. Chastain copied his action, moving the raft only slightly before the river buoyed its weight. The current was strong. The men walked into the water and were quickly up to their waists, the forceful river tugging urgently on their unwieldy craft and their weary bodies. The icy water jolted MacArthur into alertness; survival instincts pumped adrenaline into his battered system yet again.
"Push off," MacArthur ordered, gasping. "We'll pole it across." Rain pouring from black skies drilled the wooden raft and its hapless crew. Darkness was total. The Marines pushed into the impatient current, jumping sidesaddle onto their tiny craft. The raft tottered dramatically, Chastain' s greater bulk over-ballasting to one side. The burdened logs spun slowly in the rain-gushing murk.
MacArthur gripped his pole. Shoulder protesting, he extended the branch to its limit, searching for the bottom, and felt nothing. The jiggling current tried to bend it from his hands.
"Too deep. Can't touch bottom," he gasped. Chastain groaned.
MacArthur, dizzy from black nothingness, took a deep breath. "Let's swim," he said, sliding into the water. Treading black water and clinging to the raft, he could tell from the craft's severe slant that Chastain was still onboard.
"C–Come on, Jocko. Can't…by myself." MacArthur spewed frigid water.
"I can't swim, Mac."
"Yeah, sure, Jocko. L–Lets go."
"No, Mac! They cheated me through the tests. I played football."
MacArthur dropped his forehead against the weathered wood. He floated alongside for a few seconds, thinking, shivering. Rain hissed.
"J-Jocko. You can get in the water and paddle, or you can stay up there. M-maybe we'll drift gently ashore. Or maybe we'll run out of deep river and find ourselves running this pile of sticks through a set of rapids like the big ones behind us." MacArthur stopped to catch his breath and spit out water.