Page 58 of Caveman Alien's Heat
Firelight flickers between the huts. I spot the chief almost immediately. He’s standing near the center, exactly where he was this morning, as if he hasn’t moved all day. His eyes find us without effort, and he watches us walk in.
Around us, the rest of the tribe goes quiet in that subtle, collective way I’m starting to recognize. Conversations fade. Movements slow. People look, then pretend they aren’t looking.
We take food without asking and sit a little apart at the central fire, just the two of us. No one joins us. No one challenges us, either. Nator’ax is calm beside me, as always, but I can feel the tension under it now, coiled and ready.
When we’re done, we don’t linger. We head straight back to the cave.
Inside, the darkness feels familiar, almost comforting. I sink down into the furs with a quiet exhale, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me.
For a moment, I just lie there, listening to his movements, the steady rhythm of his breathing as he settles beside me.
I turn toward him without thinking, fitting myself against his side, enjoying his heat and how it spreads through me.
Whatever else is waiting for us out there, whatever this place is going to demand next, it can wait a little longer.
For now, I close my eyes.
Morning comes too soon. I wake to movement and sound instead of quiet. There are low voices outside, the crackle of fire, and the sharp clangs of something heavy striking metal. For a moment, I lie still, reaching for the warmth beside me, but Nator’ax is gone.
I push myself up and wrap the furs tighter around my shoulders as the cold seeps in. The hammering sound comes again. It’s unlike anything I’ve heard in this village before. The tribe doesn’t like using iron, or they see it as unnecessary, except for their spears.
I step outside and shield my eyes against the morning sun. The village has gathered in a loose half-circle near the kiln and the old forge, the one that’s been covered in a layer of snow since we arrived. Smoke drifts low in the cold air, carrying a strange, bitter scent. At the center of it all is Nator’ax.
He’s stripped down to his loincloth despite the cold, his skin flushed from heat and effort. The kiln glows behind him. Beside it, there’s a rough setup I don’t fully understand. There’s stone, fire, and something that looks like a makeshift anvil. In his hand is a hammer, bigger than any metal object I’ve seen here before.
He brings it down, and the sound rings out across the village, clear and hard, echoing off ice and stone. The forge becomes the center of the village, with everyone looking over from wherever they are. All the boys are gathered around Nator’ax, watching with great interest and thoughtful commentary.
I move closer, drawn in despite myself. Some of the rusty stones he gathered yesterday are in a heap at his feet, while some of them have been turned into a weird, congealed piece of gray iron that Nator’ax is hammering. I’ve seen it done in the Borok tribe, but they have a larger forge than this, and more tools. Nator’ax only has a hammer and some wooden tongs that are already burned black.
His hammer falls again and again, and the boys clench their hands over their ears. Each blow shapes the iron, slowly turning it flat. I can’t tell what he’s going to make, but it should be something the tribe can use, something that shows them that they’d be better off with him alive than dead.
The tribe watches him the way they watch a hunt, or a fight, with focus and hunger. Prak’ox is there, smiling openly, clearly impressed. Others aren’t so easy to read. There’s curiosity, of course, but I think I also sense some resentment, or possibly envy. This is not their way, I think. This is the way of the jungle, not of the ice. It could backfire.
I stay until the rhythm becomes almost hypnotic, the ringing of iron against iron sinking into me. Nator’ax gives me the occasional glance, but he’s mostly focused on his task, which is probably smart.
I drift away, toward the edge of the village, where the noise dulls and the air feels a little less crowded. I’m still watching him when I hear the voice behind me.
“Do you think he enjoys the attention?”
I turn. Shaman Crelt’ax stands a few paces away, his one hand at the belt outside his gray fur.
“I think he enjoys doing something useful for your tribe,” I reply.
“For us,” he agrees, his gaze flicking toward the forge, then back to me. “For the tribe he says will be destroyed by a dragon.” There’s no accusation in his tone, but that probably makes it more dangerous.
“He’s a kind man,” I state, needing to keep the bluff going. “Even now, even when the tribe is going to die. Perhaps he doesn’t want the youngest members to be scared before it happens.” My eyes flick toward the boys.
The shaman’s eyes follow my gaze. “Why not tell the boys about the dragon? Why not scare them? It would put pressure on the chief to let them leave the village.”
I pull the fur tighter around me. “That’s for the Gar tribe to decide, not a man of the Borok tribe. If the Gar tribe really wants everyone to die, the boys too, then who are we to defy them?”
“How does the dragon live? In your tribe?” The shaman’s eyes are small and intense.
“He lives away from the tribe,” I state, truthfully enough. “Even the Borok tribe fears him greatly and doesn’t want him close. Only Chief Korr’ax isn’t afraid.”
“How does he command the dragon?”
“He uses words.”
