Origin. Stephen Baxter
forest, for they could exploit the open land beyond, where meat could often be scavenged. The Nutcracker-folk preferred the dense green heart of the forest, where the vegetation grew richer. But as the forest shrank, the Elf-folk were forced to push deeper into the remaining pockets of green.
Sometimes there was conflict. The Nutcracker-folk were powerful and limber, more powerful than most Elf-folk, and they made formidable opponents.
All things considered, it was better to try to get along.
But now, as Shadow and the Nutcracker-woman amiably swapped fruit back and forth, there was a screech and crash at the base of the tree. The Nutcracker-woman peered down nervously, her child clinging to her shoulders.
It was the hunting party or rather, what was left of them. She saw the two powerful brothers, Big Boss and Little Boss, and there was her own brother, Claw, trailing behind. They were empty-handed, and there was no blood around their mouths, or on their pelts. Big Boss seemed enraged. His hair bristled, making him a pillar of spiky blackness. As he stalked along he lashed out at the trees, at his brother and especially at Claw, who was forced to flee, whimpering. But he needed to stay with the men, for he was in more danger from the predators of the forest than from their fists.
And there was no sign of Hurler, her uncle.
It was Hurler who had been killed by Stone’s obsidian axe.
Images of him rattled through Shadow’s memory. By tomorrow, though she would be aware of a loss, she would barely remember Hurler had existed.
The men abruptly stopped below Shadow’s tree. They peered upwards, silent, watchful.
The Nutcracker-woman had clamped her big hand over her baby’s mouth, and it struggled helplessly. But now a nut-shell slipped from the baby’s paw, falling with a gentle clatter to the ground.
Big Boss grinned, his hair bristling. Little Boss and Claw spread out around the base of the tree.
Shadow slithered down the tree trunk. The men ignored her.
The three of them clambered into nearby trees. Soon there was an Elf-man in each of the trees to which the Nutcracker-woman could flee.
She began to call out, a piercing cry of fear. ‘Oo-hah!’ Nutcracker-people were fierce and strong, and would come rushing to the aid of their own.
But if any Nutcrackers were near, they did not respond.
Suddenly Big Boss made a leap, from his tree to the Nutcracker-woman’s. The Nutcracker-woman screeched. She leapt to Claw’s tree, her big belly wobbling.
But Claw, small as he was, was ready for her. As the Nutcracker-woman scrambled to get hold of a branch, Claw grabbed her infant from her.
He bit into its skull, and it died immediately.
The Nutcracker-woman screamed, and hurled herself towards Claw. But already, with his kill over his shoulder, Claw was scurrying down the tree trunk to the ground. Blood smeared around his mouth, he held up his limp prize, crying out with triumph.
But Big Boss and Little Boss converged on him. With a casual punch, Little Boss knocked Claw to the dirt, and Big Boss grabbed the infant. The two of them huddled over the carcass. With firm strong motions, they began to dismember it, twisting off the infant’s limbs one by one as easily as plucking leaves from a branch. When Claw came close, trying to get a share of the meat, he was met by a punch or a kick. He retreated, screeching his anger.
In the tree above, the Nutcracker-woman could only watch, howling: ‘Hah! Oo-hah!’
Claw came up to the men time and again, pulling at their shoulders and beating their backs.
A powerful blow from Big Boss now sent Claw sprawling. Clutching his chest, he groaned and lay flat.
Shadow approached her brother. She held out a hand, fingers splayed, to groom him, calm him.
He turned on her.
There was blood on his mouth, and his hair bristled around him, and his eyes were crusted with tears. He punched her temple.
She found herself on the ground. The colours of the world swam, yellow leaching into the green.
Now Claw stood over her, breathing hard. He had an erection.
She reached for him.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, hard, so that her fingers were bent back. She cried out as bones bent and snapped.
Then he walked around her, legs splayed, erection sticking out of his fur. He grabbed at the trees and waved branches at her.
She understood the signs he was making. She knew what he wanted, in his frustration, in his rage. But he was her brother. The thought of him lying on her filled her head with blackness, her throat with bile.
She turned over and tried to stand. But when she put her injured hand on the ground, pain flared, and she fell forward.
He stamped hard on her back. She was driven flat into the undergrowth. She felt his hands on her ankles. He dragged her back towards him and pulled her legs apart. He was stronger than she was; sprawled face-down on the ground, she could not fight him.
His shadow fell over her, looming.
In another bloody heartbeat he was inside her. He screamed, in pain or pleasure. Shadow called for her mother, but she was far away.
Emma Stoney:
The days here lasted about thirty hours. Emma timed them with her wristwatch and a stick stuck in the ground to track shadows.
Thirty hours. No possibility of a mistake.
Not Earth, she thought reluctantly. But that thought was unreal. Absurd.
She knocked over her stick and took her watch off her wrist and stowed it in a pocket, so she wouldn’t have to look at it.
After the Elf attack, the three of them stayed on the open plain.
But every morning it was strange, disorienting, to wake among the hominids. Whichever of them woke first would take one look at the strangers and hoot and holler in alarm. Soon they would all be awake, all of them yelling and brandishing their fists, and Emma and the others would have to cower away, waiting for the storm to pass. At last, somebody would recognize them Fire, or Stone, or one of the younger women. ‘Em-ma. Sal-ly.’ After that the others would gradually calm down.
But Emma would have sworn that some of them never regained their memories of the day before, that every day they woke up not recognizing Emma and the others. It seemed they came awake with the barest memory of the detail of their lives before, as if every day was like a new birth.
Emma wasn’t sure if she pitied them for that, or envied them.
The days developed a certain routine. Emma and Sally worked to keep themselves clean, and Maxie; they would rinse out their underwear they had only one set each, the clothes they had arrived in and scrub the worst of the dirt off the rest of their clothes and gear.
The women had precisely two tampons between them. When they were gone, they laboured to improvise towels from bits of cloth.
As evening drew in Emma and little Maxie would help build the hominids’ haphazard fire by throwing twigs and branches onto it. Paying dues, Emma thought; making sure we earn our place in the warmth.
In the dark the hominids gathered close to the fire, she supposed for safety and warmth. But they didn’t form into anything resembling a circle, as humans would. There were little knots of them, men testing their strength against each other, women with their children, pairs coupling with noisy (and embarrassing) enthusiasm. But there was no story-telling, no singing, no dancing. They even ate separately, each hunched over her morsel, as if fearful of having it stolen.
The group did not have the physical grammar of a group bound by language,