Bubba wounded a large bird and tracked it, crashing and creeping through the undergrowth, all the way from the wetlands to this open strip at the edge of the world.  He knew the world continued beyond this high place because, on a clear day, you could see for a moon’s cycle.  A raging river coursed at the cliff’s base, so turbulent that a stone's splash could not be seen.  One day, he had amused himself by rolling a boulder, large enough that it could be followed by eye, over the lip.  One finger, two finger .  .  . five fingers for the rock to disappear into the water.

Only a short length of broken shaft protruded from the bird.  He retrieved this and dragged the carcass to the rim of the chasm.  Today, a stratum of fog came near the top, and it was truly the edge of the world.  Bub spat into the void and counted, "One finger, two—" only two fingers.

He became aware of three men standing at the clearing’s margin.  He did not recognize them.  This was, more or less, within his territory, and he reasoned to himself, (They are out of bounds, not me.)

"Take game !" bellowed one of them.

(They bloody well can not have my bird.  Poor hunters who find it more easy to steal than to hunt.)  Bubba faced them with his back to the drop-off.  (Should I run or try to bluff?)  He leapt about, waving a broken spear at the foe, "yell, guttural shout, yabba dabba do !"

The three men deployed to outflank him and cut off escape.  (Oh my goodness.  My only chance now is to hurt one of them.)  Bub stood his ground, attempted a thrusting stab, and was reeled backward by a vigorous club swing.  He was teetering on the edge with a broken stick in his hand.  He lunged at the nearest man’s throat, "Die, shithead !"

A well placed strike by the man toward the sun sent Bubba again to the brink, this time waving his arms for balance, "Oh big, big bad !"  Knowing he was losing his foothold, Bub spent his last tenuous touch with earth to launch away.  "Fly, fly !" he continued the circular arm gyrations.  "Soar?" he locked his arms extended for only a second — that didn’t work either, and he passed from view into the sea of mist.

The poachers watched their victim disappear into the clouds with his arms locked in gliding attitude, "Magic !  Man fly."

"No magic, fly like stone."

(The water is down there — hold my nose.)  Old Grunt had shown Bub how to fall into water; feet first, hold your nose with one hand, and cup your stuff with the other.  It worked so well they had leapt repeatedly for fun into a pond.

One finger, two fin—  and an explosion that sent him swirling in the torrent.  Crash, his legs buckled violently against the bottom and uncoiled to rebound him upward.  His eyes opened, and he saw himself in a sparkling universe with light from above illuminating the froth and bubbles.  Pain came from below his waist — he could not tell which leg, or both, had been broken.

Bubba surfaced in a shower of spray with such force to propel his hips from the water.  (I am dead.  There are women in the spirit world for I glimpsed one.)  In the instant that Bubba had gained reentry to the atmosphere, he was presented with the vision of a woman’s figure through the dazzling shower.  He again submerged and swam in the direction he faced.  His head emerged and he touched down on river stones.  Struggling to the pebble shore, Bubba was sure he was hurt as dull pain signaled from his nether regions.  There was the woman up stream.  Her eyes were on him as she screamed bloody murder.

(Possible enemy.)  Bubba gathered a hammering stone.  He supported his body with one arm — his legs would not respond.  "No yell, woman.  Bubba hear."  The female wore a small cape and kneepads.  She continued to scream and carry on.  (Here comes another one, running with a club .  .  . and yet another.  Shall I fight with a rock while lying on my stomach or shall I beg?)

Bub conspicuously discarded the stone, "Bubba no fight.  Bubba hurt bad."  His body endured a couple of sound whacks to verify that he was indeed helpless, and he became unconscious.

Regaining awareness, Bub first sorted dream from reality.  (I’m not dead, hurts too much.  If heaven has women, they are damn tough.  I’m on my back.  The bitches surround me and are watching.)  He tried to move his legs.  (Good, no broken bones.  Pain is from thigh muscles .  .  . and knees.  I must have spread-eagled in the water.)

He announced, "Bubba move now.  No kill Bub."

The women became agitated as, with difficulty, he gained a sitting position.  "Birdman talk."    "Birdman move."    snarl

(Their language is nearly the same with a silly foreign accent.)  He pointed into the cloud that obscured the view of the edge of the world, "Bub no birdman.  Bub fall."  (They have looked me over quite well.  My breechclout is gone; it must have been lost in the high dive.)  "Bub clout gone?"  They did not understand.  He gestured to a similar garment on the older woman, the only one so attired, and then to his private parts.

"I Howl woman."  She untied the apron and tossed it to him.

"No, No."  He reached to hand it back, "Gracious, Howl, I seek my clout."

Becoming relaxed, they began to talk.  "Run woman.  No man.  Man dead."

(Ah, my death vision with kneepads.  Too young to be without a man, she is, perhaps, too old to be without a child.)

"Sun, small woman.  You fly, speak Run.  You no fly?"

(She acknowledges herself to be but a young girl but soon, soon.)  "Sun, young woman.  One season, Sun big woman." Bub contributed.  She seemed pleased.  "Bub fly so —" he tossed a rock into the water.

"You strong."

"You live !"

"Strong man."

Bubba was getting used to the you/me/she/he metaphors and enjoyed the adulation.  But he worried, (What tribe is this?  Where are the rest, where are the menfolk?  Hell, I don’t even know if they are friendly — likely not to an intruder.)  "You man?" he asked Howl, who cradled an infant with one arm.

"Man dead."

"Tribe where?  People where?"

"No tribe.  No people."

"Four moon tribe gone.  Three moon men gone."

Bubba was overwhelmed.  (They are in a worse predicament than I am.  This is too much.  I must try to lead them back to my people.  Sakes alive, I don’t know the way.)  He announced, "I travel edge-of-world, Bubba people, Bubba tribe."  There was no comment.  "You travel.  Good people.  Good tribe."

"No path." spoke Howl.  She shifted the infant to nurse it.

(They should know if there is a way to reach the upper plateau.  I’ve heard that there might be a way down from the top, but no one bothered to find it.)  "Bub travel, bad travel, two suns."  He figured to be limping for a couple of days.  After that, he would be all right.

In the interim, he fashioned a couple of spears; one with a heavy stone point.  He set a trap on the first night and caught a possum.  Skinning the thing at the group’s morning fire, the others eyed it hungrily.  As it turned out, they were great at plant identification and gathering but had little hunting skill.  It was that way within his clan also.  What could he do?  They needed the meat and gobbled the greasy feast.  Bub settled for their roots and greens, figuring to catch something else later.

Bubba hunted the next day.  Pretending to be a part of the foliage, he waited and crept to within striking distance of a small buck.  A little closer, closer .  .  . He lunged, which caused great pain in his tutu.  Not a good strike, but the point was well caught under the animal’s hide.  Were he to let go, the deer would surely escape, and he was in no condition to track it.

(Hold on, must hold on.)  He howled from his own distress as the animal fought and thrashed about.  (Have to catch its head.)  Finally, Bub got hold of the beast and wrenched its neck.  (Oh damn, damn, now I’ve done it.  Now, I can’t get back to camp.)  But he struggled, rested, and pulled the deer halfway to the river before giving up.

Hobbling to the camp clearing, he decided to call, "Come Howl.  Come Run.  Sun?"  Run woman heard the cry and came at once, discarding her basket and scattering huckleberries everywhere.  She spied him, smeared with blood and leaning against a tree.  He was only resting but gave the appearance of being more badly hurt than he actually was.  She rushed to give support under his arms.

"Man no die."  She gave three, quick, shrill hoots of alarm, signal to her sisters, right in his ear.  (Iyee, that’s loud.  They beat me up, starve me, and wish to ruin my hearing as well.)

"I good, good.  Game blood, no Bubba blood."

Sun girl came running.  She gasped at the bloody sight and was afraid.  Bub smiled to assure her that all was well.  "Meat there.  Help bring meat." he indicated the direction.

Run and Sun gave him assistance as he led the way back into the woods.  "Gracious, Run.  Gracious, Sun."  (The women from my tribe would not have helped me.)  It was part of his tribe’s mate-selection process to see who could be the most crippled and still able to return home.  Men would help one another, but not the women.  The only time he’d made points with Tantari was when he had helped Jo-jo back to camp after being mauled by a bear.  Jo-jo regularly shared her bed, with Bubba on the periphery.  She allowed Bub to sleep with her for a moon after that.  Now, no one could be sure whose kid it was.  He really hated that system, but rules are rules.

"My women no help man.  You same?"  The girls did not seem to understand.  (No matter, I’m out of here tomorrow .  .  . maybe the day after.)

A cat was pawing Bub’s fresh kill.  Run grabbed Sun’s arm to arrest her and whispered, "No run.  Cat kill."

(Curses, both spears are beyond the cat.)  "Quiet, no run."  Bubba began to move ever so slowly to circle the animal.  The cat turned always facing him.  Standing opposite the females, Bub spoke low, "Big yell."

Run gave a great shout.  The cat sprang away and was gone.
. . .

(I must make myself a skinning knife.)  Bub was tired of dismounting a spear point to use for that purpose.  His attention turned to the women.  (They really go for that venison.  I guess they need meat after so many months and with winter coming on.  They are talking about me, I will listen.)

Howl grinned, "Woman help man, man no mate?  Hee, hee, I no help.  I mate Bub."

Run corrected her, "No, no — help man, woman  no mate."

Sun, "Man hurt, woman no help."

Howl, "Ugh, ugh, crazy !"

Run, "Crazy, crazy.  All die."

(Strange attitude.)  Bubba broke into the girl talk, "Howl help?"

Howl responded as a matter of fact, "Man help woman, woman help man."

(Glory be.)  "Woman help man, woman mate man?"

Run gave her opinion, "If man good."  Apparently, being boogered up to the point of impotence was not a factor.

Howl ejected a wad of masticated berries into her fingers.  She touched the baby’s lips with her little finger to elicit an open mouth and skillfully pushed the mess into it.  Bub knew all about this, pablum it was called.

"Child learn hard food."  He separated some venison from his own cud and passed it to Howl.  She popped the meatball into her mouth to test it, juiced it up a little, and gave it to the young one mouth-to-mouth.

(They are competent but will need help through the winter.  Am I good enough hunter for all?  Am I a "good man" as Run put it?  Body warmth is really nice on cold nights.  I bet that they huddle all together when it is cold.  Ah, forget it.)  "Two suns, I travel edge-of-world."

Run looked him squarely in the eye without expression.  Howl cast her eyes downward.  Sun spoke, "Bad goodbye."  Did he detect a tear?

(I really should try to find my way out of here.  They are good people but .  .  . )
. . .

With no need to hunt, Bubba examined fishing possibilities.  A trapping pool could not be contrived without a great deal of effort.  There were a few pools where the water was quiet enough for his style of still-fishing, but he would have to make hooks.

"Hunt fish."  Bub displayed the hook he had tediously fashioned from bone.  The next problem concerned a fishing line.  He took a long blade of water grass to tie at the notch.  Only a finger length remained, trailing from the hook.  He showed it to Run, "Need big long, big strong."

She grabbed the assembly and ran off to find Howl.  Bub was working on a second hook when Howl came and offered a body-length of slender, leather thong.

"Oo, oh, big good.  Strong.  Long."  Excitedly, he began to fasten it to the pole and to the hook with strands of the tough grass fibers.  He pared a bit of fat from a discarded bone and was then dipping his bait.  For a long time, there was no response.  He tried red meat and didn’t get a nibble.  After pouncing on a grasshopper,  his luck changed.  The first trout escaped the unbarbed hook, then he caught two nice ones in a row.  (Need two more.)  These came in time.

Bub ran everyone out of the kitchen when they had all gathered that evening.  He wrapped the fish in green leaves and buried them in coals that had nearly gone out.  The largest was for Howl and the baby, the smallest for himself.

He realized, as it began to rain, why they had chosen this cramped bushy place for a fire; the overhead foliage went a long way toward shedding water.  The fire was finally quenched but not until after supper.  The women passed a gourd of fermented fruit juice they maintained.  Bub didn’t like it, it was bitter and fumes assailed his nostrils.

Run belched loudly and proclaimed, "Bub good man."

"Good man." repeated Howl.

Sun took a draught, "Good, good man."

(Do they mean the fish or is the accolade an invitation to bed?  And which one of them?)  To leave no stone unturned, Bubba stroked Run’s thigh, because it was nearest, and pulled his new robe over his shoulders.  The women moved closer to one another and bedded down.

Howl raised her head, peering over her shoulder at Bub’s exposed bare feet.    scoot  galumph    She sidled that direction, reaching out behind to pull Bub’s toes under her blanket and into the crook of her knees.    wiggle  galumph    Sun and Run moved closer to Howl.    galumph  squirm    Bub moved nearer.  (Maybe an extra day or two before leaving.  I wonder if they have a better place for winter.  Tomorrow, I will look .  .  . ) and he drifted off.
. . .

Bubba stretched awake, remembered his dream, and smiled.  Life was good.  Here in the winter grotto with its drafty leaks closed with daub, he could see snow beyond the skin curtain that covered the opening.  He thought of the bear meat hanging nearby,  (Not much to do today — just gather a little wood and check the traps.)  Lazily, he rolled over to kiss Run woman’s tummy, swollen with new life.  Howl smiled good morning as she sat up and began to stir the coals to flame.

Sun-sun reached a hand across his body and squeezed the part that she had conquered last evening.  She laughed at it.  He would just have to endure the ridicule.  (Tantari is all yours, Jo-jo, and welcome to her.)