Outside The Cave

Outside the Cave

Book Two of

The Cave

Series

On one of his many sleepless mornings, early fall, Pratt rolled over on his bed of soft animal furs and stared up into the darkness. There was much to do before winter and he didn't favor to think about it. Animal fat to render, urine-soaked hides to stretch, traps to check, berries to collect, and since it had been awhile, a quick pass by the Prize Tree.

He liked to have things in order before the birds began to migrate but the last two winters he didn't finish in time and had to ration. This year he would have to do better. It was all very stressing to think about and Pratt tried to empty his mind, force a few extra hours of sleep to help his efficiency for the day. That's why the recent winters had been so hard. At night he lied restless. At day he was sluggish. How quickly the summer slipped away. It seemed not long ago, the snow had been melting.

But as his eyes drifted shut, his ears opened. The slow, delicate plop of water. The trickle of small rocks. A lone cricket that had gotten into the cave and couldn't find his way out. Sounds he was deaf to until it was time to unwind.

He reached for himself under the fur blankets as he often did when he was feeling restless. It was tricky to push back foreskin while completely flaccid, but he managed to do it with practiced ease. After gently coaxing an adequate erection, he nuzzled his bedmate, a curvy brunette. Still semen-filled from last night, she was easily occupied and the way her soft thighs squeezed around his hips reminded him of happier times.

*

Unfortunately, sleep did not follow.

In the dark, while his bedmate slept, he shrugged on a coat of fur and feathers, picked up the basket where he had left it yesterday, and padded down the tunnel until he reached the mouth of his cave. Feeling for the key at the top of the door frame, he unlocked the door and fed the chain through the door slats so he could push it open. Dawn had not arrived yet, but the birds were out so it would not be long. He snatched an old gift from the Prize Tree, hanging on a stray nail by the door, and put it on over his head. When the cave was secure behind him, he slipped the key into the waistband of his loincloth and set out.

The trinkets of his necklace dangled just under his throat and he straightened them so they didn't tangle with the wiry pelt on his chest. He liked the weight of them, their smoothness on the pads of his fingers. One was a large tooth of something he had never encountered and likely would never find in his forest. The second charm was black, man-made and it used to blink colors. Green at first, then later red. Now it didn't blink at all, but it was still a gift. A gift from Her. So he would continue to wear it.

Huckleberries were in season now. Lately he'd been reaping them from a little known crop at the base of a steep hill, but once those yields were exhausted, he would have to move on, find a copse the birds hadn't already finished off. He plucked them gingerly with red-stained fingers to avoid crushing them. He popped a few into his mouth, piling the rest into the broken basket of brown wicker. It had a hole just berry-sized at the bottom, but if he held it just right in his large hand, he didn't lose any of his harvest. Not much grew after the huckleberry season, nothing wild at least.

The sun was just coming through the trees when he chose his last berry and trudged up the hill to tend to some traps. To keep from wearing down paths, he used to take a different way each time. Humans liked to follow trails; it piqued their sense of adventure. Although how much adventure could be had by following a path someone else had made? Lately his sense of caution wore thin. Now he followed narrow ruts through the weeds and leaves where he had been yesterday and the day before.

Days and nights blurred together as they sometimes did lately, sliding easy, out of control. In the day, when he should have been working, he crawled into a hollow and napped. In the night, he lied awake, worrying about the winter. Sometimes, he couldn't tell one day from the next. They were all the same and if it weren't for the days growing shorter, different berries coming in and out of season, he would have guessed he was reliving the same day, over and over, waiting for a new outcome. But every night, he scuttled reluctantly into a cold bed, even when his bedmate was already in it.

At the top of the hill, he stepped into a small clearing of bedrock to take in the panoramic view of daybreak. In the east, an undulating landscape of evergreens, pines and spruces frosted gold. In the far northern distance, both water towers of the closest human dwellings jut up from the scenery like two red fists, and on the west side, a black laceration of highway from which they drove into and out of the town. Even from here he could hear the hum of its traffic. South, a pale jagged wound of power lines cut through the countryside, roughly parallel to a less pronounced path where humans raced their snowmobiles in the winter and various other off-road vehicles the rest of the year. Humans and their trails.

The view used to be breathtaking, full of hope of a new day, motivating him.

Used to be.

And it wasn't the view that had changed.

*

The traps on the hill were empty, so Pratt carried his basket back down the west flank, towards the road. He took the long way to survey other snares, stopping a few times to fix ones trampled over by other wildlife. He never used to venture this close to the road. Roads were busy and dangerous and ought not to be approached without the cover of night or without a good reason. Checking the Prize Tree was always a good reason.

Seven seasons ago, Pratt happened to venture a little more west than usual, looking for fruit bushes that hadn't been demolished by birds yet, when he happened upon a familiar scent he absolutely had to follow. He found a droopy pine, quite unspectacular and ordinary, under which was a bramble of branches and dead leaves. They had been placed there to hide a box of treasures beyond his wildest imagination. Now he went back regularly to check for more.

There was never more.

Seven seasons ago--two springs, two summers, two falls, and one winter--that box of prizes had been his first and only gift. And yet, he still went back to check. At first, everyday. Then every several days. Now roughly only when the moon was full. Or when he was feeling especially restless or lonely. Now, the Prize Tree was just a tree he expected too much from, but sometimes just visiting it was enough to lift his spirits, even for a little while.

The tree was not far now. He flared his nostrils to pick up a scent, any scent, and then...

He found one.

The basket of huckleberries hit the ground. Reason left him and he darted head. Branches snapped. Ducking under a fallen tree, then vaulting over another, Pratt burst into the clearing where the Prize Tree grew.

Catching his breath, he surveyed the surrounding aspens and maples. He was alone. Just him, the tree and the scent he couldn't ignore. He swept his gaze over the weeds and fallen leaves, the now much taller pine surrounded in a rust-colored blanket, seasons and seasons of its own dead needles. There was nothing, of course. Two summers without a single gift. Why did he bother coming back? Of course, it was never about the gifts.

Pushing aside bushy limbs, Pratt glanced underneath for something that might have been left for him, but there were only crinkled, dead leaves over a brown carpet of old pine needles. He couldn't see the road but he could hear it, the rush and wind of fast moving vehicles as they passed by, undoubtedly late for something. Living lives measured by time, humans were always in such a hurry.

For a few more moments he remained, and then, heavy-hearted, went back for the dropped basket of berries and retreated into the woods.

*

Pratt lit a candle. Then another.

They were the good candles, ones left by the Prize Tree. They had powerful smells and didn't melt as fast as the ones he made from rendered animal fat. He placed the candles on little juts of rock, lighting up the inside of a small cove, where the cave ceiling looked like dripping sap, frozen in time. Bulges of limestone and crystal made natural niches in the wall, perfect for holding all the little Things he liked to keep. Found Things, made Things, old Things, and some new Things too.

New Things, like the sweet smelling candles and the tiny fire-makers he used to light them. It had taken him half a season to figure out what the fire-makers were and how to use them, but they lost their magic after a while. Now he only had one left and sometimes it took several flicks of his over-sized thumb to get a spark. Soon he'd be back to rubbing sticks together.

He put it down next to the dead fire-makers and reached up to the top shelf for two enameled plates, dark navy with cream speckles, another donation from the Prize Tree. He used to use chipped metal plates he found in the woods. He still had them, somewhere. But these ones were shiny, new and easier to keep clean. He tipped the basket and split the berries to both plates. He moved a couple from one plate to the other so they looked even and brought them into the main cavern, where his tributes waited to be fed.

They were both awake. Flower, his bedmate, sat up in his bed, holding a shiny, unctuous fur to her chest, smoothing her brown hair, then flipping it casually over one bare shoulder as she reached for her plate. She met his eye, looked away shyly.

Flower was a quick learner and a sweet, quiet lover with sneaky orgasms that came out of no where. He could trust her out of her chains for short periods of time. He had named her for the floral print on her shirt, when he first brought her into the cave, before he took it off and hid it away. It had reeked of artificial flowers, cloying to his nostril hairs, so strong it made his eyes water.

His other recruit, Star, still sat in her chains. Her hair was black as night, messy, hanging over her face, her thighs pressed together like someone had slathered them with tree sap and left it to harden. He didn't know her well, not yet, and if they did happen to meet eyes, her gaze was empty and vacant. He hadn't given her much attention that he could remember, as was the nature of being the second tribute. In fact, he couldn't remember why he called her Star at all. From the look of both his recruits, he had not bathed them in many days and from the particularly earthy scent of Star, she was voiding normally but he had not taken the time to clean her up afterward. He felt bad about that. Neither of them were getting the attention they deserved. He would have to start doing better.

Pratt knew few human words and did not think in human language, but sometimes he would associate a new recruit with a trait or abstract thought. Before She had taught him Her true name, he thought of Her as "Sky," the color of Her eyes on a clear day. The blue seemed more intense when She was thinking.

He needed only a single ember to easily navigate his home, so the candle was more than enough. He scurried into the tunnel leading out of the main cavern, hugged the left side at the fork and took another sharp left until he found himself in a much smaller part of the cave. Standing over a dirty white pail, he parted the flaps of his loincloth, targeted the side, and let his bladder go. So that yesterday's cold urine didn't splash up, he tried not to aim straight inside, but the bucket was getting full and piss spit up at him anyway.

When he was done, he panned his candle around the room to look for another bucket, but they were all filled to the brim of pale urine and soaking hare furs. Skins turned inside out on wire stretchers lined the walls and if he did not treat them soon, they would dry out and become useless. Tomorrow he'd take care of it. There was always tomorrow.

After relieving himself, he drifted back into his little alcove and stared at all his Things, trying to find the motivation for chores, but he didn't sleep well last night and had a very early morning. He picked up something at random and turned it over in his hand.

Round with a flat bottom, there were markings on it he didn't recognize but he liked how the red dial always pointed in one direction, no matter how much he turned it. It was newer, from the prize box. Up until two autumns ago, Pratt had never owned anything new and he was still discovering their uses. Most of his Things at the cave he had to scrounge for himself, recycling what he could to benefit his needs. But everything the Prize Tree had brought him was shiny and new and selected just for him. He played with the rounded Thing a few minutes, put it back and selected something else.

A cup: an old, found Thing. There was dried mud inside and the handle was broken, but he had cleaned it enough to see the faded picture on its side: a glittering human city at night, with more markings along the bottom rim. M-I-N-N-E-A-P-O-L-I-S. He knew only of two small towns nearby, but where ever

this

place was, it was very far away.

Most of his junk held no use anymore. Shiny objects, scraps of wire, nests of string, small tools; whatever he could find that he might turn into something nice. But he didn't make much anymore. He wasn't feeling very creative these days and any spark of inspiration fizzled almost immediately, especially if the project in mind seemed complex. The last thing he had ever made--the last thing he had ever

completed--

was for Sky and he had really outdone himself.

Twelve hares it took to collect enough teeth to string together a bracelet. He wanted to make something for around the neck, but he had underestimated how difficult it would be to remove the teeth and had to settle for wrist jewelry instead. A rusty pair of needle nose pliers was the only thing he could use to pry them out, but the root tips often broke inside the jaw and he liked the look of the whole tooth better than the fragments. He had to take them out right away because if he waited too long the dead tooth would get brittle. But it had all been worth it to see the look on Her face when he gave it to Her.

In the main cavern, Pratt heard the soft ring of chains but paid no attention. He really should put Flower back in her chains. He really should be spending more time where they could see him, but he hid in here instead, pacing slow and purposeless, looking at his stuffs but not seeing them. He should be boiling water for drinking or squeezing piss out of hare furs, but ever since he returned to the cave this morning he felt weary and unmotivated. It felt like the end of the season for him, his body slowing down, getting ready for winter. But it wasn't snowing yet. The leaves hadn't even fallen from the trees yet.

Warm fragrance from the candles filled the room and it made him dizzy. Sleepy. He felt like a nap, but when he thought about going to his fur bed, he dismissed the idea. He wanted to be alone. Instead he got down on the dirty floor and hunched into the corner, watching the candles, waiting for the draft that made the flames flicker and the shadows dance. By their third jig, Pratt was dozing.

*

He shook awake sometime later from a loud, jarring sound that might have been a female scream. Scrambling to his feet, he entered the main cavern. The fire had burned down to glowing orange embers. Flower was still on the bed and Star was still in chains, standing now on her thin bed of straw. He could just see their pale outlines in the low light, staring back at him.

Did one of them scream?

Had he been dreaming?

In any case, they needed tending to. He threw a chunk of wood on the embers and a cloud of sparks flew up. On his hands and haunches, he blew a flame to life. The shadows drifted back. He found a candle and held it over the fire to light it and then brought it over to the water trough to fill two enameled cups.

He used to use a wooden pail to hold his drinking water and had to fill it four times as often, but thanks to the Prize Tree, he had a trough big enough to sit in. It was more work to fill, but it lasted half a season, and in the winter when he tossed in some clumps of snow, the water tasted like a new glacier.

Casting his gaze downwards into the trough, he glimpsed his reflection. He didn't look at himself very often, but this was the first time he didn't recognize who was looking back at him. Pale skin and whiskers drooped from the bones of his face. His sunken eyes were like looking at every dead hare he'd ever caught.

Also, when did the water get so low?

The cups scraped the bottom as he scooped up enough to fill them and when the women had quenched their thirsts, he went back to Flower and took her tiny hand in his. She dropped the fur blanket as he helped her to her feet. She was not as stiff as he expected her to be, following him nimbly to the tunnel. She must have gotten up to stretch her legs while he napped and he convinced himself that she had stayed on the bed while she did so. He didn't smell her scent in other parts of the cave so it was quite possible she had been a very good tribute all day.

She knew the way to the voiding room, quickly stepping across soft dirt and wood chips and the way she squatted over the bucket buried in the center without hesitation he could tell she'd been holding it a while. As he dug out a palm sized hole for her solids, he listened to the fast stream and it sounded like the bucket was full or near full. He would have to empty it soon. Add that to the long list.

Flower moved with purpose to the hole he'd made for her and deposited a perfectly smooth and soft sample that should have made him beam with pride for her, but he scooped the dirt over top with barely a glance and brought her to his seat by the wall to clean her up. Thinking of all he needed to accomplish yet tonight, he didn't take his time with her or build up any semblance of satisfaction, even though he noticed the way her rear came up to anticipate his mouth, how her thighs parted as wide as his lap allowed. By now he should have been hard as a rod against her soft belly. From this angle, her rounded hips and fleshy buttocks and the way her straight hair splayed across her smooth back...it was all very familiar. Even so, he didn't waste licks. He used his tongue just enough to make her clean and ignored the way she was still wriggling for satisfaction when he finished.

He set her on her feet and followed her back to the main cavern and fastened the cuffs to her wrists for the first time all day. He had been too lax with her form, he realized, as her knees came together primly and she sat on one hip. He should have taken the time to spread her legs, expose her dark course hair and touch her nipples to make them hard. He should have been drawing out her wetness so that her inner thighs shined. But honestly, he didn't have the energy. He let her sit as she wanted.

He brought Star in next. She made her water and solids efficiently while turned modestly askew from him, then waited with her arms crossed while he buried it. He knew he should take her over his lap soon, to properly clean her. But today was not that day. He was so behind in her training.

After their break, Pratt put on his shoulder furs and headed into the night to check the traps. It was a relief he found one in a snare close by. It was smaller than what he normally brought back, but it would be enough. Sometimes he had to check a dozen traps before finding a meal and there were rare times all the traps were empty and he would have to stalk down something live. He wasn't good at it, but he'd done it before. Although lately he'd just as well go to bed hungry than make the effort.