Mists of Dawn (41 page)

They
had
a
very
serviceable
lean-to
now,
and
they kindled
the
fire
up
just
in
the
entrance.
Mark
could see
the
rain
coming
in
a
vast
gray
sheet
across
the plains,
and
he
hurried
to
gather
some
wood
to
keep the
fire
going
during
the
night.
Then
he
dived
into the
shelter
with
the
dawn
man,
and
not
a
moment too
soon.
The
rain
hit
with
a
hiss
and
a
roar,
while the
thunder
crashed
over
their
heads
as
though
determined
to
rip
the
shelter
to
bits
by
the
power
of sound
alone.

It
was
quite
comfortable
in
the
lean-to,
and
Mark looked
at
his
companion
and
wondered
how
to
go about
making
some
progress
toward
understanding. He
decided
to
try
to
learn
the
man’s
name
as
a
first
step.

In
the
firelight
he
pointed
to
himself.
“Mark,”
he said,
shouting
to
make
himself
heard
above
the
smashing
of
the
storm.

The
man
watched
him
intently,
but
made
no
sign. Mark’s
spirits
fell.
Had
he
perhaps
overestimated
the man’s
intelligence?
What
did
he
know
about
him really?

“Mark,”
he
said,
trying
again.
“Mark.”

His
companion
nodded
slowly.
“Mark?”
he
asked, pointing.
The
word
sounded
very
strange
on
his
 li
ps; it
was
recognizable,
but
seemed
to
have
been
somehow translated
into
another
language.

Mark
was
delighted.
“Mark,”
he
said
again,
and
then pointed
at
the
man.

This
time
his
companion
got
it
at
once.
He
pointed to
himself.
“Tlaxcan,”
he
said
slowly.
“Tlaxcan.”
He smiled.

Mark
smiled
back.
They
could
not
go
much
farther with
the
storm
raging
around
them,
but
they
had
made an
important
start.
Mark
listened
to
the
rain
and
the thunder,
and
was
thoroughly
glad
that
he
was
under the
lean-to.
The
slow
hours
whispered
by,
and
Mark saw
that
the
man
had
gone
to
sleep.
Mark
closed
his eyes
too,
but
sleep
was
slow
in
coming.
The
storm howled
miserably
in
the
night,
and
he
could
not
forget that
he
was
not
two
feet
away
from
a
savage
who
for all
he
knew
might
take
a
notion
to
knife
him
at
any moment.
Mark
found
it
difficult
to
think
of
the
man as
a
savage,
but
that,
by
definition,
was
what
he
was. Mark
told
himself
that
he
trusted
the
silent
figure
who shared
the
shelter
with
him,
but
nevertheless
he
found that
sleep
was
slow
in
coming.

Who
was
this
man?
Clearly,
he
was
no
Neanderthal, and
was
not
even
related
to
that
weird
and
hideous race.
Who
were
his
people,
where
had
he
come
from? Mark
thought
he
knew,
and
the
germ
of
a
plan
was beginning
to
plant
itself
in
his
mind.
A
plan
that
might one
day
get
him
back
to
the
lead
sphere
of
the
space-time
machine,
cut
off
from
him
now
as
surely
as
if
it had
been
whisked
away
to
another
world.