Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place

3. Reluctant Porcine Hunter

Perhaps a spear could be contrived, Trueman considered, perched in his tree, a spear to drive away the offending beasts. He would soon need food; he was aware of a dull emptiness in his stomach. He began to examine nearby branches for suitability, trying to remember what he could of cultural anthropology. It had not been a subject he felt close to, preferring as he did the less messy elementary particle theory in general or, more specifically, quantum chromodynamics. Somehow they did not sound so useful in his current situation.

What had that motorbiker, Spicer, gabbled on about in his delirium? Trueman wished he had paid more attention, particularly as it now seemed likely that the thug had been talking complete sense after all. The individuals Spicer had described, the primitives thought Trueman, had used spears with throwing sticks to increase the range and power and they had a flint axe of course. Not that the latter was of any help, as a flint axe would take a considerable time to make and the source material had not been found in a tree.

He began to break off small twigs and throw them at the pig family in a vaguely experimental way. The piglets took no notice but the sow opened an eye, grunted. For some reason this encouraged Trueman and he chose a larger branch, the thickness of his sturdy thumb, and with a levering action, tore it from the main trunk.

This minor achievement pleased him even further. This body is strong! he realised, with a grim delight.

Manoeuvring the branch was not so easy. He had to first pull it down from amidst the other entangling branches, then turn it around, all without falling from his swaying perch. The new body however, seemed eminently suited for such physical activities, one hand, the left, gripped the trunk so tightly that indentations appeared in the bark.

At last he was ready and, leaning precariously, he was able to crudely swipe at the pig family with his improvised weapon.

The piglets leapt to their feet, screamed, scattered in various directions and disappeared into the undergrowth. The sow watched the swing of the branch for a moment, oblivious to the sweeping blows, then grabbed it between her teeth and gave a sharp tug. Trueman, taken by surprise, was wrenched from his perch and landed heavily before her.

For a dizzy moment, Trueman, up on his hands and knees, tried to focus. When he succeeded, the pig was looking straight into his eyes. The fall had been worse than he thought- he could see two of her, one, on the left, appearing larger and darker than the other. It grunted, very low and grating.

With a sinking feeling Trueman realised that the patriarch had turned up, no doubt alerted by the cries of his frightened offspring who now reappeared, swarming about their sire’s feet, dwarfed by his immense bulk. He grunted again, curling his lips and twitching his lower jaw to emphasise a pair of large, sharp tusks.

Afterwards, Trueman could only marvel at the response of the new body. He was sure that had there been the opportunity for any conscious thought he would not have rationally chosen to strike the boar on the nose with the heel of his hand. The outraged bellow and charge that followed resulted only in a crashing blow to the birch tree, for the body had already reached up and executed a complicated flipping manoeuvre, leaving him once more perched well beyond reach of the questing snout and extremely sharp, inward turned teeth. The boar roared and stamped and snorted. Trueman began to breath again.

Perhaps they’ll just go, he thought, making himself as comfortable as possible in the crook of a large branch.

They did, occasionally, and by nightfall he had dared to descend from his tree twice, though on each occasion hurriedly reclaiming his perch upon the sudden reappearance of the dangerous family of wild animals. He was convinced that each time the piglets manifested themselves from the depths of the undergrowth, they were shrieking with glee.

The night itself was difficult as he felt disinclined to sleep. The way the huge male stalked below him, occasionally scrubbing its high, arched back against the tree, such that the whole trunk bent alarmingly, suggested that should he inadvertently fall he would be pounced upon and devoured.

Thinking of pigs reminded him of the ones he had purchased for the Little Big Farm and the chaos they had caused there. He was also reminded that in truth he hated them and all animals generally, especially goats. Not that this helped much.

He spent much of the night engaged in thinking, rationally, of his present predicament and of how he had arrived at this unlikely point. In some ways the Little Big Farm felt so close, not more that a day away, yet when he considered the vast gulf of time that separated him from his one time home and refuge, far ahead in 1984, he was truly saddened and at a loss. All the excitement of his great adventure was diminished to an uncomfortable, tired posture and the thought of an impossible, ten thousand year journey to get back to safety.

At some point in the night, the pig family fell into a great, snoring, farting heap, a darker shadow in the blackness beneath him.

Now, even the prospect of scientific discovery and previously impossible proofs brought only a slight comfort. Trueman thought instead of his past life, his old body and how he had read the paranoid schizophrenic's book, if one could call it such.

He had begun dismissively at first, in amusement, flicking through the pages, glancing at the charts and ridiculing the bizarre diagrams, skimming the often illegible writing. Then, gradually, a sense of growing recognition and excitement came over him, for the text seem to be stating something akin to his own postulate, the Trueman Postulate, albeit in a very different form. He had progressed through the work, identifying and assembling the complex argument from the apparent nonsense until he had been able to make the apparently impossible leap.

Now, in his tree, suspended in darkness above the beasts, it seemed somewhat unfortunate that he had neglected to consider the fact that he would be unable to bring the book with him, or even thought to read ahead first and memorise the necessary procedures. Despite huge mental exertions, he was unable to regain the clarity of thought or the relevant details of what was required.

I’m stuck, he thought, wistfully, and I'm hungry. The new body’s stomach complained bitterly, apparently twisting into a knot and producing deep rumblings that occasionally disturbed even the pig family.

Despite all this he would not give up to despair.

No indeed! Lets think rationally about this- Yes, I’m stuck, he reasoned, and it is best to face up to this, but only for now. He felt the return of hope, of his scientific optimism. There will be a way, he intoned, and I will surely discover it, by a process of the rational application of method, the scientific method. It has served us well for centuries and there is no reason that it should fail me now. He felt much happier and even managed to doze fitfully, at least until it began to rain.

It rained for the rest of the night.

Thanks for reading. I’m really hoping you are enjoying the fiction at this early stage. There’s plenty more to come! Remember you can choose to subscribe or unsubscribe to the different sections on E.S.P. Adapt and you can leave comments, opinions, suggestions or whatever- I'm very happy to read and reply to all. Hwyl! Chris.