Mists of Time
A collection of vignettes from before the dawn...
Starwalkers
McNairy County, Tennessee, 65,000,000 B.C.
The pair of azhdarchids wing silently through the blue predawn, over the dense forests of southern Laurentia. The last of the stars linger as pale needlepoints, but the pterosaurs ignore them. They have served their navigational purpose, and now the pterosaurs rely on their own visual memory of the mountains to guide them to their winter haven in the southern part of the range. Tall and fog-wreathed, the lower ridges are limned by regiments of conifers that loom dark blue in the wan morning. One peak seemingly indistinguishable from any other, but the arcane minds of the azhdarchs can tell each stone apart as clearly as faces.
This couple- Arambourgiania, for the phonaesthetically disinclined- are mated. For life, as is their species’ way. Twelve seasons have they crossed the newborn Atlantic together; twelve seasons have they nested together, and hatched their young together. Twelve seasons have they escorted their flaplings from their nesting ground in a rising archipelago to the safety of the fertile gingko-forests of Transjordan, to feast and grow strong upon the weald’s boundless supply of nuts and insects, before beginning their own sojourns across the sea. In some far-distant time, a humble carpenter would come to the selfsame river on that fertile island where these pterosaurs fished, a dove winging down from Heaven to anoint him.
But for now, the leatherwinged titans own these skies. After four days on the wing, they descend into the cypress swamps like jetliners, coming in for perfect four-point landings on the marshy islands.
Journey complete, they set out on foot to gobble up monitors, marsupials, hatchling dinosaurs, and any other unfortunates that happen to get in their way.
The Princess of Sand and Shell
Dogger Bank, 22,000 B.C.
She walked calmly along the foggy shoreline, scrinching her nut-brown toes in the coiling surf and listening to the slapping roar of the waves further out on the sandbar. The water was frigid, but it made her feel alive, electrified from the feet up. Her name was Silmara. Daughter of Konahn, chieftain of the village that overlooked the bay upon whose shores she now trekked.
This was a meditative walk. No fishing to be done today- the shoals had moved on for the winter two weeks ago. Soon the brooding bay would ice over, so thick that one could, if they wished, walk across the sea to the mountains of the Otherworld that sometimes loomed large over the horizon on summer’s warmest days.
Silmara had no such intentions. She was here for shells.
Her tribe’s women had a fondness for shell jewelry, and as the chieftain’s daughter, Silmara counted the finest shells in her necklace and headband- shining cockles and cowries, scallops and sea snails, and most prized of all, the cone snail at the center of her necklace. A trade item from the far south, purchased from one of the nomadic Travellers in exchange for a pendant of amber that had a bumblebee trapped in it long ago by some vengeful god. Its value only just surpassed her earrings- heavy snail shells gathered by Tlixi, the shamanness, from a tide pool that had come to her in a dream. They dangled from her pierced lobes like millstones, but certainly caught the eye of all the hunter-boys at their autumn feast with the three neighboring villages. She may not have fit the beauty standards of cultures yet unborn, but what did that matter? Most women had to vie and even fight for men’s gazes- so few were they after each Hunt- but Silmara was a prize in her own right, and she knew it. Her skin was youthful, her jewelry sparkled, her breasts were large and firm, and her eyes were sea-blue; what more could a man desire?
Exiting the surf, she meandered up to the liminal borderland of the wrack, bending down whenever something caught her eye- dead seahorse, broken scallop, a shiny lump of coal. Up on the thicketed dunes, a herd of horses mingled with saiga and greatdeer. She kept one eye on them at all times, for they would warn her if lions were near. If she blew into the ibex horn at her hip, she would have aid as quickly as the legs of men could reach her.
Up ahead, a massive, recurved mammoth tusk formed a natural arch over the wrack, and she hesitated to pass through the portal it represented. Faerie spirits often lurked in such gateways, tricking mortals into dancing with them forever. But the horses and greatdeer seemed undisturbed by its presence, and so she stepped up to it cautiously. Resting a dainty, cinnamon hand on the polished ivory, she murmured a paean to its departed owner and any other spirits which may have since taken up residence in the tusk. Then, she passed under it, blue-green eyes shut tightly but peeking to see if she were still on her same beloved beach.
The wind still blew strong and salty off the bay. The waves still crashed against the sandbar. Up in the gorse was the same herd of horses and saiga, though the greatdeer had ambled on. She sighed in relief, and at her feet spied a real treasure- a brick of dolomite studded with stoneshells, fossil spirals that looked like beheaded serpents.
Delighted, she squatted to heft up the dolomite in her left hand- the spirit hand- praising the fair folk for the gift even as she appraised it. It was a delight- dozens of the little coils stuck out in burnished, coppery contrast to the drab grey matrix they were encased in. She would bring it to Tlixi, who would undoubtedly consider the object a blessed sign, and make an offering of it.
Twice as many meteors as usual
La Rioja, Argentina, 221,00,000 B.C.
The morning mist is nigh impenetrable, which the twins welcome. It masks their hunting from the ravenous rauisuchians that prowl along the shore.
This pond is shallow, a mere collection point for rainwater in the middle of the endless desert. A boom-garden of fork-leaved seed ferns, horsetails, and ephedra shrubs is busy springing up on the ephemeral shoreline, greedily sapping up as much water as possible before the desert reclaims this playa once again.
The twins had slaked their thirst already, and now set about fishing. In the new damp, lungfish wriggle from their mucous sarcophagi to feed on insects and frog eggs. The twins scout for these as well, competing with the stout temnospondyls that have likewise risen from the mud. But two heads are better than one. Left mind has his head down, carefully scrutinizing the waters, while right mind holds his up alertly, eyes peeled for predators.
It was difficult for them, at first. After hatching, they were long in learning how to walk properly, each mind vying for control of the single body they shared. Once, they walked in a circle for a whole day. But eventually, they learned to coordinate well enough- left mind moving the right leg, right mind moving the left leg, and each minding his own teeth.
They are male, their heads flushed crimson in the breeding season, but no female in her right mind would dare submit to such a mutant, lest her eggs inherit the same deformity.
No matter- the left mind spies a lungfish that has awoken late, and darts down to stuff its gullet. His hunger satisfied, left mind raises his head now, to let right mind take his own turn hunting for frogs and lungfish.
Hoof and Fang
Agate Springs, Nebraska, 18,000,000 B.C.
In the noon of night, battle loomed on the prairie.
The moon glowed indistinctly behind a veil of fog, its ghostly pallor filtering down through the brume to illuminate the two combatants. In the left corner, one Hyaenodon brevirostrus, weighing one-hundred-and-one pounds. His thick, brindled fur was drenched in the blood of the young chalicothere he had just slain.
His challenger, Daeodon shoshonensis, the dreaded Hell Hog. Six-hundred pounds even, she was the dominant predator of this scrubland. She was hungry. She had smelled Hyaenodon’s kill from two miles away, and she meant to take it from him by right of force.
A ferocious snarl rippled forth from Hyaenodon’s throat. By all accounts, he should have turned and run off with his tail between his legs, ceding the kill to the Hell Hog. But this kill was hard-won, and he meant to defend it, even against an adversary six times larger than he.
The Hell Hog stalked slowly forward. Her big hooves clipped almost daintily across the prairie, inches and half-inches at a time. Tensing herself for the fight she knew was coming. She had given battle many times before, and had yet to be defeated. If Hyaenodon wanted a fight, so be it. She took one more careful step. Then made her rush at Hyaenodon.
Hyaenodon side-stepped smoothly away from the Hell Hog’s lethal jaws, lunging at her right flank. Grappling her with his paws, as he had done to the young chalicothere, his fangs raked two deep gashes into the flesh of her side.
The Hell Hog whipped her head around and caught Hyaenodon’s hind leg in the tip of her jaws, pulling him off and flinging him like he were a paperweight. He hit the hulking side of the chalicothere carcass, but was up on his feet again in a moment.
They stood five feet apart now, facing each other. Each scrutinizing every inch of the other’s body, looking for weak spots and revising their battle plans on the fly.
The Hell Hog surged forward again, closing the gap between her and Hyaenodon in half a second. Her sheer weight would do what skill could not. Hyaenodon stood his ground, and leaped up to meet her rush. For a moment they were terribly close, bloodied dancing partners that slashed and parried and ripped each other to pieces. There was death in every snap of the Hell Hog’s jaws, one bite enough to effortlessly break Hyaenodon’s neck. But Hyaenodon’s own jaws were formidable as well, and his mighty paws allowed him to grapple with the Hell Hog where she could only kick wildly.
Kicking had its advantages, however. An errant hoof caught Hyaenodon in the side as he made his own swipe at her throat, and knocked him aside. It was her undoing. Before she could make good on her strike, the dazed Hyaenodon hurtled at her hock in the millisecond it was exposed. His teeth sank home, and the Hell Hog felt the taut muscles and tendons in her right leg snapping like a cut hawser-line.
Instantly she lunged at her attacker, but her jaws caught only empty air where he had been moments before. Now he was back atop the carcass, one huge paw covering the dead chalicothere’s thigh to assert his ownership. She tried to whirl around to strike him once more, but found her right leg unresponsive to her will.
On her three good legs, she made one last charge at Hyaenodon. Meeting her, Hyaenodon ducked and rolled to her left side. His reddened teeth crunched down on her soft underbelly. Blood spilled out of her in a hot, gurgling stream, followed by her intestines a moment later. The rich smell of blood drove Hyaenodon into a frenzy, and he leaped wildly at her flank, smashing into her at three points with his massive head and paws.
The Hell Hog died too quickly for panic to set in. Enraged to the end, she felt only the briefest instant of sharp pain when Hyaenodon found her throat.
Hyaenodon stood triumphantly over his second kill of the evening. Its scent was maddeningly different from that of the chalicothere- rich and delicious, all the more so due to the hard battle to acquire it. He tore off a strip of flesh from the Hell Hog’s meaty back and found it immensely to his liking.
He’s never had bacon before.
Not just lyrical, but goated for featuring live dicephaly. A good friend recommended you in my search for other writers of dino fiction and I am impressed!!