TITLE:  Stool of Penance

CATEGORY:  Angst?

MAIN CHARACTERS:  Roxton and Marguerite

SPOILERS:  Minor spoilers for several episodes.  I haven't seen all of them, so I've probably put my foot in it several times.

RATING:  After some thought, I've decided to rate it "R."  This is due to some violence and some sex.

DISCLAIMER:  I'm only playing with them, Sir Arthur and Mr. New Line.  Honest.  I'll put them back just the way they were.

That's done it!  Stool of penance!  The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Through the coarse ruff of black fur, Marguerite's fingers massaged the neck of the dire wolf curled up at her side.  The canine's body felt warmly alive.  Just now Marguerite needed a living thing close to her that wouldn't talk about Roxton or bring him to mind in any way.

And there was nothing more different from the tall, smooth-skinned Roxton than this furry wolf.  Roxton's manners had been rough and he'd always needed a shave, but his chest had been as hairless as a baby's bottom.

Burying her face in thick fur, Marguerite thought of the times she'd seen Roxton with his shirt off.  He hadn't been the least shy about displaying his body.  Rather the opposite, stripping down at any polite opportunity.  Marguerite closed her eyes and evoked one of the mnemonic mantras she'd learned in MI5 during the war.  A moving picture of memories began to play in her head:  Roxton chopping wood, Roxton washing up, Roxton shaving.  Marguerite tightened her hold on the wolf's neck.  It whined and chuffed what sounded like a concerned question.  Are you okay there, Marguerite?

Believing the great white hunter could protect himself, they, the four of them, Roxton's so-called friends, had waited too long to track him down.  Last night he'd left the tree house like an enraged T-Rex.  Shrugging into his bandoleer, he'd stormed the elevator and slammed it into motion with a swipe powerful enough to break a steel bar – if there'd been one within a thousand miles.  Then, as the water sloshed through the bamboo pipes and the elevator ropes squeaked, he'd turned his back on Marguerite and the rest of them.

Challenger had shaken his head and returned to his laboratory without comment.  Veronica had stalked off to her sleeping porch.  That had left Marguerite and Malone staring at each other, Marguerite defiant, Malone with his mouth twisted both in pain and disgust.

None of them had thought to follow Roxton.  Not until morning and that had been much too late.  Veronica had judged from the dried blood on his clothes that Roxton'd died around 2 a.m.  "Probably a small raptor," she'd said kicking at the machete that lay in the tattered and blood-spattered dirt.  A swarm of feeding flies flew up like a damned soul then settled quickly back.  "The spoor's a bit odd, though.  Must've been limping."  Veronica picked up the bloody machete and waved at some marks to her left in the open space between them and the plateau's brink, about fifty feet away.  "There are scuffs all over the area.  I'd say Roxton had it down, fighting, rolling in the dirt.  Maybe he lamed it."  Yes, of course, Marguerite could just picture Roxton killing a raptor in hand-to-claw combat.  His pistols had been holstered and he'd left the rifles behind.  The heavy machete made a terrible in-fighting knife.  Roxton's friends had arrived much, much too late.

They hadn't really found Roxton's actual body.  There'd been nothing left to find, not even a well-gnawed bone, just blood and tantalizing bits of his life.  An optimist might think Roxton had stripped to the skin then ripped his clothes to bloody shreds.  No one volunteered this possibility, not even the irrepressibly buoyant Malone.

Marguerite shifted to look at Challenger over by the fire, laying out the bundle he'd carried away -- a pair of blood-soaked boots, the machete, Roxton's bandoleer and braces and several handfuls of brown-stained cotton twill.  The ivory-handled butts of Roxton's two pistols hung out over Challenger's belt.  The professor's feathery flag of ginger hair waved in a slight breeze as he bent over to study his arrangement.  That was how Challenger coped.  He turned his grief into scientific theorem.

And how would Marguerite cope?  More diamonds for her cache?  A few gold nuggets perhaps?  She had plenty of both.  Marguerite made a quiet sound that only the wolf's keen hearing detected.  It sat up on its rump, whined again and licked her face with a rough, moist tongue.

The mysterious wolf.  For God's sake, obviously someone's pet, but she'd never seen anything like him in the Zanga village, or for that matter any of the other odd communities on the plateau.

Veronica had taken the protective rear-guard position, Roxton's usual place, when they finally left the plateau's edge and turned for home.  It was a measure of Veronica's grief that she hadn't heard the raptors approach.  Surrounding the party in seconds, one already had Challenger down on the ground while Malone and Marguerite were still trying to bring up their rifles.  "Run for a tree!" Veronica had screamed, and knife in hand jumped for the nearest raptor's back.

The wolf had come out of nowhere.  After slashing the throat out of Challenger's captor, it pivoted and snapped the neck of Veronica's steed with a single bite behind its head then on it went to the next attacker.  Although Marguerite could have sworn she'd seen several raptor kicks connect, the wolf seemed untouched.  No cuts or blood marked the thick coat that ran through her fingers.

The wolf had saved all of them, all of them except Roxton.  Roxton had already been dead.  He'd been a smooth man and now he was dead.

Malone squatted next to Marguerite, holding out on a stick a campfire-seared cutlet of tree rat, a rodent-like creature resembling both possum and chameleon and tasting much worse than either.  Knowing how much she hated it, Roxton had never stocked the larder with tree rat even though it was slow-moving and easy to bring down.  Malone had apparently forgotten her distaste.  She pushed it away.  "Marguerite, you have to eat.  Neither Challenger nor I can carry you very far."  He offered the meat again, lifting his right eyebrow in gentle appeal.

Because Malone's left eye was swollen half shut, that brow stayed scrunched down.  The shiner looked really painful tonight.  Roxton must've bruised his knuckles with that one.

Malone probably carried a big load guilt around on those conscientious shoulders, but it wasn't his fault.  Early yesterday morning Roxton had marched into Marguerite's bedroom and tossed a huge armful of smelly clothes on her bed.  "Laundry day, Miss Krux!  Up and about!"  Who was milord John to assign her work?  She'd be damned if she'd wash Malone's drawers or Challenger's socks.  His lordship had been begging for a very special set down, and Marguerite had been just the woman to deliver it.  Malone had only been her unwitting tool.

It'd been her trick that drove Roxton from the tree house.  She'd killed Roxton, no one else.

Marguerite's half-open eyes considered the revolting, smoking flesh Malone offered.  "You won't have to carry me, Ned.  I promise you that.  No one has to carry Marguerite Krux."  She raised a hand, took the stick and, shifting a little, offered the meat to the animal lying at her side.  "But I think that our friend here deserves first share, don't you?"

Veronica had left Challenger at the fire to join Malone.  Standing behind him, she exclaimed, "Marguerite, don't!  It might …"  Malone raised a hand to stop her words, and they all watched the black wolf's enormous head lift and its eyes, so oddly light against the black fur, look steadily at the meat.  It made no move to take it.

After the last dinosaur fell, Challenger had tried to frighten the wolf away by firing a rifle into the air.  The wolf had saved him, and he didn't want to kill it, but a predator was a predator and they'd all just seen this one kill three raptors.  The wolf didn't even flinch at the sharp reports.  Malone, doubtless with his werewolf experience in mind, threatened it with a sturdy sharp piece of wood.  The wolf answered that by barking, bounding about and wagging its bushy tail.  Veronica said, "Ned, don't be ridiculous.  It's probably just someone's pet.  Not every wolf is a werewolf."

The wolf's tongue hung out and it panted like a happy idiot.  Gingerly offering it a hand to sniff, Challenger launched into an analysis of its phylum, genus and species.  A dire wolf, he'd said, a creature of the Ice Age.

When they started walking again, it ranged with them, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, but always returning to pace by Marguerite, licking her hand, nudging her hip, twice dropping sticks in front of her, obviously offering a game of fetch.  Silly dog.  Silly Bruiser.

"No?  Not hungry, huh?  Or is it Veronica's cooking?  Well, even our little jungle chef has her limitations.  There's only so much you can do with tree rat, and I think tonight she's done it all."

Veronica's tanned hand tightened a little where it rested on Malone's shoulder.  Marguerite caught the motion out of the corner of her eye.  Her lips stretched out into a thin line.  What was bothering Veronica?  Malone was alive and breathing the warm night air.  The boy was alive; the man had died.

Malone still squatted beside her, the same imploring look on his face.  Roxton wouldn't have tiptoed around her so delicately.  He would have teased, bullied or even force-fed Marguerite the abominable tree rat.  But Roxton was dead and they'd sent Malone.  Shouldn't send a boy to do a man's job, Marguerite thought.  In fact, if you can't send the man, don't send anyone at all.  Not to little Marguerite.  She doesn't need anyone.  So just leave her alone tonight, huh, please?  She's got Bruiser to talk to.  Not a brilliant conversationalist, but he says plenty enough.

Over by the fire Challenger harrumphed.  He'd been watching their little farce, his face hanging in tired folds.  Of all the adventurers, he'd depended on Roxton the most.  Ever since the Challenger expedition had left London, Roxton had been its shield against the darkness, never once laying that burden down until death took it from him.  Now the full responsibility for everyone's welfare fell squarely back on Challenger's scholarly shoulders.  From where Marguerite reclined on the jungle floor, leaning against Bruiser's warm body, the burden looked heavy indeed.

Challenger worried about her.  Well, he didn't need to.  They all expected Marguerite Krux to turn into a puddle of tears.  To give up.  Well, she'd show them.  She'd eat this damn, stinking piece of meat.  White teeth sunk into the tidbit on the stick and with some difficulty Marguerite ripped off a bite.  She began to chew in determined grinds.  She'd show them, she'd even show Roxton.  He'd …  no, no, he wouldn't.  Marguerite focused on chewing and tried not to think at all.

"Good heavens!" I cried.  "Then you think the beast was – Why, Charing Cross station would hardly make a kennel for such a brute!"

"Apart from exaggeration, he is certainly a well-grown specimen," said the Professor, complacently.  The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Returning to the fire, Malone picked up a stick and poked at the smoking wood.  On the plateau it was always a problem gathering fuel dry enough to burn, and on this humid mid-summer January night a fire wasn't really needed.  But Challenger had felt they all needed the comfort of freshly cooked food.  Agreeing, Malone and Veronica had gathered a large pile of the driest wood they could find.  Challenger tossed a few more pieces on.  Reluctantly the flames licked at them as if disappointed by the flavor of South American rainforest.

"Marguerite's tough," Veronica said as she sat down cross-legged beside Malone.  "She'll survive just to spite us, you know."

Challenger glanced over at Marguerite.  "Please keep your voice down, Veronica.  Marguerite is going to be very fragile for while.  I think that wolf may be the only thing holding her here with us.  I've been expecting her to bolt."

Veronica made a face.  Of them all, she still held a grudge against Marguerite.  They'd lost Roxton and Veronica had decided who was clearly responsible.  "I know she's sorry and I know she loved him in her way, but fragile?  That's is the last thing I'd call Marguerite.  Not in this century."

"Veronica!"  Malone's voice held a note of pleading.

Sun-bleached blonde hair fell forward to cover Veronica's face as she bent and flicked from her leg into the fire a many-legged, nameless insect.  "If she hadn't tricked you into playing her little game last night, this wouldn't've happened.  Roxton's worth ten of her."  Arising to her feet, Veronica stalked off and flopped down on her side in the soft leaf litter, her back to the rest of them.

The two men exchanged looks.  Sometimes a man had to wonder if even women understand women.  Certainly a lowly man could not.  It was a matter too enormous to ponder here in the rainforest, in the dead of a summer night.  The men sat silently watching sparks float away from the fire.  The Challenger expedition had now lost two men to the plateau.

"What do you think?" Malone finally asked, indicating where Marguerite lay asleep, curled up against the black wolf.  The wolf's eyes were open, looking back at him.  It almost seemed afraid to wake Marguerite, twitching its tail gently but otherwise laying perfectly still.

Challenger's eyes followed Malone's.  "Well, if you mean the dire wolf, Ned, like so many other things up here, it's an anachronism both in time and location.  Look at that thick fur, those huge paws.  It has no business being anywhere but deep snow country.  In the rest of the world, the dire wolf sub-species died out after the last ice age twenty thousand years ago.  Here it's probably been forced down out of the high mountains for some reason, a dearth of game perhaps."

Malone looked at Challenger's face.  The professor's soft voice lacked the enthusiasm he usually brought to scientific discussion.  His body seemed to sag on his bones.

"No, I mean at first I thought it might be a type of werewolf, and it's certainly the biggest wolf I've ever heard tell of, must be two hundred pounds at least.  But after I thought about it, I changed my mind.  When I was turning werewolf last year, I couldn't control myself -- I swear I would have eaten my own mother -- and this thing is as gentle as a kitten.  The sun doesn't bother it, it's the same day and night, and the moon's only half full.  So if it isn't a werewolf, it's obviously been tamed.  Trained even."

"Or it's incredibly intelligent by our standards."  At Malone's skeptical look, Challenger smiled gently.  "The wolves of our day are among the smartest of canids, much more so than your average canis familiaris.  We have no way of knowing an animal's intelligence without observing it.  Don't forget how quickly the raptors learned to respect our rifles."

"Well, it certainly loves Marguerite.  It follows her like a dog."

"He doesn't seem to want to lose sight of her.  Do you know, it came to his new name after only one repetition?"

Malone chuckled.  "Marguerite's given it a name already?"

Challenger joined him in a quiet laugh.  "She's been calling him Bruiser."  Challenger's smile faded.  "I believe it's one of the nicknames Roxton used during his brief career as a pugilist."

They'd come back full circle Marguerite's burning grief.  Like the mystery that was woman, it was too deep a subject for a late night in the rain forest.  Malone and Challenger only spoke again to establish who'd take first watch.  Without discussion, they agreed to let both women sleep through the night.

Malone settled into a space between Challenger and Veronica and tried to let the night fill him with stillness.  It wasn't easy.

                                           *_{}_*

"If you believe," he shouted to them, "clap your hands; don't let Tink die."  Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie.

I believe in fairies.  (Claps her hands.)  Do you?  Please take a moment to let me know what you think of my story so far.