Episode 1 - The Red Faces (1)
Day and night had cycled several times, and our nest was already starting to look quite different. What began as a single campfire had multiplied into five, and all the weeds and bushes that once carpeted the ground had been hacked and uprooted, exposing the red earth beneath. The fires burned damp grass, sending up thick, acrid smoke that kept persistent flies and mosquitoes at bay. Fire was a blessing near to godhood, but it was also a ravenous monster with an endless hunger. With five fires now roaring instead of one, we could no longer rely solely on the scattered branches and dead trees nearby for fuel. Diminishing the flames wasn't an option either—the others, having tasted fire's comfort, wouldn't stand for it. And so, our foraging range began to expand farther and farther afield. Even in the dry season, finding dry wood in the jungle wasn't easy. On top of that, roasting our food had us eating more than usual, which only made matters worse. Inevitably, this meant running into other groups more often.
"Leader! Leader!"
A scream-like shout rang out suddenly. I dropped the crude basket I'd been trying to weave with my stiff fingers and ran toward the sound. There stood Caesar, the young male, carrying one of our swollen-faced comrades on his back.
"What happened?!"
"Another group! They attacked us!"
His words made my face harden instinctively. It wasn't the existence of other groups that surprised me—dozens of large and small bands roamed this jungle, sometimes mingling and exchanging members. But they never attacked first like this.
"Another group? Which one?"
"The Red Face tribe! They attacked us the moment they saw us!"
The Red Face tribe lived farther north from our territory, known for slathering their bodies in red mud—likely to ward off insects from the swamps near their home. The problem was how far away they were. Even swinging through the trees at top speed, it took a full day to reach them. We rarely crossed paths.
"How far did you go?"
"Not far at all! Just our usual route!"
That sparked fresh doubt in me. It meant the Red Face tribe had come all the way down here to cause trouble.
I immediately examined the injured one's limp face. One cheek was swollen bright red, with nail scratches around the eye. Not life-threatening, but definitely a solid hit.
"How many of them?"
"Three! No, four! Two in the trees, two on the ground!"
"And you?"
"Three of us!"
A sigh escaped me. Equal numbers—or fewer—and they attacked first? Deep in our territory, no less? This wasn't normal. Groups usually just growled and postured at each other before backing off. Real fights only broke out over dire shortages of food, threats to young ones, or when one side went berserk. Our kind had such low offensive power that fighting just hurt both sides.
"Where did you run into them?"
Caesar pointed somewhere between south and north.
"That way, until the sun had moved this far."
A bit deeper into the forest than our usual spots for picking fruit and gathering dry branches. I clicked my tongue. Coming that far meant it wasn't a wrong turn—they had a purpose.
"How many do you think there were?"
"Heard noises from afar! More than we saw!"
The gathering crowd began to murmur.
"Red Faces bad!"
"They hit us!"
"Hit them back!"
"Take fire and burn them!"
Hold on—the last one was way too casual about something dangerous.
"Quiet."
My low command silenced them instantly. Handy how one word could halt the mood now. I checked the injured one's jaw, turning it this way and that. Teeth intact, skull uncracked. Not stones—branches or fists. This was a drive-off, not a kill attempt.
Then a hypothesis clicked in my mind.
No way. Were they expanding their range like us?
It was dry season. High chance they were venturing farther for scarce food and water. Time for the wisdom of the ancient survivor.
Our group had one very old male—thirty years, an eternity here. (Modern humans might scoff, but considering great apes averaged around fifty, it fit.) I'd named him the Old One. He spent his days perched atop trees, eating whatever the others brought.
I headed straight under his tree. As always, he sat on the highest branch—hunched back, patchy gray fur, one ear half-torn off long ago. He looked like a freeloading geezer, but he'd outlasted every season. Old ones lose strength but remember everything.
"Old One!"
He slowly lowered his head at my call. No real names yet, but he'd learned this meant him.
"Red Face tribe—know them?"
He blinked for a long moment, then:
"Know."
Quick response—usually took three calls.
"They came here. Hit our young ones."
His eyes narrowed faintly. He scratched the branch like tree bark, muttering low.
"Water."
"Water?"
"North water, less. No clouds north for days. Always clouds there. Less clouds, less water."
Short, but enough. It confirmed my guess. Red Faces lived in northern wetlands—buggy but bountiful. Dry seasons hit swamps first: puddles dry, mud hardens, bugs and plants vanish.
We were luckier—springs that held through drought, grass along them drawing animals. Food plentiful.
"This dry longer. Fewer clouds than before."
I glanced skyward—crystal clear, no clouds. And I hadn't seen any lately either.
"They come again?"
"Will. This place known. Water doesn't dry."
As I turned to plan, he called:
"Young leader."
"Yeah?"
His eyes were clear, not his usual vacant sky-gaze.
"Red Faces fight well. They take to live. Be careful."
I nodded slowly.
Knowing enemies lurked, we couldn't just wait.
"Hit Red Faces when they come!"
"Tie with bola!"
"Stone them!"
We probably wouldn't lose. Armed with bolas, fire, spears—beyond modern imagination—and proficient. Unless they outnumbered us several times over, victory was ours.
But complacency invites disaster. Prep time.
"Gather good throwing stones here."
I held up my shoddy grass basket, hanging it on a thick branch. Stone tools okay-ish; fine crafts, not so much.
"Stones for what?"
"Throw at enemy. Two too few."
Throwing was our ace. Stones need close range; fire-hardened spears strong but short-use. Stones? Easy find, easy throw.
Next, I extinguished all but the central fire.
"My monster!"
"Leader! No! Our monster good!"
Outrage, but stray sparks in chaos could doom us. Instead, I built the center one three times bigger—easier manage, decent night visibility.
If not jungle-dry-season, more fires. But dry burns live wood—whole forest could go.
Finally, piled thorny bushes and branches into knee-high barricades. Trip hazards enough.
Made extra bolas, clubs. Picked two tree-climbers for rotating north watch. Red Faces no fools—would strike when we slipped.
Days passed; encounters ramped. First, distant red mud-fur traces—scouting, approaching then retreating.
They never got caught. Sometimes spotted while foraging—stare, vanish. Anxiety built.
Finally, growling glares across the trees.
"Leader! Red Faces keep coming!"
"Arrogant! We hit first!"
Grumbles grew; preemptive strike calls rose.
But striking first? Worst idea.
"We wait."
"Why!"
"Nest ready. They tire, attack—we shine."
They settled, hiding stones in trees, crafting personal spears/clubs.
Three days later, watch yelled:
"Leader! Coming! Many!"
Up the tree: distant red faces leaping trees, charging.
I bellowed:
"Enemy! Battle ready!!!"
"Professor, look at this."
Han Si-ha pointed at the skull emerging from the freshly unearthed grave. Park Professor nodded gravely.
"Another with major trauma."
"Could all these graves be from the same day?"
"Hard to say for sure yet…"
He trailed off, turning to the sterilized cloth lined with bones. A deep sigh escaped.
"Given every skeleton shows massive injury… possible."
Each bone bore stark fractures, crushes—horrific.