Authors: Chad Oliver
Mark
was
greeted
by
soft
smiles
and
cheerful
waves that
meant
more
to
him
than
any
enthusiastic
demonstration
could
have
possibly
meant.
He
belonged
now; he
was
not
a
hero,
and
did
not
want
to
be,
but
was simply
one
of
the
Danequa,
sharing
their
joys
and sorrows
because
they
were
his
joys
and
sorrows.
Tlaxcan
grinned.
“You
are
just
in
time
to
miss
all the
work,”
he
told
him.
Old
Roqan
came
up,
wearing
his
perpetual
frown, bringing
a
choice
piece
of
meat
and
a
chunk
of
split bone
loaded
with
juicy
marrow.
“Here,”
he
grunted, “since
you
are
too
late
to
work
you
might
as
well
eat a
little
something.”
He
gave
Mark
the
meat
and
the marrow,
the
twinkle
in
his
eyes
taking
all
the
sting out
of
his
words.
Mark
gratefully
dug
into
the
tangy meat,
and
sampled
the
marrow,
which
was
considered quite
a
delicacy
by
the
Danequa.
The
marrow
was the
soft,
red
tissue
that
filled
the
bone
cavities,
and Mark
found
it
rather
salty
but
very
good
after
he
got used
to
it.
Roqal,
the
plump
wife
of
Roqan,
ran
up,
skipping and
laughing,
and
told
Mark
that
she
thought
he
was just
the
bravest
thing
ever.
He
told
her
that
she
was beautiful,
and
she
raced
happily
away
to
convey
this surprising
intelligence
to
her
husband,
who
had
different
ideas.
When
the
Danequa
had
cut
all
the
meat
and
hides that
they
could
possibly
carry
on
the
return
trip,
they loaded
it
all
on
devices
they
used
for
transporting
their belongings.
These
contraptions
were
quite
simple, since
the
wheel
was
completely
unknown
to
them,
and they
consisted
of
two
long
lean-to
poles,
which
crossed at
one
end
to
form
a
V-shaped
frame.
The
hides
were fastened
to
this
frame,
and
the
meat
was
piled
on the
hides
and
tied
in
place.
These
were
pulled
with the
open
end
of
the
V
dragging
behind,
and
were quite
helpful.
Mark
had
seen
similar
devices
among the
Indians,
where
they
were
called
travois.
He
remembered
that
the
Indians,
in
times
past,
had
used dogs
to
pull
small
travois,
and
he
tried
to
hook
a
small one
up
to
Fang.
Fang,
however,
whose
knowledge
of history
was
cheerfully
less
than
Mark’s,
refused
to
cooperate,
snapping
at
his
improvised
harness
and
looking
at
Mark
with
pleading
eyes.
Mark
turned
him
loose.
“Guess
it
just
doesn’t
pay
to
tamper
with
history, old
boy,”
he
said,
scratching
Fang’s
ears
and
giving him
a
chunk
of
meat.
“You’ve
done
enough
work
for this
day
anyhow.”
Fang
wagged
his
bushy
tail
happily
and
nuzzled Mark’s
hand.
Mark
could
not
help
thinking
that
here was
a
concrete
example
of
a
problem
he
had
often wondered
about.
Could
you
change
history,
if
you went
back
in
time?
The
Danequa
had
not
used
any animals
for
transportation
purposes,
and
his
brief attempt
to
change
that
had
failed.
Had
Mark
changed anything,
in
any
fundamental
way,
in
his
weeks
with the
men
of
the
dawn?
He
doubted
it,
and
doubted that
he
could
even
if
he
had
worked
at
it.
He
was beginning
to
realize
that
there
was
more
to
changing history
than
just
coming
along
with
a
new
or
original idea.
A
people
and
their
culture
had
to
be
receptive to
the
idea.
In
his
own
time,
politicians
and
others had
found
that
out,
although
they
expressed
it
in
different
words.
They
said
that
“the
time
had
to
be
right” for
change.