Initially, she woke feeling good, sated by images of consideration and the love of a person or group of people she could not fathom. If these were memories, no mere fanciful dreams, Marguerite felt secure in the knowledge that there were rescuers in her future. She had family who loved and missed her. Moreover, Marguerite was sure she would know them the minute they arrived. All those things she had forgotten, all the fleeting imagery, would come together and make sense. Her life would return to normal, whatever that was, and she would be whole.

“Rescuers …” She opened her eyes, a slight ironic smile still upturning her lips at the thought. It amused her in some strange way and warmed Marguerite. There was a vivid memory of masculine yet gentle fingers touching her cheek and hair. Even now it lingered, that tenderness, and she found herself distracted, wooly and a bit dazed.

Marguerite looked over at her hand. It was laying palm-down very close to her face. She saw a very small pair of cold black eyes looking back into her own.

Startled, forgetting where she was, Marguerite jumped up and shrieked her disgust. The back of her skull impacted not too gently against the stone over-hang above her head. The small, frightened creature scooted off quickly, eager to be away from the strange, fretting woman.

A profoundly perturbed Marguerite backed swiftly out of the crevice, on her hands and knees, rubbing the back of her wounded head as she stood. Regrettably, her already torn blouse sleeve managed to become hooked on a jagged branch protruding from the stone and earthen hovel. Her caught sleeve shredded and separated into an even larger slit.

Marguerite stared blankly down at her partially bared shoulder for a moment, considering the shabby garment then, completely displeased and not caring who knew about it, she stomped her booted feet firmly and furiously on the ground. The woman kicked at dirt, grass and stones like an angry child. She shouted: “Hate this place!” Then she sobbed again, “I hate it!”

Slowly calming herself, taking in deep breaths, and feeling hot and chilled at the same time, Marguerite steadied her emotions and listened to the jungle about her. It was not wise in a foul place like this to have a tantrum. It skewed a person’s mind, making her vulnerable to whatever was to come next.

Still, it was so unfair. “What’s next?” Marguerite murmured because, God help her, she knew there would be more. One day she might even find out why this was her lot in life.

***

At sunrise they walked with the native boy to the area where he found Marguerite’s hat. The tree was very tall and thick, with no handholds, and the Kiko child confessed to their visitors that he had to throw stones at the hat as it hung on the tree branch to attain it. Not even he, a nimble and accomplished tree climber, could scale its huge bulk.

Which means,” Challenger spoke gravely, “Marguerite did not climb the tree and place her hat on the branch.”

“Then how …?” Roxton began. He then looked at Challenger with a stricken expression. “She was in the air and it fell …. A pterodactyl?”

“Perhaps.” Challenger did not commit but the significance of the situation was plain.

Reluctantly, the men returned to the treehouse to better fill their packs and leave a note for Malone and Veronica. They did not know how long it would take to finally find Marguerite and they did not want to leave the couple upset about all their missing friends, should they return home soon.

Neither Roxton nor Challenger spoke of a very real possibility. They might never find Marguerite. She could very well be in the belly of a prehistoric reptile. They both knew it probable yet the men simply could not consider that outlook yet, no matter what the evidence might suggest.

They should have taken a few moments once back home to rest, eat and recalibrate but the hunter and scientist could not consider that either. They had to find their companion -- and they would search until they could search no more.

***

She listened for more large lizard-like monsters and looked up at the sky to see if another predator bird was on the loose. So far so good.

Marguerite, as she walked, heard a rushing noise. She was compelled to move to it. Last night’s rain caused the creeks and rivers to swell. Thirsty and hungry, the woman walked to where a rapidly flowing stream bubbled excitedly.

Relieved, Marguerite crouched near the rivers-edge and dipped her hands into the rush of coldness. It was clear and beautiful and she drank greedily. She splashed some of the water onto her warm chest and was pleased with its relief. She wanted more. Marguerite had an overwhelming urge to take a bath - or at least a sponge bath. She tore the already ripped sleeve from her blouse and dipped it in the rushing water. She wiped her face and the back of her sore neck and smiled languidly, feeling somewhat refreshed.

Then, an idea in the works, Marguerite looked about the jungle in a moment in modesty. Satisfied no one was near, she unbutton her blouse. Marguerite laid the tattered garment on a grassy patch of land beside her and leaned over the water. Her vigorous splashing dampened the lacey camisole she was wearing but Marguerite did not care. It was wonderful, this coolness and promise of cleanliness, and she would not discourage one of the first signs of good fortune to come her way in a long while.

She closed her eyes and lifted the cloth, squeezing. She allowed the trickling water to splash her face and dribble down her throat.

‘The view’s better over here.’

‘It’s fine right where I’m standing.’

‘I wasn’t talking about the water.’

‘Neither was I.’

“Well, look what we have here.”

Marguerite opened her eyes, jostled from a short-lived remembrance, and gasped. A ragged looking man with a beard was staring over at her from across the creek.

“I won’t ask how you managed to climb up that rock wall.” he continued, “but it just goes to show what a strong and worthy prize you are. We are obviously the chosen of Renta to find you again.” The leader walked through the creek as his men came up beside Marguerite and took her by the arms, lifting her to her feet. “Your head’s a little dicey,” he noted Marguerite discolored wound, “but that didn’t stop you, did it? We’re miles from the rift. How did you …?”

“Help me?” Marguerite asked hesitantly, puzzled. She could not recall these men but they seemed to know her. She did not get a good feeling from them yet they were all human beings. They should be on her side … shouldn’t they?

The slavers chuckled around her.

“I think Pretty-Girl here has lost a few of her stones.” The bare-chested slaver with Marguerite’s gun-belt flung over his shoulder played as if knocking Marguerite on the side of her head.

“All the better.” The leader approached and picked up Marguerite’s blouse where it lay. He glanced at her camisole and the lovely flesh it revealed. “Pretty indeed.”

“I say we have some fun right here. No one who buys her will know or care.”

The leader looked at Jama. He was a careless fool and the mark of his foolishness shown across his grubby chest, where that Kiko warrior had slashed him. If he were not such a good brute, skilled with his own weapons, the leader would have had him put to death a long time ago. “I have a vision for this woman. And it does not include your filthy paws all over her.”

“She’s already damaged goods.” One of the men pointed out, nodding toward the bruise on Marguerite’s forehead and the inflamed scratches near her ribs, below her camisole.

“None of you will touch her.” The leader persevered. “And if I’ve found you have gone against orders Dirkon will be notified and you know what he does to the disobedient.”

The men were disappointed but silent.

The leader returned Marguerite’s blouse to her and mimed that she should put it on without delay. He watched as the woman did so, appearing a bit self-conscience. She would get over that soon enough, he thought, when they had her stripped and she was put on display for the buyers. Nevertheless, until then the woman would keep her virtue. He would allow her that small amount of respect. After all, she was the chosen of Renta. “Bring her.”

These were bad men. If Marguerite had any doubts about their intentions she was pulled back into the stark realism of the situation when she heard whimpers from behind her. Marguerite glanced over her shoulder and saw some native children - three young girls and two boys - with their hands tied, being pushed along the waterline.

Marguerite had been waiting for friends but found herself in the hands of the worst enemy possible … or so she thought.

***

Roxton would not slow.

Despite his long legs, Challenger practically had to run to keep up with him.

“I swear, if I get my hands on one of those bastards who did this to her …” Roxton muttered, rifle firmly in his hands, as he pursued.

Challenger almost commented but knew it would probably be in his best interest to stay silent. Sometimes a man, particularly a man of action like Lord John Roxton, just needed to talk to himself or go crazy. Although he knew what Roxton said was not idle he also knew him as a thinking man. He would do nothing to jeopardize Marguerite’s life. That included killing someone on the spot just because he assumed he was causing the woman Roxton loved harm.

“Hurry up, Challenger. I don’t want to lose the light.”

“Don’t wait for me, Roxton. I’m with you.” ‘… and I will follow you to hell, my friend.’How strange when the sentiment, to follow a man to the ends of the earth and back in search of his dream, was not the focus of Roxton, the loyal hunter, but Challenger, the visionary.

They had all come very far.

***

They probably thought because she was wounded and a woman they could pay little attention to her. Marguerite’s hands were tied to the front and her booted ankles were also bound. She was sitting, leaning against the thick bulk of a huge tree and felt uncomfortable. It was not just because of her current circumstance, although that was precarious at best, but because she had an unobstructed view of the captured native boys and young women. They were tied like her, sullen and frightened. Several had been crying. One girl had wept so much she lay exhausted, her head against another girl’s shoulder.

The men sat around a campfire, eating, drinking and cursing. Their dialogue took in everything from their leader’s latest proclamation to wondering what grand feast awaited them at home -- and how their enslaved women were going to greet them upon their return. Their laughter was crude and indecent.

Marguerite looked down at her boots. She felt she was just on the verge of remembering a few things of importance but just as a picture of a momentous event came to her it dissolved away. It was too fleeting to be grasped … “The café Tartes du jour” she thought once again as she had when lying on that cliff yesterday. Where was it? Paris? Where was that?

She saw a glint.

The sun was positioned directly above Marguerite’s head and it played between the leaves of the trees. A beam of light had caught the crease between the top of her boot and leg. Inside the boot something slim and long was hidden. Marguerite looked over at her preoccupied captors then slowly slipped her fingers inside the boot. She struggled for a moment then pulled it free.

A switchblade.

“Applegate.” she whispered without knowing what the word meant. Marguerite pressed a button on the handle and watched as the blade popped into view. Her eye grew wide and Marguerite quickly brought her new find down to her heels and looked up once again at the men. They did not seem aware of her discovery although one of them looked in her direction for a few seconds before he was brought back into the conversation he and his partners were having.

Marguerite held the base of the switchblade firmly between her heels; her knees raised, and almost nonchalantly, although with great purpose, began to rub against the rope that bound her hands. Just as the rope began to fray the bare-chested slaver stood, with a plate of food, and walked over to Marguerite.

“Hungry?” he asked, smiling foolishly.

Marguerite, pressing her legs together to hide her secret, felt her heart might explode. However, her outward expression revealed nothing. “Go away.” she told him tersely.

The unkempt man stopped, looked at her curiously and with a little amusement, then chuckled, “Your loss, honey.” he said, “Starve for all I care.” and he about faced, eating her meal himself and returning to the fire and his companions.

Marguerite could practically hear her pulse. Again, with more vigor, she worked on the ropes until she felt them part. Carefully, she then cut the bindings at her ankles and, watching the men closely, considered how she would make her escape.

Once again, her eyes flickered in the direction of the children. A boy and two of the girls could see what she had done and their expressions were hopeful. Marguerite gazed at them for a moment. ‘They mean nothing to you. They could unravel your escape. Look out for yourself. No one is more important than number one …’ But wherever these thoughts were coming from they did not have the impact of their intent.

Marguerite nodded at the children and she lifted a single finger to her lips in a -Sh- gesture. She then cagily scooted backward, veering away from the tree, and stood. She hid behind the bulk of the tree trunk, getting her bearings for a moment, and then took action. Marguerite hid in the bushes, rounding the parameter, until she reached the native boys and girls. Through the shielding bushes she cut their restraints. Each child followed Marguerite’s example and silently backed up until they were out of sight.

When everyone was free they made a mad dash for the east side of forest. Marguerite followed the young people. A girl, the one whose weeping had been so heartbreaking, took one of Marguerite’s hands, urging her along. “My people will save us.” she declared in her native tongue. She looked at the bruise on Marguerite’s head and the splash of red on her tattered blouse, near her ribs. “They will help you, lady.” she said with certainty.

Yet, no sooner had the Kiko girl said this then they heard the shouts of pursuing men. The slavers had finally discovered their missing merchandise and, drunk and furious, they were determined to get them back.

“Go!” Marguerite shouted at the girl, pushing her away to join the others. Somehow, the woman determined that if she were with the children she could give away their position. On the other hand, if she played it right, she could also be a diversion. Marguerite ran in the opposite direction, kicking up leaves and grass, and her strategy seemed to work.

She could hear one of the unseen men shout, “This way! I see the woman!” The further rustling of leaves, as if other sets of feet were following, was then heard.

However, they did not seem to be able to catch up to her, probably because they were drunk and unfocused, and Marguerite felt relief until a slaver - the one with the angry cut across his chest - tackled her. He brought Marguerite down to her knees then shoved her roughly onto her back, pinning her to the ground.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Jama huffed, out of breath. “I think I’ll kill you right here,” His hands moved around her throat, “But not before …” His mouth suddenly came down impatiently on hers, his body positioning and arranging itself in an act of violence that was horrible and so typical of his type of degenerate.

What happened next would not remain with Marguerite. It would be a flickering incident that would eventually and mercifully be forgotten on the road to good health and sound mind. Without thinking of anything but her own life and dignity, Marguerite took the switchblade, unseen by the slaver, which was still held firmly in Marguerite’s hand, and pushed it forward violently again and again, in a frenzy of panic, fear and rage. Soon, with a silent cry on his lips, the man fell away from her.

Sobbing, Marguerite dropped her weapon and scooted away.

She looked over briefly at the lifeless body then stood and proceeded to run again when she heard other men’s voices. Marguerite could barely see the forest from her blinding tears but she continued to run away, terrified and alone.

‘On my own … as always …’

***

Night had come once again and the men, searching all day and into the evening, were finally settling down. They had seen footprints earlier in the day and it seemed promising but soon even these clues disappeared and Roxton, an expert tracker, was at a loss.

A broken branch here and there could mean anything and Roxton was becoming frustrated by their lack of progress. Then, just two hours ago, they found a shredded piece of cloth, hooked onto a branch near a large stone. It could have been from Marguerite’s blouse. It was very close to what she often wore -- Unfortunately, there were also those T-Rex tracks so close beside the boulder …

Roxton had practically shouted her name until he was hoarse.

The lukewarm tea he now drank was soothing -- but only to his throat. ‘Dear God, where is she?’ he thought and looked up at the rising full moon.

“We’ll pick up the pace first thing tomorrow, Roxton.” Challenger promised.

“Yes.” the hunter whispered.

“We’ll find her.” Challenger assured, trying to convince himself as much as Roxton..

The hunter glanced at his friend as he prepared to lie before the fire. Challenger was trying to sound positive for his sake but his tone betrayed him. “George, what will I do if …” Roxton began then looked down at his tea. He had not realized his fingers were shaking until he saw them. “… I lose her?”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“We won’t lose Marguerite.” Challenger was firm, “She is a clever and capable woman. If we can’t find her she’ll find us.”

“Normally, yes.”

“It’s not like you to lose faith, John.”

Roxton closed his eye, dipped his head and slowly shook it back and forth in sorrow. “You’re right. She always manages to surprise us.” He smiled mildly, “Why should this time be any different?”

“She is a survivor, our Marguerite. She’ll be just fine.” Challenger pulled his hat over his face and rested his head against his backpack. “Goodnight, John.”

“’night, Challenger.”

Roxton took another sip from his cup, looked up once again at the moon, and sighed deeply. “Tomorrow.” he whispered.

***

(to be continued)