Dawn of the Planet of the Apes Page 2

  What are you standing around for? Go help with the horses.

  Ash ducked his head and hurried away. Caesar watched his son, trying to judge how badly he was hurt from how he acted when he didn’t know his father was watching. It looked as if he would be all right, but someone would have to see to his wounds to clean them, at least.

  Past Blue Eyes, Caesar saw a female chimp named Sparrow come from deeper in the village, rushing toward the hunting party. She was plainly alarmed, pushing other apes aside in her hurry. Caesar’s own alarm grew. She was headed for him. He flipped the reins of his horse to a waiting gorilla and was moving toward her before she reached him.

  Follow me, she gestured.

  Cornelia, Caesar thought.

  4

  A path along the edge of the canyon led up to the base of a massive oak tree. Beyond it lay an open grassy area enclosed by a timber wall, and beyond that a high meadow spread along the mountain’s upper flank. From the head of the path, an ape could look down on the village, and even further down to the bridges spanning the canyon and the rushing water below.

  The oak marked Caesar’s home, which was built into its branches. Its lower part faced the canyon, overhung by a roof worked into the branches and braced by a timber floor just barely too high for an ape to leap up and grip. Ascending through the tree were other parts of Caesar’s dwelling, but it was to the lower section he ran now, ducking from the path into the tunnel dug among the tree’s roots. He came out of the tunnel and climbed the trunk, then swung around and landed on the floor inside.

  All the while the sound of Cornelia’s screams spurred him on.

  Other apes followed him. He could hear them in the tree’s branches, too, and see their anxious faces peering through the walls and roof. Many of them were children, running away from Maurice’s lesson to see what this new excitement was about. Now they were frightened by the sound of Cornelia’s pain.

  So was Caesar.

  His eyes adjusted to the gloom in the deeper part of the room, against the trunk. Cornelia lay on the bed he had made for her, years before when he had selected this tree for his own… and hers. Other female apes surrounded her, stroking her forehead and grooming her hair.

  She shrieked, longer and louder than before, the sound digging into Caesar’s ears until he wanted to hit something. He held himself still, watching her bare her teeth and draw another breath to scream again. He was more frightened now than he had been facing the bear. There he had looked an enemy in the eye, but here there was no enemy to fight. She would either survive the birth, or she would not.

  Caesar could do nothing.

  Cornelia drew a series of whistling breaths. If she knew Caesar was there, she gave no sign. None of the other females looked at him, either. She breathed in more deeply and shrieked one more time, even longer than before. Two of the other females moved to shield her from Caesar’s view.

  So they do know I am here, he thought in the midst of his anxiety.

  The scream went on, becoming a growl and finally trailing off into shallow panting.

  In the sudden quiet Caesar heard a tiny squeak. His heart jumped. He took a step forward as the females parted, and he watched one of them place the tiny newborn on Cornelia’s chest. It was slick and wet, all fingers and toes. She gathered it in and brought it to her breast to nurse. It squeaked again, twice, and then grew quiet as it found the nipple and began to suck.

  Caesar took another step. The attending females groomed the blood and fluid out of Cornelia’s fur and cleaned the bed around her. She looked up at him, then down again to the newborn. He approached and settled next to her, stroking her head. When he bent to kiss the tiny newborn, its fingers spread and then clenched into fists again, holding tight to Cornelia’s hair.

  From outside came the grunts and hoots of the children. Their light steps pattered back and forth across the roof. He heard the news of the birth relayed through the camp, followed by an outbreak of excited shrieking. Every birth was celebrated.

  Movement from the open side of the dwelling made Caesar look up. He saw Blue Eyes, hesitant to enter, and beckoned him in. He came slowly to join them. Cornelia hooted a quiet greeting and smiled at him. His answering smile was nervous and wondering as he saw the newborn. Caesar saw him again for what he was: a child still, and growing into himself. The anger he had felt in the forest left him.

  He rested a hand on Blue Eyes’ shoulder. The three of them breathed together, and realized they were breathing in unison with the newborn. They looked at one another, and smiled.

  5

  Later that night, the celebration had taken over the entire village. The birth brought joy to the apes, as did all births, and especially that of a strong healthy child born to their leader.

  They also celebrated the hunt. Haunches of elk roasted on spits over the fire as the sun set. Apes drummed and danced, the sound of the beats echoing from the canyon walls. Caesar and Cornelia sat on a ledge looking over the fire pit and the gathering, Blue Eyes and some of their closest friends nearby. She wore a crown of wildflowers picked by her midwives, and cradled the newborn, who slept the way only newborns could sleep.

  Beside them was a tribute pile, offerings from the rest of the troop—flowers to adorn, pelts to warm, food to enjoy and sustain. Caesar looked at Cornelia and smiled. He had been unable to stop smiling all day. The tension and anger from the end of the morning hunt was all but forgotten.

  Below them the gathering parted and three apes appeared, bearing to Caesar yet another gift. They carried the head and pelt of the bear, walking slowly through the crowd and up to the proud parents. Caesar watched them approach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blue Eyes’ expression change. The young ape touched his wounds, and looked away.

  The three apes laid the pelt before Caesar and set the head next to it. They knelt and lowered their heads, extending one hand each, palm up. He answered the supplication, swiping each of their palms with his own. Then, as they stood, he embraced all three, one after the other. His leadership was unquestioned, but these were more than his subjects, and he was not just their leader. Every ape in the village—brown, black or orange, young or old—they were all his family.

  He picked up the bear pelt, felt its weight. A pelt like this was a rare treasure. Caesar stood and carried it to the other side of the fire, where Koba sat with Grey and Stone and others close to him.

  Koba saw him coming and rose to meet him. Caesar ducked his head briefly, showing respect but not supplication, and offered Koba the pelt. He saw the emotion on his friend’s scarred face. Affection was still strange to Koba, who had seen so much cruelty. The two apes looked at each other for a long moment. Koba took the pelt and they embraced. Every ape in the village watched.

  Caesar broke the embrace and picked up a branch from the kindling piled at the edge of the pit. He held it up and broke it. Then he broke the two pieces into four. Holding the four pieces in both fists, he raised them above his head.

  “Apes… together… strong,” he said.

  There was a moment of absolute silence from the assemblage, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant rush of the river. Then the apes erupted in a thunder of screams, cheering Caesar and themselves. Together, yes, they were strong. Amid the cacophony, Caesar could hear some of the other apes doing what many of them found so difficult.

  “Ape,” they said. They grunted it, shrieked it, growled it. “Ape. Ape. Ape.”

  6

  Late in the night, most apes were asleep. The drums had gone quiet. Blue Eyes and some of the other young ones were tamping down the fire. They packed earth over it rather than drowning it, wanting to keep coals alive for the next day.

  Koba watched Caesar’s son. A strong one, but Blue Eyes did not know how strong he was because he saw himself as nothing but a weak shadow of his father. Koba knew what it was like to be in Caesar’s shadow.

  He went to Blue Eyes, who looked up at his approach. When Blue Eyes saw the bear pelt unde
r Koba’s arm, he looked down and away, shamed all over again.

  Koba reached out to tap the youngster, and get him to look up again.

  I know he is hard on you, Koba signed. But only because he must be.

  Blue Eyes frowned at this. Koba knew that frown for what it was—a young ape feeling sorry for himself. While he understood the pressure of being Caesar’s son, Koba did not believe in pity. Not for himself, and not for others. He grunted sternly, and then signed again.

  Your new brother will need you. To lead him. And someday so will the others.

  At that Blue Eyes looked uncertain. Still not fully meeting Koba’s gaze, he looked up from beneath a lowered, sullen brow.

  What if I’m not ready? he signed.

  You will be, Koba answered.

  The dying flow of the fire caught all the warring fear and hope, shame and frustration, in the young ape’s face. He looked much like his father. But he had not yet learned his father’s unshakable resolve. He still had need of guidance.

  Koba grinned at him, feeling the time had come to ease the youngster’s mind.

  Maybe next time you hunt with me, he signed. Blue Eyes looked uncertain, as if he might not have understood what Koba meant. Koba touched the raw gashes on Blue Eyes’ chest, then signed again. Don’t feel bad. Your scars make you stronger.

  As the idea sank in, Blue Eyes smiled a little, and looked down at himself.

  Yes, Koba added. Females see scars, and they see a warrior.

  Blue Eyes looked at him then, studying his face and the other scars splitting the thick hair of his shoulders and chest. Koba had earned them all, and he carried them proudly. Even his dead eye was a source of pride to him. He had fought, he had survived.

  Now he saw what he had wanted to see from the beginning. Blue Eyes admired him.

  Yes, Koba thought. Admire your father because he is your father. Admire Koba because Koba is strong. He turned and walked slowly away toward his dwelling, keeping his body turned so the bear pelt stayed in the firelight, visible to Blue Eyes for as long as possible.

  Caesar led the apes. It was right that Caesar led the apes. But it was also right for apes to see Koba as strong. He could also lead.

  7

  The village was quiet the next day, as it always was after a celebration. Apes slept and rested, their bellies full and their minds at ease.

  Cornelia, exhausted, slept most of the day, the newborn cradled to her breast. Caesar stayed near enough to hear them but not so near that he would disturb her. In his hand he held a pair of stones, using one to carve the other, then smooth its rough edges.

  He found himself thinking of the years just past, the desperation of their escape from the human city and then the slow disappearance of the humans themselves. It was natural to think about the past when a child was born, he thought. The past had brought them to where they were, to this moment where he had two children whose future would be his greatest concern, for as long as he lived. All apes were his family, but only Cornelia, Blue Eyes, and the new son were his blood.

  Caesar had gotten them off to a good start. He would lead the apes until he was no longer able, and then his children and their children would spread over the world.

  Perhaps someday they would return to the city where they had come from. He looked over it now from the upper part of his house, the side that faced away from the canyon and toward the jumbled hills and the ocean, far away, gleaming orange under the setting sun. Caesar remembered the first time he climbed one of the great redwoods and looked at the city, back when Will was alive. There had been so much motion then—cars on the roads, ships on the water, planes in the sky. The air had been brown over the city.

  Now he saw the city from much farther away. The air was clear and nothing moved. In the shadows among the buildings, no lights came on as the sun sank into the ocean.

  He worked a piece of stone in his hands, needing something to do other than sit and stare and wait for time to pass. A rustling in the branches behind him drew his attention away from the darkening city. He looked to find Maurice clambering over the edge of his perch. Maurice paused with his head, shoulders, and one foot over the edge, waiting to see if Caesar preferred solitude.

  Caesar waved him up. Together they moved higher in the tree, to avoid waking the new mother.

  Maurice settled next to him and patted his back.

  Another son, he signed.

  Caesar nodded and smiled.

  Makes me think how far we’ve come.

  Nodding back, Maurice traced Caesar’s gaze and looked out over the humans’ city. After a silent moment, he signed again.

  Seems so long ago. After another, he added, Do you still think about them?

  Humans? Caesar signed. Sometimes. His expression betrayed his mixed emotions, though. One open hand wiggled back and forth, a human gesture they had adopted to mean uncertainty.

  Maurice looked at his old friend and replied, I didn’t know them the way you did. Only saw their bad side.

  Good and bad, it doesn’t matter now. We watched them destroy each other. It was their nature.

  It was Maurice’s turn to wiggle his hand.

  Apes fight, too, he signed.

  But we are family, Caesar answered firmly. All of us.

  Maurice considered this. He nodded, but Caesar could see he was being agreeable, rather than agreeing. Considering what that meant, he looked back toward the city. The sun was almost gone into the ocean. Streaks of orange and pink in the sky reminded him of a flavor of ice cream Will had gotten him once after a trip to the woods.

  I wonder if they really are all gone, he signed.

  Ten winters now, Maurice signed. And for the last two, no sign of them. He shrugged. They must be.

  Caesar wasn’t so sure. Humans had been strong enough and smart enough to create great cities. They had made roads across the world. They had built machines that could fly. Will had told him once that humans had even walked on the moon. If they could do that, what could kill all of them off? He knew some of them had been sick when the apes had escaped after becoming smarter, but apes got sick sometimes, too.

  Yet no sickness killed them all.

  The last of the sun’s rays glowed on the high parts of the orange bridge that crossed the narrow water separating the city from the land where they now lived. Looking at that bridge took Caesar back, as it always did, to the day ten years ago when he had led the escaping apes across that bridge to…

  He had not known then what he was leading them to. Only that he was leading them away from cages and pain. The images from that day would never leave Caesar’s mind.

  Riding a horse for the first time.

  The gorilla, Buck, sacrificing himself to bring the—helicopter, that was the word—crashing down out of the sky.

  An even darker memory, of the human, Jacobs, pleading for mercy as Koba tipped the broken helicopter off the edge of the bridge.

  Will saying goodbye.

  The troop charging across the land on the other side of the bay, through the streets that wound up into the hills, over the hills and into the woods. The humans had chased them, of course. Men with guns and trucks and more helicopters hunted them. Then they stopped. Caesar did not know why, but when the sickness began to spread he guessed that they were turning on each other.

  Those first years were hard. Apes died from the cold and from starvation, before they learned what foods grew in these woods and which animals could be hunted.

  Now, ten winters since the day they had broken free, the woods belonged to the apes. As Maurice said, they had not seen a human in two winters.

  So many of them, Caesar thought. Can they really all be gone? He wished for it, and at the same time the idea made him sad. Humans had been cruel to him, and kind. He was proud of what he had done, but he also missed Will. Other humans, too. Will’s father, some scattered few others who had treated him well. But it was hard to think of many. Most of them had feared him, caged him, tried to kill him.
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  Maybe it was better that they were gone… but still it made him sad.

  He watched the sun vanish into the ocean, dragging the last light out of the sky. The city vanished, too, slowly fading into the darkness. He did not see a single light.

  Perhaps one day they would return to the city and see what the humans had left behind. Caesar had talked about this with Maurice, who said it would be dangerous. What if the sickness could spread to apes? The orangutan’s caution made sense to Caesar, and the apes stayed in the mountains. They had everything they needed here. Caesar’s children would live in a world without cages, without needles, without humans in masks making soothing words while they caused apes pain.

  If the humans all had to die to create that world, it was worth it.

  8

  Maurice yawned and waddled to the edge of the floor. He stretched. Something popped in one of his arms. Sleep, he signed, and dropped out of sight. Caesar listened to him swinging down through the branches and walking away down the path. He sat for a little longer, looking at the stars. Humans had told each other stories about the stars. Caesar did not know any of those stories. Maybe they were in books somewhere. Or maybe apes could make up their own stories. The shapes in the stars did not have to be human shapes.

  He stood and walked quietly down the sloping catwalk that spiraled around the trunk of the tree, linking the different parts of his shelter. At the edge of the sleeping room, he paused and took a deep breath of the night air. He smelled the remains of the fire, the richness of the meadow soil, the mossy scent of the wet rocks at the river’s edge far below.

  Apes had done well.

  He went inside, rubbing his fingers over the stone he had been carving before Maurice joined him. On the trunk side of the shelter, away from where Cornelia and the newborn were sleeping, was a table with a chessboard. Caesar had made both himself. He set the stone in its place on the board, among the other pieces he had fashioned. They were not the same as the pieces on Will’s board, but they would do the same things. Small pieces in front, to march forward and protect the more useful pieces behind. He thought of all the different ways the pieces moved. Will had taught him that.