Today I am joining the Blog Hop for my writer friend, Jacqui Murray’s latest novel, Survival of the Fittest. So, first what is the story?
Chased by a ruthless and powerful enemy, Xhosa flees with her People, leaving behind a certain life in her African homeland to search for an unknown future. She leads her People on a grueling journey through unknown and dangerous lands but an escape path laid out years before by her father as a final desperate means to survival. She is joined by other homeless tribes–from Indonesia, China, South Africa, East Africa, and the Levant—all similarly forced by timeless events to find new lives. As they struggle to overcome treachery, lies, danger, tragedy, hidden secrets, and Nature herself, Xhosa must face the reality that this enemy doesn’t want her People’s land. He wants to destroy her.
One question among many fascinated me as I agree with Xhosa’s choice of companion:
(the main character of Survival of the Fittest) really have
traveled with a wolf companion?
domesticated until about 10-15,000 years ago, long after Xhosa lived 850,000
years ago. But her understanding of man and animal were not what ours is. To
Xhosa, the line between man and animal was blurry. She didn’t think of animals
as lesser creatures. Why would she? As far as she knew, like her, they could
plan, think, problem-solve, and display emotions just as she did.
So, for Xhosa to partner with a wolf made perfect sense.
and author: Survival of the Fittest
Book 1 in the Crossroads series,
part of the Man vs. Nature saga
Available at: Kindle US Kindle UK Kindle CA Kindle AU
Jacqui Murray is the author of the popular Building a Midshipman, the story of her daughter’s journey from high school to United States Naval Academy, the Rowe-Delamagente thrillers, and the Man vs. Nature saga. She is also the author/editor of over a hundred books on integrating tech into education, adjunct professor of technology in education, blog webmaster, an Amazon Vine Voice, a columnist for TeachHUB and NEA Today, and a freelance journalist on tech ed topics. Look for her next prehistoric fiction, Quest for Home, Summer 2019. You can find her tech ed books at her publisher’s website, Structured Learning
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Her foot throbbed. Blood dripped from
a deep gash in her leg. At some point, Xhosa had scraped her palms raw while
sliding across gravel but didn’t remember when, nor did it matter. Arms
pumping, heart thundering, she flew forward. When her breath went from pants to
wheezing gasps, she lunged to a stop, hands pressed against her damp legs,
waiting for her chest to stop heaving. She should rest but that was nothing but
a passing thought, discarded as quickly as it arrived. Her mission was greater
than exhaustion or pain or personal comfort.
She started again, sprinting as
though chased, aching fingers wrapped around her spear. The bellows of the
imaginary enemy—Big Heads this time—filled the air like an acrid stench. She
flung her spear over her shoulder, aiming from memory. A thunk and
it hit the tree, a stand-in for the enemy. With a growl, she pivoted to defend
never happen. Females weren’t warriors.
Feet spread, mouth set in a tight
line, she launched her last spear, skewering an imaginary assailant, and was
off again, feet light, her abundance of ebony hair streaming behind her like
smoke. A scorpion crunched beneath her hardened foot. Something moved in the
corner of her vision and she hurled a throwing stone, smiling as a hare toppled
over. Nightshade called her reactions those of Leopard.
But that didn’t matter. Females
didn’t become hunters either.
With a lurch, she gulped in the
parched air. The lush green grass had long since given way to brittle stalks
and desiccated scrub. Sun’s heat drove everything alive underground,
underwater, or over the horizon. The males caught her attention across the
field, each with a spear and warclub. Today’s hunt would be the last until
the rain—and the herds—returned.
“Why haven’t they left?”
She kicked a rock and winced as pain
shot through her foot. Head down, eyes shut against the memories. Even after
all this time, the chilling screams still rang in her ears…
The People’s warriors had been away
hunting when the assault occurred. Xhosa’s mother pushed her young daughter
into a reed bed and stormed toward the invaders but too late to save the life
of her young son. The killer, an Other, laughed at the enraged female armed
only with a cutter. When she sliced his cheek open, the gash so deep his black
teeth showed, his laughter became fury. He swung his club with such force her
mother crumpled instantly, her head a shattered melon.
From the safety of the pond, Xhosa
memorized the killer—nose hooked awkwardly from some earlier injury, eyes dark
pools of cruelty. It was then, at least in spirit, she became a warrior.
Nothing like this must ever happen again.
When her father, the People’s Leader,
arrived that night with his warriors, he was greeted by the devastating scene
of blood-soaked ground covered by mangled bodies, already chewed by scavengers.
A dry-eyed Xhosa told him how marauders had massacred every subadult, female,
and child they could find, including her father’s pairmate. Xhosa
communicated this with the usual grunts, guttural sounds, hand signals, facial
expressions, hisses, and chirps. The only vocalizations were
call signs to identify the group members.
“If I knew how to fight, Father,
Mother would be alive.” Her voice held no anger, just determination.
The tribe she described had arrived a
Moon ago, drawn by the area’s rich fruit trees, large ponds, lush grazing, and
bluffs with a view as far as could be traveled in a day. No other area offered
such a wealth of resources. The People’s scouts had seen these Others but
allowed them to forage, not knowing their goal was to destroy the People.
Her father’s body raged but his
hands, when they moved, were calm. “We will avenge our losses, daughter.”
The next morning, Xhosa’s father
ordered the hunters to stay behind, protect the People. He and the warriors
snuck into the enemy camp before Sun awoke and slaughtered the females and
children before anyone could launch a defense. The males were pinned to the
ground with stakes driven through their thighs and hands. The People cut deep
wounds into their bodies and left, the blood scent calling all scavengers.
When Xhosa asked if the one with the
slashed cheek had died, her father motioned, “He escaped, alone. He will not
Word spread of the savagery and no
one ever again attacked the People, not their camp, their warriors, or their
While peace prevailed, Xhosa grew
into a powerful but odd-looking female. Her hair was too shiny, hips too round,
waist too narrow beneath breasts bigger than necessary to feed babies. Her legs
were slender rather than sturdy and so long, they made her taller than every
male. The fact that she could outrun even the
hunters while heaving her spear and hitting whatever she aimed for didn’t
matter. Females weren’t required to run that fast. Nightshade, though, didn’t
care about any of that. He claimed they would pairmate, as her
father wished, when he became the People’s Leader.
Until then, all of her time was spent
practicing the warrior skills no one would allow her to use.
One day, she confronted her father.
“I can wield a warclub one-handed and throw a spear hard enough to kill. If I
were male, you would make me a warrior.”
He smiled. “You are like a son to me,
Daughter. I see your confidence and boldness. If I don’t teach you, I fear I
will lose you.”
He looked away, the smile long gone
from his lips. “Either you or Nightshade must lead when I can’t.”
Under her father’s tutelage, she and
Nightshade learned the nuances of sparring, battling, chasing, defending, and
assaulting with the shared goal that never would the People succumb to an
enemy. Every one of Xhosa’s spear throws destroyed the one who killed her
mother. Every swing of her warclub smashed his head as he had her mother’s.
Never again would she stand by, impotent, while her world collapsed. She
perfected the skills of knapping cutters and sharpening spears, and became
expert at finding animal trace in bent twigs, crushed grass, and by
listening to their subtle calls. She could walk without leaving tracks and
match nature’s sounds well enough to be invisible.
A Moon ago, as Xhosa practiced her
scouting, she came upon a lone warrior kneeling by a waterhole. His back was to
her, skeletal and gaunt, his warclub chipped, but menace oozed from him
like stench from dung. She melted into the redolent sedge grasses,
feet sinking into the squishy mud, and observed.
His head hair was sprinkled with
grey. A hooked nose canted precariously, poorly healed from a fracas he won but
his nose lost. His curled lips revealed cracked and missing teeth. A cut on his
upper arm festered with pus and maggots. Fever dimpled his forehead with sweat.
He crouched to drink but no amount of water would appease that thirst.
What gave him away was the wide
ragged scar left from the slash of her mother’s cutter.
Xhosa trembled with rage, fearing he
would see the reeds shake, biting her lip until it bled to stop from howling.
It hardly seemed fair to slay a dying male but fairness was not part of her
A check of her surroundings indicated
he traveled alone. Not that it mattered. If she must trade her life for his, so
But she didn’t intend to die.
The exhausted warrior splashed muddy
water on his grimy head, hands slow, shoulders round with fatigue, oblivious to
his impending death. After a quiet breath, she stepped from the sedge, spear in
one hand and a large rock in the other. Exposed, arms ready but hanging, she
approached. If he turned, he would see her. She tested for dry twigs and
brittle grass before committing each foot. It surprised her he ignored the
silence of the insects. His wounds must distract him. By the time hair raised
on his neck, it was too late. He pivoted as she swung, powered by fury over her
mother’s death, her father’s agony, and her own loss. Her warclub smashed into
his temple with a soggy thud. Recognition flared moments before life left.
“You die too quickly!” she screamed
and hit him over and over, collapsing his skull and spewing gore over her body.
“I wanted you to suffer as I did!”
Her body was numb as she kicked him
into the pond, feeling not joy for his death, relief that her mother was
avenged, or upset at the execution of an unarmed Other. She cleaned the gore
from her warclub and left. No one would know she had been blooded but the truth
filled her with power.
She was now a warrior.
When she returned to homebase,
Nightshade waited. Something flashed through his eyes as though for the first
time, he saw her as a warrior. His chiseled face, outlined by dense blue-black
hair, lit up. The corners of his full lips twitched under the broad flat nose.
The finger-thick white scar emblazoned against his smooth forehead, a symbol of
his courage surviving Sabertooth’s claws, pulsed. Female eyes watched him,
wishing he would look at them as he did Xhosa but he barely noticed.
The next day, odd Others with long
legs, skinny chests, and oversized heads arrived. The People’s scouts
confronted them but they simply watched the scouts, spears down, and then
trotted away, backs to the scouts. That night, for the first time, Xhosa’s
father taught her and Nightshade the lessons of leading.
“Managing the lives of the People is
more than winning battles. You must match individual skills to the People’s
requirements be it as a warrior, hunter, scout, forager, child minder,
Primary Female, or another. All can do all jobs but one best suits each.
The Leader must decide,” her father motioned.
As they finished, she asked the
question she’d been thinking about all night. “Father, where do they come
“They are called Big Heads,” which
didn’t answer Xhosa’s question.
Nightshade motioned, “Do they want to
trade females? Or children?”
Her father stared into the distance
as though lost in some memory. His teeth ground together and his hands shook
until he clamped them together.
He finally took a breath and
motioned, “No, they don’t want mates. They want conflict.” He tilted his head
forward. “Soon, we will be forced to stop them.”
Nightshade clenched his spear and his
eyes glittered at the prospect of battle. It had been a long time since the
But the Big Heads vanished. Many of
the People were relieved but Xhosa couldn’t shake the feeling that danger
lurked only a long spear throw away. She found herself staring at the same spot
her father had, thoughts blank, senses burning. At times, there was a movement
or the glint of Sun off eyes, but mostly there was only the unnerving feeling
of being watched. Each day felt one day closer to when the People’s time would
“When it does, I will confess to killing the Other. Anyone blooded must be allowed to be a warrior.”
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