by John Norman
"It is alive," said Old Woman. "And it is beautiful."
Hamilton, weeping, reached for the child, and, as the women fumbled to take from her the gag of fur and leather, held its bloodied, dirty body to her own between her breasts. "I love you," she wept to it. "I love you. I love you."
"Give it to Nurse," said Old Woman. "We must clean it, and cut the cord."
Old Woman bent to the cord with a sharpened shell and bit of string. Ugly Girl and Nurse, with their tongues, licked the infant, cleaning it.
"You must not cry," said Old Woman to the bawling life. "You will disturb the men."
Then she put back her head and laughed.
"He may cry if he wishes," said Antelope, laughing.
"Yes," said Cloud.
They held up the child before Hamilton. She smiled. "He is of the Men," she said.
Then she took him, and, in the torchlight, noted that on his neck, beneath the left ear, there was a tiny mark. It was not unlike a tree.
She held the child to her. "I love you," she said to it. "I love you." The pain was gone. She held the child to her, loving it. "I love you," she wept. "I love you. I love you. I love you!"
31
"Cricket! Cricket!" called Hamilton.
She returned to the camp at the foot of the shelters. With Antelope and Ugly Girl she had gone to the river bank. She had gathered berries. Ugly Girl, climbing the sloping dirt bank, in places almost sheer, over the river, had thrust her hand into hollowed, tunnel nests, taking eggs, from the brownish, sharp-billed birds who nested there. Antelope, over her shoulder, like Hamilton, carried a sack, filled with berries and tiny fruit.
The children of the camp ran to them, putting their hands into the sacks. "No, No!" scolded Antelope, but not stopping them. They leaped about Antelope and Hamilton.
"Cricket!" called Hamilton. "Cricket!" She had selected some large, juicy berries, which she had hidden in a corner of the sack, at the bottom, for Cricket.
The child, Cricket, truly, had as yet no name among the Men. He had not yet gone to the Men's cave. They called him, sometimes, Turtle's son, and sometimes, Cricket, for that was the name that Tooth had called him by when he had taken his first steps. "Cricket!" called Hamilton.
"That is enough!" laughed Antelope. Ugly Girl had already taken the eggs to Old Woman. On the way, she had, turning her head, bit one open and, spitting out the end of the shell, sucked out the white and yolk. Antelope bent down to give one of the berries to Pod, a small child, reaching up, Short Leg's son, no more than two years of age, a few months younger, no more, than Hamilton's son.
"Cricket!" called Hamilton. Then she asked Cloud, "Have you seen Cricket?"
Shortly after Spear had been blinded, he had been abandoned by Short Leg. Refusing to care for him, she had left him in the shelters, until one of the men would kill him. But none of the men had killed him. She had tried to attach herself to Knife, but Knife wanted none of her, for she was older than he wanted, and his choice was the girl, Flower, who had then been high woman in the camp. But Spear had again become first among the Men. None of the men had killed him. And Old Woman, when ordered to take him hunting on the cliffs, had merely done so. Spear had killed Drawer. But Old Woman did not leave him to die, or fall, among the cliffs. She had brought him back to the fire. Tree had asked her who was first among the men. "Spear—Spear is first," had said Old Woman. "Spear is first," had said the other men. Knife had turned away.
"Why did you not leave Spear on the cliffs?" asked Cloud. "Why did you not kill him?"
"Because among the Men," said Old Woman, "he is first."
Cloud, nor Antelope, nor the others, had questioned her further.
"Give me meat," had said the blind, scarred Spear, huge and terrible, at the fire, and it had been done. Spear was again first.
"Spear," said Old Woman to Hamilton, when they were alone, though Hamilton had not spoken to her, "is a great man. Spear is a wise and great man."
Hamilton had looked at her.
"The Men," she said, "need Spear."
"He killed Drawer," said Hamilton.
Old Woman nodded. Then she said, "Spear is needed by the men."
When Spear had again become first, Short Leg had returned to kneel beside him, but he, terrible, one eye torn away, the other blinded, staring out, his face ridged and white with rivers of scarring, with one hand, gestured her from the fire behind which he sat. "I will die," she had whimpered. Then she cried, "Feel my belly. I carry life!"
"I will not feed you," said Spear.
Then she cried, "It is your law, that I be fed!"
"I will not feed you," said Spear.
"I will feed her," had said Stone. Short Leg had once been Spear's woman. Since Spear and Stone had been children they had known one another. Stone had been with Spear many years ago, when Spear, for pelts, had purchased Short Leg from the Bear People. In Short Leg's body was life. Law was to be kept. Stone remembered Spear, from long ago. He remembered Short Leg. She had had flowers in her hair. "I will feed you," he said, his voice without emotion.
And so Short Leg was fed by Stone, but he did not make her kick, nor use her.
Hamilton's son was born some months before that of Short Leg. When Hamilton's son was born Spear had had the infant brought to him. He had lifted it up, over the fire. "A child is born to the Men," he had said. Then he had given it back to the women. Little attention would be paid to it from that time on by men, except for gentle, loving Tooth, the ugly giant, with the extended canine. When the child could run with the men, when it could throw, when it could kill and take meat, then the men would take it unto themselves, removing it from the children and the women, and by training and counsel, make it wise in lore and skills, make it one of themselves, one of the Men.
But when the child of Short Leg was born, though it was doubtless Spear's own, he would not take it in his arms, nor lift it in his arms, warming it at the fire, sharing its light against the cold and darkness with the child.
But Stone did this, for the child was not to be cast out. "A child is born to the Men," said Stone, lifting the child by the fire. Then he handed it to Short Leg. Her son was called Pod by Tooth, and the children.
"Have you seen Cricket?" asked Hamilton of Flower.
"No," said Flower.
Hamilton gave the berries, except for those she had hidden for Cricket, to Old Woman, and began to look about the camp. "Cricket!" she called. "I have something for you!"
Tree had not been too pleased at what had come between him and his woman, Turtle.
The devotion, the love, which had been fully his, he must now share. It was clear he resented the child, for it came between him and the female.
"It is your son!" had laughed Hamilton.
"I am not a woman," he had said angrily.
Among the men the mothers were clearly known, and children were spoken of as the sons of the women, or the daughters of the women. Beyond this they might be spoken of as the children, or the young, of the Men. The Men understood the relationship of seed to young, but the possessive concept of a specific, individual paternity, laying a unique claim to a given offspring, was not cultural for them. For the women it was biological. Generally, for the men, such a concept would not become significant until the victory of agriculture, with claims to specific possessions and lands, when inheritance would become crucial. Then, too, of course, with the coming of agriculture, and the need to guarantee specific paternity, because of inheritance rights, accordant cultural provisions would be established. Women would be consigned in impressive ceremonies to individual males. Chastity would become a virtue. Private ownership contracts would become universal. Fear and hatred of sex, and frigidity, and other economic desiderata, conditioned by agricultural priesthoods, would become the hallmarks of the exemplary female. The stirrings of a girl's glands, for the first time, frightening her, terrifying her, instead of being an occasion for rejoicing, would become evil, and rationally so in the twisted net of economically e
ssential perversions, soon to be invested with all the sanctimonious cant of ignorant pieties. In the trek of civilization, the hunt and the horizon, predictably, for at least a time, must yield to the soil and the hobble. The chains, once climbed upon, if to be lost, must be burned away, melted, in the heat of the stars.
"Look!" had laughed Hamilton, pointing to the tiny birthmark, the small, bluish black treelike stain on the child's neck, beneath the left ear. It was as though it had been Tree's own.
"From your seed I have made this child," said Hamilton, in the language of the Men. "He is my son. He is your son." It seemed strange to Tree to think of a man as having a son, though doubtless there was a sense in which it might be meaningful to say it.
"Hold him," smiled Hamilton.
She held out the infant to Tree. Timidly, fearing to drop it, fearing that it might squirm, or cry out, Tree took the infant. He held it in his two hands, and lifted it, looking at it. He looked at the mark under the ear. Then he had held the baby again before his face. He knew that Knife was Spear's son, though he did not think Knife knew this. Some of the other children he thought he could identify with certain of the men. But with others he was not sure. With this child, however, there seemed no doubt but what it had been his" seed that Turtle had tended and nourished.
He looked at Turtle and smiled.
Turtle, radiant, touched him. "I love you, Tree," she said. "It is your son. You have given me a son."
Tree looked at the child. He hoped the boy would grow to be a good hunter. He thought perhaps, when the others were not near, he might talk to him, or show him things. He would want him to do well in the Men's cave. Once, years ago, he had seen Spear teaching Knife. He never told Spear he had seen this. It was an unusual emotion which Tree, briefly, felt for the tiny animal in his arms, so weak, so helpless. "You have given me a son," said Tree, slowly, thinking about it. He held the tiny thing in his arms. It weighed so little. Its hands were so tiny. He looked at Turtle. Never before had he seen her just as he saw her then. He knew she was beautiful. He knew she was his woman; "I do not think," he said, "I will ever beat you again." "Beat me when I deserve it, or you will spoil me," smiled Hamilton. Tree looked at her. "I will," he said. "I love you, Tree," said Hamilton.
Then Fox had ventured by. He saw the child in Tree's arms. "Tree," he asked, poking Wolf, who was with him, in the ribs, "do you have a son?" In the language of the Men this joke was rich, for only women had sons and daughters. "When did you have this son?" asked Fox. "Was it last night," added Wolf, grinning.
Tree looked angry, and turned red. He thrust the child to Hamilton's arms.
"A child is born to the Men," he said.
"We are going hunting," said Fox.
"I will come with you," said Tree, quickly.
"Had you not better tend your son?" asked Fox.
Tree leaped to his feet and, laughing, as they fled away, slapped both on the back of the head. "Let us hunt," he said.
Hamilton, smiling, secure, had held the child to her. She felt its hunger, its eagerness.
"Cricket!" called Hamilton, wandering about the camp. "I have something for you!" She held a handful of the largest, juiciest berries, taken from the sack, in her right hand. "Butterfly," said Hamilton, "where is Cricket?" "I do not know, Turtle," said Butterfly.
Short Leg, for more than two years, had been fed by Stone. But Stone was not a leader. He was strong. He was hard. He could follow like a bear or horse, but he was not a leader. And she was not close with him. He fed her, little more. Short Leg, who was an intelligent woman, considered the Men with care. Who, she asked herself, after Spear, will be first among the Men. She did not think it would be Knife. Stone, for some reason, did not like Knife. The others had not accepted Knife. Who, among the Men, she asked herself, was it who first proclaimed Spear again the leader. It had been one of them only, at first. It had been Tree. It had been he who had asked Old Woman who was first. It had been he who had, following her words, unemotionally declared for Spear. The others had followed. Tree, too, was strongest, and tallest, and the finest hunter. It had been he who, among the men, had first again declared for Spear. The others had followed. Short Leg had smiled to herself. After Spear, she told herself, it will be Tree who will be first among the Men. He did not want to be first, but it would be he, she did not doubt, whom the others would have as first among them. She could not see them, among the Men, following any other. It would be Tree, after Spear, who would be first Short Leg was no longer young, but she could bear young; she could work; she knew what transpired in the camp; other women feared her; and she was wise; she could be a great asset to a leader. Short Leg was not the only one who could read the signs of the future. Flower, too, after Knife's repudiation as leader, and the restoration of Spear, calculated that Tree would be the successor. Accordingly, when she could, she slipped away, usually to meet Tree on his return from the hunt, to lie beside the trail, on the grass, and, as he returned, to hold her arms out to him, and lift her body. "Feed Flower," she would beg. "Flower will do anything for you." Tree would look upon her, her uplifted hands, her eyes, her lifted body, begging for even his casual rape. Tree, a hunter, throwing his kill from his shoulders to the grass, and one angry with Hamilton of late, for she no longer gave him the totality of her undivided attention, but spent much time suckling and loving her child, was not one to refuse this free gift of beauty. Sometimes, furious with Hamilton, Tree would throw the startled Flower on her side and using one of her lovely legs as a fulcrum for his body, freeing it of the ground, release the full spasms of his irritation upon her, pounding her, she gasping, clinging to him, mercilessly, and then, leaving her, standing over her, she half shattered at his feet, her eyes looking up at him, her legs now drawn up, he would look down upon her. "Knife will feed you," he would say.
Once Tree let Flower carry the antelope he had killed to the camp. She did so, proudly. Hamilton was angry. Knife beat Flower. Flower did not care. But that night Short Leg, with a chipped knife, crept to Flower. She held her hand over Flower's mouth. When Flower opened her eyes, she was terrified. She could not move. She felt the chipped blade of the flint weapon pressing across her throat "Stay away from Tree," whispered Short Leg. Then she added, "Tree will be mine."
"Did you see Cricket, Pod?" asked Hamilton, the berries in her hand.
"No," said Pod.
She gave the toddler a berry.
"I will help you look for Cricket," said Butterfly. "I will help, too," said Antelope.
"Cricket!" called Hamilton. "I have something for you!" She clutched the berries more closely.
"Tooth," asked Butterfly, "have you seen Cricket?"
"No," said Tooth.
"Arrow Maker, have you seen Cricket?" asked Butterfly. "No," said Arrow Maker.
"I will help you look," said Tooth. "Ugly Girl!" he called. "Let us find Cricket."
She came, nostrils distended, filtering the scents of the camp. Her sense of smell was superior to that of most of the Men. She stood still in the camp. Then she began to walk about its edge.
"Short Leg," said Antelope. "Have you seen Cricket?"
"No," said Short Leg, looking down, scraping a skin. She smiled.
"Where is Cricket?" asked Tree of Hamilton.
"I am looking for him," said Hamilton.
"Oh," said Tree. He did not look up. Hamilton turned away, the berries in her hand. When she was not looking, Tree rose to his feet. Perhaps Cricket was by the river. He liked to throw stones in the water. Tree was thirsty. He would look. He would see, on the way, if he could pick up a trail. It would not be out of his way.
Tree did not much care for Short Leg. She had been Spear's woman. She was not beautiful. She was now fed by Stone. She was a cunning woman, and hard and sharp. Her mind was quick, her tongue cruel. Many times she had knelt behind Tree, but he would not throw her meat. He threw it to Turtle. Then Short Leg would hobble to Stone, and take her place behind him, and he would give her meat. Sometimes Hamilton, hersel
f, thrust her away from Tree. "Tree is mine!" Hamilton said to her, though she would not have dared to say this within the hearing of Tree. "Stay away from him! He is mine!" Once she threatened Short Leg with a heavy stick. "You will be fed by Stone," she said. "Go away!"
Although Tree did not want Short Leg, he was not displeased that this powerful woman wished to be fed by him. He was more pleased that Flower had begged for food. But Flower, for some weeks now, had not pressed herself upon him. She no longer met him on the return trails. This puzzled Tree. Once, in the camp, he took her, making her cry out, moaning, with unwilling miseries of pleasure, but she had seemed frightened; he had had, literally, to rape her; then she had fled away from him, terrified. He supposed that Knife had threatened her. "I can please you more than Flower," had said Turtle, tagging him for his touch, taking his hand, putting it on her body. "Tend your son," had said Tree to her, angrily. She had wept.
Although Tree was careful to show little attention, and certainly no favoritism, to the boy, Cricket, it was clear to the women in the camp, and to many of the men, that he was much pleased with the boy, and that, somehow, his relationship to the boy was not simply that of one of the Men to one of the children of the Men. Tree had been present when the boy had taken his first steps. It was with pride and pleasure that Tree had laughed. It seemed strange to several of the men that Tree should be thus pleased. Did not all the children of the Men walk? Did he think that Cricket would not be able to walk?
"Old Woman, Nurse," asked Hamilton, "where is Cricket?"
"I do not know," said Old Woman. "I do not know," said Nurse.