Dance of the Tiger

by Bjorn Kurten

  What does “replaced” mean? What happened when and if they met? A great War of Races? general jollification? or something in between?

  In William Golding’s admirable book The Inheritors, the Neandertals are inarticulate but charming children of nature, who are destroyed ruthlessly by the brutal invaders. In other stories they appear as terrible savages, also destroyed ruthlessly by the noble sapients. Relentless enmity is the common denominator.

  On the other hand, there are some finds—in Israel, for instance—which suggest hybridization between sapient and Neandertal men. If this is correct, which is by no means certain, at least some sapients and Neandertals regarded each other as human beings. As shown by Ralph Solecki in his Shanidar: The First Flower People, Neandertal man sometimes did behave in an engagingly human manner. He took good care of his aged and incapacitated, and there is evidence, from fossil pollen grains, that the dead were honored with flowers. To be sure, there were grislier ways of honoring the dead—eating their brains, for example. As Professor Alberto C. Blanc has pointed out, though, the step from the ritual cannibalism of Peking and Steinheim man and the Monte Circeo Neandertals to the Holy Communion of Christianity is not all that long.

  So perhaps the two kinds of men did not always confront each other as enemies. Then why did Neandertal man, who had evolved and lived in Europe for perhaps half a million years (actually, the first evidence of man in Europe, at Chilhac in France, dates back 1,800,000 years), vanish so quickly? In perhaps as little as a few thousand years?

  The main theme in Dance of the Tiger is a model that could account for this disappearance. One among many possible models. As it can be neither proved nor disproved at present, it does not attain the dignity of a theory, nor even the slightly shakier status of a hypothesis, but remains simply a model. It is not science; you may call it paleo-fiction if you like. And I challenge you to discover the model, which is a combination of three different factors. Taken together, they would ensure the speedy extinction of Neandertal man even in the most peaceful coexistence. Like every honest detective story this one is full of clues, and some red herrings. You can reach the answer from them. So go ahead—puzzle it out. I’ll return to it at the end of the book.

  Apart from this, why write a novel about prehistoric man?

  In the last three decades, it has been my privilege to be immersed in the life of the Ice Age. More and more, I have felt there is much to be told that simply cannot be formulated in scientific reports. How did it feel to live then? How did the world look to you? What were your beliefs? Above all, what was it like to meet humans not of your own species? That is an experience denied to us, for we are all Homo sapiens.

  Are these people interesting to modern, civilized man? Most of us probably regard prehistoric men as uncivilized savages not worth our notice. But this is fallacious. Humanity is old, very old. Even in protohumans three million years ago, the anthropologist finds something that looks very much like Broca’s area in the brain, the center of speech. Our ancestors of 30,000 years ago were of our own species and blood. They were superb artists and artisans, daring hunters, and skillful sailors. (They got to Australia!) The notion that “primitive men” are some kind of inferior race has been shown to be nonsense by students from Charles Darwin on. So many of our behavior patterns are innate and immediately understandable by anybody, regardless of race, culture, and language: the smile, the frown, the kiss, the embrace, the eye-greeting. More than that, the love of our fellow man, the sense of pride and of humor, the joy of creation, the urge to solidarity. They are all universals. We may have original sin, but assuredly we also have original virtue.

  So how these people, our own forebears, might have lived about 30,000 years ago is also one of the themes of this book. It is based on facts, as much as they exist. The writer of a historical novel has his troubles with the Zeitgeist, the spirit of the time. Still, the ambitious author may draw upon thousands of documents. The manner of speech, the clothes, the main events, the expressions of the day, can be rendered with convincing authenticity even if you choose to put yourself in the Carthaginian suburb of Salammbô.

  In a prehistoric novel you must use more varied ingredients. A cave painting here, some footprints there, perhaps a population of skulls (which shows that the aged were well cared for). The material for Dance of the Tiger was collected in a geographic range from Shanidar Cave in Iraq to Kent’s Cavern in southern England and spans at least 30,000 years. Admittedly, this is mildly anachronistic, like showing Theodore Roosevelt in animated conversation with the Great Mogul Akbar. But there are limits, so the Neandertals of Veyde’s Island are nicer than the cannibalistic Neandertals of Krapina, Yugoslavia, who lived about 50,000 years earlier.

  Most students now agree that Paleolithic man possessed the faculty of speech. Faced with the problem of rendering those long-dead words in my story, I see only one solution: to use modern language throughout. These men spoke the modern language of their time. It should be dated only by its substance of culture and religious belief, not by spurious archaisms.

  Again, there is more to it. I suspect that our view of men who live in close contact with nature is colored by the romantic image of the taciturn Red Indian, the epitome of the Noble Savage. In contrast, my experience of the men of forests and lakes is that they are loquacious to a degree, with a great fund of small talk; they carry their hearts on their sleeves. Aloofness is simply a mask put on before a stranger. A large vocabulary is characteristic of the so-called primitive languages of today, and probably has been so for millenniums. To find a really primitive language I suspect you would have to journey back in time to the beginning of the Ice Age.

  A note at the end of the book will detail some of the factual basis for the story.

  PART ONE

  VEYDE

  THE HUNT BEGINS

  And I saw the beast.

  —Revelation 19:19

  The mammoths broke cover, soundlessly, at the place foreseen by the human mind. One by one they emerged from the forest, big animals at the head of the line, smaller ones next, and an immense bull bringing up the rear. As if under orders, adults and young alike pointed the tips of their short trunks upward, suspiciously sniffing the lazy airs that wafted across the bog. But the wind brought no message to them other than the heady scent of labrador tea and ripening cloudberries. Nothing was heard except the faint whirring of countless dragonflies, intent on their rounds over the surface of the bog, a mist of glittering specks under the hot sun. A dozen gazes focused on the column.

  The mammoths started to skirt the bog, cleanly outlined now against the sky. The silhouettes of low hindquarters, humped shoulders, and peaked heads gave an impression of top-heavy power and might. The great curved tusks gleamed, bright white against the black fur. A stomach rumbled; and a curt command was heard.

  In seconds, fires crackled into life. After weeks of fair weather the land was dry as tinder, and the bracken and sedge burned with a roar. Yelling figures threw spears. The terrified animals squealed. Shying away from the fire, they stumbled toward the bog.

  This was the climax of days of planning and tracking, from the moment the small band of hunters had known of the mammoth herd. It was early in the year for mammoth, and the Chief was skeptical when the breathless scout panted out his news. Shelk, moose, deer, even bison could be expected. But mammoth?

  “Chief, there’s no doubt about it,” said the man. “I saw the fresh tracks and dung. There are seven or eight animals, moving east.”

  “Where are they now?”

  The scout pointed to the northwest. “Less than half a day away, Chief. We could bag them, couldn’t we?”

  “We will be a long way from home before we find a good place to strike,” said the Chief. “We’re not properly equipped for mammoth. And to get the meat home! Still…”

  An eager group had now gathered around the Chief, and the excitement was unmistakable. A mammoth hunt during the summer was unusual. Mammoth and caribou left these
parts in the springtime for the unknown northlands, where people said there were no trees and no men. Only Trolls and worse. The first mammoth appeared in early autumn, but the real season was later, when the herds came thick, just before the freezing of the bogs where it was best to trap them. But by then it was often too wet for fires. Without fire to drive the quarry, a mammoth hunt could be very risky indeed. Now, in late summer, after a long dry spell, the chances were good for a successful hunt. The Chief reminisced.

  “It’s true we’ve had a few mammoth hunts in the summer, usually when it’s been dry for long times. The last one was many winters ago. Perhaps they can’t find enough to eat up north. Still, we don’t have mammoth spears.”

  The only arms the party carried were light atlatl javelins. Much heavier equipment was needed for mammoth. These men were not a hunting party but a trading group, on their way back from the Summer Meet. There, under the first full moon of late summer, northern hunters exchanged furs, ivory, and castoreum for precious flint and amber from the south. Neighboring tribes met and shared news and gossip. Rituals and dances were performed, and marriage contracts made between heads of families. The successful conclusion of any business was celebrated by a drop or two of black wine out of great bison horns.

  Back home, the women and children of the clans, not permitted to take part in the Meet, went out to gather the rich harvest of berries in the bogs and forest.

  So this group was trekking homeward, laden with riches acquired by successful barter, including some excellent flint work, hard to come by in this land of granite and quartzite. For a few days they had journeyed with a neighboring clan, amiable people who lived on the northern shore of Big Lake. Now they were heading south. The going was slow, for their goods were heavy. Four days, at this pace, separated them from their home at Trout Lake. They would meet their womenfolk on the way.

  The Trout Lake Chief was tall and lean. He had black hair, bronzed skin, and a sharp-featured, lined, but good-natured face. He had lost count of his years, but was in his early forties. He trimmed his beard short. His real name, Ferret, was long forgotten, much to his relief. His renown was associated with a very different animal. As a young man, he had killed a black tiger, a feat unknown in the memory of his tribe. True, this particular tiger was old, had broken one of its teeth, and had lost its mate. Nonetheless, it was a real black tiger, the only creature besides man with the courage and cunning to destroy the mighty mammoth. So the black tiger became the totem of the Trout Lake clan, and the Chief’s eldest son, who was in the trading party, was called Tiger.

  The Chief fingered the tiger tooth which hung on his breast. That and the tattered black loincloth, his only garment in the summer heat, were tokens of his unforgettable hunt. The story was often told—too often, in the view of some of the younger men.

  “We can’t carry all these goods on a mammoth hunt,” he said.

  “Let’s cache it and mark the place,” suggested young Tiger, his black eyes shining. “We can pick it up when we come back.” The others agreed, and the Chief gave way, as they knew he would.

  The party began making preparation for the hunt, hafting the heavy spearheads, collecting all the hand-axes for dressing the meat, and making sure there were enough fire-balls—the clay balls filled with glowing embers, which kept the fires alive.

  “We must split into two parties,” said the Chief. “One to track the mammoths, and one to go ahead and mark the place.”

  Everyone knew which task was more important. Tracking mammoths without frightening them into a run was not always easy. But to anticipate where they were going to go, to be there before them, was a challenge they relied on their Chief to meet.

  If the party had been larger, they could have raised enough fires to drive the mammoths into the nearest bog. In this weather, with only a dozen men, the fires might get out of hand and the mammoths panic. For this hunt, the strategy must be different. They would have to follow the mammoths until they came to a manageable spot. Then all the men would draw together for the attack.

  “To the east, where the mammoths are heading, is unknown country, all the way to the Great Water,” said the Chief. “We must take them before that, or they might swim away.”

  “The land to the east is Troll country, isn’t it?” asked Tiger.

  The Chief nodded. As far as he knew, there were no men in that land, only Trolls. Years ago, from the top of a hill, he had seen the Great Water to the east and south, where the world ended. What he had to do now was form a picture of this unknown land in his mind, predict which way the mammoth herd would travel, and decide exactly where to strike. There was no time to lose.

  “You, Dhole, will track the mammoths. I’ll give you two men. Two others will be liaisons. The rest will come with me.”

  Orders given, the men dispersed to their tasks. There was a general feeling of exhilaration. Somebody was already talking about mammoth tongue with cranberry sauce.

  Tiger was the youngest of the party, sixteen winters old, or “three hands and a finger,” as he would have put it. He had been initiated into manhood in the spring, had stood up well, and was proud of it. Nobody knew he had seen the place before. It was winters ago. He had gone out to pick berries for his brother Marten, who was ill. Half a day from home, he had come upon the boulder by the rock face. It was in a small glade at the edge of the wood, hidden by juniper and rose thickets. He had not known then what it was, and something had told him he’d better keep silent about it. But he did investigate the traces of charcoal on the boulder before leaving the place.

  When they took the blindfold from his eyes, he recognized the place at once. Now the boulder had turned into a black tiger, with patches of fur and a scimitar tooth put cunningly in place. Another black tiger was drawn on the rock wall. Tiger had stood with his back to the wall, facing the hail of clay pellets without flinching. Afterwards he drank the pungent berry potion, sweetened and strengthened with honey, sweet gale, and yarrow; wonderful dreams came to him. He was a man now, a hunter, an artist, one of the best marksmen with the atlatl. He was the fastest runner, too, and on this hunt, his first for the great mammoth, he would use his speed, for the Chief had made him one of the two liaisons between the mappers and the trackers.

  The mammoth hunt went on for days, while the Chief, wily and versed in the mammoth’s ways, worked out his plan. The herd was moving slowly, and was located without much trouble. Deciding where to strike was a more difficult matter, but at last the Chief was satisfied. He found a wide bog, hemmed in on the western side by a stretch of low hills with a single narrow pass. Here, all the marks showed that mammoth herds had traveled through before. Here, along the flank of the bog, he would deploy his forces.

  So intent were the men on their task that they spared little time to take heed of other activities in the forest. Not one of them knew that they, the mammoth-watchers, were also being watched, that a second, more cunning hunt was about to take place.

  Tiger, running along on his business, practiced throwing his spear at likely targets, thick pine-trunks, make-believe mammoths. Otherwise he concentrated only on the mammoth tracks and the urgent messages he was carrying. He did not notice the occasional shape freezing into immobility behind a bush or a tree, or the watchful eyes registering his movements.

  THE LAKE AND THE CAIRN

  A shadow is the thing which is generated when you posit yourself between it and the sun.

  —Anonymous

  Years later, at the age when men turn to survey their own tracks, and in the far distance see the landscape of their youth as illuminated by a setting sun, Tiger would speak of the memories crowding his brain. He would relive his boyhood at Trout Lake, remembering it as an undisturbed procession of summer days, winter days, glittering and sparkling. Foremost in his mind was always his brother Marten, one year younger and his companion as far back as he could remember. Together they had roamed the lake and the forest, every day bringing new discoveries, new experiences, new excitement.
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  His earliest memories were of the house, sturdily built, with walls made of wooden posts and mammoth bones, lined with moss and covered with mammoth skin. It lay a good distance from the shore, sheltered from the north wind by a long wooded drumlin ridge. There were six or seven of these buildings clustered together, but the Chief’s was the biggest. Inside was one great room with a fireplace. A small window to the south, overlooking the lake, was covered in cold weather by a pane made from mammoth gut. There were two gables, each with a lean-to; one for hunting and fishing utensils, the other for stores. The former was the Chief’s responsibility. Tiger and Marten loved to creep into it, fingering the spears and javelins with their beautifully worked points and admiring the fishing harpoons made from bone, with small stone barbs.

  The larder belonged to their mother, Oriole, for as soon as game or fish was brought home, it became the responsibility of the women. On long hunting expeditions the men would butcher their quarry and prepare the meat themselves, but anything felled near Trout Lake was hauled back entire and turned over to the women.

  When the hunt was taken care of, men were free to do what they liked. Many did work in stone, ivory, or antler, making weapons and ornaments. On fine days there were often exhilarating games: racing, fencing, or field games using a football made out of a horse’s stomach. Then there was music—tomtoms, a flute or two—and men began to sway or dance as the rhythm swelled. All the animals were evoked. The drums imitated the stately movements of mammoth and elk or the swift rush of the horse. The children weaved like fishes between the dancing men. Sooner or later even the busiest women gathered to watch, sometimes taking part themselves.

  In general, though, the women knew few idle hours. There were always skins to be scraped and chewed, tanned, and sewn into garments. There was hair to be spun into thread; sinew to be made into twine. The harvesting of berries, fruits, roots, leaves, and edible seeds was women’s work too. In this they were supposed to be helped by the children, but the boys often played truant, going out in small bands to fish and hunt for themselves. Early on, the boys also began to share the artistic interests of the men. They learned the art of stonework, of shaping bone and ivory, and learned to record the shapes of the wild beasts in tracings and engravings.