TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “You were amazing. Where did you come up with that?”
Kaikane: “Oh, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It seemed like they could use a laugh or two.”
Duarte: “You were right, it was just what they needed. We made real progress tonight.”
Kaikane: “Did Fralista try to trip you, or did I imagine it?”
Duarte: “Maybe it was an accident, who can tell. Every time I think we’re starting to get along, she gives me a stare which curls my hair.”
Kaikane: “That would explain your current style.”
Duarte: “It’s getting long isn’t it?”
Kaikane: “Maybe time for a trim.”
Duarte: “Not yet. I like it like this. It’s nice.”
Kaikane: “Be careful around her.”
Duarte: “I am.”
From the log of Maria Duarte
Chief Botanist
We woke to frost this morning after a clear, cold night under a billion stars. The night skies bear little resemblance to those of my youth. The familiar signs of the zodiac have not yet spun into alignment. The planets continue with their nightly westward march across the sky, but the stars are jumbled just enough to make it impossible to figure out which one will go where to form Orion’s belt, or become the tip of the scorpion’s stinger. The Big Dipper would not hold much water as it is now. Gray Beard calls it “The Beetle” and it does look much more like an insect than a utensil.
If it did look like a dipper, and I told him so, he would grasp what I was talking about. This camp has wooden ladles big and small, and many other kitchen tools, including clay bowls, water jugs made from gourds, polished sticks they use as skewers to eat hot food, and small turtle shell bowls which serve as spoons. Leather cooking bags are hung nearly every night above the fire to heat water or make stew. Red hot rocks, rolled straight from the fire, are lifted with green sticks and dropped into the bags one after another to make the concoctions boil.
Settling down has allowed these people to advance their toolmaking skills far beyond what we see elsewhere. Gray Beard discounts it, says there is no point fabricating a lot of heavy gear if you can’t carry it with you to chase the herds. Possessions weigh you down, he says. He disapproves of this clan’s attempt to stay put.
I am convinced beyond doubt, these people manifest early agriculture techniques. They are farmers. I spent an interesting afternoon conversing with Fralista’s brother-in-law Karloon. The one-legged man moves quite well on rude crutches he fashioned for himself from a pair of birch tree limbs. We were picking berries down by the bog when he lamented they had been planning to trim the thorny patches for years, but never got around to it. Now there will be far fewer hands to do the job.
Although the clan does not appear to plant crops, it tends them. And, in a way, fertilizes them. Berries and grapes are picked for everyday eating, and also dried on rocks in the sun for future use. The dried fruit is stored in gourds with oak stoppers, and also in leather bags which hang from the rafters of the caves. Most bags are in disrepair after being chewed by the rats.
Karloon claims his grandfather introduced the breed of hairy black pigs now common to the valley. He said his grandfather was so impressed with a smallish pig found in an area to the northeast (I’m guessing it may be near Lake Geneva), he captured four piglets from four different mothers and brought them home to the valley. The daring young man led them by rope, fighting off wolves and robbers along the way. He descended the mountain pass with one male and two females that weighed nearly 100 pounds each. He set them free and there have been plenty of pigs to hunt ever since.
The animals cause erosion, foul the water and dig up valuable plants. Karloon says it is a price well worth paying.
Speaking of pigs, Paul does an amazing impression of one. His training as recreation specialist has finally come in handy for more than dreaming up games of “Pleistocene I Spy,” or “Spear Golf.” During training, it turns out, he took a four-week course titled “Recreation and Role-Playing to Aid Recovery of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.”
He launched into his first story while most of the clan was seated around the fire following an evening meal of goat meat mixed with a gruel of soaked grains, dried berries and a few surprise ingredients. I’m pretty sure they were mealy bugs. Paul clapped his hands to draw everyone’s attention and then whisked Gray Beard’s flute from the folds of his tunic. The old man pretended to be surprised, but I knew Paul borrowed the instrument earlier in the day. He had played me several songs as we walked through the meadow collecting plover eggs.
Paul piped several sharp notes of the chickadee and jumped atop the table. “I’m here, I’m here,” the flute seemed to say as Paul and the flute flitted around the fire pit area, climbing up on benches and boulders to look down on those assembled. Jones was absent, off somewhere with his hot little momma, and I think it gave Paul license to vamp a bit without feeling self-conscious. He had everyone’s full attention.
The story unfolded, nearly all in mime, that Paul was a little bird who sits in the trees above camp and spies on people. He mimed the characteristics of different folks, from the pregnant girl to one-legged Karloon to Gray Beard himself. His impression of the old man was perfect, right down to the bend in his back, the piercing eyes and the slight giddy-up he has in his walk due to the fact that one leg is an inch longer than the other. The gist of the story turned out that the bird feels the emotions of the people he observes. When they are sad or angry, he becomes sad or angry.
The people hooted and called out for more when he was finished.
Even the pregnant girl was present at the next night’s campfire when Paul dove into his next story. This night he was a pig which stalked around the camp, watching the people his body will one day feed. Even knowing his fate is doomed because of humans, he loved them. He wished he could be one himself. The pig longed to walk and talk and sit in the hot water with friends.
It transpired that the pig’s favorite spot to observe was the camp toilet. The toilet is an ingenious use of running water. Follow a narrow flagstone path below camp and you will find a little bend in the fast-running stream which supplies the camp’s drinking water. All drinking water is collected above this spot, never below, as this is where it becomes fouled with human waste. There are flat rocks on both sides of the narrow stream and a stout branch tied horizontally in place across the water. All you have to do is straddle the stream, hold on to the branch, squat and let rip before dunking your ass in the water to wash everything away. Look mom, no hands. The stream empties into the bog which is home to the berry bushes and many other plants the clan gathers to eat.
It transpired that dipping your crotch in icy water can provide a bounty of comedic material. Paul tried to steer his story away from the bathroom humor, but his audience clamored for more until he did a mime of every person straddling the stream and taking care of business. He poked fun at himself by miming how the cold water made his penis retract and hide.
On the next night, Paul started a game of miming animals, people and things. If you guessed what was being mimed, it was your turn to take the sandy stage. When it was Fralista’s opportunity, she pretended to fix up her hair and walk through camp with her nose in the air. It grew quiet around the fire as she went to great lengths to ridicule me. No one would say my name (Doo-Art), so she kept on until she was standing right in front of me both hands clenched into fists.
“Fralista!” Gray Beard’s voice cut the air. “I have a story.”
A murmur swept through the camp. Its men and women turned their eyes to the great teller of tales. This is an abbreviated version of his narrative that night.
“Listen and I will tell a story!” he said as he sprung to his feet.
“This happened long ago, far to the south where hard, clear stones litter the ground, and where there are serpents and cats as big as cave bears. In this land there was a man who ruled the biggest clan of all time.
When this clan marched, it covered the ground from one horizon to the other. Too many hands of people to count.
“The man was a great warrior in his day, and even though he had grown wrinkled and old, there was still no person who could challenge him and live. He had many children, but his favorites were two daughters from rival wives. The girls tolerated each other in the leader’s presence, but hated each other openly when he was gone. Poisoned by their mothers’ lies, they both tried to outdo each other in showing affection for their father. They brought him gifts of honeycomb and ivory bracelets. They rubbed his sore back and mended his clothes, all the while casting evil looks to each other when his head was turned. The man was no fool. He knew!
“This was his only sadness, the great animosity between his two daughters. He worried one would stab the other, or hire a low person to push her sister off a cliff. He worried so much he refused to leave the two girls alone. He insisted on their presence at all times, lest they submit to evil ways.
“The clan suffered in the leader’s absence. The people grew restless and hungry. ‘We must follow the herds,’ they said. He ignored them.
“A new leader, younger and less encumbered, emerged to challenge the old man for power. Unable to focus on the fight, for fear his daughters would kill each other the moment he turned his back, the clan leader was no match for the warrior. The new rival ran him through with a spear, then carried his body to the top of the volcano and tossed it down into the fires below.
“Though the new leader appreciated the sisters’ role in his ascent to power, he could not trust them. He made the girls his slaves, tied them together with sealskin rope and put them in charge of caring for his dogs. As women, they grew old together. The closeness and hardships which were forced upon them taught them to get along. They found they were not so different after all.”
He stopped pacing around the camp to stand before Fralista and me. He surveyed us with stern eyes, unblinking.
“If this sounds like a story I made up, that is because I did. Just now. There is a true story going on right here in this camp which I did not invent. I have two daughters and one refuses to accept the other. Does she have reason to be angry? Yes, I suppose she does.
“The new sister wears her mother’s ceremonial clothes–the clothes she expected to one day inherit. The new sister is beautiful and has the attention and respect of her father. Although they have known each other for less than four moons, he looks to her for advice.
“Does my daughter Fralista have the right to be threatened by my daughter Doo-Art? No, she does not. I love her no less. I admit I do not approve of this idea of living in the valley, tending berries and drawing pictures on the walls.”
This drew gasps from some of the people.
“Yes, I said it. They don’t know your secret yet, but they will. Either you show them or I will.
“Here are the facts. My clan is lost and these three newcomers provide the best chance of getting my people back. Fralista, you had three brothers, five nieces, five nephews, five uncles, five aunts and many friends (hand counting) still alive the last time I saw the clan.
“Daughter Doo-Art may be the smartest person in the world. She has done her best to help every one of you. She has shown me she knows where to find my people.”
He turned to point out Jones and Paul. “These two men are great hunters. You will see when they kill the bull mammoth.”
He held out his arms to calm the excited chatter.
“Tomorrow morning we will lead the bull to the place where he smashed your family and friends. These two men will kill the bull there at that spot by themselves. We will stay only long enough to help cut and hang the meat, dump the carcass over the cliff. Once those chores are done, we leave to continue our quest to find my people.
“Fralista, if you force me to make a choice, I will choose Doo-Art. With her is hope for our clan. I’ll never ask you to leave this valley. You would never do it. Do not force me to choose between you. I love you both.”
Transmission:
Duarte: “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Kaikane: “You know me, Mr. Cautious.”
Duarte: “Paul Kaikane, you are the exact opposite of ‘Mr. Cautious.’ I mean it, you be careful. This mammoth sounds like a real monster.”
Kaikane: “He’s big enough.”
Duarte: “Promise me.”
Kaikane: “No worries, babe, I’m just a scout for this operation. Jones gets to do all the real work.”
From the log of Paul Kaikane
Recreation Specialist
The clan insisted on painting us up for the hunt. Fralista dabbed ochre dots on my face and swiped yellow limestone streaks across my chest and arms. There was a bit of ritual, a few chants. I felt like a member of the Away team in lukewarm territory. Fans silently pulling against us. All except little Suzie, who clung to Jones for the longest time. Poor girl cried her eyes out as we walked away.
The old man had gone over his plan with us more than two dozen times. We knew the mammoth’s vulnerable spots, its strengths and weaknesses. He would blow into an auroch’s horn to draw the mammoth in, make it think there was a challenger rutting in his valley. Maria and the clan members were assigned the duty of shaking saplings and clacking a pair of ivory tusks together to add to the illusion.
Downhill from their grove of trees, hard along the sheer edge of the cliff face, Jones would wait with his atlatl and a sling full of short, heavy darts.
My job was supposed to start simple and get interesting. Turns out, it was all interesting and nothing was simple. Once the surly mammoth began searching for his would-be rival, the plan called for me to lure him into the kill zone where Jones could do his work. When Jones’ last dart was cast, Gray Beard wanted us to mount the dying beast’s head and make a ceremonial show of bashing its skull in with the meteorite club and ivory-headed atlatl.
The wind was in our favor, blowing up the valley toward us as we lugged the tusks from camp to the cluster of brush and trees where Gray Beard, Maria, Fralista and two or three other members of the clan were to pretend they were two mammoths in rut.
Maria and Fralista walked down the valley trail side by side, chatting a bit. Maybe the old man’s ultimatum turned Fralista’s head around. Seems like she’s trying to patch things up. One thing I appreciate, she’s working on Maria to cut her hair. Fralista says Maria should tone down her look before we head south. We’re going to be meeting up with a lot more people. She says Maria stands out too much, and she’s right.
I’ll miss that long, wavy hair.
I’m studying it right now, between paragraphs, as she sleeps by my side. It’s matted with blood, as is the leather blanket wrapped around her naked, bloody body. We’re all sticky, bloody messes. There’s no escaping the sweet, sickly smell as flies buzz in the cool, mountain air an hour before dawn. We worked on the mammoth carcass until a couple hours ago, when Gray Beard called a halt for the night. I’ve never seen the man so tired. His face was drawn and showed every one of his many years. There’s no stream nearby and no way to wash. The clan settled into the dust and fell asleep. Everyone but me and Jones. Too keyed up to sleep. I keep going over the hunt in my head.
I left the stand of trees at a trot, surveying the terrain as I made my way back toward the pond where we had last seen the woolly mammoth. Though it was my first time in this part of the valley, the terrain wasn’t much different than other areas we hunt, rocky along the hillsides and loamy, yellow soil in the bottomlands. I passed through the scorched field where the clan had tried to use fire to push the beast to the cliff. Not far beyond, I found a well-worn trail that wound gently uphill.
Noting caves and other possible escape routes, I walked through stands of tall oak, pine and beech. Briar patches of raspberries and some sort of dwarf plum filled open areas that must have recently been burned or flooded out. Grape vines dangled from many of the trees, so thick in some spots they clogged the trail and forced me to detour wide
around them by following faint paths of pigs and other animals that had done the same. The blare of Gray Beard’s horn followed me out the spur of the side valley where it joined the main valley proper.
The wind was in my face as I settled between two boulders to wait to see if the old man really did know how to call in a mammoth. In less than an hour, the 20-foot-tall beast padded purposefully up the valley meadow. Ears perked, trunk curled, eyes alert, the animal’s high-domed head swayed back and forth as it searched out challengers on the trot.
His long, reddish-brown coat was fully grown back from the summer molt. The bull was covered in wiry hair at least eight feet long. Waxy goo wept from his eyes, black half moons on scruffy cheeks.
Yellow, 22-foot-long tusks were beyond massive. Tree trunks of ivory that swept to the ground then curved upward and inward to nearly touch far out in front of his determined face.
In our talks around the fire, the old man had warned that mammoths, even one this old, can run faster than any man. They charge through brambles and knock down trees like weeds. He said a rogue can be a stealthy and cunning hunter. Driven by hate. It may appear to turn tail and run, only to spring a trap hours later after quietly stalking its prey though the forest.
Though the wind was in my favor, he picked up my scent right away. The bull thrust its trunk in the air and swiveled it like a periscope to search out my location. With no fanfare, it broke into a lope straight for my boulders. I watched him come for a second too long, then turned tail and ran for all I was worth.
In a story, I suppose the beast would be snorting and bellowing. This one reminded me of a determined wrestler. He wasted no energy on bravado or talk. This guy had one goal, run me down and tear me apart.
He was gaining ground fast, so I cut off the trail to angle up the steep bank where tall pines littered the ground with a thick mantle of brown needles. The mammoth kept to the trail, looking up to track my progress from below. He slowed to keep pace as I leaped from the base of one tree to the next when the squirrel trail I was on petered out. We stayed that way, me tracking about 50 yards up the hillside from the bull as I led him slowly toward the cliff.
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