The Hunter Returns
Page 21
The whistling dart left the bow. Faster than the swiftest bird it traveled, a flashing streak in the dim morning. It rose in its upward curve, and began its descent, down toward the leader of the enemy hunters. But instead of striking him squarely, the dart’s head merely nicked his shoulder.
The hunters milled about, confused by fear and awe of the lone man who could send his little spears such an incredible distance. The leader, however, apparently enraged by the slight wound he had received, was dancing up and down, brandishing his spear. From his actions, Hawk concluded that he was trying to overcome the hunters’ fears. Had the serpent’s power no effect, then? His hopes began to give way to black despair.
Suddenly the leader of the band took two faltering steps, stiffened, tried to take another step, and fell face down, writhing on the ground.
Bereft of their leader, panic-stricken by the mysterious manner of his collapse, the rest of the hunters took one terrified look and fled into the forest as fast as they could run.
RETURN
Hawk stood outside the cave, the dog beside him and the bow in his hands. The quiver on his shoulder held a dozen feathered arrows which, together, weighed no more than a few darts. It was an easy burden; the loaded quiver seemed feather-light and the bow was no heavier than his throwing-stick.
It had not been an easy or sudden transformation. Several experimental bows lay behind him, and uncounted arrows. He had learned to shoot the bow by holding it in his hands, standing upright. He could shoot an arrow, accurately, five times as far as he had ever been able to throw a dart. And the arrows were within themselves so powerful that he had no more need of the serpent’s venom. That was always in reserve, a deadly addition to his armament should he ever need it.
The bow spelled security. Even the mighty saber-tooths, which could be attacked with a very rain of arrows whenever they came near the cave, now stayed away from it. Two saber-tooth skins served as beds for Willow and himself, and there were deerskin coverings ready when the weather should turn colder. Now, in reality, Hawk was master of his world.
Willow came from the cave, a new basket in either hand. Hawk and the dog led the way back to the tar pit at their old camp site.
Save for a few tumbled ashes and bits of charred wood, all traces of the fire which they had maintained here, so long ago, were obliterated. The spot had seemed a haven then, but now, accustomed to the shelter of their cave home, they regarded it as a cheerless, exposed place. They had come only to pitch more baskets for Willow’s ample supply of storage containers.
Hawk sat down in the sun, the dog at his feet, while Willow began to line her baskets. Hawk’s only function was to protect her while she worked.
The first basket was nearly finished when the dog pricked up his ears and growled warningly. Hawk stood up, looking about alertly. Topping a nearby rise he saw a human figure, then another and another. He spoke softly and Willow came to his side.
Hawk was not worried, for his arrows were more powerful than many spears. Besides, the approaching humans had a strangely familiar look. But it was not until they approached nearer that he identified them positively. They were Wolf, Chief Hunter of their old tribe, Kar, the Chief Fire-Maker, two women, one boy child, and two girl children. They were all haggard, worn, and very thin. Obviously they had eaten little more than enough to keep them alive.
“Come no nearer,” Hawk called out warningly. “If you do, I will kill you.”
Wolf’s voice was weak and husky. “We seek food, and only food.”
“From us?” Hawk cried angrily.
“We have no right to expect anything from you,” Wolf croaked, “for it was we who banished you. That was an evil day for us, for no one else could make spears that flew as true as yours. When we tried to steal some from another tribe, there was a great battle in which half of us were killed.”
Hawk remembered that battleground, back at the scene of the mammoth stampede.
“Where are the rest?” he asked.
“Dead,” Wolf said. “Some killed by wild beasts and some by lack of food. All save us are dead.”
“And you seek only food?”
“Only that.”
As Hawk hesitated, Willow said softly, “They are our people, and they are in great need.”
“Come with us, then,” Hawk said at last. “We have food in plenty, and we no longer wander to find game.” He touched his bow proudly. “There is no need.”
A Note from the Junior Author
Alert readers will notice that most of the animals mentioned in this book are those of Pleistocene North America. The developments in human tools and society almost certainly occurred in Eurasia, before bands of hunters crossed the Bering land bridge. Furthermore, a few of the species of animals never reached North America.
I therefore suggest that readers think of The Hunter Returns as an alternate universe novel, in which crucial portions of human prehistory occurred against a background different from that which we believe happened in our own world.
—DAD