The Hairy Men
For several moons now, Urb, the Neanderthal, and his tribe had found it
increasingly difficult to locate game in the neighborhood of the family
caves. The reason could be any one of several: a nearby water-hole dried
up until the rainy season came again; a family of lions holed up close
by; an absence of adequate pasturage.
Urb sat crouched near the foot of a lofty escarpment that contained the
tribal caves. His deep-sunk button eyes, beneath beetling brows,
indifferently watched the young ones of the tribe playing about the
clearing between jungle and cliff. Below a flattened, shapeless wedge of
nose, his thick pendulous lips worked in and out in worried and
laborious thought. As leader of his tribe, Urb was concerned about the
lack of game.
It had been comparatively cool here in the shadows of the scarp during
most of the morning; but with noon growing near, the sun's direct rays
began to penetrate the thick growth of black coarse hair with which
Urb's gross body was almost entirely covered.
And so he rose at last and, like the great bull ape he so closely
resembled, clambered awkwardly but quickly to one of the caves.
Just inside the entrance he squatted his two hundred and fifty pounds on
a boulder and fell to watching Gorb, his eldest son, put final touches
to a flint spear head. After heating the bit of rock in a small fire for
several minutes, Gorb would withdraw it, hastily touch a spot near the
edge with a drop of water which caused a tiny bit of the flint to scale
away, then repeat the entire process. It was a long and tedious task;
but Gorb had that untiring patience given to those for whom time has no
meaning. Eventually, his perseverance would reward him with a fine
weapon.
Urb was secretly proud of his son. Even as a boy, Gorb had shown no
interest in hunting or in war. Beneath his sharply receding forehead was
the brain and soul of a true artist--a soul that found its expression by
the creation of implements of the chase and of battle. No other member
of Urb's tribe could even approach the artistry Gorb put into his work;
no other could fashion a spear so true in balance; none could produce a
flint knife so keen-edged and well-formed.
The half-finished spear head reminded Urb of his own immediate problem.
"Gorb," he said, "only two kills have our men made in the past five
suns, although all have gone forth each day to hunt. It is not because
Narjok or Bana or Muta run away before we can kill them. We cannot find
them at all; only twice in those five suns have we come upon the spoor
of any one of them."
Gorb paused at his work and drew a hairy forearm across his sweaty face.
"Last night," he said, "long after Dyta had found his lair, I heard Sadu
roaring and growling among the trees. It was the noise of a hungry Sadu;
he, too, was angry because there is no meat."
Urb grunted. Since the day before, he had been turning an idea over in
his slow-moving mind, and now he sought to put it into words.
"Tomorrow," he said, "when Dyta first awakens, some of us will look for
caves far from here. I will go; Boz and Kor and Tolb and you, Gorb, will
go with me. There are many hills; there will be many caves in them, and
much meat in grasslands nearby. When we find a good place we will come
back for the others of our tribe."
"Good!" approved Gorb, turning back to his labors. "It has been many
suns since I have eaten all the meat I can hold. I will go with you,
Urb."
* * * * *
Early the next morning a little band of Neanderthal men descended the
escarpment and set out toward the rising sun. They were six; besides
those named by Urb, Mog, the sullen, had been taken. All were armed with
huge flint-studded hardwood clubs, so heavy that only an arm of great
strength might wield one; rude knives of flint and short-shafted spears
completed their armament.
They moved along with the curious shuffling gait peculiar to their kind
alone. Their passage seemed to diffuse an atmosphere of terror and
dread, striking dumb the countless denizens of the teeming jungle. Urb
was in the lead, his small black eyes darting about for the first sign
of danger, ears and nose alert lest Sadu or Jalok or Tarlok find him and
his fellows unprepared. But if any of the more formidable beasts were
near, they remained concealed. Only Pandor, the elephant, neglected to
give the Hairy Men a wide berth when several were together--Pandor, who
feared no creature that walked or flew or wriggled.
The shaggy-coated males moved steadily ahead, their objective a group of
low mountains far to the east, the upper portions of which were clearly
discernible on the few occasions the band crossed a clearing of any
consequence.
At noon they halted on the reed-covered banks of a shallow river; and
while Urb and Tolb hunted game, the others rested beneath the broad
boughs of a jungle patriarch.
Soon the two hunters returned, bearing between them the still warm
carcass of Muta, the wild boar. Each of the six hacked off a juicy
portion and devoured it raw, blood matting the hair of face and chest.
After drinking at the river's brink, the brute-men stretched out beneath
the trees, covered their faces with huge fronds of a palm tree and slept
until mid-afternoon. Urb roused them, then, and once more the savage
band took up their march.
Darkness was near when the six passed through a fringe of jungle and
paused at the foot of a lofty cliff. Urb, deciding too little daylight
remained for them to attempt scaling the vertical slope, ordered the
Neanderthals back into the forest.
Here they supped on flesh of the boar killed earlier in the day, then
sought couches among the tree branches. During daylight it was all very
well to sleep in comfort on the jungle floor; but during the night it
was safer aloft. The great cats usually laid up during the day,
digesting the previous night's kill; but once Uda, the moon, made an
appearance, the forest abounded with hungry carnivora.
* * * * *
With the first rays of the morning sun the six men began the perilous
climb. Slow-moving and awkward, they made hard going of the ascent, but
their tremendous strength aided them where lesser muscles would have
failed altogether, and finally the crest was reached.
Here they stood at the edge of a great tableland, clothed with primeval
forest from which, in the distance, loomed four low mountain peaks.
Game seemed plentiful; as they watched, a herd of antelope grazing to
their left caught their scent and bounded away across a narrow ribbon of
grassland which lay between the forest and the plateau's edge. A band of
monkeys chattered and scolded at them from the safety of middle
terraces, while a cloud of raucous-voiced birds rose with a whirring
beat of wings and flew deeper inland.
Not far to their right was the entrance to a narrow deep-worn game trail
leading into tangled mazes of brush, creeper, vine and trees. It was
toward this trail that Urb turned his footsteps, motioning for his
companions to follow.
"Here is food enough," he exulted. "If we can find caves in those hills,
we will go back to fetch the rest of our people."
In silence the six frightful, man-like creatures faded into the black
shadows of the overhanging forest, their goal the towering heights at
the far end of this plateau.
And directly between them and their objective lay Sephar, mysterious
city of an unknown race.
* * * * *
Dylara lay face down on a broad branch, her head pillowed on a heap of
moss, biting her lips to keep back tears of bitter anguish. The swollen
ankle throbbed steadily, its pain almost unbearable.
And she had been so close to freedom! From her place high in the tree
she could see the stone walls of Rydob's dwelling, evil and grim in the
sun. Behind those walls lay the dead body of Meltor, slain by his own
knife.
She felt no regret for having killed him. It had been his life--or hers.
When he had lunged across the table in an attempt to stab her, she,
acting by instinct rather than thought, had thrust her weight against
the table. Meltor, off balance, went over backwards, his head striking
hard against the floor. Before he could regain his wits Dylara had torn
the knife from his hand. He cried out once in mortal fear as the blade
swung high, flung up a futile hand to ward off the blow, and died as
polished flint pierced his heart.
No--she felt no regret for having killed him. What she did regret was
the mad impulse that had sent her running blindly into the open air. So
anxious had she been to flee that horrible place that she had no eyes
for what lay in her path. As a result, one heel had trod full on the
whitened skull of Rydob the hermit. Dylara's ankle had twisted beneath
her, pitching her headlong into a tangle of vines at the base of the
steps.
She was up at once; but the injured ankle buckled under her weight and
she had fallen again, crying out in agony.
For a little while she had remained there, stroking the injured member,
already swollen and turning blue. Finally she got to her hands and knees
and, with many pauses, crawled toward the trees ringing the clearing.
How she managed to clamber into the branches of one giant tree and work
her way a full fifty feet above the ground, Dylara was never to know. So
awful was the pain that her mind seemed numbed; only an unflagging
determination drove her on. She stopped at last, on a thick bough and
lay there, completely exhausted.
It was comparatively cool there in the shelter of the foliage. Soft
jungle breezes stirred the branch gently and she was soon asleep. A bird
twittered and cooed close by, and the wind blew lightly across the
troubled face, smoothing its tired lines....
* * * * *
And as the weary, pain-wracked girl lay sleeping, four heavily armed men
stepped into the clearing and moved stealthily toward the house of
Rydob. They entered; and after a few minutes, reappeared at the doorway,
to be joined by three other warriors who had come up to the building
from the rear.
"It seems hardly possible," Jotan was saying, "for a mere girl to kill a
grown warrior. For all we know, another man may have slain Meltor and
made off with Dylara."
"It's my guess," said Tamar, "that the girl caught Meltor off guard and
stuck a knife in him. She's not like the women we know, Jotan. Hers has
been a wild, primitive life, filled with danger. Because of it, she
would be far more resourceful than Sepharian women have need of being.
Taking a life probably means nothing to her.
"No," he concluded, "I've an idea she's well on her way back to her
caves by now."
Javan, impatiently listening to the conversation, touched Jotan's arm
nervously.
"There is no point in staying here," he complained. "It will be dark
soon, and the jungle is no place to be after sundown."
Jotan smiled wanly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course. I have
no right to expose you and Tamar to danger on my account.
"We will return to Sephar now. But tomorrow I shall return here with a
warrior who is versed in tracking. With his help I should be able to
learn what has happened to Dylara."
"We will go with you," Tamar said quietly. And Javan nodded agreement.
The seven entered the game trail and started back toward distant Sephar.
Jotan led the way, his wide shoulders drooping disconsolately. It was
clear the loss of the lovely cave-girl had hurt him deeply.
The return journey was about half completed when Jotan stopped suddenly
and raised a cautioning hand.
"Listen!" he exclaimed softly.
The seven cocked their ears alertly.
Faintly, mingled with the everyday noises of the jungle, came sounds of
murmuring voices and the tramp of feet from around a bend in the trail
ahead.
"Probably warriors from Sephar, hunting game," Tamar said. "Let's join
them; they may have news for us."
Jotan frowned. "Hunters don't go blundering about so carelessly," he
reminded. "Hide in the undergrowth until we can make sure."
A moment later, six human figures appeared in the path. Five were
fighting-men of Sephar--all well armed. The sixth was a girl in a
close-fitting tunic that emphasized the lithe softly-curved body it
covered. Her face was set in determined lines as she moved on, looking
neither to the right nor the left.
Tamar, lying next to Jotan behind a screen of vines, nudged his friend.
"Alurna!" he breathed. "What can she be doing here?"
"Looks as though Fordak was telling the truth," Jotan whispered. "She
_is_ mixed up in this. He must have got free and gone to her with the
story.
"Well, let her go to Rydob's house. She'll find little there to please
her!"
As soon as the princess and her escorts were out of sight, Jotan called
his men from their hiding places and they took up their interrupted
progress toward Sephar.