The Valley of the Vézère was a storm-shelter, a haven of refuge for all
animals. Only since the last full moon, had a message come telling of
tremendous climatic changes going on in the northern world. A strange
piercing chill was creeping slowly southward by way of the Baltic Valley.
It brought news of the advancing ice-fields and of bitter winter soon to
come. To everything through whose veins ran warm life-blood, it whispered:
“Make way for the Storm Wind, all ye who run, swim or fly. To the Vézère,
ye creatures of mountain, forest and plain. Seek shelter where even the
storm wrath may not enter. Woe to ye who neither hear nor heed!”
But all heard and heeded and hastened southward while behind them, across
hill and dale, over forest and meadow, colossal mountains of ice glided
irresistibly onward. The Vézère welcomed the swarms of fugitives within
its sanctuary even as the north wind howled at its gates and all western
Europe lay prostrate beneath the shadows of the glaciers.
Wherever peaceable creatures thrive, savage beasts will always be found
preying upon them; and, sad to relate, the Vézère Valley—haven of refuge
for all animals—had its share of those who continually annoyed the true
lovers of peace. The Panther, Lynx and Wolf being the first on the
ground, found abundant food—for the easy hunting; so easy, that in time,
the fact became known throughout the world.
News travels fast among beast-folk; particularly if it is good news. The
flesh-eaters of Africa finally became interested in the glowing accounts
of opportunities awaiting them to the north and decided to have a look
for themselves.
To reach France, it was necessary for them to cross the Mediterranean Sea
or make a long journey around it. However, everything was conveniently
arranged for them to make the trip without wetting their feet and that,
too, by the shortest possible route.
As it chanced, Sicily and Italy were connected to each other and to
Africa, thus forming a land bridge over which those who chose could
enter southern Europe. The Lion, Leopard, Hyena and others were not long
in crossing. Soon they arrived in France where an unpleasant surprise
awaited them. The climate was cold and raw. Ice and snow confronted them
at every turn. Being southern animals, they found themselves unprepared
for such a change. Were it not for the hunting, every one of them would
have turned about and gone back home.
But the hunting was excellent; so they stayed. Game was far more
plentiful than reports had led them to believe. That being so, the rest
soon took care of itself. Their fur and fuzz thickened to shaggy hair
and underwool. Caves and rock-shelters gave further protection against
the cold. The newcomers finally threw off all home ties and became
full-fledged French citizens with new names: the Cave Lion, Cave Leopard
and Cave Hyena.
For a time their frequent raids on the cloven-footed animals passed
almost unnoticed. The latter had not yet learned to appreciate their
danger. Those who fell victims were too dead to tell of their experiences
while others fortunate enough to escape, thanked their lucky stars and
thought no more about it. They made no concerted effort to protect
themselves; and so, for a time, their enemies did about as they pleased.
Game was so plentiful that the cave-beasts grew careless. They threw
off the cloak of secrecy and roamed through the Vézère Valley in the
full light of day. In the heavy snow-drifts, the Moo Hooes were at
a disadvantage as compared with their enemies whose broad soft feet
enabled them to travel swiftly over the frozen crust. Seeing themselves
threatened with destruction, the grass-eaters finally gathered together
to find some way of protecting or ridding themselves of their fierce
enemies. This was the occasion of their meeting with the Mammoth and
Rhinoceros.
The Cave Lion, being the strongest and fiercest of the flesh-eaters,
was the cloven-footed animals’ most dreaded foe. Every grass-eater in
the valley had now learned to fear Grun Waugh above all creatures. As
the Bison spoke his name, Hairi and Wulli looked inquiringly at each
other. The former heaved a deep sigh and nodded gravely. The eyes of the
Rhinoceros glistened and his lips set tightly together in a thin straight
line.
“If you will, so do I,” he said to the Mammoth. “Our main task will be to
make him stand and fight. He would never dare face both of us.”
“Drive him from his den, if you cannot kill him,” the Bison interrupted.
“We do not ask more.” He suspected that Wulli was seeking an excuse to
avoid the danger.
“Where is his den?” asked the Rhinoceros. “How can we find him?”
“No trouble about that. His home is high upon the big Rock.” The Bison
nodded in the direction of a rugged promontory, the Rock of Moustier
which jutted far into the valley, almost to the Vézère River. Its bare
walls rose precipitously in limestone layers or ledges piled one upon
another, to a broad table-like summit capped with snow. Facing the
river, a steep slope composed of crumbled rock, formed the sole means of
reaching the upper level from the valley beneath.
“Grun Waugh lives mid-way to the top,” the Bison explained. “The ground
slopes up to his den. The den is his home.”
“Let us be off,” urged Wulli. “While we talk and do nothing, the Cave
Lion may leave his hole and then we will be hard put to find him.”
To this Hairi agreed after a moment’s thought, so the pair marched off
across the snow-covered meadow to the river. On reaching it, Hairi held
back for an instant, then took a deep breath and set one foot upon the
ice to test its strength. It creaked and trembled. The Mammoth retreated
a step, raised his head and looked about him. The Rhinoceros hesitated
not a moment but strode on ahead at his best gait. The air was cold,
the ice proportionately thick and so he crossed in safety. Not until
he reached the other bank and was pausing to catch his breath, did he
realize that he was alone. With a surprised snort he turned and looked
behind him.
About half-way between the two banks, Hairi was crawling along at a
snail’s pace. His eyes never left the ice on which he trod. His footsteps
rivalled the Panther’s stealthy tread. Had he been walking a tight-rope
he could not have glided onward with more infinite pains.
To the Mammoth who had a healthy horror of mire, ice or any other
support that threatened to give way beneath his weight, this was the
most terrifying part of the whole adventure. To help matters, he held
his breath and kept the fewest possible number of feet on the ice at any
one time, all of which required his undivided attention. Meanwhile the
Rhinoceros could only stand and stare, even after Hairi’s journey finally
ended in a frantic leap to solid ground with half a dozen lumbering hops
added to make sure.
“Stir yourself, Wulli,” bellowed a voice. “Why do you stand like a dumb
Moo Hoo when there is work to be done?”
The Rhinoceros aroused himself and whirled about, too confused to express
his thoughts with fitting words. He trotted behind his friend, sullen and
thoughtful; and so in silence they approached the great Rock which thrust
itself into the valley from the more distant heights like a rugged
outpost placed there to guard the river and lowlands.
“This is the place,” said the Mammoth. “Now we must look around for Grun
Waugh.”
“We can look when we get there,” Wulli sniffed and he scrambled boldly
up the slope. Hairi followed. No more words were wasted. Their breath
was needed for the steep climb. Higher and higher rose their huge bodies
until they neared the foot of a more abrupt although short ascent; the
middle terrace. This latter was topped by a broad rock-platform which
projected from the towering back-wall. A few more steps and the Mammoth’s
eyes were above the level of this platform.
“Take care, no noise,” he whispered suddenly. “Grun Waugh is not here.
Another has taken his place.”
“Who?”
“Not so loud, I tell you. It is one of the Cave-folk; the kind that has
no tail and walks around on its hind legs.”
“Bear?”
“No, no; come and see for yourself.”
The Rhinoceros advanced several steps which brought his eyes above the
level of the ledge. He took a long, careful look, then turned to the
Mammoth and said in a low voice trembling with disappointment:
“Trog-man; oo-oo-oo! Grun Waugh gone and all we have done goes for
nothing. What shall we do?”