Some forty thousand years ago plus or minus a few odd centuries, years,
months, weeks and days, a strange group might have been seen wending its
way northward through the very heart of France. It was the Ape Boy and
his two animal friends, the Hairy Mammoth Elephant and Woolly Rhinoceros.
The two shaggy beasts lumbered on side by side, the former towering twice
above the height of his smaller companion. On the Mammoth’s neck settled
deeply in the depression between head and shoulders, sat Pic with ax held
across his thighs and his hyena robe trailing behind him in the breeze.
Hairi a beast of burden? How hath the mighty fallen! We must go back a
bit to learn why.
When the duet became a trio—Ape Boy, Mammoth and Rhinoceros—and the party
left the Grotto of Sha Pell to journey northward, Spring was already
far advanced. Warm weather was something of a hardship to Hairi and
Wulli, all bundled up as they were in their shaggy overcoats, to say
nothing of thick woolen underwear concealed beneath. And so they made
all haste to reach a more congenial climate. In spite of their vast
bodies and stumpy legs, both could travel fast; but the need of food and
rest had some voice as to the speed at which they travelled. They were
tremendous eaters, but unfortunately the high rocky country provided poor
feeding-grounds.
Their favorite foods were scarce, the grass-tufts few. Their northern
march was a constant turning this way and that in search of edibles which
were snatched up greedily wherever found. On the rough ground, Pic had
the better of his comrades. No rock was too high, no ravine too deep
to bar his way. His step was sure, his head clear and he found little
trouble in making rapid progress over obstacles which caused the others
endless annoyance and delay. Up hill, down dale, through tangled forest
undergrowth and over fallen trees, the Ape Boy led the other two a merry
dance until the party approached the Loire River. Here the tables were
turned. The ground which they had covered was a gradual descent from
forested highlands to comparatively level lowlands as the land-surface
dipped down to the northwest. On the high, rough country, the Mammoth and
Rhinoceros had been at a disadvantage but in the broad level region of
the Loire, food was abundant and everything promised a speedy journey.
But now an unforeseen complication arose; Pic was too slow. He could
not walk as fast as the others, simply because his heels were much too
short; also each big toe stood apart from its mates and lacked stiffness.
Soft, flexible feet were well suited for climbing and clambering about
in rough, broken country;—among cliffs, ravines, rocks and tangled
undergrowth—but in the open they were at a disadvantage. With his short
heels and soft feet, Pic promised to become a burden to his friends,
through no real fault of his own.
“Where is Pic? Stopping to crack rocks, I suppose,” grumbled the Mammoth,
as for the fifth time he halted and observed the one in question lagging
far in the rear. Pic was shuffling along at his best gait with knees
half bent and head held forward, making hard work of the little he
accomplished and tiring fast with the doing of it.
Hairi and Wulli ground their teeth and stamped impatiently until the
laggard finally caught up. He halted before them, squatted on heels and
haunches and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked warm, tired and
discouraged, knowing well that the best he could do was poor enough. His
comrades’ remarks were little calculated to give him comfort.
“You must walk faster,” Hairi scolded. “If you cannot do better than
that, I will soon have to carry you.”
“Carry me?” Pic looked up quickly at the great giant towering over
him; at the Elephant’s head-peak and mighty shoulder-hump and the deep
depression where neck joined body. His face brightened. He rose to his
feet and stepped to the Mammoth’s side.
“Yes, it might be done if you will. Raise your foreleg.” He laid his hand
on the great right wrist which rose above the level of his own knees.
“Fancy my taking orders from small creatures,” Hairi thought to himself;
but he raised his foreleg obediently and stood waiting, curious to see
what would happen next. The Ape Boy climbed upon the outstretched limb
and reaching on high with his hands, secured a firm grip on the Mammoth’s
ear. “Now your trunk,” he commanded. “Help me to climb up.”
Hairi’s trunk curled around sideways and raised the other with scarce
an effort. With this assistance Pic scrambled up. Before the astonished
Mammoth realized what had happened, his neck bore a rider and for the
first time in his life, the head of a living creature towered above his
own.
“I am so small, you can easily carry me,” a voice sounded from behind
his ears. “Now you may go on as fast as you please.”
Before many hours, the Mammoth had become accustomed to his rider and in
that time the wisdom of the new arrangement became apparent to all. From
his elevated position, Pic was enabled to inform his friends regarding
the nature of the country ahead and call their attention to various
interesting things among which they passed. Then too, he selected the
best routes and chose the safest fords when crossing streams. In these
and many other ways, he relieved his friends of many perplexing problems.
In short, he had become the eyes and brains of the party.
Northern France was beginning to prepare itself for a season of warm
breezes and sunny skies when our three tourists crossed the Loire River
and entered the more rolling country beyond. And yet none but hardy
forms of green growth dared show themselves; for the ice-fields yet hung
threateningly to the north, casting their sombre shadows over Western
Europe. Only scattered clumps and single trees—dwarf birch, fir, spruce
and arctic willow strewn sparingly along streams and hillside—marked
once-forested regions. Coarse grass and sedge formed but a threadbare
carpet on meadow and pasture land. And yet this semi-bleak waste abounded
with animal life,—hardy forms in keeping with the grass, brush and
trees. There were wild horses, stilt-legged bison with shaggy heads and
shoulders, long-horned cattle and lesser creatures of the open pasture
lands; stags, roe-deer and Irish Elk of hill and glade; and least
numerous but most menacing, prowling wolves and hyenas which crawled and
skulked from sight, awaiting their chance to secure any tender colt, calf
or fawn or even grown animal that strayed from the protection of its
fellows.
Horse, bison, ox and all stopped work—feeding, playing, sleeping—to
inspect the strangers coming from the south. As the latter drew nearer,
all eyes, ears and noses were gradually drawn to the Mammoth or rather
to something upon his neck which looked and smelled like a Trog-man, but
of course must be something else. Men and beasts did nothing but quarrel
with one another as a rule. No elephant ever travelled about with a man
upon his neck; such a thing was unheard of in the animal world.
But for all that, something of the kind was happening under their very
noses; so the horses, bison, oxen and everything else crowded as closely
as they dared along the line of march, leaving a wide lane through which
the strangers might pass without interruption.
Hairi could not conceal his satisfaction at this publicity so suddenly
thrust upon him. He held his head high and swept on at his most majestic
gait while the spectators stared and admired and wished they were as big
and grand-looking. The Ape Boy caught the spirit of his noble steed and
bore himself right royally, with ax held over one shoulder, like a ruler
parading before his vassals.
Several days journey in this regal splendor brought the party to the
border of a vast, shallow depression scooped as it were from the earth.
Its sides were coated with patches of loam and sand becoming deeper
towards the bottom as though giant hands had washed therein and left
their grime. It was like a saucer—a mighty basin too broad for mortal eye
to span—bounded by a rim of encircling hills which dipped lower and lower
as they swept in two wide arcs to the northwest. Thus the saucer stood
not squarely on its broad base but tipped as though to empty itself of a
river winding through it from the southeast. After passing a small island
which reposed at the bottom of the saucer, the river swung from northwest
to southwest, then turned back and forth upon itself thus forming a rude
inverted letter S.
Far to the southeast, a tributary joined the larger stream. Low hills
and pastures, sloping towards the valley through which the central river
flowed; scattered shade-trees dotting the western lowlands; scrub and
brush adorning the eastern heights;—such was the Paris Basin, the Seine
River winding through it and the Marne tributary flowing from the east.
Slopes, river banks and even the river surface itself were dotted and
blotched with living forms, single and in groups, some motionless, others
shifting restlessly about; sleeping, lunching or besporting themselves as
wild animals do when in the midst of congenial surroundings.
A herd of horses was gliding swiftly along the southern slopes
overlooking the valley—sorrels, bays, chestnuts, with manes and tails
streaming behind them—all uniting to form a single moving mass of color.
Groups of long-horned cattle lined the river-banks farther below,
standing high and dry, wading in the water or swimming with all but their
heads submerged.
To the west, a score of bison grazed beneath the scattered shade-trees.
Others lay on the grass near by, chewing their cuds and gazing dreamily
into space. A tiny calf consisting of a small piece of body mounted
on four stilts, ran here and there calling “Ma-ma” and causing no
disturbance but its own noise. By some peculiar combination of sight,
smell and sound whereby cows and calves find each other without mistakes,
the bawling infant soon discovered the object of its search and its
troubles ended with a draught of home-brewed nectar, of which the fond
mother carried an abundant supply. Meanwhile the bull bison leader found
nothing to do but loll about awaiting the day’s end and whatever the
morrow might bring. But with all his cud-chewing and seeming laziness,
he kept one eye upon a burly brown bear who in the distance was poking
the stones and rotten logs about with his big paws in search of grubs and
things that bears like when honey is scarce and the berries are still
green.
In spite of their apparent lack of interest in any but their own affairs,
bison, horse, ox, bear and all frequently turned their noses windward to
sniff the air as though suspicious of its tainted odor. Grass-eaters,
even hunting-animals never trusted blood-thirsty creatures that roved in
packs—wolves, hyenas and more particularly, other strange beings beyond
the pale who walked on their hind legs and fought with sticks and stones.
As the three travellers glided down the Basin slope and neared a more
abrupt descent to the river, Pic espied a group of figures on the
bank below him, near where the river made its first sharp turn from
south to north. He said nothing of this discovery for fear of alarming
his companions; but already the Mammoth had begun to show signs of
uneasiness. His trunk had caught a strange scent below him. With each
step, his pace slackened. The Rhinoceros shared his comrade’s increasing
concern. His ears were held pricked forward to catch the sound of that
which he smelled but could not see.
Suddenly, two of the distant figures jumped up. A shout; and every figure
stood erect. A score of wondering faces stared up at the Mammoth and
Rhinoceros. A second shout followed. The figures—faces and all—dropped to
the ground and lay still.
At the first shout, Hairi gave a great bound which almost unseated his
rider; at the second, he stopped abruptly, only to move forward again as
Pic patted his cheek and spoke reassuring words to coax him on. Nearer
and nearer, they approached the prostrate figures, not one of which moved
or made a sound. When but a dozen paces distant, the Mammoth stopped
and refused to advance another step. He hung back on the shelving bank,
beneath which he could see dark figures kneeling with their faces in the
dust. His nose told him that these were Trog-men, a fact concerning which
his eyes and ears now felt some doubts, for the prone forms neither moved
nor made a sound. When eyes, ears and nose failed to agree on things,
those things had best be avoided.
To Pic, sitting astride the Mammoth’s neck, the sight of the prone
figures was astounding. Men either fought or fled in the face of danger
but never did they pretend to be asleep or dead. Why did they act so?
He saw a score of human beings grovelling in the dust. About them lay
piles of cream colored lumps, also hammer-stones and axes scattered in
confusion. He suspected treachery; but if this were an ambuscade, one
more remarkable he had never encountered.
“Can these really be men?” he asked himself. “So silent and still all;
lying upon their faces. What does it mean?”
As if in reply, one of the figures stirred. A grizzled grey head raised
itself. A pair of deep-set eyes peered up furtively at the towering
Mammoth. Hairi threw his trunk aloft and settled back. The Rhinoceros
squared his legs. The Ape Boy looked down. He saw the face of an old man
with heavy brows, sloping forehead and massive chinless jaws. The eyes
shone like those of a fanatic—of one inspired.
The patriarch’s lips moved. “The Man Mammoth!” he muttered in an awed
voice, so hushed that it sounded scarcely above a whisper. “He comes to
jar the heavens and hurl down fire. Woe to us!” He groaned and covered
his face with his hands.
Low howls and white puffs arose from the dust as his companions added
their dismal chorus.
“Arrah! What is that you say?” demanded the now thoroughly mystified Pic.
“Man Mammoth? Man and Mammoth, you mean. Tell me, Old Grey Head, is this
some of your trickery?” He raised his ax on high as he said this and
glared fiercely from one figure to another.
Low moans and white puffs again arose from the bank below him. Once more
the patriarch uncovered his face and gazed in awe at the Mammoth-head and
its human rider.
“What trickery can we poor cave-folk offer to the Man Mammoth who sees
and knows all? We but humble ourselves that he may shine upon us and
cease to ravage the land with flood and flame.”
“Agh-h,” grunted Pic. He smiled and his eyes twinkled. Now he understood.
The Cave-men mistook him for a god because he rode upon the Mammoth’s
neck. To them, he and the Elephant were one; part man, part beast—the Man
Mammoth, ruler of the sky whose smile was sunshine; lowering clouds, his
frown; and storm, his wrath. With thunder and lightning, he vented his
rage upon the earth.
“Why do you all herd here above the valley?” Pic asked in a low voice
that—to the humble cave-men—fore-shadowed clear sunny skies.
“We came to find and hammer the flints,” replied the patriarch rising to
his knees and pointing at the bank above him. “Here lie the finest in the
land.”
“Flints?” Pic leaned far over the Mammoth’s neck and looked eagerly
at the ground beneath him. He saw yellow lumps, broken flakes and
hammer-stones, in profusion. “Whoow-w!” he sucked in his breath and gazed
at them in astonishment.
He had intruded upon a colony of flint-workers. These men were merely
engaged in procuring one of life’s necessities; means for destroying
other lives to preserve their own. The bank was a chalk-ledge overlooking
the Seine. It was the center of a thriving industry—a mine and munitions
factory combined. It contained wealth more precious than gold or silver;
for to these men unfamiliar with metals, flint was the staff of life
whereby they were enabled to exist.
There it was in piles freshly extracted from the chalk, awaiting the
first manufacturing operation—splitting by the hammer-stone. Many lumps
already split, also the wax-like flakes hewn from them, lay strewn upon
the ground. Flints! and such wonderful ones too! Pic’s eyes caught the
lustre of broken flakes. Was the workmanship as fine as the material
itself? He looked at the blade of his own ax and trembled. The secret of
its making, might at that very moment be lying at his feet.
“We must know more of this. Why do you stop, clumsy beast”—these last
words were addressed to the Mammoth who showed a decided reluctance to
move closer.—“Forward. Do you fear a handful of cave-men? Agh! hurry, I
say.”
Hairi shook his head from side to side and protested with loud grunts,
but ended by descending the bank and striding among the workers and piles
of flint. At a signal from his rider, he stopped. Pic peered down between
his head and shoulder. His gaze alighted on a hide heaped with broken
flakes. The patriarch who had first spoken was kneeling beside it.
“Fling-stones,” Pic exclaimed in tones of withering scorn. “Is this your
best work? Stand up, old man and answer before I lose patience and bid
the Mammoth crush you where you lie.”
The patriarch scrambled to his feet and stood with head bowed, arms
folded across his breast; awed in spirit but heedless of bodily danger.
Pic’s heart softened.
“Is this your best work?” he asked, again pointing to the broken flakes.
“If so, it ill becomes such fine material to be so butchered. Have you
none like this?” He held out his own ax by its long wooden handle so that
the other might see.
The old man’s eyes brightened as they caught sight of the wonderful
blade. He stepped forward and stood directly beneath the Mammoth’s chin.
His arms were outstretched towards the great flint like those of a
worshipper before a shrine.
“Marvellous,” he muttered in an awed voice. “Never have I seen so fine a
blade. May I touch it, noble master?” His palms trembled as they hovered
over the object of his adoration.
“Yes, you may touch it,” replied the Ape Boy with a kindly smile; and for
an instant the ax was hidden between the old man’s hands.
“Ah, Blade of Ach Eul!” he murmured devoutly. “None can equal it. Never
will the work of us poor cave-folk equal that of the Terrace Men. We
strive in vain.”
“Well spoken,” Pic interrupted. “None can equal it. But how was it done?”
This question was delivered with such earnestness, the old man trembled.
“Of that I know nothing,” he stammered. “The Terrace Men have passed away
and their secret with them.”
“Who were the Terrace Men?” asked Pic. His voice shook even more than
that of the patriarch.
[Illustration: THE MEETING WITH THE SEINE FLINT WORKERS]
“A race of flint-workers who once lived on the high river banks—the
upper terraces,” was the answer. “But this is the Man Mammoth’s Weapon;
incomparable with the Terrace Man’s finest flint. And yet it is much the
same.” He patted the blade reverently. “But as calf’s flesh pleases the
taste more than does that of the aged bull, so does this blade of Ach Eul
shame the work of mortal hands.”
“Blade of Ach Eul—it is well worth a name. And these Terrace Men—where
may they be found?” asked Pic. “You and your fellows might learn much
from them. Agh! even my turtle-backs are more finely hammered. Not a
knife nor ax-blade in the lot—mere fling-stones; children’s’ and women’s
work.”
“They once lived on the banks of a river to the north,” the old man
replied. “But no longer do we see them or their blades. The Terrace Men
are gone and their secret with them.”
“Um—we shall see. Go on,” Pic said to the Mammoth. The latter picked his
way carefully among the prostrate men but made no effort to avoid their
flints or tools which he scattered recklessly about with his ponderous
feet.
For an instant, Pic’s eyes blazed at sight of this wanton desecration;
but another look at the small, ill-hewn fragments and he held his peace.
“Well done, good old friend,” he whispered. “Even you have no patience
with such feeble efforts,” and without deigning so much as another
glance at the cave-men or their clumsy flint-making, he urged his steed
down the bank to the river while the Woolly Rhinoceros followed close
behind.
X
Pic met more flint-workers; on the banks of the Seine, also along the
Somme River farther to the north; but it was ever the same. He saw only
small ill-hewn flakes, none of which bore signs of the Terrace Man’s
wonderful craft. Poorer handiwork Pic had never seen.
With each disappointment, he grew more and more depressed. He began to
look upon the art of the Terrace Man as a myth; a fanciful creation of
his own brain. He became moody and irritable and wished himself back in
the Vézère. Then from a solitary hunter, he learned of men who lived on
the banks of a river lying beyond the great Channel Valley to the north.
His spirits rose and he lived in hope once more. He led his two animal
friends across the Somme River, over hills and valleys to the great
Boulogne-Calais ridge or heights overlooking the broad isthmus connecting
Britain and France.
Near Boulogne, the trio descended from the heights into the valley,
across which man and beast might travel dry shod; no small convenience,
for none knew of boats or rafts or how logs might be used as transports
across the water. But the great valley was dry so the Ape Boy and his
companions passed over it with no inconvenience save from the choking
chalk-dust stirred up by their own feet. A day’s journey with a week
more added, brought them first into Britain, then through the Kentish
Downs to the London Basin. Before them, in the distance, flowed the
Thames River, winding its way leisurely towards the North Sea from the
direction of the setting sun. Such a stream were scarcely broad or swift
enough to bar the trio’s northward march. A swim to the opposite bank
meant no more than a bit of exercise calculated to make the red blood of
a Mammoth and Rhinoceros flow fast. Strangely enough neither one made
any effort to cross the river, both merely contenting themselves with
strolling along the valley’s southern border. Their behavior was suddenly
become care-free and without purpose. The cool breezes sweeping down from
the Scottish glaciers and North Sea, gave the air that life and snap
which Hairi and Wulli considered indispensable to their bodily comfort.
These hardy wanderers could make themselves at home in any country whose
food-supply and climate accorded with their standards. To them, Kent
seemed a land of charm, so now they slowed their pace and proceeded to
enjoy themselves.
Pic too found much to occupy his mind. The stepped banks or terraces of
the Thames reminded him of those he had seen lining both sides of the
Somme; the low, middle and high terraces—three successive water levels,
beginning with the highest at a time when the river was first carving
its way through the valley. And there were places where flint-workers
gathered during the spring and summer months; so when his companions
stopped to graze, he shouldered his ax and walked along the slopes
keeping a sharp lookout for those whom he wished most to see. He
was feeling a wee bit homesick and hungry too, for a sight of human
faces,—not because he felt any friendly feeling for his own kind, he
assured himself; but only from Terrace Men could he learn aught of how
blades, such as the one he bore, were so finely made. He had not gone far
when he observed a group of flint-workers on the bank below him; so down
he went to make their closer acquaintance.
They squatted on the slope with only their heads visible and faces
turned towards the river. As Pic drew nearer, their shoulders and bodies
came into view. He recognized in them, beings like himself—the race
of Moustier. His heart sank. His mind had pictured the Terrace Man as
something different. His ax,—the blade of Ach Eul—represented an ideal—a
perfection of flint-working art. The artisan must be constituted of more
than common clay. Did the genius of the Terraces stalk abroad in the
guise of such humble folk? He hoped; but something within him, foretold
bitter disappointment.
The Men of Kent were so busy with their flint-making that they paid
little attention to the approaching figure, doubtless considering it one
of their own number. Not until Pic stood amongst them did they realize
that he was a stranger. All stopped work and eyed him with disfavor. Pic
gazed boldly about him. He saw none but old men and boys. “Where are your
warriors?” he demanded.
A youth pointed eastward.
“Hunting?” Pic asked curiously; then muttered to himself: “Of course;
some must find food while the others work.”
The youth nodded civilly enough. His courtesy was due to a glimpse of the
Ape Boy’s wonderful ax.
“Have no fear; I come as a friend,” said Pic as he observed the other’s
concerned expression. “Are you Men of the Terraces?”
The youth shook his head: “No; we are cave-folk. We live among the
hills. Only in the warm season, do we come here.”
Pic sighed, took a deep breath and turned his attention to the work in
which the group was engaged. He almost dreaded to look down and see what
he most feared.
Before each artisan was a small pile of flint-lumps. Thin chips covered
the ground between each pair of feet; small, roughly-fractured flakes lay
together on one side. Pic dropped on one knee and examined the flakes.
“Are these your best work?” he asked at last in a voice that trembled. He
did not even raise his eyes as one of the men answered: “Yes, they are
the best.”
“Enough;” he still gazed dreamily at the flakes,—small, shapeless
things—but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I have failed,” he said
bitterly. “These would shame a child. The Terrace Man is not here.”
As he arose to his feet, thinking, striving to gather courage for fresh
hopes, dark figures loomed about him on all sides as though sprung from
the earth. With a startled exclamation, he raised his ax and squared
back, determined to sell his life dearly. But as he glanced behind him,
he saw how vain would be his efforts. A dozen flint-axes were held ready
to strike him down. One step forward or backward and the blades would
crush his skull.
His muscles relaxed. He lowered his weapon. His captors in turn lowered
theirs and crowded more closely about him. In a moment Pic had recovered
from his surprise and was boldly returning the fierce looks directed
upon him from all sides. Then one of his captors, who appeared to be the
leader, a giant in bulk and strength, stepped forward and eyed Pic so
threateningly that the latter shrank back with half-raised ax.
A human race more brutal the Ape Boy had never beheld. Its overhanging
brows, sloping forehead and projecting muzzle were so exaggerated that
the entire head resembled that of a huge monkey. This likeness was
increased by the monster’s broad, flat nose which was crushed in and
marred by a ragged scar extending far into one cheek. The thick body,
crooked limbs and hairy skin were even more animal-like than the hideous
head above them.
Pic took in all of these details at a glance and found them far from
reassuring. Nor—judging by his scowling face—was the Man of Kent improved
in temper at sight of the youth before him.
“Who are you?” he growled in a voice that sounded like the mouthing of a
famished wolf. Pic’s lips tightened as he returned the monster’s piercing
stare.
“A man.” He was about to add the words: “like yourself;” but withheld
them as inappropriate.
“For what are you here?” demanded the chieftain, enraged by this fearless
reply.
“I came alone, as you see me, to learn how these people made their
flints,” answered Pic, pointing to the old men and boys to whom he had
first spoken. “I thought them Terrace Men. That is why I came.”
“Terrace Men? Bah!” snarled the monster glaring fiercely at the strange
fish that lay so calmly in his net. He had expected a struggle or
cringing howls for mercy. The flint-ax would mend either; but now he held
his hand, confounded by the Ape Boy’s reply and manner and yet all the
more enraged because of his own perplexity.
“Bah!” he roared again. “May you and your Terrace Men find rest in a
lion’s stomach. We permit no strangers amongst us; therefore begone. You
may thank your good fortune that we do no worse by you;” and he ground
his teeth as though angered and disappointed at having shown such unusual
clemency.
Pic made no response. His captors shuffled back on both sides to let him
pass. As he looked into their scowling faces, he felt an overwhelming
sense of loneliness; a sudden realization that he was an outcast in a
strange land, in spite of the people of his own race gathered about him.
The brutal chieftain watched him narrowly, half hoping that by some
word or act the Ape Boy would provoke his further wrath. In this, he
was disappointed. Without a word, Pic shouldered his ax and prepared to
go his way. As the great blade flashed in the sunlight, the Man of Kent
started with amazement. So large and fine a flint, his eyes had never
seen. He looked down at the head of his own clumsy weapon, then at the
other with envious eyes.
“Hold; what have you there?” and he pointed a finger at the cause of his
sudden interest.
Pic turned, surprised by this outburst. In a moment he saw its meaning.
“This is my ax,” he replied calmly; “my father’s,—made by a man of the
Terraces;” and he held the weapon proudly aloft in his two hands.
The Kentish chieftain looked down again upon his own battle-ax, then at
the blade of Ach Eul. His teeth were bared threateningly as he strode
forward.
“You lie,” he yelled. “For now it is mine. Give it to me;” and he
stretched forth an arm like one exacting tribute from a conquered foe.
Pic fell back a step and his hands closed firmly about the haft. His lips
set themselves tightly together as he glared unabashed at the monster.
For a moment neither moved. Those about them drew in deep breaths of
wonder as they witnessed the youth’s open defiance of their leader.
“That ax,” roared the Man of Kent, withdrawing his hand and gripping his
own weapon. “Can you fight with it—you an untried boy?”
“Yes.”
“And for it?” added the monster with a fiendish hyena laugh as he thrust
his great head almost into the other’s face.
Pic’s eyes blazed like fire. His lips parted in a furious snarl.
“I have said the ax is mine,” he cried hoarsely. “No man lives who can
take it from me,” and he made ready for the clash which he now saw was
impossible to avoid.
The Kentish Men grunted noisy approval. Personal quarrels were of
frequent occurrence; blood-shed a thing to amuse and while away the
passing time. But this contest promised something unusual; better
because of its novelty—a giant versus a dwarf. Their sympathies, or
rather their brutal preference, favored the smaller contestant who faced
such odds with so little concern for his own skin. They had no love for
their chief. By the power of his arm alone had he attained a commanding
position over them. All had felt the weight of his hand and feared his
gigantic strength. That a stranger—a mere lad—dared try conclusions with
him, was enough to arouse their interest to the highest pitch. They
admired, they wondered; but the Ape Boy was clearly overmatched and that
he would put up a good fight before having his skull cracked was about
the most that could be expected. They took comfortable positions in a
semi-circle about the contestants with backs to the terrace like an
audience before a stage. Without a thought of interfering, they squatted
down to enjoy the entertainment now being served before them.
The Man of Kent leered upon the Ape Boy with such tenderness as a cat
bestows upon a mouse caught in the toils. He took fiendish relish in
prolonging his victim’s agony before applying the finishing touch. Low
murmurs arose. The spectators were growing impatient of his inaction. The
Man of Kent turned savagely upon them.
“Be quiet,” he snarled. “Would you have me treat as a man one who cannot
properly grip his ax because of his soft baby hands?”
Pic heard the insult and the hot blood surged into his face. With a bowl
of fury, he sprang nimbly forward and dealt the Man of Kent a resounding
whack across the chest with the flat of his ax.
His audience growled noisy approval and wonder, too, for a blow with the
flat blade was a warrior’s expression of deepest scorn for an unworthy
foe. They craned their heads eagerly forward and awaited Pic’s next move
with breathless interest. The chieftain roared with pain and surprised
rage. Lurching forward with a labored jump, he swung back and his blade
whizzed through the air above the other’s head. As Pic dodged, he shifted
the hold on his weapon from right to left and struck his adversary
edge-on over the right shoulder before he could recover himself.
Maddened by this wound and infuriated by the applause which greeted this
second display of skill, the Man of Kent flew into a rage terrible to
see. Pic retreated a step, dismayed by his foe’s beast-like fury and
ability to withstand punishment. Perhaps the tide of battle might have
turned against him at that moment had not a great uproar arisen among the
spectators and drawn the attention of both combatants.
On the terrace above them loomed a monster head armed with long curling
tusks. Beside it stood another and smaller head, bearing a long
sharp-pointed horn on its lowered snout. This pair on the terrace balcony
comprised a second audience of silent and amazed observers.
A great commotion ensued. Believing themselves attacked, the Men of Kent
sprang to their feet and began backing down the slope to the river. With
a parting howl of rage their chieftain made off in the same direction
while the Mammoth and Rhinoceros continued staring and wondering what it
all meant. Finding himself alone Pic mounted the terrace and joined his
friends who as yet had spoken no word nor moved a muscle.
“When did you come?” he asked. “I had no idea that you were watching us.”
“So that is how you Trog-men fight,” said the Rhinoceros with a twinkle
of his small eyes. “We saw you hit the big one twice. He made a queer
noise. Was he angry?”
“He was,” Pic replied; “very angry; and so big and strong I could not
hurt him although I struck him my hardest blow. He might have beaten me,
had not you and Hairi frightened him away.”
Wulli listened with the greatest interest. He had enjoyed watching the
fight although not fully understanding the fine points involved in an
encounter between two human beings, where stones fastened to wooden
sticks were the sole weapons employed. However he had determined in his
own mind that the Ape Boy excelled at this peculiar style and he was
therefore duly impressed.
“We might follow them—we three. They would fly before us like a flock of
crows.”
“No,” said Pic. “We have no quarrel with them. I would rather see them
our good friends.”
“Friends? Oo-wee! Hear that!” Wulli replied as his sharp ears caught the
sound of a commotion in the valley below. The three looked down.
In the distance, the Man of Kent stood at the head of his followers,
waving his ax aloft and howling defiance at the Ape Boy and his
companions. His first astonishment, as he witnessed such an unheard-of
intimacy, had given place to furious rage against all three. Not daring
to attack such a formidable combination,—Man, Mammoth and Rhinoceros—he
proceeded to relieve his injured feelings from a safe distance, with
threats and insults, none of which the trio could hear or understand.
“He is a fiend,” thought Pic. “I know that he will never forgive me. War
it is from now on.”
The truth of this remark soon became apparent. The Kentish Cave Men grew
more hostile each day. Inflamed with a desire for revenge, their fierce
leader urged his followers on and the trio found themselves the center
of a systematic and relentless persecution. Had it not been for Pic’s
constant foresight and vigilance, none of the trio could have escaped
destruction. Time and time again, he warned his friends away from hills
and crags where enemies lay hidden, awaiting their chance to overwhelm
the party with showers of stones and darts. He led them safely clear of
traps set near clumps of trees and watercourses where the tread of a
heavy foot on vine or stick would have sent a huge log or stone crashing
down. In their turn the Men of Kent redoubled their efforts, imbued with
a two-fold purpose. The Mammoth and Rhinoceros were not merely objects of
their bitter resentment, but also a great waste of fresh meat in their
living state; so they persisted with every form of attack their minds
could devise; and each time, such attempts were thwarted by the trio’s
combined might and resourcefulness.
Pic and his friends chafed restlessly under the constantly increasing
pressure to which they were subjected. When men or animals become fully
aware that they are being persistently hunted, they grow excessively
cautious and timid.
“Would that we could leave here,” said the Mammoth. “These Trog-men give
us little time to seek food and rest.”
“Would that they could leave us in peace,” sniffed the aggrieved Wulli.
“Why should we be so ill-treated? They will not stand and fight. What can
we do?”
“The fault is mine,” Pic said bitterly. “But for me, they would trouble
you and Hairi no more”; which was far from true, considering that the
Men of Kent looked upon his friends as desirable articles of food. “Why
should we stay here and be hunted to death? I have seen all that there
is to be seen of these flint-workers. I have found no Terrace Man——”
“Nor treasure,” the Mammoth interrupted.
“Not even a cave,” added Wulli.
The upshot of the matter was that all three agreed to leave the country.
The glacial summer was nearing its close and the return journey, if made
leisurely, would bring them none too soon to winter quarters in the
Vézère. So they made haste to depart from a region, once all sunshine and
promise, but now become cheerless and full of peril. The brief period of
happiness following their arrival was forgotten in the indignities now
thrust upon them. The country had welcomed them; by its inhabitants were
they now expelled. They turned their backs upon the lowlands of the great
London Basin with no fond memories of its former hospitality. The river
and terraces sank from sight behind the retiring pilgrims and the Valley
of the Thames saw them no more.