A straggling spray of light reflected from the cliffs overlooking the
Düssel, penetrated a dark cavity in the southern limestone wall—the Cave
of the Neander Gorge. It dimly disclosed a dark mass heaped in one corner
of the cave. The mass—something lying beneath a frayed hyena-skin—was
surmounted by a large bun-shaped head, faced with gaping eye-sockets,
protruding muzzle and chinless jaws. The head seemed lifeless. It
remained cold and still, as a wasted hand, thin and nail-clawed, emerged
from under the hyena-skin and stole tremblingly upward. A pair of eyelids
fluttered in the gaping sockets as the hand encountered the cold brows
above them. The eyelids lifted and two eyes gazed up at the low roof and
dusky walls, then rolled in the direction of the cave entrance. As they
encountered the outside light, they blinked feebly and stared through the
glare in wonder at the pale blue sky and feathery clouds beyond. Then
the head turned slightly and permitted the eyes to look upon a shelf or
platform of rock, fronting the cave-mouth.
Upon the platform, sat an image which appeared out of harmony with the
lifeless things about it; nor did it resemble sky or cloud. It was the
figure of a man sitting upon a rock near the cave entrance; a man bare
of all vestment except that which covered his body from head to foot—his
own hair, thick and bristly like a boar’s. His head was inclined forward
so that only the base of the skull-cap could be seen. The latter was
of lesser girth than the huge neck which joined it to the shoulders.
And such shoulders! They and the broad back were proportionately even
more massive than the bull-like neck. That was all. The image sat with
features averted and the wondering eyes could see no more.
And then, as though sensible of something regarding it from behind, the
image moved. The great back turned slowly around and a face peered from
behind one shoulder at the figure lying on the cave-floor. As its gaze
met that of the wondering eyes, the image unfolded its limbs and stood
erect, a living man.
A man?—rather a giant; stranger from another world. The eyes staring from
the grotto had never gazed upon a more extraordinary human being. The
heavy brows so characteristic of all cave-folk, were exaggerated into
great bars of bone which transformed the deep eye-sockets into cavernous
recesses. They continued far forward from the sloping forehead like the
eaves of a roof. The skull top receded at a low angle to meet the hind
portion. The mouth was large, the lips thin, the nose prominent but
well-formed. The body and, limbs, particularly the arms and shoulders
were of tremendous size and strength.
The apparition now strode to the cave entrance whose roof barely cleared
the huge head. As it stood silhouetted against the sky, its herculean
proportions were clearly displayed. And yet in spite of his gigantic
stature the Man of the Neander Gorge was but an exaggeration of a
familiar type—the race of Moustier.
He entered the cave and bent over the figure lying there. The wondering
eyes followed his every motion as in a dream. What with the sombre
surroundings, the death-like silence and this vision of a motionless
image suddenly transformed into a living being, the eyes continued
staring as though just opened for the first time upon the marvels of an
unknown world.
Slowly the Giant’s huge hand reached down and stroked the cold
forehead,—a hand of iron and yet so soothing, the eyes drifted back to
earth and became one with the mind and substance of the body. They lost
their blank expression and stared curiously into the strange face now
bending over them. A touch of crimson warmed the sunken cheeks and the
sick man asked in a hollow voice: “Who are you?”
“A man.” The Giant’s face brightened as he answered. That touch of the
hand, the look of sympathy, were indications of certain elements which
define human character and which men alone possessed. The Cave Man of the
Neander Gorge was fierce and terrible to look upon; but all the more, a
man.
The sufferer’s eyes closed and he sighed as though content. The corners
of his mouth expanded slowly backwards towards his ears. The Giant
stared amazed; but as he looked and wondered, a warm glow arose within
his breast. His face reflected the sunshine of that smile whose like he
had never seen light the features of beast or man. It was but a grinning
mouth; and yet for the first time he gazed upon white teeth that neither
snapped nor threatened but touched a responsive chord in his own breast.
“And what strange being are you?” he asked in a deep voice. “You whose
snarl would make even a rabbit lose its fear of red jowl and gleaming
fang?”
“I?” The eyes of the sick man opened wide. His brows wrinkled as vainly
he strove to collect his thoughts. “Arrah; I do not know,” he answered
faintly. “Where am I? Why am I here?”
The Giant’s face darkened. “Ugh; that I would like to know. Did you think
to drive me from my cave? Who are you?”
“I do not know,” replied the sick man, startled by the other’s manner. “I
remember nothing but what I have seen these few passing moments.”
The Giant’s wrath subsided as he observed the invalid’s perplexity. He
even chided himself for his hasty display of temper. As the sufferer
dozed off, he resumed his seat near the cave-mouth, turning from time
to time to glance at the sleeper like a nurse awaiting the patient’s
pleasure.
This was but the awakening,—light emerging from obscurity; the return
of a mind long dead to the living body. But in that which lay upon
the cave-floor, none would now recognize the once powerful Ape Boy of
Moustier.
Long illness had wasted his muscular frame almost to a skeleton. His
head was a grinning skull with hairy parchment stretched so tightly over
its ridges and hollows, they threatened to break through. His body and
limbs were little more than hide and bone. He was dead to look upon. The
life-spark glowed feebly; but it burned. The fever had now left him,
permitting his strength to return and repair the ravages of disease. His
mind ceased to wander. It rejoined the body newly arisen from the grave
and both followed the thread of life anew.
The Giant kept his patient supplied with food and water and covered him
at night with the hyena robe. It was this latter that brought a first
message from the forgotten past. One morning as Pic raised himself on one
elbow to take his fare, his eyes fell upon the skin under which he lay.
A strange look came over his face as he ran his fingers through the long
thick fur.
“This skin?” he asked. “How came it here?”
“It came with you,” was the answer. “You wore it.”
“Yes, I remember now,” muttered Pic. “I wore it to keep warm. The air was
cold. I do not feel cold now.”
“That was long ago,” said the Giant. “The snow and ice are gone. The
birds have returned and all creatures have crawled from their holes. Buds
and green leaves brighten every bush and tree. Until their coming, you
lay as one dead. This is the first time you have awakened since my club
crashed down upon your skull——”
“You struck me?” Pic cried. “Then it was you who crept upon me from
behind—the shadow on the wall.”
“Yes it was I.” The Giant pointed to an object on the cave floor, a
bludgeon of seasoned oak, the length and thickness of his arm. “The one
blow failed to kill. I withheld the second and brought you back to life
instead.”
“Why? Men are none too gentle with those who intrude upon them, I know.”
“Nor do men of this day carry great hand-stones,” the Giant replied. “But
for it, your bones would now be whitening at the bottom of the gorge. Who
are you—a boy who comes upon me as though from the sky bearing the blade
of a race long dead—the Terrace Men—?”
“Terrace Men? Agh-h-h!” Pic’s eyes were starting from his head. His jaw
dropped until the chin touched his breast. A lump arose in his throat. He
could say no more.
“Yes, the Terrace Man’s hand-stone,” said the Giant. “The one you bore
bound to a wooden haft. Wait and I will fetch it. When you see, you will
remember.”
He entered the cave and returned in a few moments with a great
almond-shaped flint of lustrous grey—the blade of Ach Eul still bound to
its long wooden handle with strips of hide. He laid it in the Ape Boy’s
trembling hands.
“Agh; I know it now—my ax, my father’s ax made by a man of the River
Terraces.” Pic clasped the weapon to his breast while the Giant looked
curiously on. In a moment he turned to his companion with a puzzled look
upon his face.
“Hand-stone; hand-stone?” he repeated several times. “I do not
understand. Does the flint please you—as it pleases me? You spoke of
Terrace Men. What do you know of them?”
“I know of a race long dead,” the Giant replied in a voice so deep and
hollow, it seemed to arise from the earth. “A race of mighty men who
roamed along the river banks; who fought and hunted in the warm sunlight
and slept beneath the blue sky and twinkling stars. They vied with the
Mammoth, the Rhinoceros——”
“Agh! I am listening,” Pic muttered hoarsely. “Go on.”
“And other beasts,” the Giant continued. “Then”—his voice sank almost to
a whisper—“the Storm Wind descended upon them from the north. They were
mighty men—the People of the Terraces—but even their strength could not
match that of the Storm Wind. One by one they died of cold, hunger and
disease. Wild beasts set upon them in their weakness. Those who survived,
fled to the shelter of caves—gloomy holes where many sickened and died.
The others lost all remembrance of things. They sat still and stared and
snapped like wolves—and they died too. All were gone—all but one who yet
lives; here alone in a cave high above the gorge——”
“You—a Terrace Man?” cried Pic as he gazed up awe-stricken into the
Giant’s face. “Arrah, I have found you now: big, strong Man of the
Terraces, maker of wonderful flints. I have searched the world for you
and now I will learn the secret of how flints like this were made.”
The Ape Boy was now soaring in the clouds. His eyes shone with the zeal
of a fanatic, as every moment he took in more inspiration from the ax of
Ach Eul which he held closely to his breast. The Giant was speechless
with amazement. He could only listen as Pic rambled on:
“You see how large and shapely it is; the same on both edges—on both
surfaces. Such work was not done entirely with the hammer-stone. Some
other tool was used after the blank was hewn. See where the tiny chips
were removed to form the point and edges. Soon I will know how they were
struck off and the flint thinned down, when a blow however slight might
break and spoil it.”
The Giant shook his head vigorously. “You mistake,” he said. “I know
nothing of flint-working nor did any others of my tribe. We carried
hand-stones—the ones our fathers’ fathers made long before my time. They
were poignards—axes without handles. They and clubs were our weapons;
but the blades were lost or broken one by one and none knew how to
replace them. The hand-stone has long passed away. Those are dead who can
tell of its making. I never knew. I do not know now.”
Pic’s heart sank. His head fell forward upon his breast. “And so I will
never know. What is left, worth living for—to the miserable Ape Boy
hiding in a man’s skin? Nothing; not even the friends you spoke of.”
“Friends?” the Giant exclaimed. “I spoke of none. Who were they?”
Pic’s head sank yet lower. His eyes stared vacantly at his companion’s
feet.
“The Hairy Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros,” he replied.