THE CAVE
The rocks rose in tiers to a stark height above the dark and tangled
wood. From their feet sloped away to the floor of mould a runway of
stones great and small. Long ago, long, long ago, water had honeycombed
the cliff.
A great stone, shaped like a fir-cone, masked half the cave mouth. A
gnarled, rock-clinging tree helped with the other half. When the cave
woman had found food and would bring it home, she looked first for the
tree and then for the stone.
Sometimes, for a long while, food was easy to get--that is to say,
comparatively easy. Then, for a long time, food might be hard to get.
There were times when food-getting took strength and cunning and
patience in excess. Such was this time, and it had lasted long. So long
had it lasted that everything in the world seemed to be hungry.
The cone-shaped stone and the ragged tree kept full sunshine from the
cave, but a fair amount entered in shafts and splashes. Four children
played in the light and shadow. Naked, with sticks and stones and a
snare made from the red fibre of a vine, they played at being hunters.
They jumped and dodged and screamed; they hid behind outcropping folds
of rock; now one was the quarry and now another. When they tired of
that, they sat down and tossed and caught round, shining pebbles,
brought to them by the mother from a stream she had crossed. After a
time they grew hungry and easily angered. One struck another and they
fought. That over, a common void and weakness drew them again together.
The sun was getting low, the orange light going away from the littered
cavern floor. They felt cold. Back in the cave was heaped dry wood from
the floor of the forest, and to one side, guarded by a circle of flat
stones, a little fire was burning. Never were the children to burn too
great a fire, and never were they to let what was there go out! Now they
sat around it whimpering. The oldest crawled into the dimness of the
cavern and, bringing back an armful of small sticks, put two crosswise
in the flame. Warmth was good, and the flickering light did for
sunbeams. Three sat hunched around the fire, while the littlest one lay
and sucked its thumb for lack of other food, and went at last to sleep.
The next to the littlest nodded, nodded, and then it, too, slept, close
to the littlest for warmth. The eldest was a girl and the next a boy.
Shag-haired, naked, lean, they watched and fed the fire, and with
growing hunger watched the entrance. Daylight grew colder and thinner.
They got up and went to the cave mouth. The tree and the cone-shaped
rock blocked vision. The lawgiver had forbidden the four to show
themselves on the farther side of the tree and the rock. If they did,
all the ill of the world would fall upon them. At least, they knew that
the lawgiver’s hand would fall upon them.
The two children went back into the cave. In a corner lay a pile of
skins--both short hair and thick fur. They took two of these and wrapped
themselves in them. The light grew colder and thinner. They were so
hungry that tears came out of their eyes. The littlest one waked and
cried.
The two eldest wandered again to the cave mouth. They wanted so badly to
see if the provider were coming. From the other side of the big stone
they could look down the runway of stones, they could see some way into
the wood. They stood and stared at the concealing face of the big stone
and the concealing, twisted trunk of the tree, and the tears ran down
their cheeks. The feet of the eldest one moved uncertainly, then with
more assurance. She moved out of the cave mouth and around the great
stone, beckoning to the next eldest to follow. He ran after her.
Shag-haired, with skins from the heap gathered around them, they came in
front of the masking stone and tree. Here the light was stronger, was as
yet quite strong.
They looked down the stony slope, and they peered under the thick trees
at its base, but nowhere could they see the provider. She had been gone
a long time. The world looked cold and harsh and terrifying to the
children.... Yet it was hard to go back into the cave, when, if they
stayed out here, they might the sooner see the provider. They stayed,
two small shapes huddled at the top of the runway of stones.
Something moved in the wood below. Bushes and little trees bent this way
or that. Something that was strong was moving. The children’s mouths
opened, they raised themselves to their knees. The bushes shook again
and nearer to the stony slope; there was heard the snapping of a branch.
The children scrambled to their feet. The provider must not see them out
here--if she did, there would be blows. The thought arrived, maybe it
was not the provider! Terror took them--they turned in haste. One struck
foot against a root of a tree, was thrown down, delaying both.
Open-mouthed, they looked over shoulder, and saw that it was not the
provider.
A man with a great fell of hair, with a club and with a skin filled with
stones for throwing, came from the deep wood into the straggling growth
at the base of the tiers of rock. Hunter on his own account, and fierce
from lack of luck, he had pushed from his own lair farther in this
direction than he had ever done before. Such was the adversity of the
times that all hunters, human or brute, must widen their
hunting-grounds. This hunter had widened his. He was, moreover, a strong
hunter and quick of eye. And yet so bad were the times that he often
went hungry--as now.
Clear of the great wood, he came before the line of cliffs that he had
not seen before. Hereabouts was strange to him. He stood still, and his
gaze swept the rocks. Presently it fell upon the two human children at
the top of the runway. He stared, resting on his club. Then, from the
wood ahead, some sound that he knew how to interpret caught his ear. He
bent his head aside. The sound came again. His eye saw the light
disturbance of the undergrowth. Doe and fawn, he caught their movement,
doe and fawn passing that way. Instantly, he was hunter of flesh, hunter
upon their trail. As he had come, so he vanished. The children saw only
the stony way and the wood again. A panic took them; they turned, and,
crying out, rushed past the stone and the twisted tree, back into the
cave.
The light lowered still. Out of the wood to the base of the cliffs and
then to the stony runway came another hunter. This one, too, had had
scant luck--roving all day, and now with naught to show but nuts and
roots and of these none too many. She carried them slung in a skin. She
had a club and a snare of green withes. She wore upon her body, for
warmth and for protection against the thorns and briars of the world,
the pelt of some forest beast. She was largely made and strong, and down
her back fell a mass of darkly red and tangled hair. She climbed the
runway. The children, cowering beside the fire, saw her at the cave
mouth, and set up a yelping welcome.
Seated upon the cavern floor, she took up and suckled the littlest one.
Such scarcity was there that she herself was hungry, and there was not
much milk. The littlest one fretted yet when she pushed it away. She
broke the nuts she had brought between two stones. The roots she pounded
and shredded. She and her young had supper. No one had food enough to
satisfy. They ate greedily what there was, to the last kernel and shred.
Language was a scanty thing. Uncombined guttural or high-pitched sounds
answered well enough for three fourths of communication. But they had a
certain number of words of action, relation, and naming. Mother and
children talked together after a fashion. The children talked of food,
more food. She answered sharply, then gave the youngest her breast
again, then sat with her chin upon her knees, staring into the flame.
The younger children slept at last, lying upon and under the skins in
the corner of the cave. The eldest stayed for a time by the fire and the
brooding form of the mother. The eldest looked at the flame and the
shadows that chased one another around the cave, and at the black cave
mouth. She was not going to tell the lawgiver about the other hunter,
for that would be to say that she had gone out of the cave, beyond the
hiding rock and tree. _Avoid your penalties--outwit your karma_--was a
policy attempted as early and earlier than that. The lawgiver herself
often attempted it, as had done the mother and lawgiver before her.
The provider lifted her head from her knees, banked the ashes over the
red embers, and gave utterance to a row of half-articulate sounds that
meant, “Dead tired.--Hunting all day without luck.--Hard world.--Go to
sleep!” So saying, she got to her feet and, moving to the cave mouth,
looked out into the darkness. Hard-to-get-food meant all kinds of added
insecurities. She went in front of the tree and stone and looked down
the runway and to either hand along the base of the cliff. Not one of
her senses took alarm. It was a quiet night, without sight or sound or
scent or forward-reaching touch of any hurtful approach. Returning to
the cave, she moved past the red eye of the fire to the heap of skins.
The girl was already there. Mother and children lay wreathed together
under the pelts. At hand rested the club and a pile of stones, and
lightwood waited by the covered embers.
The still night went by. Howsoever heavy the provider’s sleep, the first
light wakened her, when, cool and grey, it came creeping into the
cavern. The elder children she shook awake. The littlest one waked of
its own accord and began a wailing crying. She suckled it, and it
stilled itself for a time. The girl and boy scraped away the ashes and
put fresh sticks upon the fire. But there was no breakfast for them nor
for the provider. The latter took her long, heavy, and knotted club,
took the skin shaped to hold matters or food or missiles, and the flint
flake chipped to the semblance of a knife blade. She threatened the
children with beatings if they left the cave, and then left it herself
and passed down the runway of stones into the forest where even the
trees looked hungry.
All day long the children waited, now so pinched with hunger that it was
a pity to see their faces. They did not play much to-day; they
quarrelled and wept, and lay by the smouldering fire, their elfish faces
hidden upon their thin arms. Once the boy and girl went out of the cave
mouth and peered cautiously around the edge of the great stone. They saw
nothing, neither the provider coming back, nor the hunter of yesterday,
nor any moving thing but the tree-tops shaken by the wind, and some
round white clouds adrift in the sky, and an eagle soaring above the
cliff-tops, looking, too, for food.
Came a splendour of sunset, beating against the tiers of rock, making
them red and purple. The provider emerged from the wood, and over her
shoulder hung spoil and food--hung a game bird of the largest kind, a
wattled, bronze-feathered colossus among birds! The dark red mass of her
hair mingled with its plumage. Triumph breathed around her; she set her
foot lightly on lichen and stone.
She had tied leaves and moss so that blood might not fall from the borne
victim. When she came to the runway, when she was about to mount the
stony slope, she noticed red drops. Leaves and moss had slipped. Furrows
came into her brow. She drew her prey before her and adjusted that
covering. The light was withdrawing. Though she turned and looked at her
backward-stretching path, she could not tell in the dimness of the world
if there were other drops of blood, if there were downy feathers. Dusk
was growing--she was savage from famine--home was up there and her
hungry brood. She hoped for the best, hoped that there were about no
prowlers of dangerous size, and set her foot upon the incline that led
to her door. The children, looking out, saw her coming....
They built the fire up until it crackled and flung light into all but
the deepest crannies of the cave. How warm it was, how genial! They
plucked the bird, and air streaming in at the entrance blew the bronze
feathers about. The uses of fire were many and good,--meat was better
brought near to fire, left there for a time. They put the meat upon a
flat stone and shoved it into a ring of ardent heat, and presently it
was improved to their taste. The provider, with her sharpened flake of
stone, divided the bird part from part. The hungry family ate, tearing
tissue and sinew with sharp teeth, sucking the juices. Even the littlest
one was given a bone to do what it might with. At last they had dined,
and there was little of the bird that was left. They gnawed the great
bones clean. Only the feathers blew about in the night air as the flame
blew, and the smoke flattened itself against cavern roof and wall.
For all the gaping, black cave mouth, the inrushing night air, the smoke
and litter of the cavern, here was cheer within, light, warmth,
intimacy, coziness, home! The littlest one lay and laughed and crowed.
The next to the littlest got up and leaped about with the leaping
shadows. The two biggest gathered together the beautiful feathers that
had clothed the dinner. They did not know what they should do with them,
but they were treasures none the less. The provider, the cave-user, the
home-maker, stretched herself by the fire. Rest was earned, good rest,
and presently sleep! She lay relaxed, and in her attitude, her crossed
legs and outflung arms, was something of the grace of a great cat of the
forest. The firelight reddened all the cave save that oblong, ragged,
black aperture where was passage in and out. Here the black night showed
and here swirled the wind. “Ow! Ow!” laughed and mowed and clamoured to
itself the child who danced with the shadows.
The provider raised herself upon her elbow, then sat upright. A far,
thin noise had caught her ear. With a gesture of her clenched hand she
brought to an end the sound that the child was making. Now was only the
crackle of the fire and the strong whisper of the wind.... It was the
wind that brought again the other sound. The provider heard it, thin and
far yet, but growing articulate. At a bound she was upon her feet.
Body slanted forward, hands behind her ears, she stood in the cave
mouth, hearkening. She left the cave, passed between the covering rock
and twisted tree, and stood at the top of the runway up which at sunset
she had toiled, the great bird upon her back. The night was black and
starry. The wind brought again the noise. Now it was fully articulate.
At this point in her history she had not formally named, perhaps, those
enemies that she heard. But for all that, she knew well enough who they
were. They were wolves.
Back in the cave the lawgiver obtained silence from her brood. She
regarded the heap of firewood, then, working with dispatch, dragged dead
boughs and rotting bark toward the cave mouth. The two more able of her
young helped. All heard the sound now, and there was grey fear in the
cave. From wall to wall they laid a line of fuel. Behind it, the cavern
was spacious enough; there were loose stones of a size for casting, and
these were brought together in a heap. There was the club, and there
was the sharpened flake of stone that made a fair knife. And there were
the provider’s own strength and instinct. FIGHT FOR YOUR YOUNG! Lives
for number like the leaves of the wood had woven firmly that pattern and
dyed it to stay.
She stood between the unkindled wood and the black night and listened to
the sound, whether it swelled or sank. The children cowered together by
the cave hearth. Perhaps the pack would go by--perhaps it did not savour
the blood dropped from the bird.
That proved to be a vain hope. Length by length the baying came loud and
near. She heard the assembly at the foot of the runway, and the
stealthy, crowding push upon the stones.... The provider became the
defender.
A brand from the hearth fired the guardian line. The flame ran like a
serpent from point to point. The leader of the pack, appearing between
the cone-shaped stone and the twisted tree, was met by what he hated and
did not understand, by what was ever too strong for wolves. He snapped
and sprang, but the fire cast him back.
The wolves crowded the top of the runway, they jostled one another
before the cave mouth. In the out-shot, quivering, murky light their
movement was one to dizzy the eye. They padded to right and left,
investigating the base of the cliff; they leaped at its face, found
footing in root or fissure, wreathed the orifice whence poured the red
light behind which was prey. The light upon their yellow-grey bodies,
moving, twining, leaping, gave them, too, a semblance as of fire. They
made a violent noise, violent and dogged. The wolf-world was hungry.
Fire--they hated fire, screening their prey! But fire might die--wolves
had that wisdom. Wait, and watch chances! They waited, leaping like dun
waves, like solid, forky flames, and always their yelling made a
whirlpool in the else silent night.
Fire might die--the defender, too, knew that! She looked down upon the
dwindling heap of firewood, and upon the children who clutched her by
the knees. Then she thrust them away, selected a fagot and mended a
place that was thin. It seemed to her that she had done all this before,
and that living had in it much of agony.
Fire leaped and played and sang. Rose and yellow and blue, its forky
shapes held the cave, a zone of magic between wolf and savage, brute and
human. Fire blossomed and bloomed from all that was given it, bough and
branch and log. It played merrily, it sang clearly; with a thousand
well-shaped weapons it said No! to the famished pack. But when less was
given it, and less and less, its blossoms withered and its weapons were
lowered. The defender nursed her resources, but it grew that the line of
fire was narrower. A wolf, huge and lean, made a bound and well-nigh
cleared it. Well-nigh, but not quite! Singed and howling, he made back
to his fellows. The defender hurled stones after. Her arm was not a
weakling’s arm. The stones fell with bruising weight, and with the
weight, to the wolves, of supernatural powers. Moreover, she fed to the
fire a prized and until now withheld great knot of pine, dragged to the
cave from a lightning-riven tree. Up roared the fire, with strong, new
weapons. The pack, howling, momentarily daunted, dragged back from the
cave mouth. She heard the stones of the runway give beneath the
outward-pushing feet, go rolling down the slope. For one suffocating
instant of hope doom was seen as a figure in retreat ... then doom
stood its ground, then doom waited still, before the cave mouth.
The points of flame sank, the fat pine burned away. The defender took
her club; the lawgiver commanded the children into the bottom, low and
dark, of the cavern; the provider could provide no further. The mother
did not reason about it, but there would be fight in the cave until all
was done. She took the stone knife between her teeth. Her teeth were
strong and white; her eyes held a red gleam, her dark red hair seemed to
bristle upon her head.... A wolf leaped again, coming over the dying
fire-weapons. She swung the great club--the skull cracked beneath
it--the wolf fell down and moved no more. Again a respite, then two
came. The club rose, descended--rose, descended. She drove the stone
knife in through the eyes of the one who came closest, teeth seizing the
skin with which she was girt. Her victims lay before her, but she was
one and the pack were fifty. Fearful noise, wavering light, blind,
swift, unreckoning action, and some knowledge that presently would come,
blood-red and terrific, the end of the world....
Without the cavern, the face of the cliff in which it was hollowed ran
brokenly up to a wild and broken hill-brow. Here this crest retreated,
and here it overhung. Ice had passed over it, and there had been left
huge boulders. Now one of these, balanced to a hair, resting on the
cliff edge, was pushed from its place and started upon a journey. With a
grinding and a shouting noise, with a belting cloud of earth and rock
particles, with huge weight and momentum it came down among, it came
down upon, the wolves. It slew and maimed, catching and pinning wolves
beneath it; it almost spanned the top of the runway; if made a terror
as of thunderbolts; it thrust down the slope; it scattered and spilled
the hunting pack! With long-drawn yelling the units fled. Elsewhere
might be release from hunger. Here was blank enmity and power, and
staying further was no good. Pattering and pushing, they passed down the
stony slope, into the thick forest. Their long-drawn crying died away.
Another part of the world for them, and other prey!
The hunter who had prized the boulder over the cliff was pleased with
the thundering commotion he had made, and with the success of the raid.
Now he climbed down the face of the cliff to the long shelter line
formed by the jutting rock. Here was the boulder he had toppled over! He
patted it with his hand and he kicked with his foot the body of a wolf
that projected from beneath. The night had but a late-risen waning moon,
but so clear was the air, and so good was the eyesight of hunters
accustomed by day and by night to the roof of the sky, that the man saw
as though he had been cat or owl. He gazed down the runway and
recognized the outstretched finger of wood where, two suns ago, he had
paused and looked this way, and then had followed the doe and fawn. He
had slain both and eaten his fill. He carried now, wrapped in fawn skin,
strips of meat. He also had a knife of flaked stone. After that chase
and after a gorging feast and sleep in a hole that he had found in this
same long-continuing fastness line of rock and hill, he had remembered
the children he had seen before the doe went by.... These were fresh
hunting-fields to him. He knew better the lower ground, near the quarter
where the sun rose, where pushed a turbid, great river. But to eat in
these days, one must wander afar! For a long while he had seen few
beings of his own kind. This cave region was new to him. He knew little
of caves, and though he made a lair where it was convenient to do so,
and though, through considerable periods of time, he might return to it
at night, he had not acquired the habit of a fixed abode. The male of
his kind was restless and a wanderer.
The boulder which he had thrown down almost hid the cave mouth. But now
from one side stole forth a diffused red light. Smoke, too, was in his
nostrils. Grasping his club more closely, he rounded the corner of the
stone and having done so was fairly in the cave. He discovered there
what he may be said to have expected to discover--a woman and her
children. It was the female of his kind that found or made substantial
lairs.
The defender had put upon the fire the last scrapings of her heap of
wood. Rose and gold and violet, the flames lit the cavern. They showed
her, still with her club and knife, and her young ones by the wall, and
the heap of skins, and the stone hearth. It was cold without, it was
warm within; dark without, light within. He had never seen so noble a
lair! He spoke--chiefly by gestures, but also with words. She answered
with gestures and words. “I threw the boulder down,” he said. “Wolves
dead!”
He gazed around the place that was warm and dry and pleasant. He gazed
at the woman. She stood upon the younger side of prime, as did he. He
dropped his club; he came across, and with a smoothing motion ran his
hand along her arm. She made no objection to that; she looked at him
with eyes out of which had died the red rage....
Dawn broke and lit the world in front of the tiers of rock. Those within
the cavern stirred from sleep. The man and the woman went forth
together, found dead wood and brought it in under the rock. Embers were
left beneath the ashes. They made up the fire and they broiled the
strips of meat that the man had wrapped in the fawn skin. Woman and
children and man had breakfast.
That over, the two went out and looked at the boulder, and by dint of
the strength of both dragged and pried from under it the slain wolves.
Scavenger birds were circling overhead, or watching from tree-tops....
That morning they worked hard, stripping with flake knives the skins
from the wolves. They cut meat in thin pieces and hung these in sun and
wind over a horizontal pole set between two vertical ones. The elder
children watched, frightening the birds with cries and flung stones.
Finally, the man and woman bore the carcasses some distance from the
cave and dropped them over a precipitous place into the wood below. Now
let the birds strip the bones!
The man and the woman waited to see them come sailing, then they turned
back to the cavern. As they went they talked amicably together. The man
pointed out, over the forest-top, the quarter whence he had come. He
said the word of this part of the world for “river,” and spread his arms
to show that it was a great river, flowing through low country. He did
not well know cave countries; he showed that by the way he looked at the
rocks.
They lived and feasted, slept and were warm three days in the cavern at
the top of the runway. Then it became necessary again to get food. The
provider and her guest hunted long hours, and came to the cave at dusk,
carrying a beaver that they had trapped. Again the cavern knew food and
contentment. They ate, and then they slept, with the red eye of the fire
never quite closing through the night. The next day there was still
food.
The provider lay by the fire in her cave and looked at the man. He sat
in the entrance so that he could get the light, and with a stone in one
hand and a piece of flint in the other, he was striking such pieces from
the latter as would leave it edged and pointed. He was a strong man.
More than that, he had a rudimentary good temper, though on occasions he
could also show himself violent, crafty, and selfish. The provider
possessed like qualities.
The two older children came from a trickling spring three stone-throws
away. The lawgiver let them go that far from the cave. When food grew
easier to get, and all the world of tooth and claw less keenly
dangerous, she would take them, grown older and bigger, with her when
she hunted--give them training, looking to their hunting in their turn.
The two, pausing beside the man, watched him use flint and hand-stone.
He was not fierce with the children; he laughed and spoke in a friendly
voice.
The provider’s experience had been with fiercer men, who struck aside
the children. The last one had done so, indeed, had well-nigh killed the
child that was then the littlest. He had lived in the cave three days,
and then had burst away, following a hunting woman who had chanced to
pass that way. The provider had been glad when he was gone. That was a
long while ago--a good long time, many moons before the littlest one
came....
She could not well remember how that man had looked--but he had not been
like this one. This one seemed like one who had been here before, and
that for a long time. Yet that was not true, and no one stayed for a
long time. In her world, as she knew it, men made a roving folk. This
cave, that lair of brush and stretched skins, received them for a
time--short time. Then they went, quitting women and the young of women
that, together, made the only stable society.
The provider looked around her cavern. She thought of the wolves, then,
with a backward stretch of her mind, of the bear she had fought and
taken this cavern from. In between the two points of time she had fought
many beasts. She had hunted in fair weather and foul. At times, being
afar, she had doubted ever seeing again the cavern and her young. And
she had held the cavern, as the other night, from attackers.... She
gazed deeply upon the man sitting in the cave entrance.... Children, and
feeding them, and keeping them fast from being slain. Children, and
finding them food, and thrusting away their foes. Her own food, too, and
her own foes. She thought again of the wolves, and of how he had thrown
down the boulder, and of how much easier the hunting was with two than
alone. Within her breast was born a warm, an aching desire for
companionship. She thought, “If he would stay--not being fierce.”
She looked at the fire; then, raising herself upon her arm, laid sticks
upon it so that the cave should still glow. She did this without
reasoning, but when it was done she looked from the mended flame to the
man who had been here now four days. He sat in the cave entrance and
chipped and chipped at his flint knife. As he worked he made a humming
sound to himself.... You could pen a child within the cave and keep it
there, but you could not pen a man. To have him stay he must want to
stay.... Her own desire that he should stay grew wider and deeper.
The provider raised herself and went and sat down also in the entrance.
She looked at his work, and again without reasoning she admired it
aloud. “Good knife!” she said. “Plenty flint here!”
He nodded his head and went on working and humming. Presently, one side
being chipped sufficiently, he turned the knife in his hand, rested, and
looked out of the cave mouth. The leaves of the forest below were
growing brown, were dropping upon the chill earth. He looked over his
shoulder at the fire in the rock chamber and the pile of skins. “Good
warm here!” he said.
She nodded, then waved her hand toward the world beneath. “Soon all
cold. But warm here. Good here.” She turned her body toward the cave.
“Children good!”
He looked doubtfully at that, but just then the littlest crowed, and the
next to the littlest laughed, and the eldest put a stick upon the fire
and set up a warmer light. A thing happened. The man’s look softened and
mellowed. He felt within something that he had never felt before. He
grunted, took up the knife again and chipped with vigour. The woman said
nothing for a time, then she spoke somewhat dreamily. “One hunt
alone--get tired. Two hunt together, good--good.... Two stay
together--two and children.” She moved nearer to him. “Good?” she
repeated on an at once insisting and questioning note.
The man sharpened and sharpened the flint knife. Mental processes were
as yet somewhat snail-like and it took time to measure a large, new
proposition. He looked at the woman, and back into the cave and down
over the turning forest, and then at the woman again. Again his face
broke slowly into that dusky, promising warmth. “Pretty good,” he said,
and began to fashion from a bit of wood a handle for his knife.