Lop-Ear got married. It was the second winter after our
adventure-journey, and it was most unexpected. He gave me no warning.
The first I knew was one twilight when I climbed the cliff to our cave.
I squeezed into the entrance and there I stopped. There was no room for
me. Lop-Ear and his mate were in possession, and she was none other
than my sister, the daughter of my step-father, the Chatterer.
I tried to force my way in. There was space only for two, and that
space was already occupied. Also, they had me at a disadvantage, and,
what of the scratching and hair-pulling I received, I was glad to
retreat. I slept that night, and for many nights, in the connecting
passage of the double-cave. From my experience it seemed reasonably
safe. As the two Folk had dodged old Saber-Tooth, and as I had dodged
Red-Eye, so it seemed to me that I could dodge the hunting animals by
going back and forth between the two caves.
I had forgotten the wild dogs. They were small enough to go through any
passage that I could squeeze through. One night they nosed me out. Had
they entered both caves at the same time they would have got me. As it
was, followed by some of them through the passage, I dashed out the
mouth of the other cave. Outside were the rest of the wild dogs. They
sprang for me as I sprang for the cliff-wall and began to climb. One of
them, a lean and hungry brute, caught me in mid-leap. His teeth sank
into my thigh-muscles, and he nearly dragged me back. He held on, but I
made no effort to dislodge him, devoting my whole effort to climbing
out of reach of the rest of the brutes.
Not until I was safe from them did I turn my attention to that live
agony on my thigh. And then, a dozen feet above the snapping pack that
leaped and scrambled against the wall and fell back, I got the dog by
the throat and slowly throttled him. I was a long time doing it. He
clawed and ripped my hair and hide with his hind-paws, and ever he
jerked and lunged with his weight to drag me from the wall.
At last his teeth opened and released my torn flesh. I carried his body
up the cliff with me, and perched out the night in the entrance of my
old cave, wherein were Lop-Ear and my sister. But first I had to endure
a storm of abuse from the aroused horde for being the cause of the
disturbance. I had my revenge. From time to time, as the noise of the
pack below eased down, I dropped a rock and started it up again.
Whereupon, from all around, the abuse of the exasperated Folk began
afresh. In the morning I shared the dog with Lop-Ear and his wife, and
for several days the three of us were neither vegetarians nor
fruitarians.
Lop-Ear’s marriage was not a happy one, and the consolation about it is
that it did not last very long. Neither he nor I was happy during that
period. I was lonely. I suffered the inconvenience of being cast out of
my safe little cave, and somehow I did not make it up with any other of
the young males. I suppose my long-continued chumming with Lop-Ear had
become a habit.
I might have married, it is true; and most likely I should have married
had it not been for the dearth of females in the horde. This dearth, it
is fair to assume, was caused by the exorbitance of Red-Eye, and it
illustrates the menace he was to the existence of the horde. Then there
was the Swift One, whom I had not forgotten.
At any rate, during the period of Lop-Ear’s marriage I knocked about
from pillar to post, in danger every night that I slept, and never
comfortable. One of the Folk died, and his widow was taken into the
cave of another one of the Folk. I took possession of the abandoned
cave, but it was wide-mouthed, and after Red-Eye nearly trapped me in
it one day, I returned to sleeping in the passage of the double-cave.
During the summer, however, I used to stay away from the caves for
weeks, sleeping in a tree-shelter I made near the mouth of the slough.
I have said that Lop-Ear was not happy. My sister was the daughter of
the Chatterer, and she made Lop-Ear’s life miserable for him. In no
other cave was there so much squabbling and bickering. If Red-Eye was a
Bluebeard, Lop-Ear was hen-pecked; and I imagine that Red-Eye was too
shrewd ever to covet Lop-Ear’s wife.
Fortunately for Lop-Ear, she died. An unusual thing happened that
summer. Late, almost at the end of it, a second crop of the
stringy-rooted carrots sprang up. These unexpected second-crop roots
were young and juicy and tender, and for some time the carrot-patch was
the favorite feeding-place of the horde. One morning, early, several
score of us were there making our breakfast. On one side of me was the
Hairless One. Beyond him were his father and son, old Marrow-Bone and
Long-Lip. On the other side of me were my sister and Lop-Ear, she being
next to me.
There was no warning. On the sudden, both the Hairless One and my
sister sprang and screamed. At the same instant I heard the thud of the
arrows that transfixed them. The next instant they were down on the
ground, floundering and gasping, and the rest of us were stampeding for
the trees. An arrow drove past me and entered the ground, its feathered
shaft vibrating and oscillating from the impact of its arrested flight.
I remember clearly how I swerved as I ran, to go past it, and that I
gave it a needlessly wide berth. I must have shied at it as a horse
shies at an object it fears.
Lop-Ear took a smashing fall as he ran beside me. An arrow had driven
through the calf of his leg and tripped him. He tried to run, but was
tripped and thrown by it a second time. He sat up, crouching, trembling
with fear, and called to me pleadingly. I dashed back. He showed me the
arrow. I caught hold of it to pull it out, but the consequent hurt made
him seize my hand and stop me. A flying arrow passed between us.
Another struck a rock, splintered, and fell to the ground. This was too
much. I pulled, suddenly, with all my might. Lop-Ear screamed as the
arrow came out, and struck at me angrily. But the next moment we were
in full flight again.
I looked back. Old Marrow-Bone, deserted and far behind, was tottering
silently along in his handicapped race with death. Sometimes he almost
fell, and once he did fall; but no more arrows were coming. He
scrambled weakly to his feet. Age burdened him heavily, but he did not
want to die. The three Fire-Men, who were now running forward from
their forest ambush, could easily have got him, but they did not try.
Perhaps he was too old and tough. But they did want the Hairless One
and my sister, for as I looked back from the trees I could see the
Fire-Men beating in their heads with rocks. One of the Fire-Men was the
wizened old hunter who limped.
We went on through the trees toward the caves—an excited and disorderly
mob that drove before it to their holes all the small life of the
forest, and that set the blue-jays screaming impudently. Now that there
was no immediate danger, Long-Lip waited for his grand-father,
Marrow-Bone; and with the gap of a generation between them, the old
fellow and the youth brought up our rear.
And so it was that Lop-Ear became a bachelor once more. That night I
slept with him in the old cave, and our old life of chumming began
again. The loss of his mate seemed to cause him no grief. At least he
showed no signs of it, nor of need for her. It was the wound in his leg
that seemed to bother him, and it was all of a week before he got back
again to his old spryness.
Marrow-Bone was the only old member in the horde. Sometimes, on looking
back upon him, when the vision of him is most clear, I note a striking
resemblance between him and the father of my father’s gardener. The
gardener’s father was very old, very wrinkled and withered; and for all
the world, when he peered through his tiny, bleary eyes and mumbled
with his toothless gums, he looked and acted like old Marrow-Bone. This
resemblance, as a child, used to frighten me. I always ran when I saw
the old man tottering along on his two canes. Old Marrow-Bone even had
a bit of sparse and straggly white beard that seemed identical with the
whiskers of the old man.
As I have said, Marrow-Bone was the only old member of the horde. He
was an exception. The Folk never lived to old age. Middle age was
fairly rare. Death by violence was the common way of death. They died
as my father had died, as Broken-Tooth had died, as my sister and the
Hairless One had just died—abruptly and brutally, in the full
possession of their faculties, in the full swing and rush of life.
Natural death? To die violently was the natural way of dying in those
days.
No one died of old age among the Folk. I never knew of a case. Even
Marrow-Bone did not die that way, and he was the only one in my
generation who had the chance. A bad crippling, any serious accidental
or temporary impairment of the faculties, meant swift death. As a rule,
these deaths were not witnessed.
Members of the horde simply dropped out of sight. They left the caves
in the morning, and they never came back. They disappeared—into the
ravenous maws of the hunting creatures.
This inroad of the Fire People on the carrot-patch was the beginning of
the end, though we did not know it. The hunters of the Fire People
began to appear more frequently as the time went by. They came in twos
and threes, creeping silently through the forest, with their flying
arrows able to annihilate distance and bring down prey from the top of
the loftiest tree without themselves climbing into it. The bow and
arrow was like an enormous extension of their leaping and striking
muscles, so that, virtually, they could leap and kill at a hundred feet
and more. This made them far more terrible than Saber-Tooth himself.
And then they were very wise. They had speech that enabled them more
effectively to reason, and in addition they understood cooperation.
We Folk came to be very circumspect when we were in the forest. We were
more alert and vigilant and timid. No longer were the trees a
protection to be relied upon. No longer could we perch on a branch and
laugh down at our carnivorous enemies on the ground. The Fire People
were carnivorous, with claws and fangs a hundred feet long, the most
terrible of all the hunting animals that ranged the primeval world.
One morning, before the Folk had dispersed to the forest, there was a
panic among the water-carriers and those who had gone down to the river
to drink. The whole horde fled to the caves. It was our habit, at such
times, to flee first and investigate afterward. We waited in the mouths
of our caves and watched. After some time a Fire-Man stepped cautiously
into the open space. It was the little wizened old hunter. He stood for
a long time and watched us, looking our caves and the cliff-wall up and
down. He descended one of the run-ways to a drinking-place, returning a
few minutes later by another run-way. Again he stood and watched us
carefully, for a long time. Then he turned on his heel and limped into
the forest, leaving us calling querulously and plaintively to one
another from the cave-mouths.