Chapter 3: A useful accident
Youngest awoke as sunlight crept into the hut through the entrance. He rolled over and stretched out an arm to stroke White Tail. He dug his fingers into the long silky fur. But he gave a gasp and drew his hand back quickly. Instead of feeling warm, White Tail's fur was as cold as ice. Youngest hesitantly felt his friend again. White Tail's body was hard and stiff. The Mother Goddess had called White Tail's spirit away while he slept.
Youngest began to sob. Mother awoke and saw at once what was wrong.
"Don't cry, Youngest," she soothed. "White Tail is with the Mother Goddess now. He'll never be tired again. Don't be sad."
But Youngest found it hard not to be sad. He missed his special friend already. Father and First Son were rather quiet too when they saw White Tail's body. He had been a good and brave hunting dog and would be hard to replace. They took White Tail's body away to lay it to rest in the woods. Youngest didn't go with them.
That day, the village was full of the night's happenings. As soon as his jobs were done - collecting water for the day from the stream in the large earthenware pots that Pot Maker made and gathering wood for cooking - Youngest headed up to the caves with some of his friends. They gazed in awe at the bodies of the dead wolves that the Hunters hadn't yet skinned. Youngest's friends were impressed, but Youngest felt a lump in his throat when he saw the place where faithful White Tail had fought his last fight. However, he couldn't let his sorrow show in front of the others so he bit his tongue but said a silent prayer to the Mother Goddess to protect his dog in the after-life.
"Come on, let's play wolf fights!" suggested someone.
"Yes, let's!" Youngest cheered up at once. He loved playing wolf fights. "I'll be a wolf!" he shouted.
"Me too!" called out Burnt Arm.
Until they had grown old enough to acquire a skill or do something noteworthy that they could be named after, the youngsters had nicknames based on some distinctive feature. Youngest was the youngest in his family, hence his name, and his sister Hazel Eyes was so called because she had unusual light brown eyes. Most of the people had dark eyes. One of Youngest's friends was called Burnt Arm because he had crawled into a fire when he was a baby and had a badly scarred arm. Another friend was Long Legs because he was so tall, and another was No Words because he never spoke. The adults had names that reflected what they did. Father was known as Flintworker to the other Hunters. There was Healer Man, Cow Keeper and Basket Maker. Youngest's mother was known as Bread Maker because she was the best in the village at grinding corn and mixing it with water and then baking it.
The boys, roughly divided into wolves and Hunters, scampered into a cave. They fought energetically and ran and tumbled back towards the village, close to Basket Maker's house. Outside it were several rows of baskets in various stages of completion. There were the plain baskets woven out of reeds that were the first stage of the process. Then there were the baskets she had recently covered in clay that was still wet, and finally there were the finished baskets, with dry hard clay on them.
Youngest had once asked his mother why they were covered in clay.
"The reed baskets are useful, " she had explained, "but when they are finished with clay, it helps to stop the beetles and insects getting into the food in them and spoiling it. It also means we can carry water in them too."
They were useful, it was true, but the clay wasn't strong. The smallest knock or bump would make the clay crumble away. So Basket Maker was always busy.
The boys were too caught up in their game to notice the pots. A particularly energetic 'Hunter' lunged at Youngest and the two of them rolled into the pots, knocking two coated with wet clay into Basket Maker's fire that burned nearby. It was a few minutes before the boys realised what they'd done, they were so busy fighting each other. Then, for several more minutes, the boys were too horrified to do anything about them. Then the 'Hunter' turned and ran away. Youngest carried on staring in horror at the pots that sat in the fire, giving out a strong smell.
"Don't just stand there gawping, get my baskets out!" came a shrill voice. Basket Maker had returned form gathering berries in the wood.
Youngest cautiously stretched his hand towards the flames. Yow! It was much too hot to touch. He looked around and saw a couple of large sticks nearby. Grabbing them, he prodded the pots and rolled them out of the flames. They were a bright red colour.
"Look what you've done to my baskets!" scolded Basket Maker, squatting down beside the red-hot baskets. "Wait till I tell your father."
"I'm sorry," apologised Youngest, hanging his head. "Please don't tell Father. I'll help you gather reeds and make some more pots, shall I?"
Youngest actually quite enjoyed weaving - he'd done some with his mother. He'd obviously rather play with this friends but there were worse things to do than weave baskets.
"Shall I?" he asked again. He was a bit annoyed that his offer to help was being ignored. He looked up at Basket Maker. She was thoughtfully studying the baskets, rapping one of them with a stick, since it was still too hot to touch. It made a ringing sound, and - it didn't crumble. She rapped it again. It seemed as hard as the rocks around them.
Youngest forgot to be humble and ran forward beside the basket maker.
"By the tall trees!" he exclaimed. "The basket's really hard, isn't it?"
"Yes, Youngest, it is!" smiled Basket Maker. "I should be mad at you for knocking my baskets into the fire, but it seems to have made them better. It looks like they'll last a lot longer now that they've been cooked. I shall have to experiment with some more. I wonder how long I should cook them in the flames. Now, let's see ..." And with that, she turned away from Youngest and began muttering to herself and selecting baskets coated in wet clay. Youngest could see she'd forgotten he was there so he slipped away, rather pleased with himself.
Smiling proudly, he set off to find his friends. Judging by the splashing sounds he could hear, they had gone for a swim in the river that ran in front of the rock ledge they lived on. The river was wide and slow flowing, and always so cool. Sometimes the river became angry and burst out of its bed. Only last year, a little child had been swept away by it and drowned. It had taken a lot of prayers to the Mother Goddess to restore the river to its usual calm self. Youngest shuddered as he thought of the might of the Mother Goddess. But then he caught sight of his friends and all thoughts of fear fled from his head. He had a lot of news to tell!
Flint Dog Page 3
