John Norman

by Time Slave

  “Was Knife killed?” asked Hamilton.

  “Do not kill Knife, said Spear,” said Old Woman. “I care for him. I love him, said Spear. He is of my body. I love him, said Spear.” Old Woman stirred the ashes. The reflection, red, was on her chin and upper lip, glowing in the wrinkles. “He is not bad, said Spear. He only wants to be first.”

  “What happened?” asked Hamilton.

  “Tree sent Knife away,” said Old Woman. “He gave him a woman, too, to take with him, the brown-haired girl, from the Weasel People.”

  “Why did he do that?” asked Hamilton.

  “So that Knife would have a woman,” said Old Woman. “Spear would have wanted Knife to have a woman.”

  Hamilton said nothing.

  Old Woman looked up, to one of the ledges, where there was a dark hole in the face of the cliff. No fire burned there. It had been the shelter of Spear. None lived there now. “Some say,” said Old Woman, “that Spear did not die, that he could not be killed. Some say he sits, even now, in the cave, in the darkness.” Old Woman turned to Hamilton. “Mothers,” said she, “frighten their children with Spear. They say, be good, or Spear will get you. Some think Spear is not dead.”

  “But that is foolish,” said Hamilton.

  Old Woman shrugged. “Hyena,” she said, “says Spear is not dead.”

  “That is foolish,” said Hamilton.

  “He says he has seen him,” said Old Woman.

  “In dreams,” said Hamilton.

  “And once by the river,” said Old Woman.

  Old Woman thrust a brand in the fire. “Come,” she said. “We will look.”

  Hamilton glanced at her, frightened.

  “Are you afraid of Spear?” asked Old Woman.

  “Aren’t you?” asked Hamilton.

  “I am too old to be afraid,” she said. “Come with me.”

  “But what if Spear is not dead?” asked Hamilton.

  But Hamilton followed Old Woman, who, stiffly, climbing, limping, made her way to Spear’s ledge.

  She entered the cave, the brand high. The cave was empty. “Spear is dead,” said Old Woman.

  Then she turned about, and left the cave. “We must not fear Spear,” she said. “Spear was a great man. We must remember Spear and love him.”

  “I thought you hated Spear,” said Hamilton. “He killed Drawer, when he was blind and Old Man.”

  Old Woman looked up at Hamilton. Her eyes were moist. “Stone told me,” she said, “after Spear died, wanting me to know, though he would not say this while Spear lived, because I am a woman, and because Spear did not want the Men to know.”

  “What?” asked Hamilton.

  “When Drawer could not hunt, when he went blind, and could not draw, he could only eat and be led about, and he did not wish to be a burden on the Men.” Old Woman’s voice broke. “He told Spear to kill him.”

  Hamilton was silent.

  “For a long time, Spear did not do this thing. Then, one day, he did it. For a long time only Spear, and Stone knew, and then, after Spear died, Stone told me. Spear would not tell me. He was first among the Men. I tell you.” Old Woman’s voice choked. “Drawer wanted me to be fed,” she said. “I would have starved, or eaten scraps, or stolen,” she said. “When he died, I became Old Woman. The meat was mine to cook. I would eat.” Old Woman sobbed. “Spear,” she said, “was a great man. Let us not fear him. Let us remember him and love him.”

  “The memory of Spear,” said Hamilton, “will be twisted into an insanity by Hyena.”

  “Hyena is Hyena,” said Old Woman, shrugging. “He cannot help himself.” She then hobbled from the cave of Spear. She descended to the ledge of her own fire. There she lit another brand. “In the morning,” she said, “the Men trek. Tree has decided it. We will leave these shelters and seek others.”

  Hamilton was startled. Had she so narrowly accomplished her rendezvous with the Men? Then she recalled the young man in Copenhagen, with the young, blond woman. The rendezvous had been accomplished.

  “Follow me,” said Old Woman, holding aloft a second brand. For the second time in her life, timidly, Hamilton followed Old Woman through the tunnels to the cave of the Men. Women were not permitted there, but Old Woman, as was her custom, gave little consideration to such strictures.

  At last they stood in the lofty cave. The drawings which had once decorated the walls, the bison, the cave lion, the bear, the antelopes, the great mammoth, had been effaced by the Weasel People.

  “I am sorry, Old Woman,” said Hamilton. “It was I who, fleeing, led men of the Weasel People to this place. It was I who was responsible for the destruction of the work of Drawer.”

  Old Woman sniffed. “We are leaving the shelters,” she said. She poked about, on the floor of the cave. Then she bent down, and seized up the rock, the large, flattish pebble she had been looking for. Hamilton remembered it. On it, in overlaid marks, a complex variety, almost indecipherable, of precise, flowing lines, were the images of the animals which had roamed and fought and fled in vibrant color on the sloping walls of the cave. “They are here, the animals,” cackled Old Woman, “in this rock. Drawer put them here.” She held the rock, and pressed it to her thin lips. “I will take it with me,” she said.

  “They will know you were in the Men’s cave,” said Hamilton.

  “Let them kill me,” said Old Woman. “But they will not do it. They are only Men and they need Old Woman. And I will hide it.” She looked up at Hamilton. “When I die,” said Old Woman, “I will give it to you. Give it to your sons. In the new shelters, when they are hunters, let them use this rock. Let them there, on the walls of the new home of the Men, release the animals. Let them free them of the stone where Drawer put them.”

  “The stone was where Drawer practiced,” said Hamilton.

  “Do not be stupid,” said Old Woman. “They are here, all the animals, and each one once, and perfectly. Do you think there was only one flat stone in the country of the Men?” She laughed. “No,” she said. “Drawer made this stone for the sons of his sons. It is Drawer’s stone, for his sons. The Men have always trekked. It is their nature, in the times of the fathers or the sons. And Drawer made this stone, that he might, always, with them, join in the trek. As long as this stone, or these images, survive, Drawer treks with the men. It is his work, this stone. Men will keep this memory, of Drawer, no matter how far they go, no matter how remote the lands to which they make their treks.” Old Woman grinned. “As long as I live,” she said, “I will keep this stone, for love of Drawer. When I die, I will give it to you. Give it to your sons. Tell them Drawer made it.”

  “I will,” said Hamilton.

  “Look!” said Old Woman. She lifted the torch. There was one drawing on the walls which had not been effaced. But it was not a work which had been put there by Drawer. When Hamilton had last been in the cave it had not been there. It had been placed there after the depredations of the Weasel People. Old Woman walked closer, and lifted her torch. She knew the sign. It was a symbolic representation. The Horse People used the sign, and the Bear People, and the Men.

  It was the symbolic representation of a star.

  Old Woman shrugged. She did not understand how this sign had come here.

  Hamilton did not speak. The letter given to her, from Herjellsen, handed to her by the large black, Chaka, which she had read, and had given to William and Gunther to read, had read as follows: “My beloved daughter,

  There is another child. I have seen it. The chamber is open.

  I love you,

  Herjellsen.”

  Hamilton looked at the representation on the wall of the cave.

  She could not tell Old Woman. Old Woman would not understand. But in this cave, at some time, Herjellsen had stood.

  “Give me a stone,” said Hamilton. Old Woman, with the torch, examining the floor, found a flattish stone. Then Hamilton, with a sharp pebble, drew on the stone the sign of the star. She gave it to Old Woman. “Keep them both,” said Hami
lton. “Carry them together. They belong together, forever, in the long treks, the animals and the star.”

  Old Woman nodded. She did not understand, but she would do as Hamilton had wished.

  The torch was burning lower and, quickly, Old Woman and Hamilton left the Men’s cave. In a few minutes they were again on the ledge before Old Woman’s shelter. They heard a child crying. “I will see to the child,” said Old Woman, hobbling away into the darkness. Hamilton, by the light of the moon, made her way back to the shelter which she shared with Tree. Tree met her. He was not pleased to find she had left the shelter.

  “Where have you been?” said Tree.

  “Walking,” said Hamilton.

  “In the morning,” said Tree, “we are leaving the shelters.”

  “I know,” said Hamilton. “Old Woman told me.”

  Tree looked up at the sky.

  “Have you forgotten the fires in the sky?” asked Hamilton.

  “No,” said Tree, looking at her. Then he said, “Bring the furs to the ledge.”

  Hamilton gathered the furs from inside the cave and brought them to the ledge.

  “Spread them on the ledge,” said Tree.

  She did so.

  Hamilton stood straight as Tree approached her. He walked about her; she looked up at him. Then he walked behind her, and stood behind her. She did not turn. Casually, with a tug, he freed her of the brief skirt of the Men. She now, standing before him, her back to him, wore only her collar. He walked again before her; he pulled away the leather he wore about his hips; with his two hands, each on the thongs of her collar, he drew her to within inches of him; she felt faint, wanting to yield to him, his manhood claimant, surgent, against her belly; his hands, then, were on her arms, above the elbows; he drew her yet more closely to him; she felt, against the sweetness, the softness, of her breasts, the pressing hardness of his chest; she felt first, as he bent over her, the hair touch her nipples, and then, as she was half lifted to him, so that she could only stand on her tiptoes, she felt the grip of her beauty, held in such uncompromising arms, fully against the chest of the male who owned it. She turned her head to one side; she looked down; her body moved, inadvertently, she sobbing, against the manhood, swift and alive, which would dominate it. She knew she was only his slave. He threw her rudely to the furs at his feet. She gasped, one leg under her, head down, the weight of the upper part of her body on the palms of her hands, on the furs. By the hair he turned her on her back. She winced from the pain of the switching she had received earlier. Oblivious to her discomfort, he stood over her. She was small between his feet. “Lift your body,” he told her. Brenda Hamilton obeyed her master. Then, laughing, hands strong and eager, he bent to the body of his slave.

  The next morning, after a sacrifice of meat to the Power, the Men began the trek.

  The hunters went first. Hawk roamed before the group. Runner and Arrow Maker flanked the march. Stone brought up the rear.

  The women carried the burdens, and the children ran be side them. Turtle carried heavy rolls of furs and skins. Old Woman was the last of the women and children. She did not carry a great deal, but she did carry a small bundle, wrapped in fur, which contained two stones.

  Hyena had stayed behind at the shelters, to take up the trail later.

  There were things be did not understand, and he would wait for a time, considering them.

  He was uneasy that the woman had returned to them, for he sensed, somehow, that the Men would now be different. Tree held her as his own. He might not be willing to share her, and if this were true, the men had changed. The simplicity, the innocence, of the group, the community, might be rent. They would be other than they had been. Because of the woman, though it seemed incredible, the men would no longer be the same. They would have changed. They would no longer be the same.

  On the trail, Tree, though Hawk served as the point of the advance, led the column. Close with him were Fox and Wolf, and Tooth. Near Tooth, carrying a sack of flint across her broad shoulders, was Ugly Girl. Her nostrils were distended. She was excited. She was with them on the trek. Runner ranged to the left of the column, and Arrow Maker to the right. Behind them, protecting the rear, came Stone. He stopped once to look back at the shelters. In this country he had hunted with Spear. Then he turned again, carrying his ax, to bring up the rear of the column.

  In the column with the children, naked and dirty, walked Pod who had been Short Leg’s son.

  There were tears in Antelope’s eyes, for they were leaving the shelters.

  At the feet of Butterfly, following her, clumsily, came Hawk’s cub, ears tiny and sharp, lifted, tongue hanging out, who had survived the destruction of the litter.

  In the refuse pit at the shelters the brown rats lifted their noses, round eyes peering. No longer did they hear the sounds of the camp: They nibbled on the refuse, and, from time to time, stopped to listen. Then, some of them, turning about, scampered through cracks in the stone, squeezing their bodies through the apertures, and emerging, quizzically, at the foot of the cliffs.

  Birds cried overhead. The rats lifted their heads, and stared at them.

  Turtle, though she would commonly be spoken of by this name, had now another name as well. Tree had given it to her, when he had finished with her the night before, and lay beside her, she in his arms, looking up at the stars. There was much about her he did not understand. She was different. The second name he had given her, by which she would sometimes be called was, in the language of the men, `A-Va’ or `Ava’, which, in their tongue, means “Star Woman.”

  Tree, carrying a spear, his ax at his side, led the column. The spear was mighty, and its head, of chipped stone, was more than a foot in length, lashed to the shaft by cords of leather. He lifted his head, surveying the greenery, the white trunked trees, with his eyes, and with his ears, and taking, too, the scent of the new world. He did not look back to the shelters. He was first in the column. He did not look back, either, at the women and the children. They would follow. He did not look back, even, at the woman Turtle, or Ava, who carried, rolled, furs and skins behind him. She would follow.

  Tree strode forth into the new country, not looking back. He was pleased.

  They followed him.

  Tree was first among the men. The word for this in the language of the Men was `Adam.’

  In the moonlight, on a flat rock, whitish in the light, Hyena bent to the seeds of the apple. He shook them and muttered, and cast them again and again on the fiat rock. Then he looked at them and, with a piece of flint, drew lines connecting the points constituted by the seemingly randomly scattered seeds of the apple. The design was unmistakable, and was a common symbolic representation, to the Men, to the Bear People, to the Horse People. The lines formed, unmistakably, on that flatish, whitish rock in the moonlight, as had those of Herjellsen in the cave, a representation of a star. Hyena rose to his feet and looked at the representation. Then, slowly, alone, unnoticed by anyone, for the men had gone, his head down, his body turning, shaking the yellow-tufted stick, he danced beneath the stars.

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