None of the things Bent used in life were placed in his grave. Runt would inherit his cloak and hand ax. Girl would use his drinking sack because hers had begun to crack. Him would repair his trampled spear and carry it. Honor lay in the family’s using these things in their day-to-day lives. These items held the memory of Bent’s work. The family would hold and use the tools he had owned. They would benefit from his effort.
Once, long ago, they had buried the body of a brother, Fat Boy, under the roots of a freshly downed tree. It was warm then, and a day before he died, the rains had soaked the land, and a fairly healthy pine tree had lost its grip and fallen over. The root ball left a large hole that was big enough to place a body in with only a little more digging. With the body curled into position under the root ball, Big Mother instructed them to right the tree again. They packed dirt around the bottom to replant the roots. In a short time, Girl could feel that the life from that body had transferred to the tree. The needles turned a deep green and the branches stretched to the sky.
Girl wished they could do the same for Bent. That way when she missed the work of his body, she could put a hand to the tree and feel the strength of his muscles, and if she placed her ear against the bark, it would sound like the blood in his veins. Every tree had a beat and she wanted one to remind her of Bent, but there were too few bodies to spend energy on doing more. A burial under a tree was only for when there were extra hands and meat.
Runt put the first handfuls of dirt onto Bent, but Girl wasn’t ready. It was another sign that she wasn’t accepting change as she should—a sign that trouble was to come. She stopped Runt because she wanted to look a bit longer at Bent, curled and naked as he was.
Girl knelt beside Bent’s curled body and pressed the backs of her fingers against his cold skin. His heavy brow shielded his eyes. His long lashes spread against the skin of his soft cheek. His broad nose flared out. It was the same shape as hers. When he was small, she used to pretend to grab that nose from his face and put it on her own. There was always a pause as he crossed his eyes to see if his was still attached. She would pretend to throw it to Him and soon a wild chase would be under way.
She looked up to the long faces of Big Mother and Him. They didn’t tell Runt to keep throwing in the dirt. Maybe they wanted to linger too. Big Mother was in charge and no one questioned what she said. Not only because her kick was swift, but because she had lived so many years and knew of all the changes. She had seen them before and had the ability to predict what might happen next. That skill was so rare, and when a body had it, respect welled up in the chests of the family. It helped them stay alive.
But now Big Mother was bent and stooped. It somehow felt like her bison horns had shrunk. She looked so sad that Girl wondered if her heavy head might roll right off into the dirt of Bent’s shallow grave. Another child on the wrong side of the dirt might be one too many.
There was always change, but for one more thump of her heart, Girl wanted things to stay as they were. She climbed down into the hole with Bent. She got onto her side so that her head was level with his. With her arm draped over his shoulders, their legs intertwined, she put a finger under his chin so that she could look at his eyes. For a moment, she stayed like that and felt the warmth of her body settle onto Bent’s skin. She stroked his hair and whispered, “Warm.”
11.
The family crawled into their hut, into the belly of the bison, to sleep that night. Their bodies curled into one another’s as they had so many times before, but it wasn’t the same. Girl was no longer on the inside of the pile. Her back was exposed at the edge, the flesh bumpy, like a bird with its feathers plucked.
Runt was between Girl and the whistling nose of Big Mother. As the smallest, he needed the warmth most. Girl snuggled into him as best she could, but his bony elbow jabbed her stomach. Just as she pushed the elbow away, his pointed kneecap jutted into her thigh. She let out a small cry of protest, only to have Big Mother’s broad hand come down heavy on her head with a shush. Girl was further unsettled as Wildcat stared at her. She could feel the heat of his eyes. He had snuck into the hut earlier, only to be shooed outside by Big Mother. Wildcat sat by the flap and watched, waiting until the silence was complete and Girl gave her signal. Then it would be safe to come in.
Girl turned and pulled at the hides and muttered. Another large hand came to her head to still her. This time it belonged to Him. He lay in his usual spot, the protective position above their heads. She laced her fingers through his and pressed her palm against his rough skin. She pulled on it. She wanted a warm body to line the outside of hers.
Him lifted his head for a moment and surveyed the sleeping bodies. Their breathing was still shallow. Silently, he moved beside Girl, to the spot where Bent used to sleep. He settled into the impression of the boy’s body on the hide. It was nice to feel his brother in the hollow. Him put a large arm over Girl. The skin along the back of her body was cold. He moved in close to warm her.
It wasn’t too long before Girl felt very warm. She broke into a slick sweat on her back. She started to move under the hides and Him couldn’t help but respond. He reached out with his hand and found the thick thatch of hair between her legs. With one finger, he felt she was wet, and a signal came like a kick, sending his body into action. He found Girl’s hand and pulled on it. She followed him out into the cold.
With distance between them and the hut, Him spread out their cloaks and pulled her on top of him. They tried to keep from yelling to be sure they weren’t interrupted. They were led by impulse. Like hunger, their immediate need overrode any care about what might come next. Breath was heavy, fingers found skin, and bodies rubbed and twisted into each other, as rowdy as the bison during the rut.
Later, Girl crept back into the nest. Him took his place at their heads, but shame began to gnaw at him. Since the last Father had gone hunting and not returned, Him had tried to fill the older man’s role. When he looked at Runt curled in the nest and listened to the whistling nose of Big Mother, he recognized that while he had been out with Girl, he hadn’t been protecting them. He felt the sting of guilt. To do the work of the Father, he needed to watch the family.
Him stretched out and closed his eyes, relieved to be back in his place. He thought of Girl and what had happened, but his immediate worry was Big Mother. He knew he wasn’t supposed to touch Girl like that. He ran his fingertips along the wound on his forehead from the rock that Big Mother had thrown to warn him off. But what if he fell asleep and dreamed of Girl? Would Big Mother know? Soon his body tugged at his mind too hard. He fell into a deep sleep.
When Big Mother woke, it was still dark. Her eyes flicked open, and she took a big sniff. That’s what woke Girl up, the sharp intake of air. The old woman sat straight up in the nest in one swift movement. For the first time since wintersleep, she did not need to be hoisted upright. The cowlick at the back of her scalp swirled like a whirlpool in the river. The large head slowly turned toward Girl, who felt disoriented for a moment and couldn’t think what had changed about the old woman, who looked too small and bare. In the next moment, she knew. The horns. Big Mother took them off to sleep but was quick to put them on each morning. It was strange to see the old woman with this big, bare head. Girl shut her eyes and pretended to sleep, but she made the mistake of squeezing her eyelids too tight. Big Mother was good at spotting a fake.
“Hum,” the old woman grumbled.
More sniffing. It was loud, as though Big Mother was tracing a scent. Girl bit her lip. She had been told to stay away from Him. She knew that her job was to hold her urges. They would go to the meeting place in time for the fish run. Other families would also be there. They would see her sister, Big Girl, who had moved to another family. That alliance would give them status to take a better place along the river. The more connections a family had, the more likely they were to be welcomed and allowed to take the good spots for fish.
At the fish run, they would eat and watch one another and Girl would see
which families needed breeding-age females. She would try to figure out which family she wanted and which family wanted her. There wasn’t an exact process around it. Sometimes there was an obvious fit. Other times, the girls were the wrong age or the Big Mothers had a strong hold and no match was made at all. In times of peak population, when the bison herds had been large for a number of seasons, the competition could be fierce.
In the best times, when the families were full, the fights between the women for a Big Mother position could be to the death. They told stories of the legendary battles between potential Big Mothers. Though those years hadn’t come in a time that any of them could remember, there was a certain kind of luxury in those stories. It was a point of pride to be well enough equipped with bodies, food, and tools to afford the risk of a fight.
At first, Girl didn’t attach what she had done to Big Mother’s sniffing. What Girl didn’t account for was Big Mother’s good nose for the smell of sex. Girl was born farther down the line and so had always known Big Mother as an older woman who mated only when absolutely necessary. Mating for her appeared to be a task, like chewing a hide, not something she did for pleasure.
In her prime, Big Mother had sought out the penises of the strongest men. They left their mark in her and lots of fluid got inside. She had all sorts of elaborate theories about the way ejaculate smelled and how strong it was, how it would add to the strength of the baby that would eventually come, how to know when a man was no good or when he might plant the best seed. Using the knowledge wisely was the reason she had managed to have so much success in life.
Big Mother turned her head to look right at Girl. There was no need to ask. She knew who owned the semen and where it had gone. She knew what this meant, too, as she had delivered enough bodies from between her own legs and seen the babies of her sisters at the fish run. She knew what was the same from one generation to the next. Sometimes it was a cowlick, sometimes a nose, and sometimes a bend in the arm. Girl and Him, who had seen only a handful of families at the meeting place and who had lived with very few relatives around them, didn’t understand the taboo. In a vast land, seeing a trait one recognized filled a body with the warmth of familiarity. And this was so much part of the family’s strength.
But a strength can also become a weakness. Big Mother knew that there was also great danger in things that were too much the same. She thought she had taught her children with the shadow stories. But for fear to work inside a body, the threat had to feel tangible, and a shadow on a wall wasn’t that. Girl and Him hadn’t seen what she had. They broke the taboo in the way that a younger generation will.
Big Mother knew the power of sex; the overriding strength of the urge was something that she had felt many times in her earlier life. She couldn’t keep her eye on these two for every moment. They were quicker and stronger than her. They sometimes needed to work away from the family. She used to wake up to wrong noises, but now she apparently slept with all the cares of a body that was already on the other side of the dirt. Until the time of the fish run when other mates could be found, one of the two would have to go.
In this case, Big Mother pushed aside her love and devotion for Girl. All the knowledge she had accumulated gave her the ability to override her instincts. The old woman saw a young version of herself in that body. She knew that the family was thin and that the other families would be struggling too. In Girl, she saw the makings of a woman who was clever and kind and quick. She would produce many babies. Where others were failing, here was a girl who would keep a family on the land. Just the thought of this girl’s work made her chest puff and her heart throb.
The next thing Big Mother did was brutal, but she did it because she believed with all her being and experience that when a brother and sister got a taste for each other, as sometimes happened when a girl came into the heat at the wrong time, there was only one way to keep the body of the family safe.
Big Mother pointed a finger at Girl. She hissed and spat so hard that her cowlick bounced. Runt leaped up in surprise. He grabbed at Girl out of fear, but Big Mother reached out for his arm and pulled him to her. She looked at Him, who had woken up with a confused look, and gave a short hiss. He quickly lowered his head to show submission. And this reassured Big Mother that she made the right choice. Him was quicker to fall in line than Girl. With the success of the hunt, his strength might be enough to keep the family alive until they moved to the fishing grounds.
“Fly away,” Big Mother growled at Girl in a voice so sharp that the rumble ran through the pine boughs under the nest. She meant for Girl to go. It was an absolute command. If one of the family didn’t obey, it was a challenge to Big Mother’s position as head of the family and would be met by force. Big Mother raised her long arm and pointed a gnarled finger. The crooked joint stretched toward the front of the hut, where the flap shook. “Fly away.” Big Mother’s intention was to banish Girl. “Come fish,” she said next, to let Girl know when she could meet them again.
If the old woman couldn’t communicate the consequences of forbidden things clearly, she could at least show the absolute seriousness of not listening to her warnings. This was one of the challenges of being an old body surrounded by young, fleshy ones that had yet to understand the ways of the land. In this case, Big Mother had only action to make herself vividly clear.
While Girl was growing and twisting in new ways, her kind and loving temperament wasn’t something that would change. Her mother knew that the independent streak made it harder for Girl to submit, but it also meant that she had the disposition and resourcefulness needed to survive.
Girl scampered to the side of the hut, cowering to make herself small. Maybe if she could make one last try at submission, it would put an end to this idea of flying away. But the old woman wouldn’t be swayed. The power of sex was too great. The two could not resist each other, and so one had to go for now. There was no backing down. Big Mother grabbed the horns from a hook and held them up and shrieked at the top of her lungs to assert her strength: “Big horn!” She pushed the flap to the side and crawled out of the hut.
Girl let out a sob. She scrambled to pull her cloak up and then grabbed her spear. She felt like she was in a dream, but one that none of the other bodies in the family could feel. She fingered the shell that she wore on a lash around her neck to make sure it was on. Him and Runt were silent as she crawled out of the hut in the morning light. The beasts outside must have sensed the change because there was not a chatter, chirp, or hiss. Big Mother had shuffled along the narrow path and now stood by the hearth. She kicked a log onto the fire and stirred up the flame from the evening before. It was the only way for Girl to go, so she followed Big Mother down toward the fire. Big Mother threw on another log. The flames jumped up, as if fueled by her anger. She bared her teeth and hissed as Girl approached. She stomped a foot in the dirt and shook her spear.
Head low, Girl tried to get close to her mother. She would never fight. She wanted to crouch down and try once more to show that she would be good, submit, and that Big Mother was still in charge, but the old woman was having none of it. That was not a solution. Girl had shown her willingness to break the taboo. Actions meant everything; gestures had little influence, and words barely registered. A wad of spit shot out from Big Mother’s lips and she threw the horns down between them. The message was clear. Girl could try to take them by force and strap them onto her head to become Big Mother, or she would have to leave and meet them at the fish run.
“Fly away,” the old woman snarled.
Big Mother’s temper came from deep down in her belly. Looking at Girl stirred the feeling of hot fire in her chest. This beautiful, strong Girl would soon be their best hunter. Big Mother had lost so many children over the years and each loss broke her body down further. Each death felt as if it took a strip of muscle from her thigh and a few teeth, and a chunk of bone, and a large mouthful of blood from under her skin. More loss would break her body and she would fall. But she knew that Girl could use
her clever mind to survive. She was a good scavenger. Of them all, she could be safe on her own.
A mother makes a child from her own blood and bones. They are attached in the first part of life, and although the connection lessens, it never goes away. Big Mother had always felt the dreams of her children more clearly than the dreams of the others in the family. She’d felt the horn in her rib when Bent was gored, and the piercing shriek of a fang through the neck when the young one, That Boy, had been snatched by a lion. She knew Girl better than the others. A girl so like herself with the potential to grow a large family. Because they were so alike, Big Mother believed deep in her heart that Girl would live. They were so much the same.
But Girl wouldn’t leave, so Big Mother waved her broad head with menace; each shrunken muscle twitched under her thin skin, and the tendons in her neck stood out. Puckered lips opened to show a growling, hollowed mouth that howled with a deep fear. She shook her spear. It was time to go.
Girl shrank back in terror but saw the seriousness of her mother’s command. She had her cloak and her spear in hand. She turned and slipped into the trees in the direction of the river. That was the way her feet carried her, maybe because they had walked there so many times before. She went as far as her legs would take her and then she tripped over a branch and fell. She lay in the dirt; the strength needed to get back up was something she’d left near the hearth. The trees shook with worry, and the land let out a huff of cool air. She waited for a moment to see if she could hear anything or if the smell in the air might change, but it didn’t.
For the first time, Girl left the hearth of the family.
Ketchup
I stayed in France as long as I could. Once I was eight and a half months pregnant, I was not allowed on an airplane. Not that anyone was trying to shove me on one. I had made it clear to the team that it was quite normal for North American women to work to just before their due dates and that I intended to do so. I had worried that my impulsive e-mail restating the laws around maternity leave would come across as too aggressive, but apparently it had been helpful. No one said another word to challenge me.
The Last Neanderthal Page 9
