Brulde hung back. He had never been easy around the Fat Hands. As they approached, he watched them with wide, worried eyes, his thumb tracing the scar that quartered his face from cheekbone to jaw.
I walked forward to greet the Neanderthals alone. There was no danger from them now. They had accepted my presence.
“Little Worm,” Frag greeted me. He thumped me on the chest, a familiarity among his kind. They liked to put their hands on you, make sure you were real and not a ghost or a demon. “You look fit. Eating well, I see.” He laughed, patting me on the belly.
“We killed a buck this morning,” I said, cocking my head toward Brulde, who was squatting beside the animal. “You're welcome to join us for supper tonight.” To put Frag at ease, I made sure to place my hands on him. I patted his thick shoulder.
Frag shook his head. “Dark is coming soon and we are hunting for Herung's sons, Fodar and Evv. They have been gone many suns now.”
The other Fat Hands were tramping up behind him. I greeted them silently as the big man spoke, nodding to them with my hands open. I recognized a few of them. Muld. Spelt. Old Herung, who was blind in one eye. I looked to see if Eyya's father was with the group, but the old man was absent. We sometimes mingled at the river, these men and I, though they were not the fishermen I normally spent my days with. Several of them stepped forward and put their palms to my chest.
“Have you Fast Feet seen my boys?” Herung wheezed. He was ancient, gray-headed and blind in one eye, but he was still a powerful warrior, barely stooped by his years. The desperate hope in his one good eye made me feel sad for him.
“None of my people have spoken of seeing your sons on our land,” I answered sympathetically. Although our tribes were friendly, it was not really a common occurrence to see Fat Hands passing through our territory. We mostly saw them at the river during the warm season, if we saw them at all. The passing of the old man’s sons would have been remarked upon.
Herung sighed, blinking down at the ground. Two of his companions patted him on the back to console him.
Frag scrubbed his mouth, eying Herung solemnly for a moment. I could tell by the way his protruding brow wrinkled that he was reluctant to continue. He looked at me gravely. “Poi-lot here saw an old speartooth three suns ago,” he finally said.
Poi-lot, the Fat Head standing behind Frag, spread his hands apart and said, “A big one! Fangs this long! An old male.”
Speartooths were what we called them in our day. You know them now as saber-toothed tigers. The cats that hunted our territory were every inch as big as a man and twice as heavy, with fangs as long as a man's hand from palm to fingertip. They normally hunted in packs, feeding on giant sloths and mammoths that were too young or infirm to defend themselves, but they weren't averse to dining on men who were unlucky enough to cross their path.
Rogue males that had been expelled from their pride were the biggest threat to our people. They were forced to prey on smaller game, a category that did not exclude Fast Feet and Fat Hands. They would even stray into our camps if they were starving, though it was a rare occurrence. One of my brothers had been snatched from our tent by a speartooth when I was a child. I was sleeping right next to him when it happened and still have a fear of the big cats. My brother’s death haunts me when I cannot sleep and my mind turns to terrible imaginings. I will never forget the look of horror on Vooran’s face as the speartooth dragged him away into the dark, his little hand reaching out to me, fingers pale and splayed as he disappeared into the night.
“We have been tracking it for two suns,” Frag said. “It has been traveling in the direction of your camp. Your people should increase its night watch until we find the beast and kill it.”
“If it took my Fodar and Evv I will kill it and devour its heart,” Herung swore angrily.
I nodded sympathetically. There were countless large predators on the prowl in those times. Great raptors that swooped down from the sky and snatched children from the earth, bears that could tear a man in half with one swipe of their massive claws, scaly dragons that laid in wait in murky pools for careless passersby. It was always a tragedy when one of our people were killed and eaten by the beasts but it was hardly uncommon. Young men in particular fell prey to that fate. Lacking experience and addled by the seething hormones that accompanied their coming-of-age, they thought they knew how to survive in the wild, away from the safety of the village. They snuck away to find their manhood but more often than not found only their deaths 'twixt fang and claw.
“We will help you hunt this beast,” I offered. “But it will be night soon. Come to Big River Camp with us. We’ll have a better chance of finding your sons in the daytime.”
It was dangerous to hunt a speartooth during the day. Hunting a big cat at night was the height of folly. The wily beasts often circled back on their pursuers, picking off the stragglers in the dark. They were cunning, and they killed without a sound.
Frag squinted toward the setting sun. The sky in the west was a pit of burning coals. He conferred with his companions, but it didn’t take them long to come to a consensus. He accepted my offer.
When it was agreed upon, Poi-lot threw the deer over his shoulders and cheerfully carried it to the village for us. The weight of the animal didn't even slow him down.
2
Cheerful Poi-lot, I forgot to mention, was one of Eyya's older brothers. He had teased her ruthlessly when they were children, but they got on well now that they were older, as most adult siblings do. When we trooped over the rise and she saw Poi-lot among our numbers, my wife dropped the basket of mushrooms she had been carrying and raced to him with a delighted smiled. “Oh, Poi-lot!” she cried, and she began to weep with joy. “Oh, Poi-lot, it has been so long!” Poi-lot put down the deer that he had carried to the village for us, and the two of them embraced, pressing their brows together in the Fat Hand way before joining the group as we trekked to the Siede.
My father swept through the fur hangings that covered the entrance of the cave. Some of the older children had spied our arrival and ran ahead to tell their grandparents of the approaching Neanderthals. Filing out after my father was a handful of elders, stooped and gray, and my father’s woman Yedda. Yedda stood on tiptoes and whispered something in my father’s ear as we approached. Father shrugged as if to say, “How would I know?” and then looked at us expectantly.
Even at the hoary old age of 53, my father was an impressive man, with broad shoulders and a thick mane of ashy gray hair. He had only recently taken up residence in the communal cave of the village elders and I was not quite used to seeing him, or even thinking of him, as one of them yet. Though his years were beginning to bend his back beneath their weight, I still thought of him as the powerful man he had been in his prime, when I was a boy.
My father was the closest thing we had to a chieftain, so as the village children hopped excitedly underfoot, father stepped forward to greet the search party.
“Hoy, Frag! This is an unexpected pleasure,” father said, clapping the Neanderthal on the shoulder.
“Your son invited us to stay here the night,” Frag replied. “I hope your boy didn’t speak out of turn.”
“Not at all!” my father assured him, glancing curiously in my direction. “Your people are always welcome here. Our home is your home.”
Brulde left to dress our kill while I informed my father and the rest of the tribal elders what the Fat Hands were doing on our hunting grounds. The elders listened sympathetically, then invited the weary members of the search party into the Siede to rest and dine. I followed my father as we wended our way through the fur hangings that compartmentalized the sandstone cave. Inquisitive faces lined with age peeked from the many small apartments as we passed. The Siede smelled of wood smoke and old people farts. We settled around the main fire pit, groaning as we dropped our exhausted bodies onto the furs and woven reed mats that encircled the hearth.
As venison sizzled and popped over the communal fire, filling the chamber
with its mouth-watering fragrance, Frag detailed the disappearance of his young hunters. My father listened solemnly and then offered to help them hunt the great cat that had most likely killed the boys. Several other Fast Feet warriors volunteered to assist them as well. They had come to the Siede when they heard the Fat Hands were visiting. Frag accepted their offers gratefully.
“Any speartooth, old or young, is a foe to be wary of,” Frag said.
I sat next to Poi-lot and Eyya as we ate. She groomed her brother affectionately, braiding polished stones into his long straight black hair. “I can't believe how strong you have grown, brother!” she cooed. “You were as skinny as a stick when I came here to live with Gon and Brulde!”
“Everyone says that I have become one of our finest hunters,” he boasted. “Last full moon I killed a great boar all by myself. It charged right at me as we chased it through the marshes. The beast gored me here with its tusks--” showing a shiny new scar on his upper right leg, near his knee-- “But my blade took its life with one thrust. I alone was given to eat of its heart that night. Tuhl says that I have its spirit in me now.”
I filled my gut with venison and the fresh blackberries the women had gathered that morning, amused by my wife and her brother-- and surprised that old Tuhl still lived. He must be older than dirt!
“My husbands are also great hunters,” Eyya said to her brother. “I have not gone to bed hungry a single night since they took me as their mate.”
Poi-lot nodded and thumped me on the knee, grunting in an appreciative manner. His camaraderie nearly broke my leg.
My father's woman, Yedda, whom he had taken as a mate after my mother died, kept pressing more food on me, as was her custom. She had long held the opinion that I was far too skinny than was seemly. A man with two wives should not be so bony, she often declared. She was a big woman and a bit overbearing, but I liked her well enough and ate all that I could before throwing my hands up in defeat. “Enough! My stomach is about to split open!” I cried.
“Here, Yedda, he's had enough!” my father scolded her, tamping dream weed into the bowl of his pipe. “You'll make him fat like Epp’ha, and then he won’t be good for anything!” As we laughed at his gentle reprimand, he leaned into the fire to light his pipe, heedless of his great mane. He sat upright, whiskers smoldering, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He promptly started coughing. Our laughter redoubled. Red-faced and grinning, he handed the pipe to Frag.
The merje passed around the circle. I took my share and felt the smoke soothe my spirits. When Eyya and some of the other women rose to dance in the smoky cavern, their eyes red and heavy-lidded, I reclined to enjoy the show, nodding in time with their sinuous movements.
It was late when we retired. A million twinkling points of light were strewn across the darkened sky-- the spirits of our ancestors, affixed in their place of honor in the firmament. The stars looked close enough to pluck from the heavens with our fingertips, like tiny glinting stones.
“You should sleep in our tent tonight, Poi-lot,” I said. “We have plenty of room.”
“Yes, brother!” Eyya exclaimed. “Please, do! I’ve missed you!”
Poi-lot accepted our invitation, and together the three of us lurched across the village to our wetus. We were swaying quite a bit. My father’s merje was renowned for its potency. It was believed that he soaked the leaves in some herbal decoction before drying them out but he had yet to share the exact ingredients of the brew with anyone. Eyya did her best to keep the two of us on our feet as we wound our way through the maze of domed huts but she stumbled several times beneath the burden. We were two very large and very intoxicated men.
The children mauled us when we swept aside the tent flap. They clutched our legs and jumped up and down, raising their arms to be lifted. Poi-lot laughed in delight and sank onto the furs to play with them. “Are these your children, Eyya?” he cried drunkenly. “They are so big!”
“I do not know who else they might belong to,” I said, and Eyya slapped me on the arm.
“I got them fed and Brulde has taken them all to the ditch,” Nyala said, eyeing me archly. She sounded a little put out that she had missed the merriment at the Siede, but I was in too fine a mood for shame. She appraised Poi-lot coolly. “Who is this Fat Hand?”
I introduced Nyala to Eyya's brother. He nodded at her but did not quit playing with the children. Reclining in my usual place, I made it a point to fill her in on the evening's excitement, which mollified her somewhat. She seemed impressed, and more than a little alarmed, that I would be helping the Fat Hands hunt down a speartooth in the morning. Brulde was knapping a stone by the fire, watching Poi-lot play with the children. He had a wary look upon his face. He looked as if he was afraid the big Fat Hand was going to break one of the children. In all honesty, I was the one with the history of dropping children on their heads, not Poi-lot. (Hey, it happens!) Brulde had left the Siede early, claiming he was too tired to take part in the festivities, but he didn’t look very drowsy to me.
Poi-lot was “having a big splash” with his nieces and nephews. That was a saying we had back then. Khere an fest ne tu. It was kind of like saying “he was having a ball”. I carved small beasts out of wood for the kids to amuse themselves with and Poi-lot played with my children's trifles in such an earnest manner that I could not help but laugh.
Eyya's children bounced on him and pulled his hair. It was the first time they had ever met him so they were extra excited. Poi-lot endured the affectionate assault and battery with typical Fat Hand equanimity, laughing and pulling their fingers out of his beard when they yanked too hard.
I watched the children play, sleepy and content. Eyya's children looked so much like their mother, same brown hair and dark eyes, that I could not help but favor them. I loved all my children fiercely, but I might have loved my Eyya’s children a little more fiercely than the others.
Yes, I favored them! Perhaps that is not a thing a parent should admit, but that is the truth of the matter. I favored my Neanderthal offspring because I knew they might never have children of their own. Human-Neanderthal crosses were difficult births. Neanderthal hybrids were born with larger heads than pureblooded Cro-Magnon children. It was safe for Neanderthal women to bear half-breeds but the birth canals of Cro-Magnon women were narrower and it made delivery much more difficult. Often both mother and child perished during childbirth. That fact alone made the bright little ones Eyya had born so much more precious to me.
Perhaps they would fare better if they took Fat Hand mates, went to live with our Neanderthal neighbors... but if they settled with the Gray Stone People, they would be no less lost to me.
Could their spirits be happy with no children to remember them? Would they join our ancestors in the afterlife if they abandoned the ways of the River People and took up with their Neanderthal kin? As a spiritual man, I worried about such things in my living days.
Perhaps they are comforted by my remembrance of them, monster that I am.
I may live until the sun itself dies, my timeless body incinerated in its bloated belly as it swells to engulf each of the worlds that swing around it, one after another.
Perhaps that is the fate the universe has in store for me… that I should be the One Who Remembers.
Who can know?
Even now, so many years later, I remember each of their names, each of their guileless little faces. Hun, who was Eyya's firstborn, a pudgy and solemn boy. Little Gan, whom I named after my father. He was the most imaginative of our offspring. Little Gan loved the small beasts I carved for him and would play with them all night if you didn't make him go to sleep. Breyya was a middle child, a wicked little girl. She yelled the loudest when she didn't get something she wanted, loud enough to make your ears throb with pain, and was not shy about whacking one of the other children if they got underfoot. “Breyya” actually meant “a loud yell” in our ancient language. She had burst from Eyya's womb, screaming her bloody head off. Don’t let me forget Leth and Den
and Gavid. Leth, my shy little beauty, with her long blond hair and big solemn eyes. Mischievous Den. Ancestors! We could never keep clothes on that boy! He was always parading around the camp in the nude, sometimes in Brulde’s boots, clomping around with a big proud grin on his face. The other mothers in camp teased me about him, saying he was going to be a real woman-pleaser someday. This, as I chased the naked little prankster through the village. And Gavid, my thoughtful one, an old soul peeking out from youthful eyes.
In retrospect, I believe Hun was actually fathered by my Brulde. In those days we had only a little understanding of paternity. Hun's long hair was lighter in color than was typical of a Fat Hand, and he possessed Brulde's gray and worrisome eyes, but our knowledge concerning reproduction was rudimentary. We believed that, at the penultimate moment of sex, the male and female souls intermingled and struck the spark of life within the woman’s belly. Regardless, being my tent mate, Brulde's offspring were considered mine, and mine his. In those dangerous times, it was best to hedge your bets, procreatively speaking. If anything happened to me, Brulde would raise my children, as I would do for his.
“My spirit wanes,” Brulde announced abruptly, putting aside his evening work. He pestered Eyya for sex, but she slapped his hands away good-naturedly.
“Tomorrow, Brulde... tomorrow! It is late,” she hissed, exasperated. She glanced toward her brother, embarrassed.
Brulde accepted defeat and scooped up a couple of cranky babies to sleep with in his furs. “Come lay down with Papa Brulde, you fat little piglets!” he roared, chasing Breyya and Hun around the tent.
He fell upon his furs, a child in each arm. The babies squealed and kicked, giggling hysterically as he tickled them with his beard. Laughing himself, “Papa Brulde” pulled his covers over them all. He had to drag them back into his bedding several times. They were too excited by Poi-lot’s visit to lie down peaceably. They finally surrendered, however, and were soon fast asleep in his arms.
The Oldest Living Vampire Tells All: Revised and Expanded (The Oldest Living Vampire Saga Book 1) Page 5
