by David Drake
They were running as hard as they could to put themselves in position for a strike, but the herd’s sudden shift of direction had left them at a disadvantage. The bison had too much start and were running too fast. Hawk groaned in dismay as he saw Short-Leg stab at a huge bull. Neither well nor strongly thrust, the spear was pushed lightly aside by the bull’s ponderous leg.
Then the smoke closed in and quarry and hunters were lost to sight.
Hawk turned away, not having to see any more to know the outcome of the hunt. But the tense women continued to stare at the swirling smoke blanket, as though the very fierceness of their gaze would help the men who were trying to get the desperately needed food.
Moodily Hawk toyed with his spear shaft. He thrust the knobby end against a pebble, bent the shaft, and watched the pebble snap away. With respect that was close to awe, he picked up the shaft and twirled it between his fingers. He bent the slender stick, feeling the tensile strength within it. The shaft had life and power of its own, but he knew of no way to control it and make it serve him.
There was something about that mysterious power of which he was just a little afraid. His father had told him, over and over, that the spear-maker’s secrets lay in the strength of certain resilient hardwoods and the cutting edges of certain stones. These properties were strong magic, his father had said, and never, under any conditions, were they to be treated lightly or trifled with. Human skill could combine the wood and the stone to make a properly balanced spear, but if the spirit of each part was not treated with respect, the spear would not fly true.
His father had also said that there was a way, by combining a short piece of wood with a spear, to throw that spear a very great distance. He had been given such a magic throwing-stick by an old spear-maker of another tribe. Although Hawk had carefully preserved it since his father’s death, he did not understand the secret of its power, for his father had never felt that the time had been right to reveal it. The ways the tribe knew, and had always known, were good ways, his father had believed.
Now, handling the slender shaft, Hawk wondered if there was some connection between its power and the magic of the throwing-stick. Going over to his pile of extra spears, he picked up the mysterious implement.
It was the length of his arm, a carefully polished stick with a short piece of branch protruding at right angles from one end. The branch had been cut off so that only two inches remained. Where the branch joined the stick, a smooth hollow had been scraped or worn. Hawk looked at the throwing-stick in bewilderment. He grasped it at both ends, and bent it in his hands. It was stiffer than the slender spear shaft that had snapped the pebble, but he could feel the same living strength. But he did not know what to do with it; the magic would not reveal itself to him.
A bedraggled, discouraged little group, the weary hunters straggled back. After the bison had broken through their fire, they had chased the herd a long way without overtaking so much as a calf. There was no meat.
As the hunters joined their hungry women and children, the wind ruffled the grass, and a bouncing little antelopelike creature appeared suddenly. It stopped forty feet away, head alert and ears erect as it studied the group. One of the hunter’s sons threw a spear that fell short by ten feet. The little animal skipped away, and the boy listlessly went out to retrieve his spear. Except for Hawk, the hungry men paid no attention. From time immemorial they had lived chiefly on the giant bison, and other game was only incidental. The boy should have known he couldn’t hit anything so small and fleet.
Hawk stared intently at the place where the little antelope had disappeared. The problem of finding meat was becoming more and more serious. Except for large beasts such as bison, which could be trapped in fire drives, and were consequently becoming scarcer, the land was alive with game. But the tribe had never had much success in hunting the smaller animals because they were so agile; they could avoid the ordinary hurled spear. So, in the midst of plenty, the tribe was hard-pressed for food of any kind.
Kar, the Chief Fire-Maker, went into the forest and returned dragging a small tree for his night fire. He went again, bringing back an armful of dead branches and dry tinder. Kar stamped about the place where his fire was to be, one step sideways with his left foot and one with his right.
Hawk looked disinterestedly on. All this was fire ritual, and no business of his.
Short-Leg, the hunter who had missed his strike at the bison, had been standing moodily by himself. Finally he spoke.
“My spear failed me, Spear-Maker.”
“My spears do not fail,” Hawk replied shortly.
“I struck at a bull. My spear missed,” Short-Leg insisted.
“I saw you. You did not hold your spear as a hunter should, and it is your fault because you missed.”
Short-Leg’s eyes gleamed redly, and he snatched at the club dangling from his girdle. Hawk sprang to his feet, ready to defend himself.
“Peace,” Wolf commanded. “We have trouble enough, without you two fighting. You will make Short-Leg another spear?”
“I will.”
Kar and two young apprentice fire-makers had by now brought a great load of wood and piled it by the night fire. It leaped high, spreading welcome warmth over the hungry people who huddled around it. Kar passed his hand over the fire and it glowed blood-red. Hawk watched, and wondered.
The customs and beliefs of the tribe were deeply ingrained, a part of him, and it was not for him to question them. Yet, sometimes, he was puzzled by them. The incantations and rituals he himself used in the making of spears—just what connection did they have with the true worth of a spear? He knew that it had been Short-Leg, and not his spear, who had been at fault in the bison hunt. Yet he must make a new spear—and it must be made in a certain fashion, and in no other way. Puzzling over this idea, Hawk idly began drilling his slender spear shaft deep into the ground.
Wolf stiffened suddenly, his nostrils distended as he sniffed the breeze. A moment later Hawk had the scent, and almost at once the rest of the hunters were alert.
For three days, always maintaining a respectful distance, the wild dogs had been trailing them. But until now, as their scent had proven, they had been interested only in scavenging any excess game killed by the hunters. Now the harmless scent had changed to a threatening, dangerous odor. Hungry, and having failed to get any bison, the wild dogs were aroused.
Spears in their hands, clubs swinging at their fur girdles, the men arranged themselves in a protecting circle around the fire, facing outward toward the gathering darkness. The women and children snatched whatever stones they could lay their hands on and took up positions behind the men.
A fierce pleasure surged through Hawk. Forbidden to hunt lest his spear-making skill be endangered, he had to content himself most of the time with chipping flint heads, fashioning spear shafts, and binding the heads to them. He found action of the sort he craved only when the camp was attacked, and everyone called on for defense. He leaped erect, snatching up a spear, but still hanging tightly to the shaft he had drilled into the ground. Its supple length bent under the pressure of his hands and the weight of his body.
He looked beyond the ring of light cast by the fire, the only haven in the savage wilderness, into the brooding shadows. Most of the time the tribe was safe near the fire, but not tonight. Now the hunger-maddened wild dogs were stalking the camp. They knew that the tribe was not in a good position for defense; thick grass provided concealment right up to the light of the fire. The only visible evidence of the impending attack was an occasional ripple in the grass.
A sudden strange idea seized Hawk and he gripped the imbedded spear shaft so tightly that his knuckles whitened. The stick, the live green stick with so much supple strength! He had been looking for a way to make it hurl a spear, and now he had found it! Hawk bent the shaft back, and placed the butt of his spear against the flattened knob at the end. Supporting the spear with both hands, holding the shaft back, he searched the tall grass.
The next time he saw the grass move, he bent the shaft a little farther and released the spear. It shot from his hands into the tall grass, and disappeared without striking its intended target. Hawk groped for another spear.
The next moment the dogs closed in.
With no time to use the shaft again, Hawk grasped the second spear in his hands and braced his feet. Leaping gray shadows in the tall grass, the dogs appeared. Seeing one, Hawk hurled his spear. It flew as straight as the wood from which its shaft was fashioned. There was a shriek of pain, then a few bubbling growls.
Almost before the spear left his hands, Hawk snatched his club and sprang forward. A big black dog, a beast fully as tall as Hawk, leaped from the grass with jaws gaping wide. Its polished ivory fangs glinted in the firelight as it sought a throat-hold. Agile as a cat, Hawk side-stepped and smashed the dog’s skull with his club.
All the men, having thrown their spears, were busy with clubs. Hawk saw a hunter drop his club when a great dog sprang at him, and throw up his hands to shield his face. Wolf dashed to the man’s rescue.
The next instant Hawk pivoted on the balls of his feet and, club raised, raced toward the fire. He hadn’t seen any dog break through the line of men, but one had, for the women were smashing at it with their stones. Hawk whirled among them, and brought his club down on the dog’s head. The beast took two staggering steps and collapsed.
But he had not been quick enough. One of the girls was on her knees beside the fire, red blood bubbling from her mangled thigh.
It was Willow.
SPEAR SHAFT
For a moment Hawk stood still, the club dangling idly from his hand. The scene was commonplace; someone was always being hurt or killed by wild beasts. But, though ordinarily Hawk would not have given a second glance, he felt troubled because it was Willow who lay there on the ground.
Slowly Hawk turned his back on her and walked away from the fire. He could do nothing here anyway; he had no knowledge of the secrets of the medicinal herbs and grasses, and was a little afraid of the incantations with which the old medicine woman of the tribe applied them.
The wild dogs had retreated, leaving five dead behind them. Back in the forest there was a confused chorus of growls and snarls, then a few high-pitched screams. The pack had set upon and torn apart one of their wounded members, and now they would eat. The humans around the leaping fire relaxed. The pack had suffered a crushing defeat, and it was unlikely that the dogs would attack again, at least until they had marshaled their ripped forces.
Wolf came in, dragging two of the dead dogs by their rear paws. He took them to the fire and dropped them near the one Hawk had killed. Other hunters came with the other two dogs.
The tribe arranged themselves near the fire, the women and girl children nearest and the men making an outer ring. Save for the fire, and the people around it, the wilderness was a dark and menacing void. This was the way it always had been and, as far as anyone knew, the way it always would be. Merely staying alive was a desperate business.
Kar threw more wood on the fire, and its leaping flames brightened. The little knot of humans sat close beside it. Life during the day was never without its danger, but at night, when prowlers were rampant, anyone who went beyond the fire’s outer circle of light took his life in his hands.
Thus would it be all through the hours of darkness. Not one minute would lack a hungry beast that hoped to catch and eat a human being. There was no way to strike back. Fire and unity, the ability to throw many spearsmen against any and all attackers, were the tribe’s only protection.
But the dangers of the night were only normal. Death threatened, but life must go on. The women were working with flint knives, preparing the dogs for cooking, and presently the mingled smell of cooking meat and scorched hair filled the air. Attracted by that odor, a pair of saber-tooth tigers came near and beat a restless patrol around the night camp. They coughed and snarled, but nobody moved. The tigers feared the fire, and as long as they were there no lesser brute would dare come near. In one way the tigers’ very presence was a guarantee of safety.
While the women cooked, the men rested. Hawk again fell to studying his slender spear shaft. He realized that there would be a great advantage in hurling a spear farther than the strongest man could throw it. If the hunters were able to do that, they could remain a proportionately safe distance away from a maddened bison or cave bear. They could strike their enemies that much farther away, and kill game which now stayed out of spear range. Again Hawk drilled the spear shaft into the ground, and pondered.
Using the mysterious power of the shaft, he had hurled a spear much farther than even Wolf, the mighty, could throw one. But he had hit nothing. Hawk braced another spear against the flattened end of the imbedded shaft and bent it back. Yes, the power was still there.
Slowly, snarling in anger because they dared come no nearer, the pair of tigers were still beating a measured patrol around the camp. Now and again one or the other would make a short, savage rush, rippling the tops of the tall grass at the farthest reach of the firelight, but coming no nearer. Hawk studied their routine.
They were making a rhythmic, methodical beat. They always traveled at about the same speed, so that they were in the same places at the same time as their patrol led them around the fire. They always charged toward the camp at one place where the grass was thickest. Seized with a sudden, bold idea, Hawk bent the shaft a bit more, and took a new grip on the spear.
His senses were nearly as keen as those of the wild beasts against which the tribe constantly fought, and after he had studied the tigers’ motions a few minutes he knew exactly where they were. He waited, his eyes on the patch of dense grass, measuring the fierce pair’s progress. At exactly the right moment he shot his spear.
As he released it, the tall grass rippled from the tiger’s half-rush toward the fire. There was the solid impact of a spear striking flesh, and the tiger’s growl changed to a high-pitched scream. The wounded tiger’s mate roared threateningly. The grass bent as before a powerful wind while both great cats charged angrily about. Continuing to scream, the spear-stricken tiger leaped so high that his blocky form showed for an instant over the tops of the grass. Then there was only a string of coughing snarls that grew fainter as both beasts sought a refuge in the forest.
Hawk stood still, trembling at the thing he had done and not at once able to comprehend it. The fierce tigers had always been part of the night, a routine portion of the dangers of darkness. They never came near the fire, but neither did even the mightiest hunter ever think of molesting the creatures. Now, at night, a man had deliberately attacked a tiger. Furthermore, it had been a spear-maker who had done so, not a hunter.
It was too much to understand all at once. The hunters, awe-stricken, sat in silence. Women and children stared wide-eyed toward the faint snarls that marked the retreating tigers. Even the smell of cooking meat seemed for the moment to be suspended. Then Wolf spoke heavily.
“What demon possessed you, Spear-Maker, that you dared do such a thing?”
Short-Leg was on his feet, chattering angrily. “He broke the law! He hurled a spear without cause! I saw him!”
“Tell us!” Wolf repeated sternly. “Tell us why you did it!”
Hawk found his voice. “I did not throw the spear! The power of the wood threw it.” He faltered, and pointed to the supple shaft, lacking words to explain because he himself was not entirely sure what he had done. He had acquired a new power, so new that there were no words for it. To show them all its magic, Hawk snatched up another spear, braced it against the shaft, and shot. The spear made a long, clean arc, flying above the grass tops and falling in the darkness. Nobody, not even Wolf, could throw a spear half that distance, and in spite of his uncertainty, Hawk was proud.
“It is forbidden!” Short-Leg shrieked. “Trouble will come because the spear-maker meddles with that of which he knows nothing!”
The hunters made a little half-circle, awed and fearful. This was magi
c of the blackest sort. There was a prescribed way to throw a spear, and since time began men had thrown them in just that way. Sacred custom had been violated, and anything could happen now. The only flicker of real interest was in Wolf’s eyes, but he, too, shrank back from the mysterious thing he had witnessed. He stared hard at Hawk.
“You know the law,” he said. “All your spears will fly false unless you use them only in defense of the tribe. The tiger was not attacking us.”
“It is true, Wolf,” Hawk admitted. “But it is also true that I was not hunting, which is what the law forbids. I am Chief Spear-Maker and I accept my place as such. But this is good magic and great power which has come to me. Will you not use it yourself?”
The hunters were now staring at Wolf, their chosen leader. He was a brave and skillful hunter, but the Chief Spear-Maker’s argument about the law was too much for his simple mind. He did realize, however, that the other hunters were afraid of this new power.
“It is not our way of hunting,” Wolf said, turning away.
Hawk pulled the slender shaft out of the ground and laid it with his extra spears and shafts. To relieve his own awed excitement he counted them. There were a dozen shafts and a dozen spears, an extra one for each man. And when the sun rose, he must make another spear for Short-Leg, who was dissatisfied with the one he carried. Hawk looked sideways at the leader, the only man who had shown real interest in the spear-throwing shaft. But, in the face of opposition from all the rest, even Wolf dared not press that interest too far.
Hawk sat alone, shunned by the awe-struck hunters. He accepted a piece of half-cooked dog brought to him by one of the women, and gnawed hungrily on it. As he ate, he stole a glance at the little cluster of women and children. They, too, were now eating, the men having been given the best parts. Even Willow, lying on a bed of grass that the women had prepared for her, was listlessly nibbling a strip of meat. Her thigh was no longer bleeding.
Hawk gave all his attention to the food in his hands, tearing the stringy meat from the big bone with his powerful jaws. Dog was not the best of food. It lacked the strength-giving qualities of bison, or any of the other grass-eaters, but it would serve when nothing else was to be had. After he gnawed the bone clean, Hawk lay down to sleep.
