by David Drake
Black night still reigned when he awakened. Hawk sat up, locating by his odor the leopard that had taken over the tigers’ patrol. The wind brought him the scent of wolves and, far off, the faint odor of the wild dogs. They had gone only far enough to lick their wounds, and had not departed. But it was unlikely that they would attack again.
Kar, sitting with his chin on his knees, rose to throw more wood on the fire. The flames flared brightly, revealing some of the men sleeping and a few wakeful. One of the women rose to bring them more meat. Hawk ate his slowly; he was not as hungry as he had been. When he had eaten enough, he lay down to sleep again.
This was their life. When they had enough to eat, they gorged. Uneaten meat would spoil anyhow, and tomorrow was far away. Keeping alive and fed today were the important parts of living.
The next time Hawk awakened morning had come and a warm sun was pouring through the tall trees. He stretched luxuriously, then looked to his sheaf of spears. When he rose and walked near one of the hunters, the man moved quickly away from him. The rest looked suspiciously at Hawk. Not forgotten was last night, and the witchcraft by which he had stricken a hunting tiger at a distance greater than any man should be able to hurl a spear.
Relieved of his night duties by another day, Kar was lying in the grass with his head pillowed on his arm. Kar must never sleep at night, for only to the Chief Fire-Maker fell the responsibility of the night fire. But he could sleep during the day whenever the tribe was not on the move.
Hawk glanced toward the women. Some were busy near the fire, cooking the remainder of the slain dogs, but two were grinding dried berries in a hollow stone, using a smaller stone to crush the berries into powder. Willow had risen from her bed of grass and was sitting with her back to a stone, staring wanly at the fire. A compress of green herbs bound her injured leg. Hawk looked at her pale face; obviously Willow was badly hurt.
Hawk licked his lips, and bolted his portion when a woman brought him another piece of meat. It was one of the last pieces, and when it was all gone the tribe would have to move on. Again Hawk glanced at Willow. If she could not go with the rest, she would be left behind to certain death; a hungry tribe could not risk starvation for the sake of an injured girl.
Hawk picked up the slender spear shaft and twirled it between his fingers. Respectfully he gazed at the shaft, a thing more powerful than any man.
Even now he had not acquired all of the secrets it contained. He knew only that there were better ways of spearing than any yet put into use by his fellow tribesmen. Perhaps more of the strange new power would be revealed to him. When Hawk caught Wolf staring at him, he put the shaft down.
Covertly he studied it, then glanced sideways at Wolf. Except for the leader, the hunters feared the spear-thrower. And Wolf did not dare risk their fear. Hawk cast about for something he might do to win over the leader. The power of the shaft was good, as had been proven by his striking the tiger last night, but how could he persuade the rest to accept it?
The sun climbed higher, and the women served the last of the meat. Carrying skin containers, two of the women rose and went to a spring that bubbled from beneath one of the boulders. They filled their containers, returned to the fire, and kneaded the coarsely ground berry powder into flat cakes. These they put on hot stones to bake.
The men looked disinterestedly at them. Having had meat, they wanted more. Baked cakes were acceptable to satisfy great hunger, but they were not good food. However, since their bellies were filled for the present, nobody was inclined to move. It was good to take full advantage of rest periods whenever they occurred because, soon enough, there would be none.
Hawk busied himself making another spear. He knew the capabilities of every man in the tribe and fashioned his spears to fit the user. Wolf could throw a large shaft with a heavy head and do deadly work with it. The rest took proportionately lighter spears and Short-Leg needed the lightest of all.
The Chief Spear-Maker selected a smooth shaft of the proper weight and balanced it in his hand. It had already been scraped smooth by one of his helpers, but there was one place that needed further scraping. Hawk worked with a rough piece of flint, the top of which had been chipped to fit his hand. Again he tested the shaft by balancing it, and this time he found it better.
From his pouch, he chose a head, a carefully chipped piece of flint to fit the spear, and lashed it on with bison-skin thongs.
Hawk balanced the completed spear in his hand, feeling it as a part of him. It was good, and would fly straight, but there was more yet to be done. Though Hawk knew it was good, the hunter who would use the spear must have confidence in his weapon.
He glanced at the willow-bordered streamlet that wandered away from the spring, and carefully studied the various small birds flitting about the branches. This was one part of spear-making which only he knew thoroughly. There were different birds with different flights, and much depended on selecting the right one.
The newly made spear in his hand, Hawk rose and walked down the hillock. At the bottom was a tar pit, and the hot sun had made it a sticky mess. He thrust a stick into the tar, and turned it until the stick was coated.
Carrying the dripping stick, he returned to the willows and lightly coated some of their thin branches with tar. The little birds took alarm when he approached, but returned as soon as the Chief Spear-Maker went back to the fire. Three birds alighted on the tar-coated branches, and fluttered wildly as they tried to escape. Hawk waited until another bird was caught, then trotted over to his captives.
He was conscious of the hunters’ keen interest as he approached, but nobody offered to help. This was a part of spear-making that he alone could do.
Hawk slowed his steps as he came near the fluttering birds, and cast an expert eye over them. Two were little insect-eaters whose life depended on their ability to twist and turn; they had to be able to do so in order to catch the insects that dwelt among the willows. As a consequence, they seldom flew straight for more than a few feet.
But the other two birds were fruit- and bud-eaters, suited to his purpose. Hawk disengaged the two birds he did not want and let them go. They bobbed erratically into the willows. He closed his hand about one of the other prisoners. Gently, not hurting it, he worked its feet out of the sticky tar. As he did so, he noticed that in thrashing about, trying to free itself, the bird had broken its tail. It couldn’t be mended, but that made no difference; it was the right kind of bird.
Ceremoniously Hawk thrust the spear’s point at the sky, then at the earth, then at the four winds. He poised the spear in throwing position and let the bird go.
Bending and twisting, unable to keep itself straight with its broken tail, the bird wobbled into more willows a hundred feet away. Hawk stared, dumb-founded. This was the acid test of a spear. If the bird flew straight the spear would be certain to fly straight. Always before such birds had flown in a perfectly straight line, but now no hunter would accept this spear or dare use it. Hawk walked slowly back to the fire.
Two of the women were supporting Willow between them and guiding her about. Willow hobbled stiffly, painfully, unable to use her injured leg to good advantage. But she must move; the tribe would not stay here and the women knew it. If Willow could not accompany them, she would certainly be left behind.
Short-Leg looked up at Hawk. “Do not ask me to use that spear, Spear-Maker. I saw the bird fly.”
Without replying, Hawk broke the spear shaft across his knee and threw the head away. Whether or not the flight of the bird had anything to do with the flight of the spear, it was tribal tradition that spears must be tested in this way. Hawk fashioned another spear.
This time, when he approached the willows, he was more careful. He had learned something—even a bird that normally flew straight could not do so when it had a broken tail. Hawk added this to his store of knowledge. When he selected another bird he chose the same kind but looked it over carefully to make sure there were no broken feathers.
Again he we
nt through the exact ritual. When he released the bird, it flew straight as a dart to another bush. Hawk carried the spear back to the fire and gave it to Short-Leg.
Kar rose and stretched, and looked questioningly about for more meat. There was none. Kar grunted his disappointment and, stooping to pick up his spear and club, went into the forest for wood. From now until the sun rose again, Kar would maintain his vigil.
The women had put Willow back on her bed of leaves, and the girl lay there with one arm across her eyes, while the old medicine woman changed the compress of herbs that covered her wound.
Hawk stretched out by the fire and slept a few minutes. When he awoke, it was dark and the tribe had settled down for the night. Save for Kar and one sentry, the rest of the men and boys slept lightly. Hawk tested the night winds.
There were no scents save some far off, and the inevitable nearer one of the tiger that patrolled the camp, hoping somebody would stray from it. Then, from the distance, Hawk caught the scent of the wooly rhinoceros. It was still alone, and in almost the same place it had been when he first scented it. Hawk lay down to sleep again.
The camp awoke hungry, for during the night even the berry cakes had been eaten and now there was nothing left. This, too, was a normal part of things. The tribe was a wandering unit with no settled home and not often at the same sleeping place twice. It must constantly follow the game upon which it depended for most of its food, and the time had come again.
Without ceremony, Wolf started out. The hunters and Kar fell in behind him, but Hawk lingered, as was his duty. Willow rose painfully, and would have fallen had not one of the women caught her. The two women who had helped her yesterday looked questioningly at each other, then at the backs of the men. Fear and doubt were in their faces; they wanted to help the girl but not if helping her would cause them to be left behind. They urged Willow along the line of march, while other women took up Hawk’s extra spears and shafts. Up ahead, one of the men turned impatiently, gestured with his arm, then went on with the other hunters.
The distance between them and the women who were trying to bring the crippled girl along increased. Hawk stayed behind, spear and club ready. But the women were becoming restless now. Their strength lay in all the men, not in just one, and they knew it. They talked softly among themselves.
Then, below the crest of another hill, the men stopped.
Hawk knew why, for scent of the wooly rhinoceros came plainly to his nostrils now. The hunters had not stopped out of consideration for the women, but because they were near game. When Hawk and the women came up, Wolf was on the crest of the hill, looking over. Walking openly, for this was no herd of nervous bison but a savage beast that almost always stood to fight, the rest went up the hill when Wolf beckoned. Hawk looked down on the scene below.
It was another river meadow, but a barren one. The grass was short, scarcely high enough to cover a man’s ankles, and the rhinoceros stood nearly in the center of the meadow. An armored behemoth with two long spears in his ugly snout, he was dozing in the midday sun. Nothing else was near.
The hunters talked softly among themselves, debating the possibilities. Here there was no opportunity for an effective fire drive, for the grass was too short to burn. Any assault on the wooly rhinoceros would have to be a direct attack, and that was always dangerous. Nevertheless, it could be done.
The hunters decided to attack.
Hawk walked down the slope with them, trying to conceal his great excitement. Here was the chance to use the power of the green shaft, the opportunity for which he had been hoping. At the very best, with every advantage on the hunters’ side, a wooly rhinoceros was a dangerous beast, a snorting ton of fury that, once aroused, would turn aside for nothing. His hide could be pierced, but not by any thrown spear. Brute strength was needed to penetrate the beast’s heavy armor. But if a hunter could stand at a distance, and shoot a spear that would sink into the creature’s vitals . . . Hawk glanced at Wolf, who had apparently forgotten all about the shaft. It was no use; the hunters would have nothing to do with Hawk’s new power.
The Chief Spear-Maker remained in his proper place, a little behind the hunters. The wooly rhinoceros came awake, and tossed his long snout viciously. Two of the more agile hunters feinted in front of him, while Wolf went in from the rear to thrust at the monster’s tendons.
On a sudden, irresistible impulse, Hawk drilled his spear shaft into the ground. He braced a spear against the knobby end, bent the shaft way back, and shot. There was a sudden snap as the shaft splintered. The spear wobbled in flight, brushed the wooly beast’s side, and bounded off.
Grunting in anger, the rhinoceros wheeled suddenly. Unbelievably agile for anything so huge, he twisted back, dipping his long head. When the sharp horns on his snout came up, the foremost one slithered squarely into Short-Leg’s belly. The skin on the man’s back bulged, then the horn broke through and Short-Leg was lifted from the ground.
He screamed once, while his dangling arms and legs writhed and twisted. The rhinoceros pivoted, and, still grunting, trotted across the meadow, bearing Short-Leg’s drooping body with him.
Wolf turned on Hawk, his face dark with anger and fear. “This time, Spear-Maker, you have truly broken the tribal law. You are no longer of us!”
The hunters dived on Hawk’s pile of spears, each man snatching the one made for him. They wheeled, and at a fast trot started across the river meadow. For a second the women hesitated. Then, as one, they followed their men. Willow sat where she had been abandoned. Scarcely noticing her, Hawk stood in dumb despair. His newfound power had failed!
LEFT TO DIE
In the distance, the wooly rhinoceros was scraping its snout on the ground, trying to rid itself of its gruesome burden. The retreating tribesmen, sure that they were fleeing black misfortune in the person of their Chief Spear-Maker, did not look back. Even the women did not waste many backward glances at the pair who had been abandoned in the wilderness. They were as good as dead already. With no hunters to help them, and Willow crippled, very shortly they would furnish a meal for a pack of dire wolves, or a saber-tooth.
Hawk walked slowly forward and retrieved the spear he had shot. Then he stood still, leaning on the spear and watching the backs of the departing tribesmen.
A vulture flew overhead, and began to wheel in slow circles over the place where the rhinoceros had scraped Short-Leg’s body from its horns. A moment later there were a dozen more in the sky. Vultures always seemed to know before anything else when there was food to be had. One by one, they planed to earth. The rhinoceros stamped his ponderous feet and snorted at them. He shook his massive head. Hawk watched dully.
The bent shaft, he knew now, was not a good thing. Its magic worked when conditions were exactly right, but one who lived by his spear must be ready to hurl it in a split second. He could not always depend on finding the right sort of ground into which he might drill the hurling stick, and drill it fast. Nor could he know when the power might choose to leave the shaft, and the wood break. And all of it together had led to banishment.
Willow moved painfully. Steadying herself against a stone, she stood up. Hawk glanced at her, as though for the first time aware of her presence. She was only a girl, and crippled, scarcely able to move without help. Therefore she was useless, and the tribe had been right in abandoning her. But as long as she was still alive, she seemed in some way to be his responsibility. Hawk looked again to his weapons, checking his spear shaft carefully for strength and making sure that the head was properly bound.
Fire was the first essential to keeping alive, and though Hawk had never built or tended a fire he had watched Kar and his assistants do it. He knew the stones from which Kar produced the spark to ignite his fires, but he was not sure he could find any along the river meadows. Nor did he know whether he could control the power of fire. However, the fire at last night’s camp was sure to have live sparks buried in its dead ashes. It would be wise to return there.
Hawk swung on his
heel and started away. Then he stopped and looked back at Willow. She was leaning against the boulder, her eyes fixed despairingly on the meadow grass. She had made no protest when Hawk walked away from her. It was the creed of the wild land in which they lived that cripples had no right to expect help. But they were both forsaken, and though Hawk knew that Willow could not help him in her present condition, her mere presence was reassuring. She was human, one of his own kind.
“Come with me,” said Hawk with unaccustomed gentleness. “We will go back to last night’s camp.”
The dull despair left Willow’s eyes, and hope flashed within them. She had been resigned to her fate, knowing that the wounded never lived long. Now, even though she knew that both of them together had small chance for survival, the will to live was strong. She let go of the boulder and took a stiff forward step. She stumbled, almost fell, and caught herself. Hawk picked up one of the extra spear shafts the departing tribe had left behind, and offered it to her. Then he started out, spear and club ready.
Twenty yards away, a small mottled wild cat crouched in the grass. Its tail twitched, tufted ears were erect, and yellow eyes gleamed. So silently had the wild cat come that even Hawk had not detected its presence.
Knowing that the smaller of these two humans was wounded, and having marked her as its prey, the cat glared at the man in rage. But it made no move to attack because it had no wish to face an armed man. It crept back into the tall grass and disappeared.
Hawk’s keen eyes followed the little cat’s circling course through the grass, and he took a new grip on his club.
They walked slowly, Hawk suiting his pace to Willow’s hobbling shuffle. He was aware of the cat that slunk around them, of furtive life represented by hares and other small creatures, but there was nothing large, nothing that meant danger. They stopped on top of a hillock and looked down at a grove of trees.
