by Glenn Cooper
And it was not only his mind that was active. From the earliest age he excelled with his hands too. He learned how to strike long thin blades off a flint core. Even before he came of age, he was the best tool maker in the clan. He could carve wood and bone as skilfully as the older men and he was adept at making spears that flew straight and shaping perfectly balanced spear-throwers. Nago spent years stewing in anger at his skills but Tal never stopped respecting his brother because he always believed that one day Nago would become head of the clan.
Tal’s mother also taught him how to paint. The People of Bear Mountain had a long tradition of adorning rock shelters and caves with the outlines of great animals in charcoal and ochre. She would scratch naturalistic outlines of bears, horses and bison in the mud or hard dirt and the boy would take the stick from her hand and copy them.
When he was older, he would pick up colourful rocks and clays and crush them into pigments that he would smear on his body to the amusement of the adults.
He was never idle. He was perpetually in motion, scurrying to do something.
Now his lungs ached with all-out exertion. He didn’t have much time. The blood was draining from Nago’s body with each of his strides.
His mother had taught him many poultices. There were ones for colic, ones for the flux, for sores, for boils, for head pain and tooth pain. There were others for wounds, some for old wounds that oozed and stank, like his father’s and some for fresh bleeding wounds like Nago’s.
The key ingredient for staunching fresh blood was a bright-green vine that twisted itself around the bark of young trees. In much the way it choked the trees, his mother had explained, it would choke the flow of blood. He knew where to find it, in a glade near the river.
He also needed a particular kind of berry, known to keep a wound clean. There was a good patch of them growing on bushes, not far from the glade.
And finally, to bind the poultice together and give enough bulk to pack the wound and draw its edges together, he needed a generous amount of yellow grasses. These were all around, ever abundant.
Because the weather was warm, the Bison Clan was in an open-air camp. Two days’ journey towards the evening sun was a rock shelter they favoured for the cold months but the only protections they needed during this season were the skin lean-tos, made from reindeer and saplings that were flapping in the afternoon breeze.
Nago was laid out in the shade of one of these shelters. He gritted his teeth in pain. His shirt bandage seeped blood.
Tal ran to him. He had shed his own shirt and had used it to carry the plants and berries he needed to make the poultice.
All twenty-two members of the clan, men, women and children, gathered around but parted when Tal’s father limped up. He implored one son to save the other.
Tal set to work. His mother’s old limestone mixing bowl was fetched for him and he furiously began cutting the vine down to manageable pieces with a flint blade. One of his aunts crushed the berries between large shiny leaves with the heel of her hands and channelled the juices into the bowl. Tal added the vine segments and mashed them into the berries with a smooth river stone. Then he cut clumps of yellow grass into short lengths and mixed a large handful into the bowl’s red mush.
The finished poultice was thick and sticky.
Tal told his brother to be as strong as the bison they had killed. He scooped the poultice into the open wound and pushed more and more into the gaping hole until there was room for no more.
Nago was brave but the exertion of keeping silent overcame him and his eyes fluttered shut.
Tal kept vigil that night, and the next, and the next.
He left his brother’s side only long enough each day to collect more ingredients to keep the poultice fresh.
He took these brief journeys on his own, not because others did not want to join him, but because he relished being alone. One of his cousins, a girl named Uboas, was particularly keen on following him. And so was her small brother, Gos who tagged along wherever she went.
Uboas was fast and pretty and Tal knew they were meant to be mates, but he still wanted to be by himself. When she refused to return to the camp, he simply outran her, as she outran her brother. When he was free of her, he looked back. In the distance, he saw her reunite with the child and take his hand.
Tal was in the glade, cutting vines off a tree when he saw them.
Actually, he heard them first, a low jabbering. Words of some sort. He strained to hear but could not understand.
At the edge of the glade two trees were parted enough to see one, then two.
He had heard of them, the Shadow People, the People of the Night, the Others – his clan had several names for them – but he had never seen them before. And this first encounter was brief, lasting only a few heartbeats.
One was old, like his own father, the other younger, like him. But they were both shorter and thicker than his own kind and their beards were redder and longer. The younger one had a heavy growth, not a wispy one like his own. The older one looked like he had never trimmed his beard with flint as was the custom of the Bison Clan. They carried spears but they were heavy thick ones, good for direct strikes, useless for throwing. Their clothes were rough and fur-bound, bear-skin by the looks of it, uncomfortable in this kind of heat.
And then, after exchanging the briefest of mutual glances, no more than a tacit acknowledgement of Tal’s presence, they were gone.
Nago’s last night was turbulent.
There was no doubt that Tal’s poultice had done some good – the wound stayed clean and fresh-smelling and the blood flow had slowed to an ooze. But he had lost so much blood after the goring that no remedy or chant could reverse the outcome.
In his last hours his body grew swollen and the flow of urine stopped. Drops of water spooned into his mouth from a creased leaf just spilled out. As the dawn came, his breathing slowed then stopped.
The moment the women began to howl, the sky opened and a warm rain fell, a sign their ancestors had welcomed the head man’s son to their realm. Their camps were burning bright in the night sky but they were too far away for the Bison Clan to hear their songs.
Tal’s father laid his hands upon his shoulders and spoke to him in front of all the people. Tal would be the next head man. The old man wearily declared his time would come soon. Once Nago’s mourning ritual was done, Tal would need to go to the highest point of the earth to be close enough to their ancestors to hear their chants.
The rain kept falling and soon his mother’s limestone bowl, half-filled with unused poultice, was overflowing with rain water.
Tal was not afraid to climb.
He was sure-footed and even though the cliffs were wet from the rain he was able to make good progress. He had learned an old climbing trick from an elder years ago and had wrapped his loose hide boots with thongs of leather to keep them snugly on his feet.
Hours of daylight remained before he had to reach the top so his pace was unrushed. He carried two pouches on his belt, one with strips of dried reindeer meat and one with kindling and fire-making tools. When it was dark, he would build a campfire, chant and listen for the responsive song from the heavenly campfires far in the distance. Maybe, if he were pure enough of heart he would even hear a song from the campfire of his mother.
He didn’t burden himself with a water skin. He knew there was a waterfall flowing over the cliffs and he would reach it in time to slake his thirst.
Halfway up the cliff he stopped on a safe ledge and turned towards the mighty river. From this great height it did not look so powerful. The earth stretched as far as he could see, an endless sea of grasses. In the distance, two brown shapes were moving through the savannah, a pair of shaggy mammoths. Tal laughed at the sight. He knew they were the largest beasts in the earth but from high on the cliff, it seemed he could pluck them up with his fingers and pop them into his mouth.
At the waterfall, he drank and washed the sweat away.
He looked for a goo
d way to the top and traced a path with his eyes.
He made his way to another safe ledge and when he pulled himself up, he stopped and stared.
A sign!
There could be no doubt!
In front of his eyes was a cleft of blackness in the face of the rock.
A cave! He had never seen it before.
He approached it slowly. There were creatures to fear. Bears. The Shadow People.
He cautiously stepped into the cool blackness and inspected the mouth of the cave to the point where the light of the sun stopped.
The floor was pristine. The walls were smooth. He was the first to enter. He was jubilant.
This is Tal’s cave!
I was meant to be the head man!
When it is my time I will bring my clan here!
The next day when the sun was high, Tal returned to his camp.
He shouted to his people that he had heard their ancestors chanting and that he had found a new cave in the cliffs. He could not understand why they seemed preoccupied with something else, all of them pointing at the ground by the camp fire. The women were crying.
Uboas ran to Tal and pulled him by his sleeve.
Her brother, Gos, was lying on the ground, spouting mad, nonsensical things, sporadically flailing his limbs about, trying to strike whoever drew closest.
Tal demanded to know what had happened and Uboas told him.
His mother’s limestone bowl had been sitting by the fire and the hot sun and warmth of the fire had made the contents hiss and bubble. Gos had wandered by that morning and with his usual curiosity he dipped a finger in and tasted the red liquid. He liked it well enough to taste more, and more, until his chin was red.
Then he became possessed, screaming words that did not fit together. He thrashed and fought, but now was becoming quieter.
Tal sat beside him, put the boy’s head on his lap and touched his cheek. The touch calmed him and his little eyes opened.
Tal asked how he felt and told him not to be afraid. He would stay with him until he got well.
The little boy wet his lips with his tongue and asked for water. In time he sat up and pointed at the bowl.
Tal wanted to know what he wanted and the boy’s answer shocked those who had witnessed his spell.
He wanted more red liquid.
EIGHTEEN
Saturday Night
General Gatinois’s mistress was almost at orgasm or at the very least she was announcing in her own way that it was all right for him to think about finishing things up and rolling off.
He got the message and redoubled his efforts. His sweat beaded up and wicked down the fine white hairs of his chest where it mingled with her own dampness.
She was saying, ‘Ah, ah, ah, ah,’ and suddenly his mobile phone pitched in with a ring tone and cadence remarkably similar to hers.
He reached for the phone which made her angry so she pushed him away and padded off to the lavatory, pink, naked and swearing under her breath.
‘General, am I disturbing you?’ Marolles asked.
‘No, what is it?’ Gatinois asked. He really didn’t care he hadn’t climaxed. It was all too predictable and boring anyway.
‘We’ve been able to hack into the server at PlantaGenetics and obtain the report Dr Prentice intends to deliver to Professor Simard and Professor Mallory on Monday.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s quite alarming. It’s preliminary, of course, but he’s made some profound observations. He is clearly on the right track to discover more, should he so choose.’
‘Send it to my email. I’m presently not at home but I will be shortly.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘But Marolles, time is short. Don’t wait for my review. Let our people know they may proceed.’
Marolles sounded uncomfortable. ‘Are you certain, General?’
‘Yes, I’m certain!’ Gatinois was annoyed by the question. ‘And I’m also certain I don’t intend to be summoned to the Elysee Palace to explain to the President why the greatest secret in France has been compromised on my watch!’
NINETEEN
Sunday
The campsite at Ruac Abbey was a melancholy place that Sunday night.
Most of the team had packed up and took off during the morning; Luc and Sara had left at noon to catch a flight to London. A skeleton crew remained to shut down the cave for the season.
For fifteen days, the camp had been a beehive of scientific activity, ground zero in the world of Paleolithic archaeology. It had crackled with excitement, the place to be. Now, it felt empty and a bit sad.
Jeremy and Pierre were in charge of the wind-down and cleanup, commanding a group of four undergraduate students itching to get back to the bars and clubs of Bordeaux. The only senior scientist who stayed to the bitter end was Elizabeth Coutard, who was setting up the environmental monitoring protocol to evaluate conditions within the cave throughout the off-season.
The chef was gone too so the quality of the meals was poor. After an every-man-for-himself dinner, Jeremy and Pierre ambled over to the office to pack boxes taking a couple of bottles of beer with them.
Well into the evening, Pierre caught something out of the corner of his eye. He stiffened and snapped his head towards the computer screen.
‘Did you see that?’ he asked.
Jeremy looked bored. ‘See what?’
‘I think there’s someone in the cave!’
‘Can’t be,’ Jeremy yawned. ‘It’s locked.’
Pierre sprang up and hit the surveillance program’s replay button, pushing the clock back thirty seconds. ‘Come here, look.’
They watched the recording stream forward.
There was a man with a backpack in full illumination.
‘Christ!’ Pierre exclaimed. ‘He’s in Chamber 9 heading towards 10! Dial 17! Get the police! Hurry! I’m going down!’
‘That’s not a good idea,’ Jeremy said urgently. ‘Don’t!’
Pierre grabbed a hammer off the table and ran for the door. ‘Just call!’
Pierre’s car was already backed up to his caravan so it took him no time to jump in and speed towards the cave. Jeremy listened to the high-pitched whine of his engine fade into the distance.
He nervously glanced at the computer monitor. Either the intruder had left or he was somewhere in between camera angles.
He lifted the telephone handset, punched in the 1 then every-thing went black.
Pierre swiftly climbed down the cliff ladder, using all his athleticism to eat up the rungs, the hammer thrust into his belt.
The gate was wide open, the interior lights were blazing. He’d never gone into the cave without protective gear but now was not the time for caution. He ran into the mouth and pulled the hammer from his belt.
Pierre had been a pretty good footballer in school and he was able to run through the cave at a good clip while maintaining his balance on the uneven matting. He burned through the chambers, the cave art blurring in his peripheral vision. He had the illusion of running through herds of animals, weaving in and out, avoiding hooves and claws.
His heart was in his throat when he got to Chamber 9. There was no trace of the intruder.
He had to be in the tenth chamber.
Pierre had never had an easy time crawling through the narrow passage. His legs were too long to fold into an easy crawl. He tried to be as quiet as he could and prayed he wouldn’t run into the man in the middle of the tunnel – a claustrophobic nightmare.
He stood in the Vault of Hands and crept forward. There were sounds of activity within the Chamber of Plants.
The intruder was on his hands and knees, facing the other way, concentrating on wires and bricks of material he was removing from the backpack. He didn’t see Pierre coming.
‘Who are you?’ Pierre yelled.
The startled intruder looked over his shoulder at Pierre, tall and muscular, wielding a hammer, an incongruously menacing sight since Pierre had the frightened look of
a cornered rabbit on his face.
The man slowly stood up. He had thick, powerful arms and an untidy speckled beard. The shock of seeing Pierre quickly disappeared, replaced by a cold-as-ice expression.
Pierre got a better look at the paraphernalia on the cave floor, a jumble of wires, detonators, batteries and cakey yellow-brown bricks. He’d seen this kind of gear before, at the mines back in Sierra Leone. ‘Those are explosives!’ he shouted. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The man said nothing.
He lowered his greying head, as if he were politely bowing, but instead he rushed forward and caught Pierre with a head-butt to his chest, knocking him back against the bird man who was standing there with his open beak and his ridiculous cock.
Pierre started swinging his hammer defensively, trying to fend off the man’s fists and fingers which were swarming all over his most-sensitive areas, his groin, his eyes, his neck. The man was trying to exact as much pain and cause as much immobility as possible.
The hammer blows weren’t slowing the man, because Pierre’s sense of humanity was stopping him from smashing him on the head. Instead, he whacked his shoulders and his back but that wasn’t enough: the man kept coming.
Then, the man landed a hard punch to Pierre’s throat that hurt him mightily and set him into a panic. He coughed and choked and for the first time in his life thought he might die. In desperation, he swung the hammer one more time, as hard as he could, and this time he aimed for the top of the man’s head.
There were three men at the campsite, toting shotguns and rifles. They went from caravan to caravan in a frenzy, like a pack of wild dogs, barging in each cabin, and when they found the ones that were occupied, they dragged out frightened students.
Elizabeth Coutard heard a commotion and emerged on her own. She saw a male student being frogmarched at gunpoint.
She ran towards the abbey, her white ponytail bobbing against her shoulders, awkwardly feeling in her pockets for her phone.
