14 Stones by Paul Telegdi

Author:Paul Telegdi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: hunting, love, invention, prehistory, shamanism, stone age, gathering, cave culture, life of the mind
Publisher: Paul Telegdi

Chapter 19

In the morning Chaiko awoke with a start and found the sun already high above the horizon with its rays warm on his cheeks. He shrugged off the grass mantle, rose, put on his wooden leg and went aside to relieve himself. He wandered off to gather some wood and paused by the brook for a drink. His stomach was still full from the feast of venison the night before. Crier, from a dense bush, insisted on greeting him. His strident calls grated on Chaiko and sent unpleasant shivers along his spine. He threw a rock in its direction, but the bird was not easily deterred. What bird would find those calls attractive, he wondered to himself shaking his head. The calls continued for a while and followed Chaiko about.

On his return, the camp greeted him with a welcoming sense of familiarity that was reassuringly comforting. He checked the curing meat, but found it still somewhat pliable, though he judged the sun would probably do the rest. He woke the fire, then covered it with the last of the grass he had at hand. The smoke rose up, swirling about the camp indecisively until a gust scattered it.

On his day-counter stick he made a new mark and matched two hands, each of five, against the incisions, but had no name for the count. He would say “five and five, or two hands of five.” He picked up the new deer skin, the hide stiff and unyielding in his hands. He rolled it, twisted and pulled at it working some flexibility back into the hide.

He had planned to go fishing this morning. “Hurry,” he prompted himself, “the fish will soon stop feeding in the rising heat of the day.” He collected his spear, a length of tightly wound twine and the hooks he had made of fire-hardened jagged pieces of bone.

He walked down to the river and on the way, turned over some rocks until he found some fat worms which he packed into a moist clump of moss tightly wrapped in a broad leaf. A bit upstream, he settled down under a gnarled old willow that had seen many floods and was sending out new green shoots from fire-scorched branches. The air was alive with the hum of insects that annoyingly swarmed around his head, getting into his eyes, nose and ears. He slapped at them ineffectually. He baited the hook, unwound the string and cast it into the current of the river. He played out the line, loosely held in his hand, and waited.

Above him a host of gulls wheeled about crying noisily. A sandpiper worked a nearby pool of water, its beak combing the shallows. A large dragonfly droned by. This was much like old times, when as boys he and Crow went fishing. He had tried to teach his friend his passion for fishing, but Crow endured it only for his sake. “Too much waiting,” Crow had said disparagingly, “I am going to be a great hunter, not a fisherman.

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