Gateways (31 page)

Spen saw the Ugly first. He stopped cutting the sweet meat away from the deer ribs.

“Don’t look up,” he whispered to his older brother Ourse. “Ugly to the right.”

They were kneeling in shadows beside the fallen deer. Spen moved to another rib, setting his knife high and sliding it down to peel the meat away. That gave him a better angle to see the Ugly, who had moved a bit, looking to his left.

“How many?” Ourse whispered.

“One—no, two.” Another had moved into view. This one was crouched warily, carrying a spear and looking to his left, as well. “I’d guess there’s at least another I can’t see.”

“If more than three, we run,” Ourse said.

The Ugly made a hand gesture to his left and took a cautious step forward. Spen kept his head bent over, looking at the Ugly just past the brim of his straw hat. He put down his knife, slapped the meat slab onto the stack, dropped the knife. Without giving himself away with a false move he felt for his spear by his right hand. Got it, firmly in hand. “They’re coming.”

Ourse said, “Your call when we get up.”

Surprise was essential. The Uglies were inept hunters, slow and dumb. Lately bands of Uglies were robbing the tribe at the kill site. Usually they used a four or five to two or three advantage. The People withdrew then. Uglies didn’t have the courage or the numbers to attack a campsite.

Spen judged the distance. His heart leaped, fear shivered through him, but he made himself not move. If there were just two Uglies, then Ourse alone could take them, probably.

Spen turned his head slightly further, masking the move with some cutting at the next rib. A third Ugly appeared just in his field of view. The first two were closer. All of them hairy, short, arms thick with muscle.

Yes, just the three Uglies. They would have to fight, then, not run. Ourse was their best hunter and as an issue of deep pride never gave ground to fewer than four Uglies. Spen had no choice. His breath sang in his nostrils.

“Now.” Spen stood, bringing his spear up.

They were squat, on stubby legs. The nearest ran forward with a spear, a short one with a bone point at the tip.

Spen couldn’t let the Ugly have the momentum in a fight. He went forward with quick steps, keeping his balance with wide strides, bringing his spear back at the shoulder.

The Ugly held his spear in both hands. But Spen’s was longer. Its flint head tapered along two sharp blades.

At the last second Spen dodged sideways and thrust forward. His spear caught the Ugly full in the chest. The tip
thunked
as it plunged into flesh.

A sharp stab jolted his right leg. Spen ignored it, his momentum carrying the spear deeper into the Ugly, who gave a startled yelp of pain. Spen slammed the body down, burying the spear into the body. The Ugly went limp.

Spen jumped back, as he had practiced so many times. His spear came free. He landed in a broad stance and brought the spear point up, ready for the next Ugly.

But there was none. The others were already running away in their sluggish lope. They grunted alarm and fear.

Spen started after them. It should be easy to take one with a throw, into the back—

“Stop!” Ourse called. “Let them go.”

Spen whirled. “We can run them down, get—”

“You’re hurt.”

“But I—”

Ourse brought a reed whistle to his lips and blew a long shrill call. “Wal and Morn can’t be far. We’ll lug this back together, with one man as a rear guard.”

“We could—”

“Cut your losses, keep your gains.” Ourse clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got your kill today. Your first!”

The four hunters trekked across the plain, intent on reaching the shelter of the cave before the winter sun dropped behind the distant blue cliffs. They followed the shore of a great shallow lake, turning into the wind as they made their final approach to the bluffs. A cooling breeze rattled the reed
stands. Birds flapped to their roosts. They were hunting farther north than ever before, as the shrinking ice bared new pastures for the reindeer herds. The People had sent three men to see the ice again this year and it was farther up the mountains, shedding muddy streams. The world was growing larger, and the People with it.

Even with the sun in his eyes, Spen thought he could pick out the flap of skins they had stretched across the front of the cave to blunt the night wind. He was eager to reach camp and rest, heavily laden as he was with meat. His muscles tightened with the approaching chill, the spear wound in his right leg aching and the battle with the Uglies fresh in his mind.

The small group approached the hunt camp, a thick-lipped cave in the soft gray limestone. Spen could see thin wisps of smoke emerging from behind the skin. He could almost feel the warmth of the fire, a great luxury after a long day hunting. Grandfather Crom would be there, stooped and feeble, tending the fire and knapping new blades from the flint cores. The old man was no good at anything anymore but making tools and tending the fire. As Eldest he had insisted on coming on this hunt, probably his last. Spen feared coming back to camp one day and finding his frail fur-wrapped body stiff by the fire.

Ourse caught up with him, still effortlessly carrying his own pack of meat. He was not called the Bear for nothing. Taller by almost a head than Spen and broad in the shoulders, he was one of the People’s great hunters. He knew which way a hunted animal would run, and more often than not his spear brought down the fleeing reindeer.

Spen would think instead of the colors and shapes of the animal. Caught up in a sudden vision of his next painting, he would hesitate, and the prey would slip away. But his back was strong and he could carry most of a reindeer a long way.

Ourse squinted ahead at the smoke. “Unh. The old man still lives, then, painter?”

“This day, yes, but not much longer. I’m afraid our grandfather won’t see the new buds break on the willows.”

“He’s lived longer than anyone else in memory. It’s enough.”

Spen grunted his assent, always feeling a rush of pride that his grandfather was the last of the First Band, founders of the first tribe of their kind to settle in the valley.

They reached the cave and pushed through the skins. Cozy warmth greeted them, the air acrid with smoke. Crom sat next to the fire, dozing. He started awake when Spen touched him on the shoulder.

“Grandfather,” Spen began proudly, “we were successful. Ourse killed
a large buck, heavy with fat. We have a lot of meat. Even brought the main bones.”

Crom murmured and smiled, his eyes vague. A small pile of freshly flaked flint sat before him.

“Unh.” Spen eased the heavy hindquarters and flanks off his shoulders. Fresh washed from the lake nearby, they fell on the reed mat used for food preparation.

Ourse shrugged. “Not truly.” As was customary, Ourse demurred. A hunter who boasted of his skill was a threat to the band. One day he’d think he was better than anyone else, and then he’d kill someone. So the successful hunter was expected to minimize his feat. “It was a lucky shot. An old buck that couldn’t run fast just happened to pass near me.” He unloaded his own pack of deer forequarters and head from his shoulder onto the floor of the cave near the old man. He glanced at it carelessly. “It’s not good meat, but it’s all I could find.”

Wal and Morn entered the cave, each bearing parts of the butchered deer. Morn was tall and rangy with very dark hair, a contrast to Wal’s rather light brown hair and short stocky build. Nevertheless, they preferred to hunt together

Crom looked shrewdly at the cut-up carcass, probing the pieces of fat. “It’ll do, Ourse, it’ll do. We never go hungry when you’re hunting.” Then he straightened up and pointed to the bloodied packing around Spen’s leg. “But what happened to you, painter—daydreaming again? Stick yourself with your spear?”

Spen grimaced; the rebuke stung. He was Crom’s favorite grandchild, but that didn’t spare him the old man’s cutting tongue. “No, Grandfather. Ourse and I were surprised by three Uglies while we were cutting up the buck.”

“Where were Wal and Morn?”

“Tracking another deer, out of sight.”

“The brutes thought we were only two so they didn’t run away,” snorted Ourse derisively. “Hah! Spen speared the biggest one first. Good work! The other two ran.”

Crom clutched at the fur-covered skin wrapped around his shoulders as though hit by a sudden chill. His eyes widened as he looked at Spen. “You . . . killed him?”

Spen let his pride show a little, grinning. “Sure. They’re just animals, and more dangerous when scared. So I stabbed one right away. I wanted to kill them all.”

“Spen?” Wal said doubtfully.

Ourse said loudly, “Of course, Spen. You deaf? He got one in the chest, a killing thrust.”

The old man sighed.

Spen shivered as he relived the pleasure of killing an Ugly. All his life they had not taken him seriously because of his size. Usually attackers concentrated on Ourse. This time the lead Ugly probably thought Spen would be the easy mark, and then Ourse would run.

This moment, the new looks of respect on the faces of those around him, was well worth a jab in the leg. He liked the memory of his spear sliding into the Ugly. It went in with surprising ease. Then the gush of bright blood . . . Spen felt a warmth sweep over him at the memory, and his hand tightened on his spear.

“Hm. I’m surprised they were so bold. There are so few of them now,” said Crom slowly. “They are hungry.”

Remembering to not show pride, Spen lost his smile and knelt beside his grandfather. “Did you kill a lot of them in the old time?”

Crom was silent for a moment. “I didn’t want to. We used to see them a lot back when I was a young hunter, but we didn’t get too close. When we of the First Band came into the valley they were all over, and in great numbers too. But our spears were much better than theirs, and they fought stupidly, and not together, so we always won. After the first few fights we left each other pretty much alone. There was enough game for all.”

“You should’ve wiped them all out,” said Ourse. “Stupid useless brutes.”

“Yes! But there used to be a lot more Uglies around,” said Crom again. “They were in all the caves. They were in this one.”

“This one?” Ourse looked around, sat on the damp soil. “How do you know?”

Crom gestured toward the dark back of the cave. “I found a pile of mammoth tusks behind a rock, over there.”

“Mammoth? There aren’t any mammoth around here. It’s just women’s tales to frighten children.”

“They’re real all right. I saw one once, when I was a young hunter, but never since,” said the old man. “They like the snow, and it was colder back then.”

“What did it look like?” asked Spen.

“Big. A great shaggy beast. Legs like tree trunks and long curved tusks. It was much bigger than the game now.”

“Did you kill it?” asked Ourse.

“Kill, kill, that’s all you young men are interested in,” grumbled Crom.
He rummaged around and pulled out a small deerskin sack. “Here, Spen, clean out your wound and rub this powder in it.”

The others turned to the task of cutting up the carcasses with the flint blades Crom had prepared that day. These were new and sharp and made the long work go smoothly as day faded into dark outside. First cutting the hide free, they then sliced out the leg bones so Crom could roast them for the marrow. The flesh itself was cut into pieces small enough to smoke. Dried meat was much lighter and easier to carry back to the village. If the weather held warm, it would take only a day or two to dry and smoke. They joked and laughed as they worked, well pleased with the day’s hunt. Finally they stretched the skins along the floor and scraped them of fat and sinew.

As the four hunters worked Crom also cooked the reindeer head, liver, and other organs that could not be dried, and passed around the drinking bowl. It was full dark outside when they finished, their cave a smoky haven of light and warmth in the winter-locked valley.

Before they ate the traditional first piece of liver they paused to consider the spirit of the deer. By honoring it in this way, they induced the spirit to return for the next hunt.

When they had finished the dark, roasted liver, Ourse and Morn smashed the head open with sharp blows to the top of the skull so they could scoop out the warm brains. Lastly, they cracked the roasted leg bones with rocks and sucked out the sweet, fatty marrow.

Later, they sat around the fire, their bellies full of meat and their heads full of the day’s hunt.

Spen got up clumsily, favoring his wounded leg, and crossed over to the cave wall, looking for a flat place. His leg ached and the healing plaster he had bound to it did not seem to help. To distract himself he watched the fire glow play on the walls, yellow sprites dancing like living spirits. The rough gray stone of the cave was faintly streaked with vertical bands of lighter and darker gray. The wall protruded into the cave, curving smoothly to the ceiling. In his mind he pictured how he would paint the great herds of reindeer and the hunters. The yellow light from the fire flickered dimly against the wall, caressing it. The herd would be strung out along a horizontal crack just
there
. He had brought the right shade of red ocher to match the color of their hides. Start work when the mist lifted in the morning . . . He half-closed his eyes and squinted to better imagine the painting. His arms moved in short jerks as he sketched in his mind.