Pic Discovers the Use of the Bone Tool
Pic Discovers the Use of the Bone Tool
A dim ray rapidly growing broader and brighter, diffused its light through the Ape Boy’s brain. The significance of his discovery cannot be overestimated, simple though it seems. The secret of the Terrace Men was revealed—the art of retouching hammered flints. Pic had reached his goal at last simply because of a piece of bone found buried with the treasure. The treasure was in reality the bone itself—the finishing tool of the Terrace flint-workerwherewith the final chipping operation was accomplished. With it, he pressed—not hammered—off the smaller chips and finished the edges straight and keen. No danger of fracturing even the longest and thinnest blade by this method. The tiny flakes flew as readily under pressure of the bone tool as did the larger ones beneath the blows of the hammer-stone.
It was simple enough when one knew how to do it. Pic wondered why he had not thought of it before. The bone tool was the key to the whole art. His cup of joy so nearly empty, was now filled to overflowing. He beamed; he smiled until his mouth threatened to split from ear to ear. Never was a man or woman’s happiness more complete. In his ecstasy, the hard rock beneath him felt like a seat among the clouds.
And now with his discovery of the lost art, came a desire to put that art to a practical test. Knowledge meant power if used to good purpose. Pic determined to adapt the much he had learned to his own ends.
His first need was raw material on which to work. This meant a trip to the valley in search of flint. Before venturing forth, he gathered up the treasure and replaced it within the cavity where he had found it—all but the bone tool and a single blade. He then set the stone back in place and covered itwith loose dirt so that it was effectually concealed. The one flint he retained, was intended to replace the blade of Ach Eul so recently broken over the hyena’s head. He recovered his discarded ax-haft and in a jiffy, it was fitted with a new head as large and keen as the one it had originally borne.
Thus re-armed, he descended into the valley and sought the river gravels for raw flint-lumps—essentials in implement manufacture. After securing all that he could conveniently carry, he crossed the meadows and chose a secluded spot among the loose boulders which lay thickly strewn along the base of the towering cliff-walls. Here, without danger of being interrupted he devoted himself to the practical application of his newly discovered flint-working art.
First he broke up the lumps he had gathered with a hammer-stone in the usual way. This in itself was an operation which called for a considerable degree of skill. When struck in the right place and with just the proper force, the wax-like sheets or blanks were detached from the flint-mass with remarkable smoothness and precision. In the performance of this operation, Pic displayed an adeptness born of long experience. Once the blanks were hewn, then came the second step in flint-making when the blanks were roughed out to the desired shapes and partly edged. This workwas accomplished by light taps of the hammer-stone. Up to this point the work was done according to the ordinary method of the skilled Mousterian artisan.
Pic drew a long deep breath. All was ready for the third and final stage—retouching—such as no Mousterian had ever attempted. His fingers trembled as he put aside his hammer-stone and essayed his first trial of the new art.
The bone tool now came into play. With it, Pic pressed off the last tiny chips along the point and edges of the flint-flake. By this time he had become so engrossed in his work that he was entirely oblivious to everything else. A clammy snake-like object suddenly glided over his left shoulder and as he sprang to his feet and faced about with an astonished yell, there stood the Mammoth and Rhinoceros so close that either one could have trod upon him with a single forward step.
“Ugh!” he muttered weakly as he recognized his friends. “Why did you so startle me? You should have given warning.”
To this, the Mammoth paid scant attention. “What were you doing there?” he asked. “Not the rock-cracking part but that which you do with the little stick. I never saw you do the like before.”
“Stick? Agh, you mean the bone tool.” Pic heldit up so that both could see. “This is the Terrace Man’s secret, his method of retouching hammered flakes. I found it high upon a mountain, in a cave, beneath a stone in the floor——”
“The treasure!” echoed both animals.
“Aye, the treasure. I found it only this morning in my cave upon the Rock.”
The Mammoth who was with difficulty restraining his rising excitement at this unexpected news, looked quickly this way and that. “What? Where?” he eagerly demanded.
“Here right in front of your nose,” said Pic. “This piece of bone. There were flints too; but this bone is the treasure.”
Hairi seized it between the two lips of his trunk-tip and held it before his eyes for examination. “A bone?” he repeated in tones of overwhelming disappointment. His jaw dropped. His ears hung limp.
“I said it was probably a bone,” the Rhinoceros now broke in with an I-told-you-so air. “Did it have any meat on it?”
“No it was just as you see it,” Pic replied. “Remarkable is it not?”
Hairi regarded it with a look of intense disgust. Even Wulli began to share his lack of enthusiasm.
“Treasure, indeed,” the Mammoth sniffed.
“It might as well have been a piece of rotten wood,” the Rhinoceros added.
“You do not understand,” said Pic. “This bone is a tool. A man buried it. He used it to retouch his flints. See; he pressed off the tiny chips instead of hammering them.” He illustrated his remarks by applying one end of the bone to a flake; a most interesting explanation to all present except his two friends. Wulli stared with his blankest expression while the Mammoth stretched his neck and yawned:
“Warm day, this. Soon we will all have to be off for the cool country.”
But Pic made no reply, for by this time, he was back, squatting among his flint-flakes and again absorbed in his work. For a time his two friends looked wonderingly on; then becoming impatient, they fidgeted and stamped and grumbled and made all sorts of disagreeable remarks, none of which did Pic have eyes or ears for. Finally they went off in a huff leaving Pic squatting alone and unmindful of their departure.
All day he toiled and it was only when the shades of night began to settle over him that he rose to his feet and kicked the knots out of his cramped limbs. His night was spent in the grotto of Moustier but with the first morning light, he was up and ready to resume his work. The Mammoth and Rhinocerosand the Cave-men of Ferrassie were temporarily set aside.
“Flints first; my friends second,” he determined for the moment and therewith sought a secluded nook among the loftiest and most inaccessible crags where he could perform his self-allotted task without interference from friend or foe.
It was not long before his efforts began to produce results. Although at first, his use of the bone tool was slow and laborious, he was patient and eager to learn and his technique quickly improved. He spoiled some pieces and only half-succeeded with others but practice makes perfect and gradually he attained proficiency in the master craft, perhaps even excelled the Terrace flint-worker in one particular at least—diversity of form. He did not confine his efforts to producing ax-blades alone but made each flake into whatever tool its shape suggested. Thin elongate pieces he fashioned into points for darts; irregular flakes of no particular form with curved edges, made excellent tools for scraping and dressing hides; large fragments with one long keen edge served for skinning-blades, and so on.
For a week or more, he pursued his vocation in total solitude until at last it seemed to him that the time was near at hand to prove the value of his discovery in the eyes of men and at the same timedetermine the measure of his success in putting it to a practical test.
“The men of the Rock-shelter shall judge its merits,” he determined. “Unless their eyes are opened, I will renounce the new art of flint-making forever.”
And so one morning, he selected three of his newly made flints—his best and no two alike—and wrapped them in a packet of rabbit skin. This done, he concealed his remaining flints together with the bone finishing tool, swept away all traces of his work and was soon on his way down the valley towards the Rock-shelter of Ferrassie.
The hunt was ended. The roe-buck had breathed his last and lay where he had fallen with glazed eyes staring at the sky. The Cave-men were gathered about the body, preparing to remove the skin and quarter the carcass for transport across the meadows.
While his followers were thus engaged, the burly Mousterian chieftain withdrew to the neighboring stream to cool his heated brow and rest himself. The chase had been a hard one but he was in rare humor nevertheless. His dart had been the first to reach its mark; and after the long chase, his ax had dealt the finishing stroke. As he sat upon the bank gazing at the water below him, his thoughts were rudely disturbed by a loud “Hi-yo!” coming from across the stream. He looked up and saw a man standing on the opposite bank. The stranger shouted again and waved an arm. The hunters now came running up to obtain a better view of the newcomer.
“Who is it?” asked one.
“If I had not with my own eyes seen him fall a victim to the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, I would say it was the Ape Boy,” said another.
The burly chief glared fiercely at the one who had just spoken.
“Ape Boy? Bah! Let no man speak that name again if he values his own beast-hide. He is Pic, Killer of the Bison. Remember it well.”
“Killer of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros too,” added the man thus chided. “How else could he return to us alive?”
Meanwhile the stranger was wading and swimming across the stream. The hunters gazed at him in awe as he drew nearer and nearer. He emerged at last, climbed the bank and shook the dripping water from his body.
“Do the dead live again?” asked the amazed chieftain. “Or do I see before me, one greater than the mighty Mammoth?”
Pic merely grinned. “The Mammoth? Agh; no matter. I drove him and the other beast away. But enough of them. Tell your men to step back. I have something which you alone should see.”
The chieftain shouted a command and in a moment his followers were hustling back to their business about the dead buck.
Pic squatted upon his haunches and took a deep breath. He held a packet of rabbit-skin in his hand.
“Since leaving you, my days were spent alone upon the Rock,” he began.
“Alone? Why?” the chieftain demanded.
“I was—um-m—sick.” Pic suddenly remembered the half-healed wound in his thigh. He did look a bit thin and haggard. Hard work and light eating had left their marks.
“Bah!” The chieftain was again gazing dreamily at the water. His brows were contracted in deep thought. He seemed to have forgotten the other’s presence.
“While I was—um—sick,” Pic began, “I spent my time making something for you to see.” He glanced at the Cave-men who were now engaged in skinning the dead buck, then held out the packet of rabbit fur. The chieftain took a quick sidelong glance, then looked away.
“Ugh,” was all he said.
Pic rolled back a fold of the packet, meanwhile watching the other closely from the corners of his eyes. A large flint blade was disclosed—a skinning knife. In form and finish, it was a gem.
The chieftain lost his far-away look. He began to fidget. His mouth watered as he observed that which lay so temptingly within his reach. He made a supreme effort to conceal his true feelings; but flesh and blood could not—would not—stand the strain. He gasped, turned quickly and pointed to the skinning-blade.
“That flint you hold—Agh! Let me see it.”
Pic’s blood surged through his veins like molten steel. With difficulty, he stilled the exultationraging within him and preserved his appearance of outward calm. Without a word, he handed the flint to his companion who seized it eagerly and ran his thumb along one edge.
“It is indeed a treasure,” he exclaimed. “Never have I seen the like. Would you part with it?”
To conceal his bubbling joy, Pic now drew a long face.
“Part with it?” he exclaimed in tones of well-feigned astonishment. “Then I would have nothing—unless you chose to give me something in return.”
The chieftain chuckled inwardly at this shrewd suggestion. “My share of the buck, how would that suit you? I would give even that for such a flint as this. What say you? A haunch of venison? You have been ill. The meat will make you strong.”
But Pic merely shook his head.
“A hide; one, two, three,” the Mousterian leader held up one finger after another but without increasing the other’s interest a single whit. “Here is an odd fellow,” he thought to himself. “Nothing appears to please him. He is our best warrior and may well give me the worst of it if I fight him for the flint.” He wrinkled his brows, much perplexed. He could make one more offer, such as it was and if that failed, a combat was unavoidable, for he was determined to keep the blade now that it was in his possession.
“The flint I must have,” he growled. “I will offer you something else—a woman.”
The youth’s manner changed in a flash. He raised his head and squared his shoulders. “Agreed; the flint is yours. I take the girl—she who so narrowly escaped death on the butcher block.”
The Mousterian leader was astounded. He had not expected such quick and ready response. He now recalled Pic’s interest in the young woman and already repented his offer. “Oho,” he thought; “What a calf I was;” and his face assumed such a cunning expression, Pic saw in a moment that he had overplayed his hand.
“Ugh! Not so fast,” he remonstrated; “The girl is my daughter and the daughter of a chief cannot be had for nothing. One flint is not enough.”
Pic’s eyes opened wide; then scowled angrily. He unfolded the packet once more. The chieftain’s face brightened. He was gazing upon a second superb flint—a tool for scraping and dressing hides. Although differing in design, it was as fine in form and finish as the first. It was on his lips to say “Agreed,” and close the deal at once but he checked himself just in time. The packet—as he observed—was not yet empty.
“No; not even the two are enough,” he growled. Pic unrolled the packet the third time, then held the rabbit-skin dangling from his fingers to show that his limit was reached. The last flint—an ax-bladewith edges hewn straight and keen—was a marvellous creation. As in a dream, the chieftain stared and wondered, while Pic strove to drive home his bargain.
“The knife, scraper, ax; all are yours,” he said determinedly. “I take the girl. Quick, your answer. If they are not enough, I will make them so and with my bare hands”; and he squared back with his arms outstretched as though prepared to fly at the other’s throat.
A great commotion ensued among those gathered about the dead buck. The Cave-men dropped their work and came crowding around the pair. A contest between two such skilled warriors would be worth going far to see.
The chieftain hesitated. His eyes flashed fire but the rage within his heart was ebbing fast. Through his mind, ran thoughts of advantages to be gained by an alliance with this young warrior, hunter and maker of wonderful flints. He observed his followers closing in about them. “I did but wish to try his mettle,” he cried loudly, then lowered his weapon.
Growls of disapproval greeted this peaceful termination of what promised to be a combat well worth the watching. The Mousterian leader silenced them with a fierce look.
“The bargain is made,” he roared; “There shall be no blood-letting between us. Let him who objects, stand forth.”
The sight of his burly figure and savage looks was sufficient to repress further argument. None stood forth; nobody objected.
“What bargain?” shouted a voice.
The chieftain’s fierce mien suddenly changed. He produced his three flints and held them in his hand so that all could see. A chorus of astonished grunts arose as the Cave-men crowded forward and examined the wonderful blades.
“Who owns them? From where did they come?” one of the men asked.
“I own them,” the chief answered proudly. “They are the price that he who killed the Bison, chooses to pay for the girl, my daughter.”
Every pair of eyes turned inquiringly—some compassionately—upon him who could thus squander his wealth so recklessly. Pic felt overwhelmed with embarrassment by the publicity so suddenly thrust upon him. He saw nothing but a sea of eyes and leering faces.
“Who made them?” demanded one of the Cave-men. “Would that all of us had flints like these.”
Pic glowed with pleasure as he heard these words. They gave him courage to unburden his heart and speak of what was in his mind. “I made them,” he said and then as all stared in wonder and held their peace, he went on:
“For many days have I sought the lost art of retouching hammered flints. We men have growncareless with our flint-working. We have become sluggish. We sit back to rot in caves or starve, simply for the lack of fitting tools and weapons to kill and dress our food. I know now how they may be made. Those”—he pointed to the three pieces in the chieftain’s hands—“are my first—the new patterns chipped straight and keen—on both sides.”
Pic’s hearers were now rapidly recovering from their first astonishment. By this time, they were ready to believe anything of this remarkable youth. Had he produced a pair of wings and flown away, they would have been surprised no doubt; but one and all would have accepted it as a matter of course.
“If you made these, you can make more,” suggested one of the Cave-men.
“Arrah; he can thus serve us even better than by taking his part in the hunt!” said another.
Pic fairly beamed. His first efforts to revive the lost art were tested and adjudged an unqualified success. A thought of the future flashed through his mind.
“To make blades like these, I will need many flint lumps,” he said. “If you gather them I will have more time for my work.”
The burly chieftain nodded approval.
“My men will supply them,” he generously agreed. “The stone will be forthcoming if you make the tools.”
Pic shut one eye and grinned in the other’s face.His future career as a business man was rapidly shaping itself.
“I will need food and hides as well,” he shrewdly suggested. “Perhaps your men will supply them too.”
The Mousterian leader cocked his head thoughtfully on one side. He began to see that neither he nor his followers were to be furnished new tools and weapons unless they gave something in return. Far from resenting Pic’s shrewdness, he congratulated himself on having established close relations between himself and this remarkable youth. Raw flint was plentiful enough. Sharper, finer weapons, meant more meat and hides—more fruitful hunting. He and his followers could meet Pic on his own terms.
“Agreed,” he said. All nodded assent; and Bargain Number Two was closed.
The hide and severed portions of the slain buck were now raised on half a dozen pairs of brawny shoulders; and with Pic in their midst, bearing himself like a returning conqueror, the Cave-men of Ferrassie returned across the meadows to the overhanging cliffs.
With the beginning of summer weather, the Mammoth and Rhinoceros forsook the Dordogne region for a cooler climate. Pic had disappeared and they were compelled to leave alone. After a season of aimless wanderings in the North, they returned to their winter quarters in the Vézère Valley, their minds filled with the idea that life minus Pic was incomplete and that they would not go off again without him.
But Pic had vanished and there appeared no clue pointing to where he had gone. Cave-men rarely roamed abroad during the freezing weather but kept to their caves, large numbers of which were to be found in the cliffs which lined the valleys of the Vézère and its tributary streams.
Neither the Mammoth nor Rhinoceros ever entered these dark holes for their own comfort. They cherished a violent dislike for any enclosure suggesting prison walls and therefore, kept in the open country for which—with their weather-proof garments—they were well adapted. But in thisparticular instance, they made a point of peering into every opening they saw, in order to determine by eye or nostril, what manner of creature was contained therein.
As a rule, the grottoes or shallow caves were occupied by human beings all huddled together, trying to keep warm. The sudden appearance of a mammoth and rhinoceros at the entrances of their dwellings, struck terror in the hearts of the wretched inmates. But the two great beasts were peaceably inclined. Invariably they withdrew as gracefully as possible, after assuring themselves that the one they sought was not among those present. Day after day, week after week, they tramped about through the snow, carefully examining all caves which smelled of smoke—a sign of human occupancy—but none of them harbored their friend, the Ape Boy.
Spring came at last; and still no sign of him. The pair began to feel anxious. They travelled and searched over wide areas of country and meanwhile the slowly rising temperature warned them to begin preparing for a journey to some more congenial climate. “We must soon be departing for the cool country,” said the Mammoth one morning. “It appears as though we would have to leave again without him.”
“We can at least search the valley as we go,”Wulli suggested. “If we fail to find him, we can return and search again before the cool weather sets in.”
So the two cronies proceeded leisurely up the Vézère, examining every nook and cranny as they went. The Cave-men had by this time, abandoned their winter quarters for the rock-shelters and open country. The two animals passed several groups of them but without catching a glimpse of the particular one they sought.
At last the great Rock of Moustier rose before them. They were plodding along its base when the Mammoth came to a sudden halt and glanced above him.
“Here is his old home,” he said. “He may be there now. We can climb up and see.”
The Rhinoceros offered no objections; so the pair ascended to the middle terrace,—not that they expected to find Pic there; but they could take comfort at least in gazing once more upon a spot fraught with so many pleasant associations. Imagine their surprise when as their heads rose to a level with the rock-platform, the first thing they saw was the Ape Boy himself, squatting on the ledge fronting the grotto. He was doing just as he had been doing when the two animals first called upon him—cracking rocks. The ledge was thickly strewn with chips, freshly-broken flakes and lumps of flint.Hairi and Wulli were so overcome by this unexpected sight, they could only stand and stare.
At that moment, Pic glanced up from his work and saw the two heads peeking over the edge of the terrace. His look of sudden surprise changed as quickly to a broad grin which displayed nearly every tooth in his head.
“Where did you two come from?” he asked as the pair clambered up to where he sat. “I have not seen you for a very long time.”
“We are leaving for the cool country,” the Mammoth explained. “You will join us, of course.”
“No, I am not going,” Pic declared. “Why should I? This is my home”; and he pointed to the grotto.
“Not going?” the Mammoth repeated in a hollow voice. “Are we to understand that you refuse to join Wulli and me—your only friends?”
“Agh, it is so,” Pic replied in tones of genuine regret; “But I have much work to do, and—there are other reasons. Things have changed since we were last together. I cannot go with you, nor would I if I could.”
Pic was visibly embarrassed. He kept his eyes on the ground and seemed loth to raise them. Hairi and Wulli looked at each other in amazement. Some strange influence had come over their former companion. His care-free recklessness was goneand he spoke in a way they could not understand.
“It is you who have changed,” said the Mammoth. “Wulli, I, everything else is the same as it has always been. Every hair on my body is as it was; not one more nor less.”
Pic glanced up quickly.
“Well said,” he replied. “I have changed and you have not. Agh, you cannot understand. No longer do I have idle moments. All of my time must now be given to making weapons.”
“What are your other reasons?” asked Wulli. “I do not think much of the first one.”
Pic looked thoughtfully at the pair, then turned and glanced behind him. Then without replying, he arose and strode to the grotto. He disappeared within, but in a moment came out again with a bundle in his arms—a small bundle wrapped in a badger-skin. He bore it with the greatest care, lifting his feet high to avoid stumbling on the uneven rock-floor. Several steps carefully chosen and he stood directly beneath the giant Mammoth’s head.
Hairi and Wulli watched these strange actions in silence. Their attention was centered on the mysterious parcel which Pic carried. It was a round object covered with fuzz, but there appeared to be more of it beneath the badger-hide. The two animals eyed it curiously while Pic looked on, hismouth gradually expanding in a broad grin at their puzzled expressions.
“Is it a pine-cone?” the Mammoth asked.
“Agh! you see only part of it,” Pic chuckled, as he threw back a fold of the badger-skin; “And alive too. Speak softly or you will awaken it.”
“Alive? Then it must be an animal,” the Mammoth whispered; “And something new. I never saw one like it before.”
“Where did you get it?” Wulli asked.
“I have had it for some time,” Pic replied. “You surely must know what it is.”
Both animals took a long, careful look.
“Did it come from this part of the country?” Hairi inquired.
Pic nodded and smiled.
“Wood-chuck.” The Mammoth made this announcement after a moment of deep reflection.
“Not enough hair,” said Wulli. “It is a boar—a young one.”
“A young one did you say?” inquired Pic.
“Yes, a young boar.”
“Bah!” Pic scowled and bit his lips angrily.
The Rhinoceros shrank back at being thus rebuked. He felt cheap.
“This is a man-child,” snapped Pic, unable to hold his patience a moment longer. “Some day it will grow to be big and strong like me.”
For a moment, Hairi and Wulli were overwhelmed by this astounding bit of news.
“I believe he is right,” the Mammoth whispered to his partner. “Who would have thought of such a thing? Where did you get this—er calf?” he asked Pic.
“Child, you mean,” the latter sternly corrected. “It belongs to me. It is mine.”
“We will not dispute that,” snorted Wulli. “You have it and you may keep it. But where did you get it.”
Pic seemed bewildered for a moment, then chuckled gleefully; “I am its father. You two talk and act as though you had no sense at all.”
The Mammoth breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“And so this is what is holding you back. I feared it was something serious. Let the poor little thing go and come along with us.”
Pic frowned. “No,” he replied. “I would not leave it alone. It would starve to death.”
Hairi pondered. He was not heartless. Young animals soon learned to take care of themselves as far as he knew; however this might be an exceptional case.
“Bring it with you,” he said. “I have no objections. Have you, Wulli?”
The Rhinoceros nodded his approval, after due reflection.
“It will soon be able to run around and look after itself,” he sniffed. “What an odd little thing! Does it ever make a noise or show that it is alive?”
At that moment, the infant yawned and began turning its head this way and that with mouth all puckered up. Hairi and Wulli shuffled closer and held their breaths. The small creature’s forehead wrinkled. It was preparing to exercise its lungs. At these signs of approaching storm, Pic looked anxiously towards the grotto. “It is hungry,” he said.
The infant’s features relaxed at sound of his voice. The deep-set eyes opened. They caught sight of the Mammoth’s gleaming tusks. The eyes opened wider and stared in childish wonder. A tiny hand thrust itself from beneath the badger-skin. It reached upwards towards the giant head; and then—the baby smiled. Hairi trembled from head to foot. In the face of such assurance, he was at a loss how to act.
“What is it doing?” he asked in an awed whisper.
“Your tusks; they please him,” the proud father answered. “He wants to play with them.”
The great Mammoth became deeply impressed. Small animals were usually afraid of him. The idea of playing with such a tiny mite, was most amusing. He lowered his trunk and curled its flexible tip coyly about the baby’s arm—a touch sogentle that it would not have ruffled a beetle’s wing.
As Pic saw his child in the Mammoth’s grasp, he involuntarily shrank back. Hairi released his hold, whereupon the infant raised both arms and squalled loudly. Its fun was spoiled.
“What a queer noise,” the Rhinoceros sniffed. “It yells just like a bobcat.”
At the sound of his voice, the youngster ceased bawling and turned upon him with open mouth and staring eyes. The latter centered themselves upon the shining horn which stood upright on the Rhino’s nose. As Wulli became conscious of the publicity centered upon his own person, he coughed nervously and strove to assume an air of indifference. The big eyes continued to stare. The Rhinoceros smirked, lowered his eyes to the ground and pretended to be deeply absorbed in the movements of a small bug which was scurrying across the rock beneath his chin.
At that moment, a new actor appeared upon the scene—a woman, coming from a cleft in the rock. She wore a short skirt of deer-skin. A clam-shell dangled from a rawhide cord about her neck. At sight of the Mammoth and Rhinoceros, she uttered a cry of fear and retreated a few steps but as she espied Pic with the infant in his arms, she bounded forward again and bared her teeth at the two now thoroughly surprised animals.
“Who is that?” asked Hairi.
“The mother,” Pic replied. “The baby belongs to her.”
“Oo-wee! You said it was yours,” the Rhinoceros sternly corrected. “Which is right?”
“Both. It is hers and mine too. I am the father; she is the mother. We both own it.”
Pic turned to his mate. “These were—are still my friends,” he explained. “Once they saved me from the Cave Lion just as you saved me from the butcher-block.”
But the mother merely stared and made no reply.
“You must understand,” cried Pic, “they are animals—the Mammoth and Rhinoceros—but my friends, your friends, once the best I ever had; and now they must be yours as they are mine. As for the little one, they would not touch a hair of his head.” He stopped and grinned, then handed her the infant and stepped beneath the Mammoth’s mighty chest.
“Quick,” he whispered, “your foreleg; help me to mount your neck.” At this almost forgotten command, Hairi uttered a joyous bellow and assisted his rider to his accustomed seat. For a moment Pic’s face lay buried in the matted locks crowning the great head-peak. One hand stole downward and patted the Mammoth’s cheek.
“Good old friend,” he said in a low voice. “Thechild; give it to me, and as you would be gentle with me, use tenderly that which is mine.” Then as the woman gazed upward with mingled feelings of awe and fear at the great Mammoth head and its rider, Hairi’s trunk reached forward and curled about the infant like a python’s fold. In a twinkle, the child was plucked from its mother’s arms and whirled aloft. With a loud cry, the poor woman fell upon her knees with face in the dirt as though to shut out the terrible sight; but when she raised her head—lo and behold!—she saw naught of fearful things, merely the faces of her two treasures beaming upon her from on high. The infant was kicking and crowing with delight and Pic’s grin threatened to engulf his own ears.
Thus assured, the anxious mother gained hope and courage and smiled weakly in response. A radiant warmth of joyous understanding swept over the little gathering.
“Why not all of us go away just as we are?” Hairi suggested. “The Trog-woman can ride on Wulli’s neck.”
“You are wasting breath,” snorted the Rhinoceros. “He has chosen his home and will not leave it until once more the cold winds come. When the woman has strayed away and the calf has learned to shift for itself, he will join us; but not now.”
Plucked From Its Mother’s Arms and Whirled Aloft
Plucked From Its Mother’s Arms and Whirled Aloft
Pic heard; and in his eyes glittered a strange light which the Rhinoceros would not have understood, even had he seen. Wulli erred, otherwise he would not have been a Rhinoceros. In a moment, Pic had lowered the infant into its mother’s outstretched arms and was descending to the ground.
“Now you know why I cannot go with you,” he said to the two animals. “This is my home, my family and the work I like best. But when you return, here you will find me, not merely after the one change of season—but always; and always will you be my good friends and welcome. Here I must stay and although we must part for the time being, it is farewell until we meet again.”
Hairi made as though to remonstrate but there was something in Pic’s voice and manner that made him and the Rhinoceros hold their peace and say no more. He bowed his head and strode to the edge of the rock-platform, followed closely by his woolly associate. Before beginning the descent, both turned and looked back to where Pic still stood with arm pointing up the valley.
“Farewell until we meet again,” three voices murmured in solemn chorus, and then the two animals carefully descended the slope and set off side by side across the meadows. The great lumbering strides of the Mammoth contrasted strangely with the bobbing trot of his smaller companion. Suddenlyas though actuated by a common impulse, both halted and gazed back long and earnestly at the now distant heights of Moustier.
Two figures, so close together that they resembled one dark speck, stood outlined against the sky. One of them raised and waved an arm, which from afar resembled a thin, black thread. A faint cry reached the ears of the pair below. The Mammoth raised his trunk and trumpeted a shrill response; then wheeled and resumed his way.
For him and Wulli, life was too filled with the joys of nature to be more than temporarily disturbed by passing regrets. “Until we meet again” ran through his brain; for now he knew that the triple alliance remained unshaken and that time would again see united, the Ape Boy, the Mammoth and the Woolly Rhinoceros.
THE END