Hist fic

She ran her fingers through the strands of sinew that hung from a fissure in the wall. The first was too short, the second rough with loose threads hanging and the third still moist to her touch. She opened her jaw wide and forced her tongue hard against her palate to let loose a sizzling, hissing growl. She would strike the small-one for bringing such poorly prepared materials. In the other corner on the matted straw and branches, the old-one rolled over and gasped by way of enquiry. Soon they would have to bury her.

Selecting a thin dry length, she threaded it through the eye of bone and fastened the end, tugging until the thread scored a red crease across her knuckles. Already the sky was fading with a dark chevron growing steadily towards the entrance, forcing out the lighted patch, but there was maybe enough light to join these two pieces before the darkness. She took up the pelt and stabbed the point of the bone in, near the leading edge, twisting and gouging through the tough hide.

Abruptly she froze, looked up, extended her neck towards the opening. She listened hard in this position for a few seconds, sniffed the air, and then softened her face, untensed her muscles, went back to her work. The patter of feet grew louder along the path.

The strong-one came in and threw his shaft against the wall. It clattered off the stone and fell on the matting. The head was broken, the sharp end torn with ragged fibres exposed and the flint was gone. She looked up to see that his arms were empty. He kicked out at the broken weapon, but she set it against the wall. She went to him and soothed his face and beard and he made gentler sounds. The small-one came in and started to play with the blue and green stones they’d collected from the river bed.

The strong-one was interested now. He eased her back against the far wall. It was nearly her time and she knew he could smell it, could see the gleam in his eyes, but she didn’t really want it now. She needed to finish that pelt before all of light folded out of the entrance. The nights were closing colder and the small-one had only one good fleece. But there was no dimming the light in his eyes now. He lowered her onto their pile of straw. She could smell the sweat of the hunt and the grass and the earth upon his hands and she didn’t try to stop him.

Afterwards she took the small-one by the neck and pushed his face close to the hanging sinews. Hesquealed and pulled away, and she let him go. She was in a lighter mood now and couldn’t find the anger. Instead she selected one of the flints and took down the hollowed branch. She collected a little powder from the long ledge and spread it in the bowl then worked the flint hard, dashing it off the sparking block embedded in the wood.

The strong-one picked up the shaft and examined the end, started picking away the loose pieces. He chose a new head from the pile of knapped flints on the ledge and held it against the pointed end.
She worked the stones harder; today they were reluctant to give up the magic sparks. Her hand was aching, ready to catch fire. Then more sparks and a glow settled into the powder, like a newborn spirit, orange and promising. It hid in her cupped hands as she blew gentle breath. Her son sprinkled dry leaves at exactly the right point so they flared and caught. They both showed teeth. Then, as he placed more leaves in the glowing bowl she tousled the back of his neck, the curling locks that hung like catkins. She tended the baby flames, adding twigs and then sticks and then sliding it all under the pile of wood she had collected while they hunted.

The small-one stood by the fire and prodded his stomach with the bent tips of his fingers. He spoke the bou sound, although he didn’t say it quite right. It still sounded like boo when he said it, which was often.

His father shrugged and held up the broken shaft.

‘Boo. Boo!’ said the small-one. She pushed him away from the fledgling fire, towards the door, then picked up the water bowl from the ledge and sniffed. The water was flyblown so she flushed it through the opening and gave him the empty bowl, making the river sign with her flowing hand.
‘Boo. Boo!’ he said, and hurled the water bowl onto the matting. His father leaped across the floor and raised his fist. The small-one cowered and she stepped forward, took the fist and lowered it.
The strong-one said, ‘Vash,’ and his son obeyed, slinking out of the doorway to sit cross-legged just outside. She could still see him peering back through the gathering gloom. His father resumed work, twisting a twine around the flint, stopping, pulling it loose and starting again, repeating the action again and again, each time with a sigh of exasperation.

She crouched beside him and ran her hand along his thigh. He didn’t stop her, so she said, ‘Bou?’
His eyes and cheeks sagged like a deerskin hung up to cure, so she looked on him softly. He’d tried his best. He was a good hunter. She rubbed his thigh again and he shrugged in answer to her question, then made an enquiring noise and a small circle with his forefinger and thumb. She got up to look, over behind where the old-one was sleeping. She slotted her hand into the nook in the wall and pulled out the contents: five hazelnuts. Nothing more.

He took a nut and crushed the shell with his canine. He pulled the rest apart and threw the carcass towards the fire. Then he ate the nut, his lips opening and parting with the sound of droplets on water. She did the same, the sharp crack of shell splintering against her teeth and then the creamy goodness of nut on her tongue. He took the other three and, one by one, split the shells in his teeth. She watched the orange and yellow flames playing over the timbers. The fire was now the main source of light with only dull grey surrounding the doorway. She listened to the fire’s contented crackle.
He looked at her and then towards the door. Then he called out, ‘Ah vash!’ The shout rang against the stone walls. The old-one groaned and the small-one came rushing back in. His father said, ‘Bou,’ and held out his hand and their son took the three hazelnuts and crammed them into his face with his palm pressed against his gums. He chewed down the nuts and then looked at his father. Nobody said anything.

They squatted and watched the flames and listened to the night birds and looked at each other until the strong-one stood up again. He selected a flaming branch and handed another to her. His weapon was still broken so she passed him a handaxe. It wouldn’t be much use, they would have to depend on the fire to keep off wolves or whatever else might be out there. She wrapped the half-sewn skins around the son’s shoulders and followed the other two into the darkness.

For the first steps they followed the trail they had cleared through the forest. The strong-one moved swiftly along the familiar way and she followed, sometimes shoving her son to urge him to keep up. Her branch didn’t last long so when it faded she tossed the glowing end into the bushes with a noise that made the strong-one spin round and stare at her.

At the end of the trail, where it opened to the clearing he sniffed the air. Then he pointed down the hill towards the river. She knew what lay there, on the other side, and she shuddered. Above her the silver disc of night showed as a perfect circle with threads of cloud drifting across its surface. There was nowhere else to go and her son must eat. She must forget. She nodded down the hill and they set off again. The way was uneven and blocked in many places with undergrowth so they often had to curl their way. They stumbled often on rocks and roots. At least there was no sound or whiff of animals nearby.

At the foot of the hill they reached the silent river just before the remaining branch extinguished. He plunged it into the river and she heard a hiss as the red glow was eaten by the waters. She couldn’t properly see the swirling flow, but could make out the dark presence of the river tugging all into itself, into the far reaches of the night. Here they followed the muddy bank with only grasses growing where, in the blossom time, she gathered water flowers.

When she heard the rushing she knew they had reached the crossing place. Boulders made the river shallow on the lower side, with only a few places where the white froth gushed. Her son gazed into the deep still pool on this side. This was where they found the biggest, tastiest catch on days when they hunted fish. They might be there now, lurking like dreams in the dark waters, but far from her reach, no use to her son. She guided him to the shallow water below the rocks.

She stepped into the icy stream holding her son’s arm tight. Some of the stones were slippery and she treaded carefully to make the opposite bank. It was only about twenty paces but the going was slow and soon she was shivering and her hairs were standing up. As she reached the other side she could see the strong-one leaning into the water, scooping handfuls to drink. She let go of the hand and bent to do the same.

The young one let out a yell. She grabbed for him, but he fell backwards and twisted, trying to regain his balance, clawing the air. He struck hard against the rock and let out another scream. The strong-one splashed back into the water and scooped up his son. As she stepped onto the grass herself she was still cursing her stupidity. It was wrong to let go of the small-one’s hand before they reached the safer water. She knelt beside him as he whimpered on the grass. The skins he wore and the others gathered about his neck were sodden so she pulled them off and dried his skin. He was clutching his leg and in the dim light she could see the gash, where the blood mingled with the water on his bony shin. She bent and licked it clean. Blood of her blood. Then she covered him with her own fleece and wrapped the damp ones across her shoulder. Her arms were shivering and he was shaking hard and moaning.
They made their way, with the father carrying his son, through the roots and branches and the night sounds, the smells of leaf and twig and forest floor. She tried to overcome her fears. She must forget. It was not far now, at least it wasn’t far to where the rock wall started, to where the strangers would be, with fire and meat and dry pelts. She listened for their voices, peered into the gloom for the glow of their fire, but she could hear only the heavy clump of the strong-one.

There would be no fire. There would be no meat. She knew that before they crept into the stranger’s crevice. She could smell the long-dead fire. The strong-one gave a wail. He laid the son down and stole into the opening. It was pitch inside and she could see the muscles of his calves taut, ready to spring if he saw green eyes waiting. His shoulders dissolved into blackness with the hand axe held above his head. She would not go inside that place. She held the small-one close; he was shaking fast now and whimpering. She sniffed at the wound and pressed it with her palm but he flinched and pulled away.
The strong-one came out and threw himself to the ground. The strangers must have been long gone. Normally they waited until the river started to rise, when the days drew colder they travelled away, down the river she supposed. Perhaps they were right, many others did that. But the strong-one always stayed. The old-one was too weak but she wondered if he would leave their home even if he could. It was where he had learnt to run and to hunt and to make and where he knew every tree so well he could travel through them in the dark. Now he lay on the ground.

She had not dared to enter that dark place, but now she had no choice. She must forget. But as she stepped into the blackness she could feel it closing around her, pulling her in as the stranger had pulled her, so long ago, when the strangers first came up the river. The strong-one did not know. He could never know. She was in the blackness now, with the cold air touching her like fingers. Each step she had to force herself further into the blackness and with each step her legs wanted to run back to the strong-one and to their son and lie with them, defeated but united. She forced her feet to shuffle one more step.

When her outstretched palms found the other wall she stopped. She worked her way along, touching and testing each crevice and ledge with little hope, until her hand brushed the softness of fur. She pulled the pelt off the wall and still terrified congratulated herself. Then working further round she found another skin. They had come to give skins and take food in exchange, but now these would save her little one. She continued the search with the furs over her shoulders. Then her foot touched something that moved. It rattled. She bent down and grabbed the bundle, with joy flooding into her blood. That bundle of wrapped skin warmed her more than the pelts around her back. She took it outside and held it aloft and said, ‘Bou.’

The strong-one unwrapped the layers of hide and set the contents before them. Inside were nuts and dried berries and a few precious roots. She wrapped her son in dry furs and then they all squatted and munched and the food tasted of life and earth and all the goodness of the forest.

After their meal they went back through the crevice together and crawled into a corner where all three wrapped around each other with the dry furs over their bodies. She no longer felt the fear, wrapped in the strong-one and the small-one. She fell immediately asleep and remembered nothing more.

The first light prodded her awake. Only her son was lying beside her, still breathing heavily. While he slept she inspected his cut, a mush of dried blood and flesh. Then the strong-one came in with the rest of the berries and nuts from the night before and a pile of apples he had plundered from the trees. He looked pleased with himself and she showed him her teeth too.

As soon as they had eaten, they bound up the parcel of remaining food for the old-one and made their way back down the hill with the red glow of dawn spreading. The strong-one carried her son across the river and they made their way easily up the other bank and across the clearing towards home.
She knew before she stooped through the entrance. The stench of other strangers was strong and there were heavy footprints beside the trail. Her wooden bowl was broken on the ground. She motioned to her son to wait as she ran inside. The row of furs and the sinews and the making bones were gone. The hand axes, the knapped flints, and the spare shafts were gone. The fire bowl was nowhere to be seen. The fire was kicked about. The strong-one threw himself down where the old-one lay rigid in her stink. An axe wound was carved across her throat and the flint was lying on the floor steeped in blood. The blood was still soft down her neck and onto the floor. Blood of his blood.
She watched as he hauled the body from the cave. She watched as the broken head followed the legs he dragged into the sunlight. The long straggling hair of the old-one was the last part of her to depart her home.

She sank to her knees and she knew. She could not follow him now, had no strength to help. Her chest was pressing inward, hard and painful, as if to force out the air from her lungs. She fought to draw in the air that the old-one had breathed and as she breathed that air, she knew. She knew that one day the world would be different. One day it must be different. There would be no strangers anymore. Yes, people would always have to live with the cutting cold when the icy winds came after the fall of the leaves. They would always have to put up with the blackness of the night. There was no way to stop those things: the cold and the dark. People would always be hungry. But one day they would learn that the taking was wrong and the pulling of strangers into blackness was wrong and the axing of the necks of strangers was wrong. Those things would be gone forever, one day.