Part 9

He raised himself clear of his nest and felt about for his ax. His hand found it and gripped the haft. Slowly and without a sound, he glided towards the cave-mouth. Another moment and he would have turned the corner to safety when suddenly a hand touched his shoulder—an iron hand which silently bade him advance no farther. He stopped. Cold sweat broke out all over his body. He would have shrieked but his throat could give forth no sound. Again he tried to pass; but the hand and arm behind it were like an iron beam which held him back. He shrank into the cave once more and the pressure was released. No words were spoken—only low growls and beast-like snarls. The lightning flashes increased in frequency and force. They revealed the mad Giant standing guard in the entrance. Pic gripped his ax with a desperate fleeting notion of closing in and attempting to match the other’s strength with his blade of Ach Eul; but another glimpse of the diabolical face and he faltered. Such an idea were madness itself.

And then—he suddenly bethought himself of the opening behind the slab in the rear wall. It was a secret passage, a tunnel communicating with the outside world—liberty. The Wolf had come from there; the Giant too. His despair changed to hope. He retreated to the depths of the cave. It was but the work of a moment to find the limestone panel and push it noiselessly aside. He dropped flat on his belly and thrust his head and shoulders into the opening. The cold water streamed through and almost overwhelmed him, but he paid no heed. He followed with his body, his legs, his feet; and the cave with its mad occupant was left behind.

The passage inclined upwards. It was a crack or seam in the rock, smoothed and enlarged by the water that had trickled through it for untold centuries. He could progress but slowly as he lay flat on his chest and stomach and pushed himself along with his feet and hands. The passage-way seemed endless but he kept on upward as fast as he could crawl. And now he was nearing his journey’s end. Every moment the path ahead was illuminated by flashes of reflected light. He could faintly distinguish a roaring above his head as though the thunder was welcoming his escape from the Giant’s wrath. With a supreme effort he reached the outlet; then shrank back appalled as his head encountered the fury of the storm.

For an instant, he looked on, dismayed. The end of all things, appeared at hand; then the remembrance of the cave and its mad occupant urged him to seek the open—the lesser evil. Once more he pushed his head through the hole. He was about to draw himself clear when something closed on one ankle with an iron grip. A great hand held him fast. It was as though he were chained to the rock. He heard no sound; but with that grip upon his foot, his last chance had passed. In a panic of fear, he turned and struck behind him with his ax. A blood-curdling yell; and the crushing hold on his ankle relaxed. With a bound, he hurled himself clear of the opening, stumbled and fell heavily upon his back. A huge head sprang up behind him. A pair of hands with fingers spread and curled like eagle’s claws, stretched over the prostrate figure. Pic groaned and shut his eyes as the cruel talons descended to clutch his throat.

A deafening crash; a blot of dazzling flame shot down like a meteor from the heavens, striking the madman in the very midst of his spring. A second flash showed his great head and shoulders thrown back across the opening. Both arms were raised aloft and the look on his face was ghastly. Flare after flare revealed him sinking lower and lower, his eyes protruding in a hideous death-stare as though in hatred of the thunderbolt that had cheated him of his prey. Slowly he slid back into the fissure while Pic looked on in fascinated horror until the now lifeless body disappeared from sight.

For an instant, the darkness remained unbroken; then a momentary gleam disclosed a scene of wild desolation along the storm-swept heights overlooking the Neander Gorge. It lighted up the now empty mouth of the fissure and the figure of a man fast disappearing in the blinding fury of the tempest.

XV

The break of winter had just begun to heal the frost-scars and revive the blighted vegetation of the Vézère. The broad table-lands, crags and meadows were already casting their withered coats and preparing to don the green garb of spring, a welcome change after the long season of cold withering death.

A solitary figure was making its way across the meadows towards the Vézère river. It was the figure of a man bearing over one shoulder a flint-ax—a keen blade of lustrous grey bound to a stout wooden shaft. Pic the Ape Boy, grown to manhood after two years of travel and adventure in the north, was nearing his home at last.

As he reached the river and halted to gaze at the familiar scenes about him, he became imbued with the spirit of gladness which shone from every inanimate object, even the ordinarily cold limestone cliffs. The warm sunlight glare reflected from rock and river, diffused through his brain and body a sense of lazy comfort. It cast over him a spell too subtle to resist. With a sigh of content, he stretched himself full-length upon the grass near the river bank and gazed abstractedly at the ripples and whirling eddies as they sped past to mingle with the waters of the Dordogne. By degrees, his mind wandered, his eyes closed and his thoughts relapsed into reveries, then fanciful visions.

He was alone, high upon a rock, squatting before his fire, gazing through the smoke-wreaths. Slowly the latter gathered in volume until they were expanded into a pair of gigantic figures—a mammoth and rhinoceros. Other forms followed one after another—four-footed beasts of every shape and kind until a mighty throng was assembled about him, pressing threateningly forward. He turned to flee into his cave but it had disappeared. In its place, stood the Hairy Mammoth and Woolly Rhinoceros, their faces stern and filled with deep reproach. He averted his gaze expecting to encounter the menacing beast-throng; but all had vanished. In their stead, a pair of eyes flashing like red-hot coals pierced him through and through. His brain burned as the mad stare was directed upon him from two cavernous sockets surmounted by great bone-ridges. A sloping forehead took shape above the eyes; an arched nose, protruding muzzle and chinless jaw below. The face became a head mounted on bull-neck and massive shoulders.

“Who are you and why do you come here?” Pic boldly demanded; but cold sweat dampened his forehead and he cowered in terror, for the head was drawing nearer and nearer, muttering low growls and gnashing its teeth the while.

“Who am I? I was a man before I became mad. See me now. Men cannot live alone nor can they live with animals. You have done both. The Ape Boy will be the same as I unless”—and the voice grew deep and solemn—“he takes heed before it is too late.”

Pic could now feel the hot breath of the Neander Giant. He endeavored to rise and flee but his muscles would not respond. He averted his face and strove to call for aid; but his tongue was numb and no sound came.

The rocks seemed to rise and float away. He heard voices; then a sense of earthly things crept over him, with a change from gloom to light. He opened his eyes and saw not one but a score of faces scowling fiercely upon him. With a startled exclamation, he strove to rise but found himself held fast in the grip of many hands.

“Who are you? From where do you come?” demanded a red-eyed fellow as he threatened Pic with his upraised ax.

Overwhelmed by his rude awakening, Pic was slow to respond. A violent kick in the side aroused him from his stupor.

“I am a man like yourself,” he hastened to reply. “Back all of you and let me rise. I have just returned. My cave is in the high rock overlooking the valley;” and he pointed in the direction of Moustier.

Again he attempted to stand but the hands still held him fast. The man who had first spoken, shook his ax and snarled angrily:

“You lie; the Cave Lion lives there as we all know.” He threw back his arms and displayed a hideous breast-scar not entirely healed. “Behold his work! The bones of him who fared worse are scattered upon the ledge;” and he made a horrid grimace as though not at all pleased at the recollection.

Pic saw and hesitated. In the face of such evidence, it seemed a waste of words to parley with his captors; nevertheless he made the attempt.

“Grun Waugh may be there now,” he snarled; “but the cave is mine. Loosen my hands, so that I may visit the Rock and drive the beast from his den.”

At this brazen insolence, every face became a picture of amazement, changing to furious rage as its significance dawned upon all. The fierce looks and growls of the Cave-men boded ill for Pic who now realized that his words were neither wise nor well-chosen. He glanced curiously from one to another. In them, he recognized human beings of his own tribe; natives of the lower Vézère Valley, the same as he. He noted their hollow eyes, sunken cheeks and emaciated forms. He had seen such things before; the results of cold, hunger and disease and a spring season of fruitless hunting. Famine had hardened every ridge and furrow and made hideous the features of these famished men. To them, strangers were unwelcome at best; but the sight of the newcomer’s well-rounded figure was more than these hungry mortals could endure. One of the band bent down and smote Pic’s cheek with his open palm.

“So we have a lion-tamer come amongst us,” he sneered. “We, your good friends will accompany you to the Rock and learn how cave-lions are managed.”

“To the Rock with him,” cried a voice. “The braggart shall furnish sport for us and the Lion both, provided the beast is at home and ready for another meal.”

Pic was jerked roughly to his feet—a vigorous young giant standing amidst an emaciated horde. His ax—which until this moment had escaped the notice of his captors—was now exposed to view. The man who had struck him, bent low to secure the weapon. As his eyes caught the great blade’s lustrous gleam, he jumped back with an astonished yell:

“The flint! Arrah! Come all and see.”

Every pair of eyes followed the outstretched arm and hand pointing to earth—at the blade of Ach Eul lying upon the ground.

A great commotion followed as the warriors surged around their captive for a closer view of the wonderful flint. In the excitement, Pic was left the freedom of his limbs. He was preparing for a bold dash to freedom when suddenly a voice bellowed from the outskirts of the group: “Stand back, crow’s meat;” and a burly figure forced its way toward the prisoner, thrusting aside those in front of him with no gentle hand.

All fell back and made room to let him pass. From the manner in which they submitted to his rude buffeting, Pic knew that the chief of the band was approaching. The burly newcomer was a man of broad shoulder and powerful limb. In spite of his famished condition, his arm and body muscles bulged through their drawn skin-covering and concealed all but the joints of his big-boned frame. As he glanced curiously at Pic, then at the ax lying upon the ground, a look of astonishment came over his face. He bent low and clutched the wooden haft.

“None can mistake this blade,” he muttered. “How came it here?” He turned to his prisoner. “Who are you?” he roared. “Common beasts do not go about alone, bearing chieftains’ blades. How did you come by this flint? Quick, answer before I stir your tongue with a burning brand.”

“I am not a chieftain,” Pic protested loudly. “But the ax is mine; rightly won and mine to hold and fight for if need be;” then as low growls greeted these bold words, his voice softened and became appealing. “Hear me, you warriors,” he pleaded, glancing from one face to another. “For three long winters, have I lived alone with the finger of scorn pointing at me—one who would neither hunt nor fight. All men are warriors; some are flint-workers but not one can make flints as they should be made. I have striven to be that one. I have searched in vain for what would make me that one; and now I know it cannot be. No longer will I live alone nor with”—he checked himself and went on—“Now I have returned to live as a man should. My arm is strong, seasoned for the hunt and prepared to cross axes with any man. The Ape Boy has passed away. Pic the——”

He got no farther. A bedlam of howls and yells rent the air:

“Death to the renegade! Arrah! Burn the Ape Boy! To the Rock; to the Cave Lion with him! Kill; kill!” The fierce Cave-men surged about him so furiously that no ax could be brought to bear, so much were one and all of them hampered by the eagerness of their fellows. Above the tumult now thundered the chieftain’s loud command: “Silence! Stand back, all of you,” and as the howls subsided into snarls at his bidding, he stepped forward and shook his ax-blade in Pic’s face.

“Ape Boy? Agh-h! Now we know you—friend of beasts, enemy of men. The Cave Lion is too gentle for such as you. Back to the shelter with him,” he roared. “No beast shall cheat the stomachs of starving men.”

In a moment, Pic was overpowered and borne to the ground. While half a dozen of his captors held him down and pinioned his arms behind him, others bound his wrists together with strips of hide. When he was thus securely trussed, the Cave-men helped him to his feet; and then, with their captive in the center, and the blade of Ach Eul borne triumphantly on the burly chieftain’s shoulders, they began their march across the meadows towards the overhanging cliffs bordering the valley.

XVI

The valley of the Vézère was a thick rock-bed, through which the river had—in remote ages—carved a deep channel with almost vertical sides. In time, the course of the stream became diverted at intervals throughout its length. In places the limestone walls fell in or weathered away, leaving broad rock-floors only a few feet above the normal level of the stream. During the melting and rainy seasons, these low areas were subject to intermittent flooding as the Vézère overflowed its banks. This irrigation, further aided by deposition of silt or river mud, gradually transformed the bare rock-floors into fertile meadows, covered—even during the cold season—with fresh, sweet grass.

On the western side of the Vézère River, several miles above its junction with the Dordogne, one of these low, grass-covered areas extended some three miles inland, then terminated abruptly in lofty limestone cliffs. The latter marked the valley border, a step from river lowland to high plateau. A northwestern tributary of the Vézère formed the meadow’s northern boundary.

This broad lowland was a region much frequented by Mousterian Cave-men, particularly that portion of it lying directly beneath the limestone cliffs. In one place, the massive rock-wall was deeply undercut so that the cliff-face rose not straight upward, but inclined outward, thereby forming an overhanging shelf or canopy protecting the ground directly under it.

Such was the Ferrassie Rock-shelter, summer home and metropolis of the Vézère Cave-folk. It was a human habitation, an open-air camp where men gathered each spring to enjoy the bright, warm sunlight after a winter season of confinement in damp and gloomy caves.

Close to the base of the cliffs and shielded from wind and rain by the overhanging rock, burned a great fire of dead branches and unhewn logs. The smoke therefrom curled outward and upward, clinging closely to the shelving wall. The latter served as a broad chimney enclosed only on one side. The wall was stained greasy black, changing to grey with increased height, indicating that the smoke had followed the same course for an extended period of time.

Arranged in a semi-circle about the fire and with their feet almost in the hot ashes, squatted ten or more grizzled men and women. All sat silent and motionless, gazing into the smoke-wreaths which curled up the overhanging wall. They stared with dull, unseeing eyes, for their minds had grown callous with sorrow and suffering. For them, the joys of life had passed. They were beings, prematurely aged who should have been but in their prime. Their bodies were little more than skin and bone—skeletons clothed in hairy hide, and their faces were stamped with the symbol of death—a dark patch in each hollow parchment cheek. Each drawn face and emaciated body bore the unmistakable signs of famine and disease—hunger-marks—which made those who wore them, hideous in face and form.

On the outside of the group squatting about the fire and beyond the cliff overhang, six or seven younger people, all women, sat, reclined or lay full length about a limestone block. This block lay deeply embedded in the soil. Its exposed part formed a table with a level top about one foot high and a square yard in area. Its surface was scratched and worn. It was a butcher-block where the Cave-men were wont to dismember venison, beef or other game for convenience of handling before subjecting the raw chunks to fire treatment. It served also as an anvil where unusually tough flesh of aged buck, steer or other antiquary could be hammered and softened when no better offered. Lastly, the limb bones could be laid upon the flat stone surface and split open, thereby exposing the marrow within. Cave-men were ever partial to marrow bones and so the butcher-block bore the marks of long hard usage.

It was immaculate, smooth and polished as though freshly scrubbed, a surprising condition considering that cave-men were none too particular as regards their personal habits. But necessity rather than scruple had driven these hungry folk to seek out and consume every scrap of fat or flesh even to the last dried shred. The surface of the butcher-block was licked, gnawed, bitten until no trace of refuse remained, not even the grease veneer nor inlay of brown dried blood.

Now that spring has come at last, the Cave-folk had crawled from their holes to gather hope and strength from the fresh air and the sun’s warm rays. Through the long dreary winter they had remained underground, venturing forth at rare intervals to replenish their diminishing food-supply. Half clad in hide wrappings and with fires continually burning near the entrance of their dwellings, they had huddled together awaiting the return of mild weather which many would never see again. And finally from the rock-holes where they had so long lain, ghostly relics of once powerful men and women had crawled to gaze again upon the sun and feel its warmth beneath the Ferrassie cliffs. The warriors staggered out to the meadows and sought their next meal with ax, dart and throwing-stone, leaving the old people and women behind to await the fruits of the first hunting.

A laughing bark sounded from the outskirts of the camp. Wolves and hyenas prowled where bones and scraps of meat were frequently cast out as refuse or where bodies of men were conveniently placed to be cared for by these ghoulish undertakers, after the fashion of Mousterian funerals.

The bark—a mere nothing in itself—signalled the approach of a band of figures coming across the meadows. The figures were those of men, bearing darts and flint-axes in their hands. In a moment, they were espied by the women who leaped to their feet dancing and shouting: “Here they come! The hunters are returning. What do they bring with them to fill our stomachs?” Those about the fire left their comfortable positions to join in welcoming the newcomers and all hobbled forth, a procession of living skeletons to meet those who stood between them and starvation.

As they glanced wildly from man to man and saw no trace of beef or venison, they gave vent to their bitter disappointment in loud wails—the cries of hunger unappeased. The hunters had returned empty-handed. One of the women, a scrawny old hag, whose eyes protruded with the stare of madness, pushed her way into the group of men, examining each one closely to assure herself that none bore food of any kind. From the way all made room and the rude deference shown her, it was evident that she was a privileged character—a creature who inspired the Cave-men’s awe. The burly Mousterian leader sought to avoid her but she stood in his path and blocked the way.

“No meat?” she whined. “No beef; no venison; not even a rabbit or squirrel?”

The chieftain only shook his head and growled. The old woman was about to make a sneering remark when she caught sight of a figure in the center of the group—a young man of bold mien and powerful build. His hands were held behind him but he bore no weapons. The hag singled him out, elbowing her way through the throng until she stood before him.

“Whom have we here?” she demanded. “Where can men live and keep themselves so well-fed and strong? Does he come to tell us of the good hunting that has put such meat upon his bones?”

“That meat will soon come off,” the chieftain grunted. “Your eyes grow dull, mother or you would remember your good friends. Look closer and see if he does not resemble one of our young men—one who fancies the beasts more than ourselves. He has changed much in several seasons but we, who once knew him, were quick to recognize him.”

“The Ape Boy!” cried the old hag. “I did not know him at first! he has grown so big and strong.” At that moment she perceived the thong which bound the captive’s wrists. Her features assumed an expression of savage cunning. She leered in his face, even as she rubbed one hand upon the other and chuckled to herself:

“And so my young men have not returned empty-handed, after all. I had hoped for beef or venison, but I see that they have done even better. Now we can fill our empty stomachs and cheat the hyenas that howl about us.”

“A welcome change from bugs and willow-bark,” said one of the hunters. “Plump and round he is, like a raccoon stuffed with winter fat.”

“Good; very good,” chuckled the old witch. “A present for your dear old mother, eh? Too long have I lain in your filthy cave with nothing but cold air to stir my stomach. But you shall all share alike and I ask nothing—nothing but the heart all warm and bleeding. Quick, bring him to the butcher-block so that he may be dressed and served without delay.”

“What, and bring the lions down upon us?” cried a voice.

All turned towards the speaker, a young woman who had suddenly appeared from behind a bend in the cliff wall. She was gazing curiously at the prisoner. “You know the rule as well as I,” she said boldly even as the old hag glowered savagely upon her.

Grunts of approval sounded on all sides. Pic evinced a sudden interest in the newcomer. He saw before him a mere girl whose wan features and wasted body nevertheless retained much of youthful feminine grace. Her face lacked the great hollows and bone-ridges so marked in the visages of those about her. Pic took in these details at a glance. They pleased him; he smiled. The girl’s face assumed an astonished expression; and then—she smiled too. Pic could not repress the exclamation that arose to his lips. Never before had his peculiarly human and friendly greeting been returned in its own coin. At the sound he made, all turned upon him in surprise, then to the cause of his outburst, only to see the eyes of both lowered meekly to the ground and apparently without interest in the things about them.

The burly chieftain now ended the matter with a wave of his ax.

“The girl is right,” he growled. “The rule stands even though we starve. The day grows short. None shall taint the camp with fresh blood and draw the night-prowling lions and hyenas upon us. Not until the first streak of dawn, can we bring him to the butcher-block and break our long fast.”