Chapter 11 - The Search Party part 1

The first hint that darkness had come to roost in our bucolic valley came the evening Brulde and I stumbled upon the search party on the Mound of Ghosts.

The Mound of Ghosts is what our people called the evergreen forest on the southeast ridge overlooking our summer settlement. The dense pines there were ancient and tall, and when the wind blew through their swaying boughs, it seemed one could hear the hushed whispering of spirits. It was not a thing that frightened my people. We worshiped our ancestors. The thought of ghosts was comforting to us. Still, it was a place we traveled through solemnly. We treated the Mound as we treated our elders, with reverence and respect.

Brulde and I had taken one of the paths that wound through the Mound of Ghosts as a shortcut back to the village. Our hunt that day had been successful and we were burdened with meat for our family, a large buck. We were tired but in high spirits. We sang as we walked, as our people were wont to do, but we kept our voices low so that we did not disturb any earthbound spirits. The dense pines and needle-padded earth softened all sound in the forest. It was like the hush that fell upon the world after a heavy snowfall.

At first the only thing we heard, aside from the rustle of the trees, was our low humming voices and the crunch of our feet on the brittle forest duff. Presently, we noticed a chorus of distant cries. It was impossible to judge their distance, as the pines deadened all sound within the boundaries of the forest, but as we marched on the voices grew steadily louder, accompanied by rhythmic popping sounds.

"Fat Hands," Brulde said with a frown, after we had paused for a moment to listen. I agreed. The voices of the Fat Hand people were distinct from our own, higher in pitch and nasal. It sounded like a large group of our Neanderthal neighbors were moving loudly through the wilderness, yelling and beating the tree trunks with sticks.

"Are they hunting?" Brulde asked.

I shrugged. How could I know? The Fat Hands did not normally hunt in this area, which we considered part of our territory. It was not forbidden to them, but they were wary of the wooded ridge, thinking it haunted by evil spirits.

"They don't come this way often," I said. "They're afraid of ghosts."

Brulde chuckled.

"It doesn't sound like they're hunting though," I added, frowning thoughtfully.

The Fat Hands did not hunt as we did. We employed bows, nets and long throwing spears to catch and kill our quarry. We tracked our game in pairs or trios and sometimes baited traps. The Fat Hands used crudely fashioned knives or short jabbing spears. They hunted in groups, driving their prey into an ambush by yelling and thrashing the underbrush, then throwing their powerful bodies onto the beasts when they had run them half to death. It was a brutal affair, which often left at least one member of the hunting party injured, but it was their way.

Although they were making quite a ruckus, it did not sound like the rhythmic cries they usually made when they were driving game through the woodland, and the noise was coming from a single direction instead of spread along a cordon.

It was strange.

Brulde and I had killed a deer earlier that morning on the other side of the ridge, where the forest was not so densely wooded. We had bound the animal's legs together with leather strips and suspended its carcass from a branch, which we were carrying on our shoulders. It was a long trek back to Big River Camp and our backs were aching, so we debated for a moment whether to wait and see what the Fat Hands were up to or continue on our way.

"Fodaaaarrr! Eeeeeeevv!"

In the end, curiosity trumped our complaining backs. We set the carcass down and squatted to await the Fat Hands.

Massaging my aching shoulder, I listened to the echoing yells with concern. "I wonder what they're doing so deep in our territory," I said. Although our relationship with the Neanderthals was generally a peaceful one, there had been territorial skirmishes with our neighbors in the past, during leaner seasons. Even minor clashes with the Fat Hands could be deadly. Despite our advanced weaponry, a Fat Hand was just as strong as two of our kind. It might even be a party of hunters we were unfamiliar with. Crossing the path of strangers so far from home was particularly dangerous, especially as there were only two of us.

"I don't know," Brulde replied, cocking his ear. "It doesn't sound like they're driving a beast. It sounds like they're calling out to someone."

I listened for a moment.

"Yes, you're right," I said.

Normally, Fat Hands yelled "Yah!" or howled like wild dogs when they were on the hunt, using their cries to drive an animal into ambush. This group was yelling, "Fodar!" and "Evv!" If I remembered correctly, Fodar and Evv were the names of two of our neighboring tribe's younger adult males.

The voices drew nearer. After a few minutes, the Fat Hands came into sight, rounding the hill and tromping in our direction. They were walking single file, armed with their crude knives and short, sharp jabbing sticks.

"Fodar! Evv!"

They bashed the trunks of the pines with their sticks, the dull whacks resounding in the air. When a few more straggled into sight and I saw that none of them had noticed us, I thought it might be prudent to announce ourselves so that we didn't startle them.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, "Yah! Fat Hands!"

Those nearest to us started and crouched down, weapons swinging in our direction. I grinned and showed them my open hands. Even though I recognized a few of them, there was a wildness in their eyes that made me nervous. I could tell they were spooked by our haunted hillside. Fat Hands were impressive warriors but terribly fearful of the supernatural.

I was particularly friendly with one of the Neanderthals-- a big bear of a man named Frag. He had thick, tangled black hair that hung to his waist and a beard like a bird's nest, interwoven with small feathers and twigs. He stood at the head of the group.

"Frag! It is Gon!" I called. "Gon and Brulde!"

He squinted in my direction for a moment, and then recognition dawned in his deep-set brown eyes. A toothy grin appeared in the center of his frizzy beard and he relaxed from his fighting stance, standing straight and lowering his knife. I saw him murmur to the others before he started in our direction. Weapons drooping, his tribesmen trudged after him, following his lead.

Brulde hung back. He had never been easy around the Fat Hands. As they approached, he watched them with wide, worried eyes, his thumb tracing the scar that quartered his face from cheekbone to jaw.

I walked forward to greet the Neanderthals alone. There was no danger from them now. They had accepted my presence.

"Little Worm," Frag greeted me. He thumped me on the chest, a familiarity among his kind. They liked to put their hands on you, make sure you were real and not a ghost or a demon. "You look fit. Eating well, I see." He laughed, patting me on the belly.

"We killed a buck this morning," I said, cocking my head toward Brulde, who was squatting beside the animal. "You're welcome to join us for supper tonight." To put Frag at ease, I made sure to place my hands on him. I patted his thick shoulder.

Frag shook his head. "Dark is coming soon and we are hunting for Herung's sons, Fodar and Evv. They have been gone many suns now."

The other Fat Hands were tramping up behind him. I greeted them silently as the big man spoke, nodding to them with my hands open. I recognized a few of them. Muld. Spelt. Old Herung, who was blind in one eye. I looked to see if Eyya's father was with the group, but the old man was absent. We sometimes mingled at the river, these men and I, though they were not the fishermen I normally spent my days with. Several of them stepped forward and put their palms to my chest.

"Have you Fast Feet seen my boys?" Herung wheezed. He was ancient, gray-headed and blind in one eye, but he was still a powerful warrior, barely stooped by his years. The desperate hope in his one good eye made me feel sad for him.

"None of my people have spoken of seeing your sons on our land," I answered sympathetically. Although our tribes were friendly, it was not really a common occurrence to see Fat Hands passing through our territory. We mostly saw them at the river during the warm season, if we saw them at all. The passing of the old man's sons would have been remarked upon.

Herung sighed, blinking down at the ground. Two of his companions patted him on the back to console him.

Frag scrubbed his mouth, eying Herung solemnly for a moment. I could tell by the way his protruding brow wrinkled that he was reluctant to continue. He looked at me gravely. "Poi-lot here saw an old speartooth three suns ago," he finally said.

Poi-lot, the Fat Head standing behind Frag, spread his hands apart and said, "A big one! Fangs this long! An old male."

Speartooths were what we called them in our day. You know them now as saber-toothed tigers. The cats that hunted our territory were every inch as big as a man and twice as heavy, with fangs as long as a man's hand from palm to fingertip. They normally hunted in packs, feeding on giant sloths and mammoths that were too young or infirm to defend themselves, but they weren't averse to dining on men who were unlucky enough to cross their path.

Rogue males that had been expelled from their pride were the biggest threat to our people. They were forced to prey on smaller game, a category that did not exclude Fast Feet and Fat Hands. They would even stray into our camps if they were starving, though it was a rare occurrence. One of my brothers had been snatched from our tent by a speartooth when I was a child. I was sleeping right next to him when it happened and still have a fear of the big cats. My brother's death haunts me when I cannot sleep and my mind turns to terrible imaginings. I will never forget the look of horror on Vooran's face as the speartooth dragged him away into the dark, his little hand reaching out to me, fingers pale and splayed as he disappeared into the night.

"We have been tracking it for two suns," Frag said. "It has been traveling in the direction of your camp. Your people should increase its night watch until we find the beast and kill it."

"If it took my Fodar and Evv I will kill it and devour its heart," Herung swore angrily.

I nodded sympathetically. There were countless large predators on the prowl in those times. Great raptors that swooped down from the sky and snatched children from the earth, bears that could tear a man in half with one swipe of their massive claws, scaly dragons that laid in wait in murky pools for careless passersby. It was always a tragedy when one of our people were killed and eaten by the beasts but it was hardly uncommon. Young men in particular fell prey to that fate. Lacking experience and addled by the seething hormones that accompanied their coming-of-age, they thought they knew how to survive in the wild, away from the safety of the village. They snuck away to find their manhood but more often than not found only their deaths 'twixt fang and claw.

"We will help you hunt this beast," I offered. "But it will be night soon. Come to Big River Camp with us. We'll have a better chance of finding your sons in the daytime."

It was dangerous to hunt a speartooth during the day. Hunting a big cat at night was the height of folly. The wily beasts often circled back on their pursuers, picking off the stragglers in the dark. They were cunning, and they killed without a sound.

Frag squinted toward the setting sun. The sky in the west was a pit of burning coals. He conferred with his companions, but it didn't take them long to come to a consensus. He accepted my offer.

When it was agreed upon, Poi-lot threw the deer over his shoulders and cheerfully carried it to the village for us. The weight of the animal didn't even slow him down.