Mists of Dawn (27 page)
Authors: Chad Oliver
The flickering fires threw long crawling shadows on the cave walls, and the half-men moved through the dancing light like creatures from a long-forgotten dream. Mark watched them roast chunks of meat on long sticks and then gorge themselves with food. His
hunger became almost unbearable as the smell of roasting meat drifted up into his tiny cavern.
After the Neanderthals had eaten, Mark witnessed a strange sight. Methodically, as from long habit, the half-men shuffled into position behind the fire. There, fitting themselves into places between the ceremonial rocks and bones, they stood silently for a moment. One of their number, a man with a band of red painted across his low forehead, screamed loudly four times. Then he fell to his knees and four times he pounded his head against a large skull that looked as if it had come from a mammoth.
There was silence. The long shadows played among the stooped figures. Outside, the cold wind moaned across the cave mouth like the cry of an impossible spirit, forever dead, forever longing to be born.
Mark watched, fascinated despite the seriousness of his position. At what must have been a prearranged signal that he had failed to catch, every Neanderthal except the man with the red band on his forehead picked up a long white bone and started to beat it on the rocks. A rhythmic clicking filled the cave. Once more, the number four was predominant. The rhythm was a distinct pattern of a series of fours followed by short, sharp silences.
It was a scene to stagger the imagination, and its effect was not lost on Mark. Here in the dawn of time the first groping men stood in the black shadows beyond the leaping flames and made their rude music out of bones and rocks. There was something infinitely sad about the creatures in the cave, something that was past all knowledge or expression. Almost, Mark could pity them, horrible as they were. They were not really
human—and
yet
they
were
not
wholly
animals
either. There
they
lived
and
dreamed
strange
dreams,
and
all the
while
the
great
Wheel
of
Time
rolled
mercilessly on,
wiping
them
out
even
as
it
wiped
out
the
vast
ice sheets
that
had
been
their
home.
The
Wheel
turned, grinding
them
under
.
.
.
But
they
were
not
gone
yet.
Suddenly,
the
clicking
stopped.
The
hush
was
deafening.
The
Neanderthals
stood
without
moving.
There wasn’t
a
sound
in
the
cave
except
the
sputter
and
hiss of
the
fire.
Three
men
detached
themselves
from
the group,
the
half-man
with
the
red
band
across
his
forehead
in
the
lead.
They
came
across
the
cave
floor, straight
toward
Mark.
Mark
smiled
coldly.
The
ceremony
had
been
for
his
benefit,
then.
He
was
to
be
the
star
performer.
He could
not
know
exactly
what
his
part
would
be,
but he
could
guess.
It
wasn’t
that
the
Neanderthals
hated him
in
particular,
or
in
any
way
regarded
him
as
unusual.
This
was
evidently
just
the
process
they
went through
whenever
they
got
hold
of
anyone
like
him. What
was
the
Army
phrase
he
had
heard
his
uncle
use?
Standard
operating
procedure.
What
would
happen
to
him?
Obviously,
a
group
like the
Neanderthals,
living
as
they
did
on
a
bare
economy of
essentials,
would
have
no
use
for
prisoners.
A
slave was
of
little
use
in
such
a
society,
being
more
trouble than
he
was
worth.
Mark
had
not
been
fed,
nor
had
he been
given
anything
to
drink.
It
was
clear
that
they were
not
going
to
leave
him
alive.
His
death
might
be fast
or
slow,
but
death
it
would
be.
Were
the
Neanderthals
cannibals?
Possibly—but
Mark
was
not
worried about
what
would
happen
to
him
after
he
died.
He wanted
to
live.
There
would
be
no
more
waiting,
no
more
hoping for
a
better
chance.
This,
he
knew,
was
it.
The
three
Neanderthals
thrust
aside
the
boulder
at the
cave
mouth.
The
half-man
with
the
red
band
on his
forehead
growled
at
Mark
and
Mark
understood that
he
was
to
get
up.
He
thought
carefully
and
drew the
.45;
arid
this
time
he
knew
that
he
would
use
it. But
he
did
not
fire
yet.
He
pulled
himself
to
his
feet and
then
swayed
dizzily.
He
shook
his
head
at
the half-man
and
stumbled.
He
tried
desperately
to
get across
the
idea
that
he
was
too
weak
to
walk.
