The Night Visitor (44 page)

These half-starved human beings survive with a simple culture of hewn wood, chipped stone, and polished bone that has
remained almost unchanged through a thousand generations of their kind. They are ignorant of such things as do not feed their bellies or satisfy other urgent needs. Not even the wisest among them realizes that their ancestors—adrift in long rafts of sealskin stretched over ribs of whale—had been cast ashore upon a continent where the earth had never felt the trod of human foot. Being continually occupied with thoughts of fresh meat, neither has it occurred to them that they are the fathers and mothers of great nations yet to be born. These are, by harsh necessity, a practical folk. Being realists, they consider themselves among the weakest of all the animals, and so they are. But someday… within a few ticks of the cosmic clock… their seed will build glistening cities… split atoms… and travel to worlds far from this one.

The men, spreading apart, wave their torches. They call out loud taunts.

The beast, as expected, backs uncertainly into the waters of the pond. He considers the steep bluff and pauses. There is no escape in that direction. He turns, lowers his great head, and makes sweeping gestures with the curved ivory tusks. The meaning of these invitations are not lost on the hunters.

Come near and I will disembowel you.

It is—at least temporarily—an impasse.

The beast has two choices and the hunters know from long experience that he will make his choice immediately. To charge amongst the dancing eyes of fire, or to wait.

The flames are terrifying, like the eyes of many ravenous beasts.

He waits.

If he is to live through this ordeal, the beast must not catch his scent. The volunteer has removed his clothing and smeared his body with slimy mud from a foul-smelling cattail marsh. All he wears now is the polished wooden pendant around his neck. It is a carving with the shape and spirit of the bear-tooth. Because it has been made and blessed by his crippled uncle—who is a powerful wizard—this facsimile is far more potent than the real thing. The youth hopes that the talisman has sufficient magic to protect him. He grips the heavy wooden
spear; his hands tremble with anticipation of the final kill, the ultimate glory of the hunt. And the potential rewards of that victory. He smiles in remembrance of a dark-eyed beauty who has been looking his way of late. She will be greatly impressed by the tale of this hunt, and his valiant role in it. It may be that she will come and sleep where he sleeps …

Another stands not far away, and glares at the youth. This one also lusts after the young woman. The older man fondles a leather implement hidden in the folds of his garment. It is a sling. With it are three smooth stones selected from a dry riverbed. Two are brown spheroids. The third is somewhat oblong… and it is formed of white quartz. It resembles an eagle's egg; surely this will give it special powers.

As the bone-yellow moon rises through misty clouds, the great beast still faces the screaming pack of human carnivores. The huge creature sways back and forth. He flings his trunk over his flattened head, and bellows. He lifts heavy legs from the muck, and puts them down again. All the time, he bleeds from the wound in his neck. And his massive feet are sticking in the mud; each effort to lift them drains his waning reservoir of strength.

It has been a long struggle. The band of hunters is ravenously hungry for fresh meat. They form up to flank their leader and approach the prey. They must hold his attention, so the young hunter can make his approach without alerting the beast. This encounter will be far more dangerous than they imagine. Especially for the eager youth who anticipates the tales he will tell of his boldness in the hunt—the admiration and pride in the eyes of the young woman.

Unexpectedly, the great beast falls silent. Weary unto death of his futile struggles in the muck, he falls to his knees and lowers his head. As if bowing down before them… these relentless carnivores who are destined to eradicate his kind.

And rule the world.

The leader of the small company, sensing an easy victory, slaps his thigh and laughs. This successful hunt will establish him as one to be reckoned with. Yes… after this, even more men will follow him.

The oldest man among them, faint with hunger, imagines a thick chunk of roasted flesh. Dripping savory grease into the fire. He licks his cracked lips. With enough fresh meat, maybe he will live through one more winter.

But it is not yet finished …

While the other hunters (all but one!) have kept the attention of the wary beast with waving torches and loud taunts, the spear-carrier has made a wide circle to the rear of the pond. And slipped silently down the stony bluff toward the water's edge. Everything, he believes, is going according to the leader's plan.

But not quite.

Someone has followed.

The naked youth takes the first tentative steps into the dark pond. The black water is ice-cold on his legs; he shivers. His fear is mixed with an odd sensation… a buzzing, tingling hum that prickles the skin on his neck. It is a warning. And then, like a flash of lightning on a dark landscape, comes the revelation. In an instant, the hunter
remembers
what shall come next. He has experienced this terrifying encounter far more times than a man of his tribe can count.

A thousand thousand times… and more.

He knows that it is time to die.

Though burdened with this heavy truth, he approaches the great beast with legs that cannot but go forward. What must happen is, so it seems, ordained. Once that darkness falls, he will persist in his relentless hunt… pursue the guilty soul of his murderer into eternity itself.

But
to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

Men's greatest triumphs, sweetest songs, foulest lies, bloodiest wars, most dismal follies… all must finally have an ending.

On occasion, someone will intervene and say: “Enough.”

On this night… a
little child shall lead them.

And so once more the grim-faced hunter wades deeper into the moonlit ripple of frigid waters to approach his destiny. Once again, the unseen figure waits behind him in the shadows at the top of the low bluff. As the youth comes near to the
heaving, hairy side of the great animal, ready to drive the long spear into the throbbing heart of the beast, the man in the darkness looses a brown river-stone from the sling. It smacks the mammoth on the rump… the startled beast raises from its kneeling position… turns its massive head.

The hunter knows full well what must come, as surely as night follows light.

He has seen it all before. A thousand thousand times… and more.

It happens so quickly—within a few beats of his heart.

The stricken mammoth sees the terrified young man with the spear… bellows its outrage… sweeps long tusks toward this small adversary. There is

a thunderous roar; a yellow arc flashes by his face.

The youthful hunter attempts a step backward. But he has sunk almost knee-deep into the thick ooze …

His feet are rooted in place.

A second missile is launched from the bluff above the pond… a white, egg-shaped stone.

There is a thin whistling sound …

It strikes the spear-carrier's skull.

… a sudden, mind-numbing pain.

The young hunter grabs his head, feels something hard protruding from his skull. He stumbles like a drunken man.

The mammoth takes another halfhearted swipe at the stricken man with its long tusks; the hunters rush into the pond—hoping to distract the animal with loud cries and the sting of flint-tipped darts.

It is all over so quickly. A hail of ineffective missiles are launched. The dying animal, oblivious to this assault, has simply
lost too many gallons of blood. The mammoth stumbles, reels… and falls onto the injured spear-carrier. The great beast struggles only for a moment… and sighs like a weary soul ready for that final sleep. Then, ever so slowly, the huge creature sinks into the dark grave where he will lay for a thousand thousand days and more. But not alone.

Then …

Filthy water fills his mouth… he struggles… gags.

Bones snap like dry twigs.

He sees the yawning mouth of the pit …

is swallowed up in darkness.

Then …

Someone comes… someone merciful.

It is Death. She whispers to him… caresses his face.

Pain slips away like melting wax.

It is over.

Indeed, it is finally, truly finished. His weary soul is released and now may find its rest.

The murderer pauses on the brow of the bluff; he must have his moment to gloat. His rival has been eliminated, and he is greatly pleased. But he must return to the pack before he is missed, so the shadowy figure leaves the bluff. Like a stealthy rodent, he scurries unseen through the hillside brush… slips furtively along the reedy bank of the black marsh. He is secure in the knowledge that his young rival is no more. The woman will be his alone. But two things bother him. First, there is the nagging sense that he has done this all before. Many times. And he is filled with the superstitious fear that someone… a stranger… has witnessed his crime.

The child has seen it all.

The leader pauses as he wades toward the still form of the fallen beast. He pulls his foot from the sucking muck, and recalls the mammoth's vain struggle. The seasoned hunter
scoops up a handful of ooze from the bottom. He rubs a sample between thumb and finger. Sniffs at it. Grunts his displeasure. He holds up his hand to halt those who follow and mutters a guttural command.

They understand. It is the dreadful black sand that will swallow a man alive.

Except for one soul whose overwhelming hunger overcomes his fear, they retreat to the reedy bank. He wades through the black waters, barely able to pull his feet from the clutching muck. The desperate carnivore climbs upon the beast's quivering leg and begins to hack away great chucks of bloody flesh. While his comrades watch, he gorges himself on this raw meat. On orders from the leader, the hunters break up dry reeds and tie them together in bundles. They will produce a makeshift raft to rescue the enthusiastic butcher… and as much precious flesh as can be salvaged.

Later, in the depths of winter, tales will be told of the youthful hunter's bravery. Songs will be sung about his great heart, how he carried the long spear, how he crept up behind the animal with sweeping tusks—only to be crushed when the beast fell. So the hero will not sleep with the young woman. He will have neither son nor daughter to remember his name. Alas, his remains will not be carried back to the camp for the ritual burning. His body has vanished under the dark waters.

Though most are sorrowful at the loss of the young man, these are not a sentimental people. There will be time later for such mourning as hard-pressed nomads can afford. Thoughts quickly turn to filling one's stomach. There was little enough meat to be salvaged before the beast was swallowed into the belly of the black sands, but it will feed a few mouths for a few days. At the edge of the pond, the surviving hunters make a circle of heavy stones. A surviving pine-knot torch is used to ignite birch twigs. Soon, a small fire snaps and pops. More fuel is added. Dry branch of pine and cedar. Stringy flesh roasts over the flames.

The child who dreams moves away.

At the camp near the base of the great rock pillar, there are those who anxiously await the return of the hunters. It is especially
the women who watch the forest for any sign of their men. The few aged souls who have survived many cruel winters wait patiently for either food or starvation. A small floppy-eared canine who is more wolf than dog lays his muzzle between his paws and whines.

One keeps himself apart from the others. He is old now, terribly crippled from an encounter with a great bison. Under the moon—now sailing high across a choppy sea of iceberg clouds—the wizard sits cross-legged before a fire. He tosses a handful of gray moss onto the embers. And bits of precious dried herbs.

The fire-spirit accepts the offering; bluish-yellow flames dance before the wizard.

He pulls up a pinch of loose skin on his thin neck and pierces it with a cactus spine. He repeats this ritual with seven spines, leaving all in place. Blood trickles onto his chest. The throbbing pain quickens his perception of things unseen. The wind suddenly whips the flames, sending smoke into his face. The gaunt man closes his eyes, breathes the acrid fumes deep into his lungs, as he whispers the powerful words passed down from shaman to shaman over many centuries. He waits.

Presently, he perceives the hunters… and the hunted. His closed eyes see torches waving in short arcs, his old ears hear—though faintly—the hoarse call of hunters to the cornered animal. The men are afraid of their prey, and rightly so. He can feel their racing heartbeats thudding under his own ribs. Gradually, the whole scene unfolds before him. The wizard watches the beast back slowly into the brackish waters of a reed-lined water hole. He feels the fear and desperation of the wounded prey. And senses its elemental urge… escape… escape… escape.

But the weary creature does not charge.

The wizard sees the brave youth—his nephew—with spear in hand. Approaching the great beast from behind. The vision fades. The old man opens his eyes.

Thinking his vision finished, he is greatly astonished.

In the smoke above the fire, the old man sees the face and form of a child.

*  *  *

It is a girl, with dark skin and oddly slanted eyes. She is not of his people, nor does she speak his tongue. And yet… she is of a kind with hint. Closer to the wizard than his wife, his sister… even his mother.

Now, her lips move. The child's words are alien, but in his soul the old man understands.