The Cusp, Part I

The Cusp

He sat on a ridge above the plain. He always thought of the ridge as a boar’s back. It was narrow and rocky with a patch of trees, like the bristles on a boar, as it sloped downward. He had seen thirty-five winters, and his hair and beard were starting to have a few gray hairs in them. His eyes had wrinkles at the corners from squinting into the distance and the effects of sun and wind. His life had been spent in the open in an area that would later be called the fertile crescent. He was of stocky build, with broad shoulders that let him pull a strong bow, and muscular legs, not unheard of but not common among the people. The people tended toward being lean and sinewy. He was dressed in a tunic of brain tanned leather, that was made in a way that let it be worn as a knee length kilt in hot weather. The day was warm and the sun felt good on his shoulders.

In the distance stood the city. It held the largest collection of people he had ever seen. There were more people there than there were among “the people”. The city had mud brick walls that surrounded the houses, buildings, and at the center, the temple. Outside the walls were the fields. Every year there were more fields. The fields were worked by the people who lived in the city and by slaves from a tribe that had tried to raid them. The raiders were brave, but unorganized and their attack had broken on the walls. The temple had sent soldiers into the raiders territory who exacted retribution and brought back many captives. Some captives were sacrificed to the city gods, and the rest were put to work. Those who tried to escape had their feet broken. Speed was not important for clearing land and tending crops.

His tribe called themselves “the people”. There were other humans in the land, many different tribes, but they were not his people. His people were of the land and always had been. They worshipped the earth mother, the sky father, and his children the sun and the moon. The spirits of the old ones, the ancestors, were venerated and their blessings sought. As a hunter he venerated the spirits of the animals. They fed him and his family. He had tattoos on his chest, on each pectoral muscle. One of a boar and one of a fox. They helped him to be courageous and clever. Others in the band had tattoos of their spirit animals, lions, wild bulls, gazelles. Some questioned his choices, but he had seen a scarred old boar open the belly of a lion who was young and foolish enough to attack it alone. He had no regrets about his choices.

His family camped three hours away at the edge of a forest near a spring. They were close enough to gather water, but far enough away to let the animals drink. They had a good shelter made of hides. In warm weather the sides were rolled up to allow a breeze. In rain the sides would be rolled down and the oiled leather would shed water. He lived with his wives and children. He had met first wife when they were both fifteen. He had been hunting and stopped in the shadow of a boulder to survey the area before breaking cover. He had seen the young woman stalking up on a herd of gazelle. Many would not have noticed her; she moved very slowly and only when the gazelles’ heads were down as they fed. She used the land and the wind to get closer as the hours slid by. Finally, when a fat young male moved out from the group, she had drawn her bow and sent an arrow into its ribs just above his heart. The arrow had passed through the gazelle and she was unable to find it. He watched as she performed the ritual of the last bite and thanked the gazelle and the ancestors for guiding her shot. Women of the people often hunted in their youth, before babies took over their time and kept them closer to camp or out gathering.

He had walked out of the shadows letting her see him as he approached. He stopped three paces away and introduced himself. His name told her his tribe and lineage. Among the tribes, a woman who was betrothed wore a leather band on her left wrist. Her left wrist was bare.

“What are you doing here?” She had asked.

“Scouting and hunting.”

“What did you see?”

“The woman I am going to marry.”

She had looked straight at him with intelligent grey eyes.

“The woman would have to agree.”

“She will. I am very patient and will stay on a track as long as it takes to finish a hunt.”

“A hunter will do well to know that which he is hunting. Some animals can be more dangerous than they seem.”

“I have seen how dangerous the animal I am after is. I will tread carefully and with respect.”

The rules of hospitality required that a hunter who had killed well offer food. They grilled the gazelle’s liver over a small fire. She hoisted the dressed gazelle onto her back. She told him where her group was camped and walked into the gloaming.

Two days later he had visited the camp of her people. He brought best cuts of meat and wore a pouch over his shoulder. He carried his bow and a quiver of arrows. The bow was unstrung to show that he meant no harm. She met him at the edge of the clearing as the dogs gathered around him barking. She spoke to the dogs and they quieted.

“I have eaten at your fire. I have come to repay you for the meat and the hospitality.”

“I only did what was required.”

“I always repay my debts.”

The rest of her group was watching. He saw a man who looked to be her father and two brothers approached. He met them and extended his right hand. Grasping their forearms in turn. It was a custom that showed he was not concealing a weapon. He introduced himself including his tribe and band. Her father spoke.

“You are the man who speaks boldly to my daughter.”

“I only speak the truth.”

“You wish her for your wife?”

“Yes, when the time is right.”

“I will have a say in who she marries.”

“As it has always been.”

Her father looked at him taking his measure. His eyes fell upon his bow. He had made it himself. It had taken months, finishing the wood, laminating the strips of horn and sinew, smoothing, polishing and tillering. It was a very strong bow, but he could draw and hold it. His father had put a bow in his hand in his third year. A small bow with arrows that had blunt ends. They would walk and his father would call out targets. A stick, A lump of earth. A clump of grass. At first, he had missed often, even the closest targets. His father and uncles had been patient and told him how to make the bow a part of him. He hit more targets. As he grew his father made him stronger bows. He practiced every day. In his fifth year he had taken a large hare. His father had praised him and gone with him to the shelter of the oldest people in the band. He had given the haunches to them. It was the responsibility of a hunter to put the needs of the people above his own.

The old man’s eyes had grown dim, and he could only see up close. He had spoken to him.

“Your father teaches you respect, young one. Come here tomorrow and I will teach you other things.”

The next day the old man brought out his knapping tools. He told him about looking at the stones carefully and seeing where it wanted to cleave. He held up a piece of flint. “There are arrow points and drills in here. We just have to let them out.” He watched as the old one examined the stone and listened carefully as he spoke. The people believed in teaching children early and with patience. The people had many skills that let them be part of the land. When he returned to his father and mother’s shelter, he had a few cuts from where the stone had broken wrong when not hit correctly.

“The old one is the best tool maker I have ever seen. He will teach you well. The cuts on your fingers are the price you pay to learn what the stone has to teach.”

He listened well and worked hard. Soon he was making usable tools. He practiced often and by his twelfth year his points and blades were as good as most in the band. By his fifteenth year he was a master. He had learned to read the stone and release what it held. He took pride in his work. His father and uncles asked him to make points for them.

Her father looked at the bow. He took it from his shoulder and let him examine it.

“Well made. Does it shoot well for you?”

“We do well enough together.”

“You may string her and show us.”

He carefully strung the bow, his shoulder muscles straining with the effort. Once strung he passed the bow to her father who carefully drew it and let it down. Her father tried hard not to show how much effort it had taken to draw it. Her father spoke to one of her brothers in a low voice. The brother went to a basket of pomegranates and placed one on a stump twenty steps away. Her father returned the bow to him.

“Our customs require us to share with visitors. You and your bow can prepare that fruit for our meal.”

He took the bow and walked back another ten steps. The hunters in the group spoke among themselves. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, knocked it and came to full draw. The muscles in his back and shoulders stood out. He sighted down the arrow and loosed it. The arrow struck the pomegranate dead center. Her father raised an eyebrow. Her brothers and the other hunters smiled. He went to the basket and picked out another pomegranate. He spoke to one of the brothers who smiled and nodded.

“The women in my tribe say that the sweetest fruit is in the high branches, but hard to reach.”

He nocked a second arrow and nodded to the brother. The brother tossed the pomegranate high with an underhanded throw. He drew and tracked the pomegranate with the tip of the arrow. Just before the pomegranate reached the apex, he loosed the arrow. The arrow and the pomegranate reached the apex at the same time. Pomegranate juice rained down. The brother caught the fruit before it hit the ground. He retrieved both of his arrows. He did not smile or speak. They would come to know him and learn that he despised braggarts and was known to be a serious and mature young man among the people. The woman who would be his wife smiled, then caught herself and looked away.

“Come to our shelter. Let’s see what the women can do with the meat you brought.”

They sat in the shade of the shelter while the women cut the meat into pieces and placed it in a pot with roots and herbs. The women moved part of the fire off of a rock and made flat bread on the heated surface. The woman who would be his wife fixed her hair into a single braid down her back and then removed her tunic. It was not uncommon for the women of the tribes to be topless in warm weather, especially when doing hot work. He saw her glancing side eyed at him. He took great pains not to stare and pretended not to notice.

He talked with her father and brothers about where the herds were, the weather, and when the fall rains would start. Her father asked about his people. The tribes were well acquainted and would sometimes cooperated when hunting groups of dangerous animals. As a visitor he was seated on her father’s right and was served second, after her father who was the head of the family. The stew was ladled into bowls. The woman who would be his wife leaned forward as she handed a bowl to him with her back to her father. She smiled impishly. He maintained his composure, with difficulty, and kept eye contact with her father. They ate the stew by folding pieces of flat bread into scoops and dipping out the pieces of meat and roots. Then they drank the juice. The meal was finished with pomegranates.

When they had eaten the sun was past midday. He opened his pouch.

“Let me repay your hospitality.” he said.

He brought out a piece of leather and unrolled it displaying two obsidian knife blades and several arrow points. They were his best work. Her father and brothers admired them. Obsidian was the best stone for making sharp tools and was hard to obtain. It had passed through many hands before his. Her father held up an arrow point.

“This is fine work; did you make them?”

“Yes. I was taught by an old one who is very skilled.”

“Thank you. We will use them well.”

“I hope that you will get much use out of them. I have heard that there is a hunter at your fire who is prone to losing arrows.”

The woman who would be his wife narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Her father smiled. He was beginning to like the serious young man and his dry humor.

“My sons are going hunting in two days’ time. Perhaps you could join them.”

“I am always glad to hunt in new places.”

Her brother spoke. “There is a herd of aurochs a half day from here. Some of the leather in this shelter is starting to crack.”

“I will help you get some new hides.”

He grasped fore arms with her father and brothers preparing to leave. The woman who would be his wife had put her tunic on as the air cooled. She approached him with some flatbread.

“Your parents might like this.”

“I’m sure they will, thank you.”

She walked with him to the edge of the clearing. As he started to leave, she grasped his hand for just a moment.