Stalking The Shadows: Ancient Destiny Book 1

By BJ Edwards

It is a time of change; the land is restless, the climate harsh. Driven by fate, starvation and fear, the last of the Neanderthals teeter on the brink of existence, perilously balancing between life and death. In a distant valley the last clan survive, eking out a subsistence in the wilds, fighting against the elemental powers of the land.
The delicate balance is torn asunder when the new men, Homo sapiens, clash violently with the ill-equipped clan. While the Neanderthals’ extinction is inevitable, they leave their mark on history: a curse of strong magic which will force change on the tribes of new men; and a boy, Dimek, a new man raised by Neanderthals, with a destiny of his own to fulfil.
Years later, now a hunt leader, Dimek must break away from his tribe’s tradition and lead his men to a new land, a land that is not cursed. Dimek, along with a shaman, warriors and hunters, set off on a journey, a journey that will change their lives forever.
Political intrigue and epic battles abound as the lives of the gods parallel the lives of man. Divine blessings are given, divine beasts are born, and the horse is domesticated. Magic and myth collide as the gods try to hinder and help the men as they eventually find their promised land.
History and myth is made when the tribes clash and eventually come together to form a society, a society built on battle and magic, stone and wisdom.
But all is not as it should be. For somewhere, out in the wilderness, a man waits; a scarred man who is blessed by a dark god, a man who could destroy all that the tribes have created.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BJ Edwards
• Release date: Jun 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301723720

BJ Edwards

From a young age I enjoyed writing. From slightly nauseating poetry to short stories with interesting, but badly-crafted plots. I always had a passion for ancient history, spirituality, anthropology and archaeology, all the things that make a civilisation tick. I always wanted to be an archaeologist, but decided that my lack of eyesight might be a hindrance. I then considered a career as an actor (more misguided than a blind guide dog.) Eventually I left the refuge of my boarding school and decided to embark upon an English degree. I plodded through the three year course and emerged blinking at the other side, truly none-the-wiser. In a fit of desperation I decided to enrol on a PGCE course. It was a very tough year, but I passed and became an English teacher. This, for the most part I enjoyed, apart from the long hours and children. So, I decided to finish the book I started writing during my degree. This I did and eventually found a publisher. I then went on to train as a counsellor in a vague attempt to learn about the human mind and psyche. I then trained people in the art of listening and empathy – training both Samaritan volunteers and prisoners, whilst my book gradually picked up some momentum. I embarked on another book whilst writing a collection of short stories and poems. Without going into too much gory detail I “fell out” with my publishers and decided to go down the E-book route. I continue to write, both fact and fiction, and I hope to soon have more books published on paper. I now find myself sitting at my desk in my home in East Sussex, hoping like all writers for that lucky break. For the record, I have a guide dog called Oliver )you can even follow him on Twitter, @GuideDogOliver) a wife,(childhood sweetheart) two children, a collection of DVDs and swords. I train hard in the gym, used to do a lot of martial arts, and have recently began to take up rowing again. Spending a lot of time in my garage where lurks my rowing machine. I’m relatively fit and strong, average to Ok looking, but far too short to be an elite athlete. So that’s me – a very potted biography. Read my writing, enjoy it, and remember that every word is thoroughly inspected before it is plucked from the bough, polished and frozen in time, forever to blink in its prison of pixels and expectant dreams. BJ

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Welcome my friend. The dusk is falling; it is the time between twilight and night. It is the sacred time, the tranquil time before the dark. It is time for tales, for warm fires and hot food. Come, join me, sit by my fire, my cave is dry and warm. I have fresh food and warm skins to sit upon; it is safe. Stay awhile and gaze into the fire’s bright heart, let its flickering magic and stirring heat lull you. Look into the shifting flames and behold your dreams.

I am the keeper of memories, the teller of tales. I am wise, for I have heard and seen much during my life. I have seen friends and enemies live and die; I have seen and known suffering, and I have felt compassion and love. I was young when this land was chosen. I was young when mighty tribes clashed. Now I am old, I sleep with a spear beside me still, for despite the peace of our haven, the scarred menace is still abroad and other tribes visit us from time to time. But no matter, I am contented, it is a good land and I live in exciting times.

You don’t know my name, do you? Well, I don’t know yours. But you can call me friend. Let me tell you of our land, of our people; hear the story of mighty men and of the gods. Hear of your ancestors and be proud.

The birds are singing to the sunset; they are returning to their nests. It is the time for my tale, a tale that begins before our birth. This tale begins with another people...

***

Rumours, stories, fear, confusion; they struggled, their fingertips clinging to existence, the chasm of extinction sucking at their heels; it was in all of them now, fluttering just behind their eyes, the shadow of desperation and helplessness. They had done all they could, had tried all they knew, but still they were afraid, still they were hungry, and still the fragments of information, the intermittent contacts made them quake, for this new enemy was strange, elusive, cunning and clever, and still the land changed.

Shella. a whisper in the darkness, an expression of tenderness and comfort that was accompanied by a gentle stroking of the arm. The two sentinels, Lok and Klet, sat huddled together next to the meagre glow of the watch-fire, the wind tearing at them with the ferocity of a pack of hunting wolves. They could tolerate the physical discomfort, the wind and the cold, they were both seasoned warriors; it was the niggling fear and uncertainty that made them shiver and set their nerves on edge.

The older man, Lok, saw the expression on the younger man’s face, and with a smile he patted his shoulder. Klet drew strength from this fleeting contact and smiled his thanks. Lok nodded his head in acknowledgment and resumed the long vigil of watching the land.

From their vantage point high up in a small hollow on the hillside they could see the undulating, unbroken glacial plain that stretched as far as the mountains to the north, and the sea in the south. The men who inhabited this land were one of the surviving pockets of Homo neanderthalensis. They were a robust species; tall, proud, strong and viciously territorial. Their features were strong, their foreheads narrow, their jaws and brows slightly jutting. Their bodies and limbs were thick with muscle, and although slightly hunched they were fast and athletic. The enemy was a new breed of man, the Homo sapiens sapiens. They were taller and more wiry; where the Neanderthals had hair and muscle, the Homo sapiens had paler skin and sinew, their foreheads broad, their lips thinner, and their noses sharper. They lacked the power and the strength of the Neanderthal, but they made up for it in intelligence, adaptability, and resilience.

The Neanderthals that lived in the hills, the Impoola clan, had heard rumours about the new enemy, the new men. They heard how they rob and steal, cheat and kill with cunning. How they do strange things with the soil and snow.

Ware. Lok whispered. Something moved down on the plain, something small and quick. Lok sprang to his feet and gave a hand signal for Klet to follow. With the ease that practice brought, they each grabbed a bundle of spears, and with exaggerated care made their way down the steep hillside.

He had been tracking the wisent for many days. It was proving to be a difficult hunt, the beast having tested his endurance, running fast through hard terrain. The solitary hunter, Dimek, was a young novice of nine years of age. His father, the young chief of his tribe, had sent him out to prove himself worthy of manhood. It was the rite of passage that every young hunter had to endure. Dimek came from a tribe of Homo sapiens that lived in the hills three full moons to the east. Although still young, he was tall and strong, intelligent and brave.

Now close to exhaustion he knew he would have to make the kill soon, or die in the attempt.

Dimek stopped dead in his tracks, as if he had run into a rock face. There stood two savages, obscenely muscled and as fierce as cave bears. With an arrogance that belied their inferiority, they swaggered towards him and pointed their spears at his pumping chest.

Skilla, the bigger, older man pointed at Dimek’s spear. Dimek knew what he must do, he knew that he must drop his spear onto the ground, but he spat on the ground with contempt.

Drop yours first. He growled. The Neanderthals did not understand the strange words, but they understood the intention and the fear in the boy’s eyes. They smiled broadly and looked at each other. Dimek did not move, and neither did Lok and Klet; in the near darkness of the night they stared at each other over the gulf of hatred and confusion. In each other’s eyes they saw something familiar -fury, strength, doubt, and above all, the will to survive. In some ways they were identical, but in other ways they were worlds apart, divided by cruel evolution and fate.

It would have been easy for the two warriors to kill the young hunter. He was outnumbered and weak. But Lok and Klet did not enjoy murder, did not relish dishonourable death. Understanding flashed between them and the warriors lowered their spears.

Dimek could not believe it - he grinned and lowered his own weapon. For a moment, overcome by relief, he found himself wanting to embrace the huge men, but at the last second he stepped back and carried on running in the direction of his prey.

The Impoola clan were encamped in a network of caverns that were set into the walls of a steep valley. It was a good place, and at the moment it was undiscovered and safe. Soon, however, they would have to move on, as the caribou would start their migration. But the caribou, along with the other beasts, were becoming scarce, and the clan was resorting to more dangerous prey. Besides, they sensed danger; for when one new man came, usually others followed.

Lok considered this as he chewed the edge of a bear skin, making it malleable and moist so that he could wear it comfortably. He yawned loudly and considered the ground. Beneath the thin crust of ice and snow, the soil was good. He remembered their last camp. The soil was useless, crumbly and dead. He suspected that they, the new men, had done it deliberately. He had seen them performing strange rituals, hammering the soil with bone and rock, stamping and chanting. Then they added roots and nuts. Lok presumed that they were sacrificing the plants in a ceremony to their gods. He smiled to himself and shrugged; he had seen the elder of his clan give sacrifice. A cave bear, strong and magnificent. They scared it with fire and harsh words and drove it into a cave, then the elder stabbed it through the neck with his spear. The blood fountained high, covering the onlookers in red. The bear screamed, shuddered, and took the top off a man’s skull with a swipe of a claw before he slumped twitching to the rock floor. The clan, all twenty of them, including the elder, Lok and his cousin Klet, gave thanks to the great bear, skinned him, and ate his heart. Afterwards they sealed the cave, the elder sprinkling herbs and cursing the blocked up entrance against scavengers, thieves and malicious spirits.

Lok rose to his feet and walked into his cave. Something troubled him, and he felt uncomfortable and distracted.

Klet. He spoke to his cousin, who was squatting at the fire. Klet rose and frowned; Lok gestured and Klet followed him out of the cave. Slowly they made their way out of the valley and climbed until they were on the plain.

It was an easy task. The prints were clear in dawn’s early light, the long broad footprints of a new man that stopped suddenly at the foot of the hill. Lok and Klet grinned at each other when they recognised their own tracks. With veterans’ eyes they followed the footprints, their bodies relaxing into an easy trot. Half a mile from their hill they picked up the deep hoof prints of the wisent.

They looked at each other. They were only lightly armed, and in the open; if the beast was injured, he would charge.

Back? Klet asked; Lok shook his head. For a moment they weighed the odds, then in mutual accord they trudged on.

Dimek, in common with all his tribe and people, had been brought up to believe that they were superior, and that the other men were little more than savage animals. Ever since his ancestors had left the hot land, ever since the dawn of humanity, they had believed this. But Dimek was confused and angry. The two savages who had climbed down from the hill could have killed him. As easily as pulling a bird’s neck, they could have speared him and left him in the cold. But they hadn’t; they had smiled and walked away, leaving him alone. When at last he had caught up with the wisent prints, he considered these things – then his heart stopped. His father had told him to go for small prey, snow hare or doe, but Dimek had shrugged his shoulders and smiled, One day I will be hunt leader. I will prove it.

The black shape that loomed out of the darkness was huge and menacing. Small eyes seemed to pierce his skull, and the white horns curved into the sky. He was pawing restlessly at the ground with a massive hoof, his hunched back huge, his dewlaps nearly touching the ground. He raised his head; the small bristly mane standing erect, and he grunted. Dimek froze with fear and nearly dropped his spear.

With a speed Dimek never thought possible, the wisent charged, crashing down on him like a black avalanche, snorting and terrible.

Lok and Klet stopped when they saw the first pink stains in the snow. Lok stooped and with his index finger, he smeared a lump of snow into the palm of his hand and sniffed. Klet followed his example and they looked at each other, frowning.

Wisent? Klet asked,

Man. Lok shook his head.

It would have been easy to return to the caves, easy to retreat, but inside Lok and Klet’s hearts, there was honour and pride. They knew the man they had let go was young and weak, if they meant him to die, they would have killed him themselves; but they had not. They had let him go, so they could not let another man or beast kill him; not when he was on their land. Lok and Klet saw it as their duty to find the boy, alive or dead.

They trotted onwards, sometimes breaking into a run, but always keeping their breathing under control, and their senses as alert and keen as the deer. The blood was getting darker, the snow mushy and thick. Now and then they came across a coarse dark hair, evidence that the wisent had also been injured. They went on until they found the boy.

At the last possible second, Dimek flung himself aside and the wisent roared passed in a cloud of snow. Dimek, stunned and afraid, dropped his spear. Frantically, he searched for it in the pale moonlight, but the wisent bore down on him again, grunting and snorting.

Dimek ran towards the rocky outcrop that marked the end of the range of hills. He sprinted as fast as he could. A rock, half buried by snow stabbed him in the ankle and he fell, sprawling to the icy ground. He could smell it, feel its hot breath and the steam that rose from its huge body. It was nearly on him, then he found a loose rock the size of his fist. With all the strength he could muster, he hurled it at the beast’s head. For a moment, its advance was slowed and then it charged again, forcing Dimek to clamber up the outcrop.

Skilla. Lok pointed at a spear that lay on the ground at his feet. Klet picked it up and tested the flint point and nodded, appreciating the excellent craftsmanship. He added it to the bundle that was slung over his shoulder and followed Lok. He was stooping over a small rock. He handed it to Klet and he sniffed and stroked it;

Wisent. He said with authority, showing Lok the blood. Warily, with their spears poised, they picked their way up the outcrop.

Dimek had never felt such pain. It started in his leg and shot up his spine, exploding in white heat at the top of his skull. The pain made him gasp. It made his vision star and blur, and made him slip and let go his grip on the rocks. He plunged downwards, hitting his head as he fell. The last thing he remembered was the pain, and the last thing he saw were the hooves of the wisent drumming at the ground as he disappeared into the night.

Lok and Klet knelt beside the crumbled bloody body that lay at the base of the outcrop. The marks and prints showed them that the wisent had tried to clamber after the boy, but had slipped. In his desperation and anger, he had charged and butted upwards. His anger was satiated when one of his horns had gored through a leg, making a ragged tear in the flesh, the white bone visible beneath the dark blood. Klet touched the boy’s bloody and bruised head and face, but the boy did not stir.

The skilla is kind and quick, wisent is not. Lok said to Klet. They both felt guilty, wishing they had killed the boy cleanly when they had the opportunity, and not let the wisent tear into him.

Lok put his ear against the boy’s chest and listened for his spirit. He smiled with relief; there it was, faint and intermittent, the boy’s spirit still clubbing the walls of his cave in an attempt to escape.

Still within. Klet grinned.

With exaggerated care, they wrapped their skins about Dimek’s leg, and bore him away to their family cave.

***

The chief stood on the crest of the hill and stared into the gloom. The plain was pristine, an unbroken white sheet. Beyond the plain the forest glistened, and the great river shone, resplendent with its mantle of thin ice. He had been waiting and watching for many months, and now he was worried.

Warriors. He said, his voice little more than a croak. His ten best men came to his side, huge and skilled, their clubs heavy and their spears sharp.

My son Dimek went out to hunt his manhood. The warriors nodded. He has not returned, and it has been too many seasons. Go and find him. If he is not dead, he has been captured by savages. Do what you must.

They nodded their heads almost imperceptibly and disappeared, a dark smudge on the horizon.

***

After much persuasion and begging, Dimek received healing from the clan elder. With herbs and leaves, prayers and sacrifice, the wound in Dimek’s leg began to heal cleanly. Soon, Lok, Klet, their family, and the whole clan, including the elder, began to like the skinny child. And in return, Dimek began to love them, treating them as his own tribe. Lok taught him their simple language, and Dimek taught them his, and soon he was assimilated into their way of life. When Dimek was completely healed, Lok and Klet took him hunting, and together, they killed the wisent and the mammoth.

One cold morning, many years after Dimek’s rescue, the sun bright, the snow white and fresh, Lok drew Dimek aside;

Now we will hunt the snow leopard. Dimek beamed, only the best hunters hunted the great cats; Dimek had been itching to hunt such a prey. He had dreamt of it, dreamt of making his kill and giving the beast’s teeth to Lok and Klet to honour their kindness.

The next night, under the light of a waxing moon, the snow bright under their feet, Lok, Klet and Dimek hunted the sabre-toothed snow leopard, or the Flint hookla as the Impoola called it.

They came from the east, running in a skirmish line, ten men, well-armed and ferocious. The Impoola were hungry, their men weak, but their defence was strong and passionate. The new men barked commands, using harsh words that the clan did not understand.

Where is he? they shouted, Where is the chief’s son? the women cowered; babies cried, and men fought with spear and rock.

Amidst the turmoil, the Impoola understood one word: Dimek. The warriors saw the recognition in their eyes and drove home their advantage.

Where? a big man asked a young woman, her baby clutching her breast. She looked up at him, defiance burning in her eyes. The boy had been with them for seven migration seasons; he had been adopted into the clan, he was one of them.

Where? the warrior shouted at her. She smiled up at him, and his rage and revulsion boiled over and exploded. He took his stone club and smashed her baby’s skull; she screamed with terror and grief.

Most of the able men were out hunting, but the elder, standing in the shadows of the cave, witnessed the depravity. I curse your land and your hearts. He said, his voice low, intense and calm. The warrior turned around to look at the wizened figure. He laughed in indignation, but when the old man’s spear lanced through his stomach, disembowelling him, he squealed like a pig.

The hunt was progressing well, and Klet began to talk to Dimek in hushed tones. We are hungry. He began, The herds are going; it is cold. They know the land will change. Why do the new men eat well?

Dimek considered this thoughtfully, We - they. He corrected himself quickly, Can grow things and eat from the ground.

Klet looked confused and raised a shaggy eyebrow, Bless the land and eat the nuts and berries. Klet looked disgusted. He didn’t understand how a fully grown man could survive without burnt flesh in his stomach.

For a moment, Lok and Klet looked at Dimek with the eyes of doting fathers. They marvelled at how Dimek had grown, how the muscles of manhood had blossomed and filled out his frame. His eyes were keen and bright, his body strong, and under their tutelage, he had become a good warrior and hunter.

In companionable silence, they followed the prints of a young snow leopard, Dimek watching and learning quickly.

Lok raised a hand, the signal to stop instantly. Klet, followed by Dimek, froze. Lok gave the hand signal for danger, and raised a finger. Instantly, his companions fell to the ground and armed themselves.

Slowly, with exaggerated care, Lok bent down and touched the ground. He waved Klet to his side, and on silent feet, doubled over, he ran to his cousin’s side.

It was in the snow, half buried, but as clear as the stars. Lok picked it up gingerly and sniffed it, his expression grave. He grimaced expressively, waving Dimek to join them,

What Lok held in his hand was unmistakably human. It was a broken spear; the spearhead was well crafted and sharp, the wooden shaft broken off just below the head where a strip of cured hide still clung. On the flint was carved the unmistakable outline of a woolly mammoth, the symbol and god of Dimek’s tribe.

Dimek’s heart missed a beat, jumbled emotions and thoughts crashing in on him. Lok and Klet, their faces like stone, cast wide and found the prints. Ten warriors they agreed, well armed, and on their way to the valley of the Impoola. In silence, and in single file, the last man, Klet, covering their tracks with a leafy branch, the three made their way back to the hills.

Ware unkakka. Lok lapsed into his own language, economy of words paramount. With a signal, Klet took the left flank, Dimek the right, and Lok ran slightly ahead, forming the point of the spearhead. In strict formation, they skirted the first hill and ran for the small gap that marked the valley entrance.

They climbed up the hillside and under cover of rock and tree, looked down into their valley. They could see them, eight men, dragging with them women and children. The faces of the men were fierce, but the women and children looked calm and brave. Lok gave a low call, imitating the alarm call of an elk. Apparently out of nowhere, five men appeared, all big, rugged and armed with spears.

Lok took control and deployed his forces around the outskirts of the valley. He waited for the perfect opportunity and then gave the signal to charge. The sight was terrifying and awesome. The men hurled themselves down the hillside and threw their full weight behind their spears. They buried themselves into the enemy’s flesh, causing them to fall to the ground. All except one. Dimek stood. His spear poised, but he did not release it; he stood rooted to the spot, trembling, silent tears flowing down his face.

The internal struggle was over. He recognised the warrior who stood to face him, and could not kill him.

Dimek, do you speak their savage tongue? the warrior asked. Dimek nodded, swallowing his confusion. Tell them to let you go.

Lok put a protective arm around the boy’s shoulders, and the warrior raised his club. Lok did not flinch, but stared him down until he lowered his weapon.

I am not a prisoner. Dimek sobbed. They saved me; they are not savages, they are good men.

The warrior did not want to hear Dimek’s words; he was already too set in his ways.

Most of them are dead. He smiled. Come Dimek, we will leave them.

Dimek did not know what to think or feel. He looked at Lok, at Klet and at the women. He looked at the frail elder who shambled to his side, his talisman around his neck, the woolly rhinoceros horn thudding against his hollow chest.

Tell them this. The warrior began, Tell them that their world is changing. The animals are disappearing; soon they will all die. Tell them that their time is over.

Dimek translated into the Impoola language, but they said nothing.

Go Dimek. Lok said, Back to your people and your land. Our days are numbered. We will move on and find a new place to call our own.

The warrior couldn’t believe his ears; he understood every word the ugly animal said. For a moment, a spark of respect flared in his eyes, then, as quickly as it arrived, it vanished, replaced by flat cold loathing, tinged with pity.

Dimek thought his heart would burst with grief. Not even he could bridge the gap, could live in both worlds. He knew he had to return, to his own kind. When he hugged Lok and Klet, his mentors and fathers, he saw that their eyes were weary and full of grief. The women cried openly, and the elder, not wanting to make a scene, sprinkled herbs from his horn on Dimek’s head, and blessed him.

Wait. Lok said, and handed Dimek a beautifully crafted wisent headed flint dagger.

You hunt well. He said. This is for strength and good memories. Dimek did not trust his voice; his lips trembled as he turned and walked away.

The warrior made to follow Dimek, but Lok and his ferocious warriors stopped him. Klet gripped his shoulders and turned him to face the thin scrawny elder. The ancient man walked over to the warrior and stared into his face. The elder’s expression was a mask of hatred and disgust, the lines of age and worry making him look like the very rocks he lived on.

The warrior grimaced when he was forced to look into the elder’s fathomless eyes.

Hear me. The elder began, gripping his rhino talisman in his hands, and looking into the man’s soul. The warrior blinked and nodded like a frightened child.

I hear you. He whispered, gulping down his fear.

Remember. The elder rasped, I curse your land, and the beasts you hunt. I curse your gods and I curse your heart. The warrior fell back and was caught by the men who stood behind him, their faces like old ashes. Go now, go back to your cursed land.

Like a terrified deer he fled away, never daring to look back.

***

Far away and in a strange land, a baby waited to be born. His host body, not yet created by man and woman, his spirit lingered in the cradling warmth of the high spirits who were waiting for rebirth. Now in spirit a baby, but once, long ago a man, he would wait many decades for birth. In this state, he felt nothing but a sense of destiny. The spirit opened his eyes and saw a figure that bent over him and kissed him on his forehead. The baby cried, the memory of his passed lives purged; once a man, now a spirit he reached out with his thoughts and sensed the other unborn that swam in the waters of being.

You will be great. A voice spoke, You are chosen. The god Vantis said. He had only said these powerful words on two other occasions in his long ageless existence as guardian of the unborn. He had said it to a person who grew up to be the elder of a small tribe called the Impoola, and he had said it to a man who became a shaman called Drushuk, and he said it now to a spirit who would become a man, a blessed man who would be known as Meddryn, leader of a new breed of holy men.

Wait. From across the waters the voice came, a distant whisper born on a warm breeze; It is not time for him, not yet. The moon rose slowly, her face a pale disc that kissed the surface of the waters, turning them silver. The god Vantis paused, the baby kicked. No Vantis it is not his time, not yet. Slowly, a white radiance, pale and magnificent floated like mist and took the shape of a woman.

White lady - Modron. Vantis nodded, one eyebrow raised, his green skin damp and clammy from the depths.

I have felt great power and great grief. The men who walk upon the land, though weak in body are powerful now, for they have harnessed some of the magic. Soon they will be in danger, for soon the dark gods will come to them. The great cycle is in motion. All that can be done, must be done. Vantis it is time.

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

THE OLD ONES

She stood tall, proud, majestic and huge, her form mountainous and dark against the grey sky, her tusks long and curved shafts of ivory, pointed and deadly. She surveyed the land below her, her huge ears flapping gently, her trunk questing. With an effort, she shook her massive head and tried to make for the thick cover of the distant forest, but her joints ached and her great heart pounded with the effort of movement. She knew she was the last of her kind, she knew that soon she too must meet her mate and calves, as she would soon be dead. The thought of death did not scare her or make her feel sad. She had nobody left and was ancient, her calves and mate long since gone. The only feeling that remained within her was the profound sorrow of loss; for the land she had known and loved, the land of her ancestors had all but disappeared, replaced by mire and water.

She remembered when the land was young and white, covered in snow and ice, supporting mighty herds. She remembered when food was plentiful and the only predator was the sabre tooth; but now the snow was all but gone and there was a new predator which hunted on the plains and in the marshes. A predator which was cunning and merciless, who had come down from the caves, running on two legs and using spears, relentlessly chasing, hunting, harrying. She remembered how they had killed her first born, had driven him into a deep pit and waited for his broken heart to still his struggling body, and then they stabbed him, taking his flesh and hide, even his bones. The memory of the men made her feel sick. The smell of them, the fleshy odour of their stinking bodies, and the pungent stench of the bright hot creatures that lurked in their caves belching acrid vomit that made her lungs sting and her eyes water. The men called this new creature fire, but she called it fear.

***

They ran fast, young, strong, fit and ferocious. The lead hunter ran ahead, his eyes casting about the soft ground; his flint tipped spear slung over one shoulder. He stopped suddenly and raised his hand to bring up his men in a circle about him. They sat on their haunches and watched their leader, as with an index finger, he traced the outline of a fresh deep footprint, massive and unmistakable in the mud.

One of the old ones. The leader muttered, The provider. He leapt to his feet and sprinted towards the distant forest, the rest of his party following.

With a weary tread she walked deep into the forest. She was far from her ancestral grounds, far from where her kin and herd had fallen; she was tired and the pain was returning. Long ago the spears had stabbed her in her side and in her neck. She had been moving fast, and the men had been scattered, unable to throw hard. Nevertheless, the sharp tips had penetrated her shaggy hide and embedded themselves like insects in her thick fat and muscle. At the time, she did not feel any pain, driven by anger and instinct as she was. She hurled herself down the hillside and ran fast for cover. They had chased her, but did not catch her because she knew the secret paths and was able to hide in cover while her wounds healed. That was a long time ago, and now the wounds began to ache again, her joints began to stiffen. Breathing was difficult and she could no longer run. Slowly, like a landslide, she creaked and groaned to her knees, trying to loosen her joints. Then she remembered the great river, the place of birth and death. When she was young she and her mother, the matriarch of the once mighty herd, would submerge themselves in its waters. She remembered the exquisite feeling of weightlessness as she swam in the water. Now she wanted to go back, wanted to feel the same feeling and enjoy the same succour. A deep instinct told her that to the river was where she must go; an ancient memory stirring and echoing within her, reminding her that the great river is where the mammoths are born, and where they die.

It had been a long hunt; over many gruelling days they had tracked the great beast. At last they were in range of her, at last their tribe might taste fresh meat again and enjoy warm skins. The hunting party was a small one, but nevertheless, well drilled and practised. They ran fast, picking out the large footprints easily. In single file they ran, carrying their spears over their shoulders. They were brave men, young and strong, each one capable of wielding his spear with devastating accuracy. The men were naked and covered from head to toe in mud; this not only gave them camouflage, but covered up their odour; although coming downwind of their prey, they knew that if the mammoth located them, they would be trampled underfoot, smashed by trunk, or impaled by tusk. Relentlessly, the hunting party followed the prints into the forest.

Slowly, with a throaty grumble, she crashed through the last of the cover and began to walk into the marshland that lay between the forest and the river. Then her great ears twitched as she heard something faint on the breeze. She stood like a small hill, completely motionless and silent, only her ears moving. Then her trunk moved smelling the thick odour of mud and sweat. Every nerve in her body tingled and adrenalin coursed through her veins, purging her of pain. She galloped quicker than a man could run, through the marshland, towards the great river.

The hunters broke cover and tried to sprint over the marshy ground, but the mud was thick and sucking, making them sink to their wastes. The mammoth’s feet were large and spread, and she had no trouble walking.

Her great heart jumped with joy when she felt the water close over her. She felt elated when the water took her weight and the current carried her. She did not seem to care when she found herself being carried towards the middle of the river, out of her depth, and far from land. She was pragmatic; she knew it was either death by the spear, or by the water. She closed her eyes and a single silver tear caught on an eyelash before it was washed away by the caressing waters. She stopped moving her legs and let herself drift downwards.

Nothing seemed to matter anymore, there was no more pain, no more running, no more grief, just darkness. She let the water gush into her mouth, and like air she breathed it into her lungs. She felt dizzy, felt light headed, but at peace, because she knew this was the order of things, and that she would soon be with her mate and her calves once more. In the silken embrace of the dark waters, she knew that she had outwitted the two-legged creatures, that she had been more cunning, more clever, stronger, and more worthy. As she drifted into oblivion this gave her a good feeling; I am better she thought to herself, I have won. She touched the bottom and the muddy river-bed engulfed her, and it felt like her mother’s womb.

Gone. Dimek the hunt leader said breathlessly as he reached the river shore. In silence, his ten companions joined him, their faces serious; their mud-caked bodies streaked with running sweat. Dimek pointed with his spear at the grey water that gently lapped the boggy shore. It was getting late, the sun a dim disc that seemed to touch the river, the sky dark and pregnant with black storm clouds.

There. The hunt leader said simply, The old ones’ time is over; they go in the river, into the west to die. Now the last one has passed; time is changing fast. In respect, the hunters bowed their heads in prayer. She was strong, worthy, fast, brave. The leader Dimek whispered.

They gave us all, a hunter said, food, warmth.

Tools. His neighbour added,

Hope. Dimek sighed and hefted his spear.

Slowly, they got to their feet, The old ones are gone, now new gods will come to us. We must change many things, how we live, how we die. The hunters nodded their heads in solemn agreement. We will speak with our chief and discuss these changing days... His companions nodded and each of them threw a handful of mud into the grey waters. May she find her mate and calves, may they know peace and rest. He wiped a tear from his eye, and led the long run back to their hills and caves.

CHAPTER 2

NEW DAWN

Hamek he chief sat in the entrance to his cave and looked down at the land. It was a grey land, a land of mud and rock, plain and marsh. The pale blur of the forest was visible on the horizon, and the silver river glistened in the distance. He sighed deeply, taking the chill damp air into his lungs. It was getting late, the sun dipping lower, dark clouds towering like mountains. The chief was concerned. It had been over three weeks since he had sent his son, the hunt leader, out to command the hunt. His return was overdue; his tribe needed fresh meat, the last of the season’s stores was beginning to turn; some of the babies’ stomachs were already as hard and round as the rocks of the riverbank.

Absentmindedly, the chief fingered the enormous pair of sabre teeth that hung around his neck. He remembered his grandfather killing the great beast and making a gift of the teeth. Breathlessly and with a huge grin, the young chief had accepted them, though at the time the teeth were far too big for him to wear. That was a long time ago, and now there were hardly any sabre-toothed cats left in the world. The chief sighed deeply. The land was changing too fast, getting wetter and warmer every day; secretly, he feared that the old ones would soon pass into the west with the setting sun. The thought of a land without the provider gods made the chief feel sick and afraid; a land without the mammoths was a land of starvation, death and despair.

With a start, the chief was jolted out of his revelry by a patch of movement down on the plain. He strained his eyes and made out the shape of the hunting party; with relief, he picked out the tall strong form of his son, but with a sinking disappointment, he saw that the hunters carried no slabs of meat, and dragged no carcass.

Time and change... He said to himself, as the heavens roared with the thunder, and somewhere a distant glacier cracked and broke.

The night’s darkness brought with it rain, and the rain was as powerful and relentless as a waterfall. In that night of nights, the temperature rose again and the ice began to melt, causing great rivers to join lakes and form vast inland seas. Whole forests were washed away, and neighbouring tribes were drowned and crushed by mud and rock. Where once smooth fertile plains glinted under the gaze of white capped mountains, vast swamps gurgled and leered at the bald crests.

To pierce the blackness of night, fires were lit in caves and people huddled together for warmth, pulling about them the skins of cave bear, ox, deer and mammoth. Below the tribal hills, the plain was a muddy nowhere land of sucking mire and decay. In the darkness, a hollowed tusk was blown and the tribe was summoned to the chief’s cave for a judgment. Man, woman, child, and clinging baby made their way over the slippery rocky summit of the hill and sat at the feet of their chief, a man who had proven his worth in battle and hunt, song, dance and story. The man who wore the spreading antlers of the stag, the mane of the cave lion, and the sabre teeth of the tiger about his neck.

The chief’s cave was spacious, cut deep into the rocky hillside. In the centre of the cave, a fire burnt, illuminating the colourful stylised cave paintings that depicted hunt and battle. Spear wielding men hunted rhino, great cat, wisent, deer and boar. Spears flew through the air and embedded their heads in flesh, sending great beasts crashing to the ground. Other paintings showed the mammoth, huge and splendid; men sat at their feet and gazed up at their benign eyes, symbolic of their relationship. Another painting showed a red battle as tribe clashed with tribe. Men wielded club and spear, rock and bone, crunching clamour, raging fury. Women were on the walls too, naked and mysterious, their bodies green, symbolising birth and nature. The chief’s cave was a testament to his tribe, a history of the hills and of the surrounding land.

In the orange firelight, the faces of the tribe looked to be carved from stone, their features so pronounced and their bodies devoid of fat. Beneath their skins, the men’s bodies were glossy and hard; every muscle clearly defined as if by a sculptor’s chisel. The women were also hard and lean with work; their limbs strong and hard, their stomachs flat and muscled. Some of them were young, their bodies not yet grown; others suckled infants; and a few were old and decrepit, their flesh shrivelled and flaking, after too many seasons.

The chief cut a magnificent and terrifying figure, the shadow he cast was huge and deformed, like some demonic creature, half man, half beast with a flowing mane that extenuated the breadth of his shoulders. He was in the winter of his life, his hair beneath the silver mane grey, but he still commanded respect with his presence, and he was still strong and fit, able to run, swim and dance as well as any young man.

He looked at his son now, and his chest swelled with pride. He saw a big man, able and strong, a born leader of men; but above these ancient qualities, he had the new virtue, intelligence. When the chief was young, this was unheard of and unnecessary. Life was simple: you are strong; you hunt; you kill; you eat; you find a woman and you make a son on her; if you are fortunate, you live long enough to breed many sons, then if you are very strong you die a good death, and are not trampled by hoof, or killed with claw, tooth, horn, antler or drowned or crushed. If you are very lucky and blessed, you die in battle against a neighbouring tribe. That was then, but now life was different, the world was no longer quite as clear, there was too much grey between the black and white of life and death. Now intelligence was something men needed to survive. Gone were the days of the great herds, gone were the easy hunts, now the land was cursed. Now cunning and planning were necessary, now food was so scarce that other tribes went on raiding parties to steel meat.

No. The chief shook his head. I do not envy the world of my grand children. The chief had no grandchildren yet, but he knew it was only a matter of time, for he saw how the women looked at his sons, how lusty and hungry their eyes were for their strong seed. But his eldest son had not planted his seed, the seed of warriors and hunters; he was biding his time, waiting for the perfect woman to lay with. The chief did not understand this. He had had many children with many women; they were one tribe, one family, collective responsibility, pooling of resources, safety in numbers. Yes. He thought, We are like the herds, like the old ones.

Tribe. The chief began. The hunters return. Expectant faces turned to look at the hunt leader and his men. Sheepishly, the chief’s son walked around the roaring fire and stood next to his father. The chief’s face was expressionless