Neanderthal Gita

By Michael Baldwin

Would you recognize a Neanderthal living among us? Watch closely; they may be out there. 

A halfling boy and his Neanderthal uncle are the only survivors from their strange, prehistoric culture. Now they are struggling to survive in modern society, with often violent, sometimes humorous, and always exciting results. Follow

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639884773

Book preview

Prologue

Text Description automatically generated with low confidence

Within her deep cavern the Old One wakes from her restless slumber, even as she had appointed a century before. Her tendrils now stroke the mind web, feeling the flickers of a million thoughts vibrant upon its skein, sparkling upon its mindscape. Tracing the threads she set in motion momentary eons ago, she sees some strands are soon to intersect, to further her desires. It is time for a new dreaming. She caresses the filaments of the web, sending her dream sparks slithering along shining insubstantial latitudes to nestle in receptive minds. Thus, the dreaming begins.

Chapter 1

Text Description automatically generated with low confidence

Lord of fire and death, of wind and moon and waters.

Bhagavad-Gita, XI

The boy casts no shadow amid the darkness of the predawn boreal forest. He slips silently from trunk to massive trunk among ancient spruce and larch, seeing easily by the weak light of a quarter moon and starlight filtering through the high canopy. The boy is dressed in buckskin loincloth and moccasins. His only weapon is a long knife scabbarded at his waist. He ignores the accustomed chill pervading the morning forest; he welcomes the mists drifting windless among the trees that help hide his movements. Cautiously he approaches a small clearing where an ancient limestone outcropping has been eroded to ground level, deterring encroachment by the trees.

It is almost sunrise. Here is where it will happen, he tells himself. He is a little fearful and knows that the other tracking him senses his fear. Yet the boy is also eager for the coming confrontation. He waits a few minutes, his back pressed against rough bark, listening intently, but knowing he will hear nothing, casting his strong night vision in all directions, but certain he will see nothing, feeling for the other’s mind, but sensing only that the other lurks somewhere nearby.

As the glade accepts the expanding colors of dawn, he invokes Eagle Mind, sprints to the middle of the clearing, and crouches in readiness. He trembles with adrenaline, all his senses straining to the limits of his awareness. Time slows, awareness expands, attention heightens. He notices every detail of his surroundings: the gray squirrel observing him from a high branch, the patterns of moss on that granite boulder, the blue-black raven flashing among the foliage.

He hears the familiar sizzle of a spear splitting the air behind him. Whirling, he catches it in mid-flight, drops it and hears another already on its way from a different angle. He sees the third arcing toward him from a steep parabola and dodges nimbly away to avoid both. Now he is totally in the moment, immersed in Eagle Mind, observing himself with that second self within his mind that expands his awareness like many eyes. He moves confidently now, like a prowling panther, no longer fearful or nervous.

The fourth spear glints in the dawn sunlight. He reaches out to catch it just as he realizes this is actually the fifth spear and that the fourth is coming down at him from a higher angle. He springs into two back flips that put him several yards away a second later. The spear thumps into the soil inches from where he had stood.

Now he leaps high into the air and does a series of tumbles and somersaults ending with him standing tall and holding both arms up in triumph. As he comes to that moment of stillness, like an Olympic gymnast who has just stuck the landing, a pebble thumps him between the shoulder blades.

The boy turns in betrayed surprise to see a broad-chested figure emerge from the forest edge with a scowl on his face. The man is dressed in scraped deer hide trousers and a rough-woven wool shirt. His large amber eyes glow with serene intelligence beneath the heavy brow ridge of his massive head. His thinning chestnut hair frames a weather-wrinkled face, with its prominent nose, like an eagle’s beak.

The old but vigorous Neanderthal stalks toward the twelve-year-old as if angry, then grabs him off the ground, hugs him with enormously powerful arms, and tousles his thick reddish blond hair, breaking into a wide grin. The boy squeals with joy then jumps away as his captor releases him.

You cheated, Uncle Romash! You were only supposed to throw five spears.

Ah, Wolfling, did you count more than five spears? I did not promise that I would throw nothing else. Here are three lessons for you: always question your assumptions, explore all possibilities of a situation, and be prepared for the unexpected. But you did very well. You have passed your first warrior’s testing.

The boy throws back his head and howls in triumph, like the wolf that is his totem.

Text Description automatically generated with low confidence

They retrieve the five blunt spears and begin their hike back toward the unseen hills that lie beyond this stretch of forest. As they travel, they refasten the spearheads that were removed for the testing. They tramp through this familiar subarctic Siberian forest of cedars and conifers for two hours. It is just past the summer solstice. The crisp morning air fogs their breath. They exhilarate in the mild sunny weather that is so rare in this usually harsh northern clime.

The boy is still jittery with pent-up energy from his successful ordeal. He would like to jabber excitedly to his uncle, but he remains quiet and alert, obeying the traditions of Neanderthal hunting. Nonetheless, his mind hops about with thoughts of how he will brag to his mother and friends about his triumph. Perhaps he can even impress Nocika or entice one of the other girls to go with him to the coupling caves.

Near an icy stream tumbling among lichen-dappled boulders, Romash motions for the boy to halt. He indicates for him to peer over the boulder. The boy eases up to the rock’s edge and sees three roe deer pausing nervously by the stream. The boy creeps close, squatting behind the rock. His mind probe now senses the emotional tinglings of the deer. The boy waits until he feels their attention turn from alertness to drinking.

The youngster rises and hurls his spear in one smooth motion. His flint point strikes deep into the buck’s heart before it can bolt. The deer makes a single desperate leap into the air, falls against the rocks near the stream, thrashing for a few moments, then lies still. Romash kneels beside the buck and thanks its spirit as its eyes glaze over in death.

The boy dresses out the carcass with practiced ease. Watching him, Romash asks, Did you not sense the deer beyond the rock?

After you signaled me they were there, I could feel them. I was not casting my mind as I should have done. I will try to be more attentive. But since I am just a halfling, I will probably never have as strong a sense of other minds as you.

Perhaps not, said Romash, but you have some awareness of animal and human minds. Strengthen it with practice. Discipline your mind. Be always seeking for other minds. Our mindsight is our strongest weapon in hunting. It is also our best means of avoiding or dealing with the Greedy Ones that we may survive.

I will remember, Uncle.

Having finished preparing the carcass, they tie it to the extra spear shafts and carry the deer between them with the shaft ends resting on their shoulders. Then the boy asks the question that is often in his mind. Why do you call the outsiders like my mother ‘Greedy Ones’? I don’t consider her or myself a greedy person.

Romash grimaces, considering how to explain it to the boy. "We call the outsiders ‘Greedy Ones’ because they have always encroached on our hunting areas. They often killed us without our deserving their violence, just because we are different from them. They are unwilling to share the plenty of nature.

"They are also like locusts that overstress their land and food. They are often wasteful in their ways of hunting. We kill only what we need, one animal at a time. They often stampede a whole herd of bison or wapiti over a cliff, thus wasting much of the meat. They kill the females and young as well as mature males. That weakens the herd.

They are clever. They are always looking to make better weapons and tools, finding new ways of doing things. But they do not revere and cherish Mother Earth as we do.

Romash is silent for a while, then continues, "Not all of them are ‘Greedy Ones.’ Your mother is more like us even as she gives us the benefit of her knowledge of new things. When I was a young hunter, some of us journeyed into outsider country to learn more about them. We know that the outsiders may eventually want to settle in our hunting areas. We want to be able to deal peacefully with them if possible. I have known many outsiders in my travels beyond our homeland who were honorable and trustworthy. But many are also greedy for land.

Each person must choose whether to live gently on the land or to despoil it. You are one of us, and are beloved even though you are a halfling. Never be ashamed of what you are, Little Wolf. Indeed, being our halfling makes you unique. You will have a path through the world different from all others. Do not reject your difference, but embrace it and make it a good path.

I understand, Uncle. I will seek my true spirit self.

Perhaps you, as a halfling, will be able to persuade the outsiders to let us keep our lands and way of life without conflict.

I would like to meet outsiders, but not if they are greedy to take away our lands.

Do not let this worry you now. It is something that can wait until you are grown and your mother has prepared you properly. Perhaps that time will never come, but we should be ready for it.

They trudge for several more hours, leaving the forest and advancing through the grassy steppe toward the hills. They move in silence, as is their habit while hunting and traveling outside their home ground. They are attentive to the sounds of nature around them and send their minds probing for other minds that might be beyond their sight. The five sacred mountains dominate the skyline before them, soaring against the stark, bare sky, blanketed with snow, guardians of the Neanderthal domain.

They stop several times to munch some dried meat and collect berries that now abound on surrounding bushes. They drink water from goat bladder pouches. During one of these respites, the boy says to his uncle, Tell me again, Uncle, why you are named ‘Wrong Moose.’

So, you wish to make me recall the embarrassment that gave me my name? Romash grins at the boy.

No, Uncle, I just enjoy the way you tell it.

"Well, all right then. I was a little older than you. I was with my age mate, Small Bear, and three others who were seasoned hunters. We were hunting in the steppe during the third moon after the long night. We had been away from the village two days.

"It was still quite cold, but the weather was clear. The village needed meat; our supplies were near depleted. We tracked a small herd of wapiti toward a marsh and took two of them before they could reach it. Then we saw a huge bull moose on the other side of the marsh.

"I said I would take the moose by myself while they prepared the wapiti. I circled along the edge of the water. The moose was up to his knees in the icy water. He knew I was there but ignored me. I crept as near to him as possible without getting wet, perhaps fifty paces behind him, and lofted my spear in a perfect arc.

"But the moose shifted slightly just as I released the spear. It caught him high in the withers. That only got his attention. He came bellowing from the marsh charging toward me. I hadn’t known a moose could move so quickly.

"I realized I had made the mistake of not bringing a second spear. I ran back toward my friends. They realized my problem and ran toward me. But the moose was now bearing down on me like an avalanche.

"Then Small Bear threw his spear so that it struck a few paces in front of me. I grabbed it up and turned to face the moose. It was charging with its antlers lowered. I jumped aside and thrust my spear into its lungs. It should have been a killing thrust, but that stubborn moose wouldn’t fall. He didn’t know he was dead.

"It spun and knocked me down with its antlers. He was about to stomp me to shreds when Small Bear jumped on it from its blind side and stabbed it in the spine. Small Bear leaped away as the moose fell toward me, trying to kill me even as it died. I somehow rolled away to avoid being crushed.

That was the toughest, orneriest moose any of us had ever seen. Small Bear said it was sure the wrong moose for me to have gone after. That hunt was also the naming time for both Small Bear and me. So, of course, he was given the name ‘Okamash: Moose Slayer’ and I received the name ‘Romash: Wrong Moose.’

The boy giggled in delight, as he always did when he heard this tale. And what hunter name shall I receive instead of ‘Lolasker: Little Wolf’?

That must await your naming hunt, just as I had to wait for mine. Perhaps I will have the pleasure of giving you a name as embarrassing as mine, Romash said, chuckling.

I like your name, Uncle. It has nobility as well as humor. And it makes for a very good story.

Text Description automatically generated with low confidence

They continue their trek into the hills for several more hours. The grassland prairie has now become low rocky hills with sparse brush. At last, they recognize in the distance the sheer rock face where a narrow cave entrance is both hidden from view and well protected from intrusion.

Suddenly Romash gives a cry of surprise and anguish. He drops his end of the carcass. He falls to his knees, trembling and groaning. The boy watches fearfully as Romash puts his hands to the sides of his head and tears at his hair. Lolasker realizes his uncle must be in mind-to-mind communication with another Neanderthal in their village and that something is very wrong.

Romash moans in agony. He turns to the boy, his eyes blazing. The ‘Greedy Ones’ have found the village and are murdering everyone. Manaha is dying!

He pounds the ground with his fist. She says some of our hunters brought back an outsider who had been hunting in the mountains. The outsider was injured in a fall. They took pity on him and brought him to the village for your mother to treat. But, somehow, warriors of the ‘Greedy Ones’ tracked him to our valley. Their warriors have come in giant bird machines. They have flame weapons and are murdering everyone. Romash gasps for breath and gnashes his teeth in his helplessness.

My mother? wails Lolasker, incredulous, his eyes now streaming tears.

Yes, she is dead too. Romash weeps and presses his head against the rock.

Perhaps they are still in the village. We must go there and kill them, screams Lolasker.

We will go there, but Manaha says the intruders are already leaving. Come, let us see if we can catch them in time.

The Neanderthals leave the deer and hurry to the cliff face. They climb to the hidden slit and enter the cave. There is a maze of narrow passageways to negotiate before the cavern enlarges and opens onto a walled canyon, a quarter mile wide by half a mile long.

One huge green helicopter with rotors front and back is already several hundred feet up and slowly ascending toward the canyon’s opening to the sky, a thousand feet above the valley floor.

A second copter with a large red star on its side hovers lazily about a hundred feet from where they stand. To Lolasker it seems a gigantic buzzing insect. It is just beginning to ascend, only a few dozen feet above the ground. Its side panel is open. Romash and Lolasker can see soldiers within. The noise, motion, and bizarre appearance of these monstrous objects terrify both Neanderthals.

Lolasker seizes a fist-sized stone and heaves it at the bestial machine. The stone bounces harmlessly off the body of the copter, which is rising faster now. As it rises, a spray of bullets from the copter thud into the rock just above their heads, sending stone shards flying. Romash and Lolasker duck back against the cave walls. Another burst of bullets raises dust inside the cave where they had stood. When they dare look out again, both demon machines have vanished.

The vertical rock walls still rise high on all sides. The blue sky is clear and bright over the valley. Wispy white clouds drift calmly above them, giving no indication of the violence they have just witnessed. These walls have always been impregnable to land attack, protecting the Neanderthals for thou-sands of years. Now all has been lost in a few hours.

Romash and Lolasker quickly descend into the valley by way of a rope ladder kept in the cave. They are stunned to find carnage everywhere. The invaders have ruthlessly slaughtered the entire village with guns and flamethrowers. Smoke arises from smoldering wood structures. The sulfur smell of gunpowder and that of burned flesh assault their noses. Lolasker retches when he sees the ruined bodies of his friends.

Neanderthal bodies are scattered about, grotesquely broken, bloody, and burned. It is the same in the cave homes that dot the rock walls. No one remains alive. Romash finds the body of his wife, Manaha, in their small cave. She was shot several times, but lived long enough to alert Romash with Neanderthal telepathy.

Lolasker whimpers and trembles uncontrollably as he comes upon his mother’s body. She is bloody with bullet wounds, and is slumped protectively over a young neighbor child, who has also been murdered. Lolasker cradles her head in his arms and moans in agony and disbelief. He jostles her body, staring into her dead eyes, pleading for her to awaken.

The dead child is still clasping something in his hand. It is a shiny gold metal object such as Lolasker has never seen before. It is round and heavy when Lolasker takes it from the child’s hand as if in a dream. He puts it in his pouch and immediately forgets it in his grief for all the dear lives that have suddenly been snatched from him.

He had not been able to believe his mother dead until he saw her body. Now his suppressed horror becomes fury. He roars in impotent rage. He smashes his fists against the walls of the cave, needing to feel pain equal to his anguish. Romash, hearing his ranting, finds him and hugs him tightly to prevent him from harming himself further.

I will avenge their murder, screams Little Wolf. I will find them and kill them all. Why would anyone do this? They are not just greedy; they are monsters.

Vengeance is futile, mumbles Romash, gripping Lolasker even tighter. We are the last of our people. Nothing matters now. They hold each other and weep together for many minutes, dazed, unable to accept the enormity of their loss. Finally, Lolasker’s muscles soften. Romash relaxes his grip. Lolasker picks up his mother’s body and carries her outside.

Now they do what has to be done. They leave the valley a few hours later, having laid out the bodies for carrion birds to consume, and mumbled words of blessing and release, as is their custom. They take as many supplies as they can carry, staggering under the load. Still, the body burden is far less than the weight of grief. To have remained in that valley of horror any longer would have been unbearable for them both.

They retreat to the edge of the forest by nightfall, moving listlessly, stunned with physical and emotional exhaustion. Neither is able yet to accept that their whole tribe, everyone they have ever known, is gone. Their loved ones so suddenly and utterly wiped out. They make camp and hug each other, weeping through the night.

Romash is numb with anguish, but clasps the trembling boy tightly, periodically probing his mind, feeling Lolasker alternate among outrage, fear, denial, self-pity, and hatred. Neither is able to sleep. Morning finds them emotionally exhausted, empty of anger, unable to continue grieving. The boy releases himself from Romash’s embrace, crawls to a tree and retches. They set up a desultory camp in the verge of the forest, eat some dry rations, and stare mindlessly into the fire for hours.

Chapter 2

Text Description automatically generated with low confidence

"Dissolving with the dark, and with day returning

back to the new birth, the new death: All helpless.

They do what they must."

Bhagavad-Gita, IX

Still overwhelmed by shock and grief, Romash and Lolasker drifted southward through the vast forests and intermittent grasslands of southwestern Siberia. For several days they spoke only briefly and only when necessary. They made rough camps at night as they did when hunting. Sleep was elusive. When awake, each was preoccupied with his own thoughts, which seemed to spin always back to their unbelievable loss.

After three days of almost random meandering, Lolasker finally broke the silence, whining plaintively. Uncle, what shall we do? We can’t just continue to wander. Winter will kill us if we don’t find good shelter and store up enough food. But I miss Mother and Aunt Manaha so much I don’t know if I can live without them. Maybe we should return to the mountains and find a great bear to fight to the death as you have told me some old hunters do.

"I have been thinking what we should do, Lolasker. We could just hunker down, but that would be meaningless. We would eventually go crazy with grief and loneliness. I am old, but you still have your life to live. You must do some good with your life and maybe even attain happiness. You may think that is impossible, but you are young. You will never forget your loss, but you will get beyond it and find a purpose to live for. I am not yet ready to fight the bear. My duty now must be