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SPEAR SHAFT

For a moment Hawk stood still, the club dangling idly from his hand. The scene was commonplace; someone was always being hurt or killed by wild beasts. But, though ordinarily Hawk would not have given a second glance, he felt troubled because it was Willow who lay there on the ground.

Slowly Hawk turned his back on her and walked away from the fire. He could do nothing here anyway; he had no knowledge of the secrets of the medicinal herbs and grasses, and was a little afraid of the incantations with which the old medicine woman of the tribe applied them.

The wild dogs had retreated, leaving five dead behind them. Back in the forest there was a confused chorus of growls and snarls, then a few high-pitched screams. The pack had set upon and torn apart one of their wounded members, and now they would eat. The humans around the leaping fire relaxed. The pack had suffered a crushing defeat, and it was unlikely that the dogs would attack again, at least until they had marshaled their ripped forces.

Wolf came in, dragging two of the dead dogs by their rear paws. He took them to the fire and dropped them near the one Hawk had killed. Other hunters came with the other two dogs.

The tribe arranged themselves near the fire, the women and girl children nearest and the men making an outer ring. Save for the fire, and the people around it, the wilderness was a dark and menacing void. This was the way it always had been and, as far as anyone knew, the way it always would be. Merely staying alive was a desperate business.

Kar threw more wood on the fire, and its leaping flames brightened. The little knot of humans sat close beside it. Life during the day was never without its danger, but at night, when prowlers were rampant, anyone who went beyond the fire’s outer circle of light took his life in his hands.

Thus would it be all through the hours of darkness. Not one minute would lack a hungry beast that hoped to catch and eat a human being. There was no way to strike back. Fire and unity, the ability to throw many spearsmen against any and all attackers, were the tribe’s only protection.

But the dangers of the night were only normal. Death threatened, but life must go on. The women were working with flint knives, preparing the dogs for cooking, and presently the mingled smell of cooking meat and scorched hair filled the air. Attracted by that odor, a pair of saber-tooth tigers came near and beat a restless patrol around the night camp. They coughed and snarled, but nobody moved. The tigers feared the fire, and as long as they were there no lesser brute would dare come near. In one way the tigers’ very presence was a guarantee of safety.

While the women cooked, the men rested. Hawk again fell to studying his slender spear shaft. He realized that there would be a great advantage in hurling a spear farther than the strongest man could throw it. If the hunters were able to do that, they could remain a proportionately safe distance away from a maddened bison or cave bear. They could strike their enemies that much farther away, and kill game which now stayed out of spear range. Again Hawk drilled the spear shaft into the ground, and pondered.

Using the mysterious power of the shaft, he had hurled a spear much farther than even Wolf, the mighty, could throw one. But he had hit nothing. Hawk braced another spear against the flattened end of the imbedded shaft and bent it back. Yes, the power was still there.

Slowly, snarling in anger because they dared come no nearer, the pair of tigers were still beating a measured patrol around the camp. Now and again one or the other would make a short, savage rush, rippling the tops of the tall grass at the farthest reach of the firelight, but coming no nearer. Hawk studied their routine.

They were making a rhythmic, methodical beat. They always traveled at about the same speed, so that they were in the same places at the same time as their patrol led them around the fire. They always charged toward the camp at one place where the grass was thickest. Seized with a sudden, bold idea, Hawk bent the shaft a bit more, and took a new grip on the spear.

His senses were nearly as keen as those of the wild beasts against which the tribe constantly fought, and after he had studied the tigers’ motions a few minutes he knew exactly where they were. He waited, his eyes on the patch of dense grass, measuring the fierce pair’s progress. At exactly the right moment he shot his spear.

As he released it, the tall grass rippled from the tiger’s half-rush toward the fire. There was the solid impact of a spear striking flesh, and the tiger’s growl changed to a high-pitched scream. The wounded tiger’s mate roared threateningly. The grass bent as before a powerful wind while both great cats charged angrily about. Continuing to scream, the spear-stricken tiger leaped so high that his blocky form showed for an instant over the tops of the grass. Then there was only a string of coughing snarls that grew fainter as both beasts sought a refuge in the forest.

Hawk stood still, trembling at the thing he had done and not at once able to comprehend it. The fierce tigers had always been part of the night, a routine portion of the dangers of darkness. They never came near the fire, but neither did even the mightiest hunter ever think of molesting the creatures. Now, at night, a man had deliberately attacked a tiger. Furthermore, it had been a spear-maker who had done so, not a hunter.

It was too much to understand all at once. The hunters, awe-stricken, sat in silence. Women and children stared wide-eyed toward the faint snarls that marked the retreating tigers. Even the smell of cooking meat seemed for the moment to be suspended. Then Wolf spoke heavily.

“What demon possessed you, Spear-Maker, that you dared do such a thing?”

Short-Leg was on his feet, chattering angrily. “He broke the law! He hurled a spear without cause! I saw him!”

“Tell us!” Wolf repeated sternly. “Tell us why you did it!”

Hawk found his voice. “I did not throw the spear! The power of the wood threw it.” He faltered, and pointed to the supple shaft, lacking words to explain because he himself was not entirely sure what he had done. He had acquired a new power, so new that there were no words for it. To show them all its magic, Hawk snatched up another spear, braced it against the shaft, and shot. The spear made a long, clean arc, flying above the grass tops and falling in the darkness. Nobody, not even Wolf, could throw a spear half that distance, and in spite of his uncertainty, Hawk was proud.

“It is forbidden!” Short-Leg shrieked. “Trouble will come because the spear-maker meddles with that of which he knows nothing!”

The hunters made a little half-circle, awed and fearful. This was magic of the blackest sort. There was a prescribed way to throw a spear, and since time began men had thrown them in just that way. Sacred custom had been violated, and anything could happen now. The only flicker of real interest was in Wolf’s eyes, but he, too, shrank back from the mysterious thing he had witnessed. He stared hard at Hawk.

“You know the law,” he said. “All your spears will fly false unless you use them only in defense of the tribe. The tiger was not attacking us.”

“It is true, Wolf,” Hawk admitted. “But it is also true that I was not hunting, which is what the law forbids. I am Chief Spear-Maker and I accept my place as such. But this is good magic and great power which has come to me. Will you not use it yourself?”

The hunters were now staring at Wolf, their chosen leader. He was a brave and skillful hunter, but the Chief Spear-Maker’s argument about the law was too much for his simple mind. He did realize, however, that the other hunters were afraid of this new power.

“It is not our way of hunting,” Wolf said, turning away.

Hawk pulled the slender shaft out of the ground and laid it with his extra spears and shafts. To relieve his own awed excitement he counted them. There were a dozen shafts and a dozen spears, an extra one for each man. And when the sun rose, he must make another spear for Short-Leg, who was dissatisfied with the one he carried. Hawk looked sideways at the leader, the only man who had shown real interest in the spear-throwing shaft. But, in the face of opposition from all the rest, even Wolf dared not press that interest too far.

Hawk sat alone, shunned by the awe-struck hunters. He accepted a piece of half-cooked dog brought to him by one of the women, and gnawed hungrily on it. As he ate, he stole a glance at the little cluster of women and children. They, too, were now eating, the men having been given the best parts. Even Willow, lying on a bed of grass that the women had prepared for her, was listlessly nibbling a strip of meat. Her thigh was no longer bleeding.

Hawk gave all his attention to the food in his hands, tearing the stringy meat from the big bone with his powerful jaws. Dog was not the best of food. It lacked the strength-giving qualities of bison, or any of the other grass-eaters, but it would serve when nothing else was to be had. After he gnawed the bone clean, Hawk lay down to sleep.

Black night still reigned when he awakened. Hawk sat up, locating by his odor the leopard that had taken over the tigers’ patrol. The wind brought him the scent of wolves and, far off, the faint odor of the wild dogs. They had gone only far enough to lick their wounds, and had not departed. But it was unlikely that they would attack again.

Kar, sitting with his chin on his knees, rose to throw more wood on the fire. The flames flared brightly, revealing some of the men sleeping and a few wakeful. One of the women rose to bring them more meat. Hawk ate his slowly; he was not as hungry as he had been. When he had eaten enough, he lay down to sleep again.

This was their life. When they had enough to eat, they gorged. Uneaten meat would spoil anyhow, and tomorrow was far away. Keeping alive and fed today were the important parts of living.

The next time Hawk awakened morning had come and a warm sun was pouring through the tall trees. He stretched luxuriously, then looked to his sheaf of spears. When he rose and walked near one of the hunters, the man moved quickly away from him. The rest looked suspiciously at Hawk. Not forgotten was last night, and the witchcraft by which he had stricken a hunting tiger at a distance greater than any man should be able to hurl a spear.

Relieved of his night duties by another day, Kar was lying in the grass with his head pillowed on his arm. Kar must never sleep at night, for only to the Chief Fire-Maker fell the responsibility of the night fire. But he could sleep during the day whenever the tribe was not on the move.

Hawk glanced toward the women. Some were busy near the fire, cooking the remainder of the slain dogs, but two were grinding dried berries in a hollow stone, using a smaller stone to crush the berries into powder. Willow had risen from her bed of grass and was sitting with her back to a stone, staring wanly at the fire. A compress of green herbs bound her injured leg. Hawk looked at her pale face; obviously Willow was badly hurt.

Hawk licked his lips, and bolted his portion when a woman brought him another piece of meat. It was one of the last pieces, and when it was all gone the tribe would have to move on. Again Hawk glanced at Willow. If she could not go with the rest, she would be left behind to certain death; a hungry tribe could not risk starvation for the sake of an injured girl.

Hawk picked up the slender spear shaft and twirled it between his fingers. Respectfully he gazed at the shaft, a thing more powerful than any man.

Even now he had not acquired all of the secrets it contained. He knew only that there were better ways of spearing than any yet put into use by his fellow tribesmen. Perhaps more of the strange new power would be revealed to him. When Hawk caught Wolf staring at him, he put the shaft down.

Covertly he studied it, then glanced sideways at Wolf. Except for the leader, the hunters feared the spear-thrower. And Wolf did not dare risk their fear. Hawk cast about for something he might do to win over the leader. The power of the shaft was good, as had been proven by his striking the tiger last night, but how could he persuade the rest to accept it?

The sun climbed higher, and the women served the last of the meat. Carrying skin containers, two of the women rose and went to a spring that bubbled from beneath one of the boulders. They filled their containers, returned to the fire, and kneaded the coarsely ground berry powder into flat cakes. These they put on hot stones to bake.

The men looked disinterestedly at them. Having had meat, they wanted more. Baked cakes were acceptable to satisfy great hunger, but they were not good food. However, since their bellies were filled for the present, nobody was inclined to move. It was good to take full advantage of rest periods whenever they occurred because, soon enough, there would be none.

Hawk busied himself making another spear. He knew the capabilities of every man in the tribe and fashioned his spears to fit the user. Wolf could throw a large shaft with a heavy head and do deadly work with it. The rest took proportionately lighter spears and Short-Leg needed the lightest of all.

The Chief Spear-Maker selected a smooth shaft of the proper weight and balanced it in his hand. It had already been scraped smooth by one of his helpers, but there was one place that needed further scraping. Hawk worked with a rough piece of flint, the top of which had been chipped to fit his hand. Again he tested the shaft by balancing it, and this time he found it better.

From his pouch, he chose a head, a carefully chipped piece of flint to fit the spear, and lashed it on with bison-skin thongs.

Hawk balanced the completed spear in his hand, feeling it as a part of him. It was good, and would fly straight, but there was more yet to be done. Though Hawk knew it was good, the hunter who would use the spear must have confidence in his weapon.

He glanced at the willow-bordered streamlet that wandered away from the spring, and carefully studied the various small birds flitting about the branches. This was one part of spear-making which only he knew thoroughly. There were different birds with different flights, and much depended on selecting the right one.

The newly made spear in his hand, Hawk rose and walked down the hillock. At the bottom was a tar pit, and the hot sun had made it a sticky mess. He thrust a stick into the tar, and turned it until the stick was coated.

Carrying the dripping stick, he returned to the willows and lightly coated some of their thin branches with tar. The little birds took alarm when he approached, but returned as soon as the Chief Spear-Maker went back to the fire. Three birds alighted on the tar-coated branches, and fluttered wildly as they tried to escape. Hawk waited until another bird was caught, then trotted over to his captives.

He was conscious of the hunters’ keen interest as he approached, but nobody offered to help. This was a part of spear-making that he alone could do.

Hawk slowed his steps as he came near the fluttering birds, and cast an expert eye over them. Two were little insect-eaters whose life depended on their ability to twist and turn; they had to be able to do so in order to catch the insects that dwelt among the willows. As a consequence, they seldom flew straight for more than a few feet.

But the other two birds were fruit- and bud-eaters, suited to his purpose. Hawk disengaged the two birds he did not want and let them go. They bobbed erratically into the willows. He closed his hand about one of the other prisoners. Gently, not hurting it, he worked its feet out of the sticky tar. As he did so, he noticed that in thrashing about, trying to free itself, the bird had broken its tail. It couldn’t be mended, but that made no difference; it was the right kind of bird.

Ceremoniously Hawk thrust the spear’s point at the sky, then at the earth, then at the four winds. He poised the spear in throwing position and let the bird go.

Bending and twisting, unable to keep itself straight with its broken tail, the bird wobbled into more willows a hundred feet away. Hawk stared, dumb-founded. This was the acid test of a spear. If the bird flew straight the spear would be certain to fly straight. Always before such birds had flown in a perfectly straight line, but now no hunter would accept this spear or dare use it. Hawk walked slowly back to the fire.

Two of the women were supporting Willow between them and guiding her about. Willow hobbled stiffly, painfully, unable to use her injured leg to good advantage. But she must move; the tribe would not stay here and the women knew it. If Willow could not accompany them, she would certainly be left behind.

Short-Leg looked up at Hawk. “Do not ask me to use that spear, Spear-Maker. I saw the bird fly.”

Without replying, Hawk broke the spear shaft across his knee and threw the head away. Whether or not the flight of the bird had anything to do with the flight of the spear, it was tribal tradition that spears must be tested in this way. Hawk fashioned another spear.

This time, when he approached the willows, he was more careful. He had learned something—even a bird that normally flew straight could not do so when it had a broken tail. Hawk added this to his store of knowledge. When he selected another bird he chose the same kind but looked it over carefully to make sure there were no broken feathers.

Again he went through the exact ritual. When he released the bird, it flew straight as a dart to another bush. Hawk carried the spear back to the fire and gave it to Short-Leg.

Kar rose and stretched, and looked questioningly about for more meat. There was none. Kar grunted his disappointment and, stooping to pick up his spear and club, went into the forest for wood. From now until the sun rose again, Kar would maintain his vigil.

The women had put Willow back on her bed of leaves, and the girl lay there with one arm across her eyes, while the old medicine woman changed the compress of herbs that covered her wound.

Hawk stretched out by the fire and slept a few minutes. When he awoke, it was dark and the tribe had settled down for the night. Save for Kar and one sentry, the rest of the men and boys slept lightly. Hawk tested the night winds.

There were no scents save some far off, and the inevitable nearer one of the tiger that patrolled the camp, hoping somebody would stray from it. Then, from the distance, Hawk caught the scent of the wooly rhinoceros. It was still alone, and in almost the same place it had been when he first scented it. Hawk lay down to sleep again.

The camp awoke hungry, for during the night even the berry cakes had been eaten and now there was nothing left. This, too, was a normal part of things. The tribe was a wandering unit with no settled home and not often at the same sleeping place twice. It must constantly follow the game upon which it depended for most of its food, and the time had come again.

Without ceremony, Wolf started out. The hunters and Kar fell in behind him, but Hawk lingered, as was his duty. Willow rose painfully, and would have fallen had not one of the women caught her. The two women who had helped her yesterday looked questioningly at each other, then at the backs of the men. Fear and doubt were in their faces; they wanted to help the girl but not if helping her would cause them to be left behind. They urged Willow along the line of march, while other women took up Hawk’s extra spears and shafts. Up ahead, one of the men turned impatiently, gestured with his arm, then went on with the other hunters.

The distance between them and the women who were trying to bring the crippled girl along increased. Hawk stayed behind, spear and club ready. But the women were becoming restless now. Their strength lay in all the men, not in just one, and they knew it. They talked softly among themselves.

Then, below the crest of another hill, the men stopped.

Hawk knew why, for scent of the wooly rhinoceros came plainly to his nostrils now. The hunters had not stopped out of consideration for the women, but because they were near game. When Hawk and the women came up, Wolf was on the crest of the hill, looking over. Walking openly, for this was no herd of nervous bison but a savage beast that almost always stood to fight, the rest went up the hill when Wolf beckoned. Hawk looked down on the scene below.

It was another river meadow, but a barren one. The grass was short, scarcely high enough to cover a man’s ankles, and the rhinoceros stood nearly in the center of the meadow. An armored behemoth with two long spears in his ugly snout, he was dozing in the midday sun. Nothing else was near.

The hunters talked softly among themselves, debating the possibilities. Here there was no opportunity for an effective fire drive, for the grass was too short to burn. Any assault on the wooly rhinoceros would have to be a direct attack, and that was always dangerous. Nevertheless, it could be done.

The hunters decided to attack.

Hawk walked down the slope with them, trying to conceal his great excitement. Here was the chance to use the power of the green shaft, the opportunity for which he had been hoping. At the very best, with every advantage on the hunters’ side, a wooly rhinoceros was a dangerous beast, a snorting ton of fury that, once aroused, would turn aside for nothing. His hide could be pierced, but not by any thrown spear. Brute strength was needed to penetrate the beast’s heavy armor. But if a hunter could stand at a distance, and shoot a spear that would sink into the creature’s vitals . . . Hawk glanced at Wolf, who had apparently forgotten all about the shaft. It was no use; the hunters would have nothing to do with Hawk’s new power.

The Chief Spear-Maker remained in his proper place, a little behind the hunters. The wooly rhinoceros came awake, and tossed his long snout viciously. Two of the more agile hunters feinted in front of him, while Wolf went in from the rear to thrust at the monster’s tendons.

On a sudden, irresistible impulse, Hawk drilled his spear shaft into the ground. He braced a spear against the knobby end, bent the shaft way back, and shot. There was a sudden snap as the shaft splintered. The spear wobbled in flight, brushed the wooly beast’s side, and bounded off.

Grunting in anger, the rhinoceros wheeled suddenly. Unbelievably agile for anything so huge, he twisted back, dipping his long head. When the sharp horns on his snout came up, the foremost one slithered squarely into Short-Leg’s belly. The skin on the man’s back bulged, then the horn broke through and Short-Leg was lifted from the ground.

He screamed once, while his dangling arms and legs writhed and twisted. The rhinoceros pivoted, and, still grunting, trotted across the meadow, bearing Short-Leg’s drooping body with him.

Wolf turned on Hawk, his face dark with anger and fear. “This time, Spear-Maker, you have truly broken the tribal law. You are no longer of us!”

The hunters dived on Hawk’s pile of spears, each man snatching the one made for him. They wheeled, and at a fast trot started across the river meadow. For a second the women hesitated. Then, as one, they followed their men. Willow sat where she had been abandoned. Scarcely noticing her, Hawk stood in dumb despair. His newfound power had failed!


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