Closer to the Answer

I know very little of this culture, I hope I have portrayed it in an inoffensive and realistic manner. I did some research upon the internet. Forgive me, if I have not done enough. Suggestions welcomed. The philosophical thought was one I had before and just incorporated into this story.



         The cave was a deep cleft in the cliff walls, widening inside to a comfortable flask shaped room, the tapering fissure continued above to make a sort of natural chimney. It was used only at specific and infrequent occasions, despite being ideal for a dwelling. Spirits deserved more comfort than mere humans.

         The Old One shuffled closer to the fire, holding out his hands as though to beseech it for more warmth. His fur robe was old and thin now, it barely sufficed to cover and was virtually useless as protection against the keening wind. He reached behind him, fumbling for a small rawhide pouch that hung by a thin cord wound around his waist.

         His fingers drew out a generous pinch of the thin dark leaves that were crumbling in the interior. He shook back the excess and dropped the careful measure into the fire. There was a puff of grey smoke and it continued upward in a lazy curl.

         The smell of something sharp and aromatic, half-pleasant and half-acrid tickled his nostrils. He closed his eyes and rocked back and forth on his heels; he muttered a faint rhythmic chant that kept time with his movements. His breathing made the thin chest rise and fall with that faint wheezing whistle that characterized him these days.

         Cloud Reader, for that was the Old One’s name, remained in a trance state for some time. Who knew what visions he could see, it was his ability to read the future of the tribe in cloud formations that had led to his Man name. It had been many years though, that he had been called anything but a respectful ‘Old One’.

         He had honed his skills with the help of the Medicine Woman who had adopted him at the tender age of two. His parents, two elder brothers and one babe in arms, a sister – all had died in the path of a boulder that crashed down upon their dwelling. They found the little boy outside the rubble heap, a miraculous escape. When they attempted to find out why he had crept out the hut at near dawn, the child would only say the clouds had beckoned him. The pale violet-red light had showed a cloud in the sky – like an outstretched hand.

         His thin-lipped mouth now widened to reveal dark toothless gums; his open maw was like the greedy upturned open beaks of hungry fledglings. Some unseen being, perhaps even Eagle Flying High herself, was feeding him something; he swallowed again and again, the Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

         He sat back in apparent satiation and drew out some berries from his pouch; a dark yellow ochre wrinkled one, a burnt orange one and one of near ashen brown. He then proceeded to grind each one separately with the elk horn antler that always hung around his waist.

         The powder was mixed with some gum he had scraped off the resinous sap of certain trees. Then each was made into a thin paste with water from a gourd. His fingers mixed a little ash from the fire into a portion of the brown colour.

         His eyes were glazed, a grey-brown clouded blind stare. Yet it seemed he could see with far greater clarity than normal.

         He then dipped his fingers into first one and then the other and made three parallel stripes down his cheeks. He then faced the rock wall as his hands made graceful swoops to leave a colourful message there. A few stick figures danced around a fire, a spear arced through the intervening space as a massive bison floundered in death throes at the very end of the rock face. The powerful shoulders had cords of brown muscle with a red streak coming from its underside. The horns were short but menacing, and curved upwards with strange dignity.

         As he gave the last touches to the eyes and added a final ashen streak to the curve of muzzle, his eyes became clear once more. He shook back the thin ropes of tired white hair that were all that remained of his once glorious thick raven braids. His neck straightened and the figure unwound from the awkward crouched position at the cave wall. His work was done.

         The invocation and blessing is complete. My tribe will have a good hunt this time around. He scattered the remaining pigments into the embers of the few smouldering coals. His eyes gazed at the thin haze that was all that remained of the fire. The purple grey wisps were like a curtain that parted into another world, maybe another time.

         He could see a room full of people sitting in rows, each seated before some strange square structures. The room was like a dark cave but some young medicine woman was working powerful magic and a finger of light shone from a squarish black stone in front of her.

         The light shone upon a wall she had erected from some cloth like material; it showed a picture of the cave where he now stood …Aieee…it had his painting upon it! She mouthed in a strange language and yet he understood her. She comprehended the nature of the paintings as a good medicine woman would. But she was heaping scorn upon the actual worth of such ritual.

         A sharp pain tore into his chest as he felt the ridicule she poured upon his prowess; the fading vision allowed him to see yet another wall of the cave wherein she stood. It had some strange black figures on that white wall, large and held in evident veneration from the high place in which it was done. A straight bow released two arrows and kept three more ready, beside a mountain range, yet the crescent moon rode just next to, not above the mountains. A sparrow or some other small bird was flying high -next to the moon – he had just enough time to register that, before the vision faded.

         He found that even the real cave was now dimming and understood that the Great Spirit was beckoning him to make the Final Crossing. A last mocking thought flashed into his mind, placed there by his nearness to the all those who had Gone Before.

         They think they have found the way to Absolute Power with that set of symbols, yet they will find themselves on the brink of destruction with its misuse.

         I am coming Father. and he breathed his last.

         The young lecturer wound up her talk on Cave Paintings and their Possible Significance. She sounded a bell to indicate the day’s session was over.

         There was a buzz and susurration as the class discussed the input and gathered their writing materials. As they filed out, milling at the doorway, some glanced up at the large formula that was laminated in foot high letters on the nearby wall.

         It said:

         

               2

E = MC

Word count:1182 ( of the story)