Shame of Man by Piers Anthony
The tribesmen were meanwhile rolling the barrier boulder up across the entrance. It nudged close, closing them in. The seal was not tight, so that air came in around the edges, but the space was not large enough for any of them to get through. That air helped, for it carried the fresh outside odor of the forest, pushing back the queasy stench of death.
“First we must introduce ourselves to the spirits,” Hugh announced. “Otherwise they might not like our bothering their bodies. So we shall play and dance for them.” He handed the torch to Anne. Its smoke was moving forward, into the cave, as if this were the mouth of a huge beast that was inhaling.
Chip nodded, liking the notion. He had seen how living tribesfolk were charmed by music and dance, so it made sense that dead folk would have similar sentiments. They had on occasion entertained the spirits of animal skeletons, so that they could pass unmolested; the principle was clear.
So Hugh led the way deeper into the cave as it slanted up into the mountain, playing his flute. Chip followed, playing his own flute. Then came Mina, dancing in her fashion, and finally Anne, holding the torch steady despite the gyrations of her body. They were making a procession toward the chamber of the dead.
The cave went straight back into the mountain, on and on. Hugh had had no idea it went so deep. He worried that the torch would burn out before they found the bodies. He did not want that; it would be an awful affront to the spirits if he stumbled over a body. So he walked faster, still diligently playing his music. The others followed, continuing their playing and dancing. They all understood how important it was to keep the spirits pacified.
At last the passage ended—in a sharp upturn. They had to scramble up into a higher level. Hugh removed his pack and set it on the floor, and Anne did the same; no one would steal them from this place. He played one-handed as he wedged his way up, while Anne danced below, charming the spirits with especially luxuriant swings of hair and hips. He reached the top, and looked around in the dim fringe of light from the torch below.
There was a much larger chamber, with points of stone rising from its floor like giant animal teeth, casting living shadows against the receding walls. And here were the bodies, spread between the teeth. The smell intensified. The drift of air had stopped; this was the depth of the breathing beast.
He found a place where he could hold on and reach a hand down to help the others. “I must pause, O spirits,” he said. “So I can bring my family up here to entertain you. I will play again soon.” He hoped that the spirits were not impatient. They had listened very quietly so far, so he thought they understood.
He caught Chip's hand and hauled him up. “Oooo!” the boy exclaimed, spying the bodies. He was fascinated.
“Play for them,” Hugh said quickly.
Chip settled himself and resumed playing his little flute, happily wrinkling his nose as he breathed. This was certainly a stink worthy of his appreciation.
Hugh hauled Mina up, and set her to dancing beside Chip. They made a nice miniature couple who would surely charm the spirits. Then he helped Anne up. She could not dance while scrambling, but she moved so lithely that the spirits might not know the difference. She held the torch in her free hand, and the rock shadows crawled weirdly as it came up.
When they all had secure footing among the dead, they did a full show for the spirits. Hugh played his flute as never before, and Anne danced so voluptuously that it seemed likely to lift any penises that hadn't rotted away.
When the show was done, they were quiet, waiting for the reaction. There was none. That was a good sign. The spirits were accepting them, having appreciated their offering of entertainment. Still, it was best to be sure that there would be no change of mind.
Hugh brought out some charcoal he used on occasion for drawing figures on outside rocks. Such figures had protective properties; spirits did not like to pass them. He would make a drawing here, to bar the spirits from descending into the lower tunnel.
He looked for a suitable place to draw. Then he thought of a better notion. Mina was a child of spirits, having been rescued from death; she had always been their real protection from spirits, ever since they had taken her from a death grove. The drawing should be hers. But she would not be able to do it effectively; she wasn't that skilled with her hands.
So he decided on a special technique he knew. He bit off a mouthful of charcoal. He chewed it up, getting it saturated with saliva. Then he guided Mina to the neck of the entrance cave. He took her tiny hand and laid it against the rough stone, the fingers splayed wide. And he pursed his lips and blew, spitting out a stream of liquid charcoal. She giggled at the feeling of it, but he held her hand firmly in place until he was done. Then he lifted it away.
There was her handprint—outlined in sprayed black. It was a marvelously spiritual effect. Mina was delighted, and Chip was jealous.
“But your hands must be clean, for playing the flute,” Hugh told him. The boy recognized the validity of that. Mina's little hand was filthy with charcoal spit.
They made their way back down into the lower tunnel. There was no further need to play and dance; the spirits had accepted them, and now Mina's handprint would prevent the spirits from coming down after them. They would be able to rest, and to sleep.
That was just as well, because the torch finally guttered out. Anne had kept it going as long as she could, but now its spirit would join those of the people in the main cave. The family was in complete darkness.
They linked hands and walked toward the entrance. It would be more comfortable there, and the air would be fresher. They would curl comfortably together, and in the morning, when the tribesfolk rolled away the stone, the four of them would emerge fresh and smiling. The troublemakers Bub and Sis would be discredited, and the rest of the stay here would be good. The spirits were still smiling on those who understood and honored them.
This cave is now known as Cosquer. It can no longer be entered afoot; when the ice age ended, the level of the water rose, and the Mediterranean Sea expanded across lands that had been near the shore. The cave had been several miles inland, but now its entrance is more than a hundred feet below the surface. All of the access tunnel and half the main cave is flooded. So are the camps and hunting grounds of mankind in that region; you might say that mankind lived under the sea. We may never know the details of the lives of those coastal dwellers, because the sea washed them out.
Two thousand years after Mina left her handprint, using the “spitting image” technique that we have understood only recently, another tribe used the cave for paintings. They cleared out the bones and decorated the cave first with more hand stencils, then with the largest variety of animals and designs known in such a context. About a hundred animals have been found painted or engraved, including three auks—the only such depictions of this seabird known. But this may be only half the original total, because the rising water washed out the lower ones, including Mina's original handprint.
It seems natural that when self-consciousness brought awareness of similar awareness in other human beings, folk also suspected that it existed in animals and even in inanimate things, such as the surging sea, shaking mountains, and the dead. The spirit of self-consciousness seemed to exist apart from the tangible body, perhaps as an independent entity. If there was doubt, it was better to play it safe, and propitiate any spirits that might be in the vicinity. Thus, perhaps, another beginning of religion, with its attendant ceremonies. But the arts were also pleasurable in themselves, so they continued to flourish wherever mankind existed. It's too bad that music and dance left no tangible records in the way that painting and sculpture did. We have no evidence that musical counterpoint existed in early times, yet our deep appreciation of it can hardly have developed only in the past thousand years, so here it is assumed that it existed, though in limited form. We have surely missed man's most dynamic artistic aspects.
CHAPTER 9
* * *
HORSE
Start at the Atlantic Ocean. Pa
The time is about 6,500 years ago, and nothing much is happening. Yet retrospect can provide significance for even tiny events.
AS the dawn came, it was clear that the spirits had let them be. Perhaps it was the music and dance they had done by the burial ground at dusk, and perhaps the magic symbols they had drawn in the dirt. But Hugh believed it was mostly that little Mina had always been a child of the spirits, and that the family was safe as long as she was part of it. They had acquired her somewhat haphazardly, but it was clear that their lives had improved thereafter.
Rather than hurry out of the deep sacred grove as if afraid, they delayed, waiting for the tribesmen to come and find them. Anne served out crusts of bread, while Hugh cleaned up their campsite; it would not do to leave a mess in spirit territory. Then as the sun blazed hugely across the water of the great lake, they settled down to divert themselves as if without any concern for their locale. That, of course, was part of the act.
They were making toys for their children. Hugh fashioned a wheeled wagon, while Anne made a tiny pot. Naturally the children asked awkward questions.
“Why not just carry the stuff?” Chip asked. He was curious about everything, just as Hugh himself had been at that age.
“Because more can be moved on the wagon,” Hugh replied. “If there is a level trail to push it along.” He demonstrated by pushing the toy wagon with his finger. The carved wheels squeaked, and the wagon weewawed as it moved, but it did make progress.
Chip smiled. He pushed the wagon himself, liking the way it reacted.
Meanwhile, Anne presented Mina with the pot. It looked just like a real one, with its wide round top and pointed base. “Don't try to jam it in the ground yet,” Anne cautioned her. “Wait for it to dry and harden.”
Mina took the pot and turned it around in her hands. Though still tiny, she was already clever with her hands. She liked to paint pictures in dirt, and she could play the little wood flute Hugh had carved for her, making recognizable tunes. In fact she took after her parents to such an extent that no one would have guessed she had been adopted.
“I want mark it,” she said.
“You can decorate it with a stick,” Anne told her. “It is still soft. Just use the point to make your marks.”
“That too long. I want nice mark, now.”
Anne cast about for something. “Maybe you can roll it on something, to mark it.”
“No.” Then the child caught up the cord that tied her clothing together. She wrapped it around the upper rim of the jar, pressing it in. When she pulled it away, there was the pattern of the cord, impressed on the clay. “There.”
Anne nodded. “That's very clever, Mina. Maybe I should decorate my own pots that way.”
“Yes,” Mina said decisively. “They'll look nice.”
Then they heard someone coming, and waited quietly. It turned out to be the woman called Seed, with her three-year-old son named Tree. She had helped them get settled in the village two days ago, and her little boy had played with Mina. Hugh had a strange feeling for a moment that there should have been two or three small children, but of course that was a fleeting dream fragment. He found himself taken by such bits of unreality at times, and had learned to shake them off.
Seed was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had seen, apart from Anne. And of course Anne caught him looking. She laughed. “I will teach her to dance just like me; then you will know for sure.”
Hugh did not reply. Anne was not the jealous type; she knew that he appreciated lovely women, and that he touched no other but her.
Seed looked relieved as she joined them. “Of course I believed that you had the confidence of the spirits,” she said. “Yet I was concerned.”
“We are charmed by the spirits,” Hugh said. “Now we shall return to your tribe and teach you music and dance. There should be no more trouble with those who doubt us.”
Seed still looked uncertain. “Sis is jealous of Anne's beauty, and seeks to undermine it. I know the way of that.”
Surely she did, being lovely herself. “But they can't do anything more,” Anne said, half in question.
“Those two are devious. You must watch out for them.”
“We shall do so,” Hugh agreed.
They went to the village center, with its clustered oval houses, where the women were suitably impressed to see them alive and hale. They went to work, with Hugh and Chip demonstrating the tricky art of flute playing, while Anne and Mina instructed interested women in the art of provocative dancing. A white-clad priest watched, but stayed clear; he was present only to show that this matter had been cleared with the priesthood and was not objectionable. Most of the villagers wore the brown clothing of the herders or cultivators. Hugh and Anne wore green, the innocuous color of travelers.
Seed was the first to try the dance, while little Tree eagerly attempted Chip's flute. The little wooden flute was expendable; Hugh had promised to make him a good one from a bird bone, similar to Hugh's own, when they found exactly the right bone. Seed was not only beautiful; she had a natural grace that facilitated her motions. Soon she and Anne were dancing together, matching step for step, hip for hip, smile for smile. Hugh stared, entranced; they were like twins in their beauty, one in green, one in brown, the very essence of all that a man desired. The one in green had brown eyes, and the one in brown had green eyes, the seeming contrast enhancing the symmetry of their beauty.
A crowd was gathering, similarly intrigued, though perhaps the reasons differed with the sexes. More women joined the class, and Hugh played his melodies for them all, because music gave form to dance. He put Chip on the taut hide drum he had made, keeping the beat. Some of the men joined the dance, unable to resist the lure of beat and melody. It was becoming an excellent session.
But it could not go on forever. The villagers had work to do. So they agreed to return in the evening, when there would be another show. In the interim, Hugh and Anne could rest. Food was brought for them: barley bread, fermented mare's milk, baked fish, and dried strips of pig meat. They were eating well.
Then a woman approached, and they became cautious: it was Sis, who had caused her brother to challenge their favor with the spirits the day before. She was a dusky, sultry creature, unsmiling, but possessed of a healthy body. Surely she did not want to learn to dance.
She came to stand before Hugh. “There is a crippled child who dearly loves music. His family begs you to come play for him. I have brought horses so that you can go there and return with dispatch.”
Seed looked up and nodded; it seemed that there was such a child.
Hugh was taken aback. This was the last thing he had expected from this sullen woman. Yet it seemed it was legitimate. He looked at Anne. Her eyes narrowed, then relaxed. “Go,” she said. “I will rest here with the children. You should get experience on a horse.”
She knew what most others did not: that he was well experienced with horses, and enjoyed riding when he had the chance. So did Anne. On those occasions when they had access to horses, sometimes they raced each other. If it had been possible to care for horses adequately as they traveled, they would have trained their own. But because he did not trust this creature Sis, he did not clarify this. “You will have to lead me.”
Sis tried to mask her contempt for his supposed inadequacy. “The horse will follow mine,” she said. “You have merely to hold on.”
He walked with her to the horses. They were good enough animals, well cared for. The Yamnaya folk t
There were two mares, hobbled so they wouldn't drift. They were grazing at the edge of the village. Either mares or stallions could be ridden, but the stallions were usually reserved for the warrior class, being larger, stronger, and more spirited. Still, Hugh knew that a good mare could run well enough.
“There is yours,” Sis said. “She is well trained and docile.”
Hugh could tell that by looking at the mare. But he did not try to mount her. He merely stood as if not knowing what to do.
“I will help you mount,” Sis said. “Stand directly by her side and bend your left knee. I will heave you up.”
“Oh. Yes.” He lifted his left foot, so that it was behind him. Sis locked her fingers together and put her linked hands under his knee. She heaved, and he swung his right leg up over the horse's back, so that he landed solidly. “Thank you.”
Sis then went to the other mare and mounted with considerably more dispatch. She knew horses, he could see, while she thought him a duffer. That was the way he preferred it. Just in case she was up to something.
Sis clicked to her mare, and the horse started forward. Hugh could have guided his animal similarly, but did not. However, after a moment she started on her own, following her companion mare. Horses tolerated people, but preferred the company of their own kind.
They moved at a pace at first leisurely, then briskly. Hugh got two handfuls of his mount's mane, making a show of hanging on, though he was not in discomfort. Sis was perhaps teasing him, trying to see how fast the horses had to go before he begged for a slower pace.