The Night Visitor, page 33
Nearer to the canyons, the wind is a gifted craftsman of infinite patience. The artful breeze sings a solemn hymn… and slowly sculpts sandstone into fantastic shapes. The most impressive is the great tower that stands alone and aloof. Over the ages, it will be known by many names. First Man. Old Woman’s Thumb. Apache Sentinel. The Devil’s Hitching Post. Chimney Rock.
This is—on the whole—a harsh, arid land. But hidden among the folds of the mesas’ pleated skirts… under the overhangs of jutting ledges… nestled in spruce-shaded bogs… there are damp emerald glens. In such places, delicate blue frogs croak raspy love-songs. Among pulpy ferns, ruby-eyed spiders weave intricate webs. Like pearls embroidered on a delicate veil, glistening drops of amber nectar are suspended from these silken fibers. Perhaps to attract the thirsty moth who flutters by in search of yucca-bloom.
Sarah would tarry in such an enchanted place… She yearns to touch the poisonous frog’s glistening cerulean skin… to rescue poor moth from the eight-legged monster’s snare. It is a lovely, frightening place. But is this her final destination? It is not. This is but a way-station; a stopping-place on a long journey just around the corner of time.
The old ones know that such shadowy places do not exist to serve as comely boudoir for lovesick frogs. Or for the culinary benefit of spiders who sit and watch with a multitude of unblinking red eyes for the unwary six-legged creature. No. Their purpose is of a more cosmic nature. Though the whole of darkness seems to approach from the east and retire to the west, the elders know that this is merely a shadowy illusion meant to deceive mortals. Here is what the old sages have perceived: With the coming of dawn, the monster of night is shattered like a broken pot… into many shards. The dark fragments immediately seek out a multitude of cool sanctuaries where they may hide during the sunlit hours… and they will tarry there till day’s end. As twilight approaches, there are gleeful stirrings in countless dark retreats. At the appointed hour, these shreds of night come forth to form a population of shadows… darklings… inky ghosts.
Does the sleeping child doubt this report?
The spirits had expected as much. Look closely—do you not see them?
Yonder, a mossy smudge slips from under a cleft of granite. Over there… a parasitic shadow attaches itself to the trunk of a knobby tree—its fellow rests behind a pockmarked boulder. One darkling rides on the limbs of a muscular feline who has teeth like curved daggers. Another wisp embraces a tuft-eared rodent, who stands frozen in fear of the yellow-eyed cat. As the far horizon bleeds crimson across the bed of the sun, these anxious graylings whisper sweet gossip… touch cool fingertip… lightly kiss lip to lip… sigh… and finally merge into the cold embrace of twilight. When this entwining is duly done, the whole of darkness has truly come. The multitude have become one.
A night of such singular character cannot be filled with rest and peace for those who move within it. This is, by its nature, an anxious time devoted to searching. Fleeing. Devouring. Being devoured. This strange congregation of creatures slithers, shuffles, sniffs, scuttles… snarls. Elfin rodents blink from dark burrows with enormous, bulging night eyes. Huge bats emit shrill echo-screams and fasten needle-teeth to dragonfly. Three-horned pygmy deer dart among thick shadows. Slow, cumbersome ungulates browse on sweet grasses or clip moist green leaves off low-hanging branches. Fleet-footed, hooked-tooth carnivores stalk the slower creatures. These predators—madly excited by the lust of pursuit—are eager to stain tooth and claw with warm crimson.
But it is all quite innocent. And necessary. A nightly quest for food; merely this and nothing more.
The dreamer understands, and quickly departs for a more suitable place.
Sarah’s spirit sits alone on a towering pinnacle of stone. Beneath the little girl’s perch is a small encampment. The dreamer sees round elk-hide tents with south-facing entrances… a scattering of weary women… thin children too weak to cry. A aged, crippled man sits by a dying campfire; he chants a guttural prayer-song… imploring Spirit Who Thunders for his blessing on the hunt. The urgent howl of a starving dog echoes off a sandstone wall, then trails off into a pitiful whimper.
The darkening world extends beyond far horizons. The child’s vision is not limited by physical eyes—a half-day’s walk away from the camp, Sarah sees a weary beast that has drawn blood—and bleeds as well. The unfortunate creature is hunted by a determined pack of hungry carnivores. His day is almost done.
The pursuers—who number about a dozen—are wiry, muscular men. They wear long coats of finely stitched deerskin, their feet are shod in fur-lined boots. Each carries a fine birch throwing stick and a dozen flint-tipped darts. Most keep a bonehafted knife of obsidian in their simple tool kit. The leader carries a stout spear tipped with a magnificent white point that is called moonstone among their clan. These are—it may be truly said—men of few words. They do not speak as they trot along the rolling prairie highlands like a pack of gray wolves, following a trail of crushed grass and broken reed. But if they are without words, they are not lacking in purpose. These are determined men. And dangerous. Because, like the hooked-tooth cat and the tuft-eared mouse, they are ravenously hungry.
The leader of the pack pauses; he raises his hand. The others gather near him. He points. By his feet is a bloody flint-tipped dart. The animal has shaken it loose.
The trail leads around a low ridge, into a reedy marsh. Now they can hear their victim. There are deep guttural grunts, a shifting of heavy joints… long rasping gasps for air. The wary hunters—who have lost several comrades in such places—approach the bog cautiously. Crawling over the crest of the ridge, they spot their quarry below. Almost within a stone’s throw. The great beast is standing on the reedy bank of a small pond, filling his gut with muddy water. The water hole, surrounded by tall reeds, is encompassed on two sides by a thick stand of willow and cottonwood. On the far side of the pond from the mammoth is a bluff. It is not high, but the bank is far too steep for even a healthy animal of this size to climb. And this one bleeds from a wound in his leathery neck.
The leader calls a meeting; the men squat in a small circle, and listen. The chief of the hunt explains his plan with a few words and many expressive gestures. They will make a small fire and light pine-knot torches. Then form a wide arc and close in slowly on the beast, making plenty of noise. This should drive him farther into the water. While their prey is distracted, one of their number—a privileged hunter—will circle around to the bluff on the opposite side of the pond. That man will make his way down the steep embankment, and into the pond. He will approach the beast through the water, while the others hoot and wave their torches. When he is close enough, this courageous man will drive a long spear between the ribs of the beast. And penetrate the heart. The wooden shaft of the lance was cut only ten moons ago not a day’s walk from where they stand. But the gleaming tip—it is crafted from the sacred moonstone—is very old. And has magical powers. No beast who feels the prick of it in his flesh can live.
The leader stands now, and raises the spear above his head. Who will accept this challenge?
There is a noticeable hesitation. Men stare dumbly at the ground. They think of their women… their children. It is dangerous enough to attempt to frighten the animal into the pond with fire and noise. These huge beasts are both intelligent and unpredictable. The prey may charge. It is sufficiently risky to wave the torch and block the path of the wounded animal—only a man who places small value on his life will dare to come close enough to drive a spear into the heart of the beast. No, it would be better to wait until the animal grows weaker—and be ready to run if the prey charges. Even if the beast escapes from the pond, the men can follow his trail until he finally bleeds to death. But no one will question the leader, who is determined to have a glorious kill. And the chief of the hunt will not withdraw the challenge.
Someone must volunteer …
A young man among them is visited by a most singular apparition.
Wispy as evening mist, she floats above them. It is a girl-child, though certainly not of his tribe. Her hair and eyes are black as night… and she is dressed in strange garb. She watches him
The young man, though startled, is not unduly alarmed. He is of a people who oft see visions. But what does this mean—is the girl-child a witch come to curse the hunt? Or is she one of those Wandering Spirits—those who come and go as they please—and sometimes bless the affairs of mortals? He cannot decide whether this is a good omen or ill. The vision above him gradually fades. But the young hunter will remember the dark eyes of this child yet unborn. And he will see her again… after many ages have passed away.
His reverie is interrupted by a harsh call from the leader, who persists with his challenge. Who will take on the noble task that must be accomplished if the people are to eat meat during the long months of chill winds? Who among them is worthy of this high honor?
An older, wiser man smiles and mutters under his breath; the leader should accept this great honor all for himself. Unless some other fool is willing …
The youth steps forward and accepts the flint-tipped spear. He will go.
He is congratulated by other hunters, who slap him on the shoulders with both hands and offer hearty words of encouragement. They are, in truth, grateful to be relieved of such a hazardous task. One of their number has already been disemboweled by a sweep of the great curved tusks. Another lays in his dome-shaped hut with both legs broken… the same as dead. It is a common price to pay for a kill that will feed the tribe through those six moons when snow covers the earth.
The hunters find a sheltered spot behind the windswept ridge, well out of the sight of their prey. A lean man strikes a thumb-sized chunk of flint against a piece of precious blue-black pebble. Sparks fly onto a handful of fuzzy gray moss. He feeds the first hint of flame with bits of red-willow shavings, then with resinous spruce twigs. One by one, the pine-knots are lighted.
It is time.
The hunted creature looks up from the reed bank and sees this relentless pack of predators… his hateful tormentors. He throws back his great head and bellows out a challenge that can be heard for miles. The earth fairly trembles. It is a magnificent gesture.
And a wasted effort.
The hunters respect their prey, but are not impressed by mere noise. They are filled with enthusiasm and tell themselves this: by the time the greater disc has lightened the sky, there will be slices of fresh liver roasting over their campfire. Then they will send a messenger to their winter camp at the foot of the great rock pillar called First Man—to bring the good news to their families. So that their women and children may come to help butcher the kill. And feast upon the flesh of this great beast.
These half-starved human beings survive with a simple culture of hewn wood, chipped stone, and polished bone that has remained almost unchanged through a thousand generations of their kind. They are ignorant of such things as do not feed their bellies or satisfy other urgent needs. Not even the wisest among them realizes that their ancestors—adrift in long rafts of sealskin stretched over ribs of whale—had been cast ashore upon a continent where the earth had never felt the trod of human foot. Being continually occupied with thoughts of fresh meat, neither has it occurred to them that they are the fathers and mothers of great nations yet to be born. These are, by harsh necessity, a practical folk. Being realists, they consider themselves among the weakest of all the animals, and so they are. But someday… within a few ticks of the cosmic clock… their seed will build glistening cities… split atoms… and travel to worlds far from this one.
The men, spreading apart, wave their torches. They call out loud taunts.
The beast, as expected, backs uncertainly into the waters of the pond. He considers the steep bluff and pauses. There is no escape in that direction. He turns, lowers his great head, and makes sweeping gestures with the curved ivory tusks. The meaning of these invitations are not lost on the hunters.
Come near and I will disembowel you.
It is—at least temporarily—an impasse.
The beast has two choices and the hunters know from long experience that he will make his choice immediately. To charge amongst the dancing eyes of fire, or to wait.
The flames are terrifying, like the eyes of many ravenous beasts.
He waits.
If he is to live through this ordeal, the beast must not catch his scent. The volunteer has removed his clothing and smeared his body with slimy mud from a foul-smelling cattail marsh. All he wears now is the polished wooden pendant around his neck. It is a carving with the shape and spirit of the bear-tooth. Because it has been made and blessed by his crippled uncle—who is a powerful wizard—this facsimile is far more potent than the real thing. The youth hopes that the talisman has sufficient magic to protect him. He grips the heavy wooden spear; his hands tremble with anticipation of the final kill, the ultimate glory of the hunt. And the potential rewards of that victory. He smiles in remembrance of a dark-eyed beauty who has been looking his way of late. She will be greatly impressed by the tale of this hunt, and his valiant role in it. It may be that she will come and sleep where he sleeps …
Another stands not far away, and glares at the youth. This one also lusts after the young woman. The older man fondles a leather implement hidden in the folds of his garment. It is a sling. With it are three smooth stones selected from a dry riverbed. Two are brown spheroids. The third is somewhat oblong… and it is formed of white quartz. It resembles an eagle’s egg; surely this will give it special powers.
As the bone-yellow moon rises through misty clouds, the great beast still faces the screaming pack of human carnivores. The huge creature sways back and forth. He flings his trunk over his flattened head, and bellows. He lifts heavy legs from the muck, and puts them down again. All the time, he bleeds from the wound in his neck. And his massive feet are sticking in the mud; each effort to lift them drains his waning reservoir of strength.
It has been a long struggle. The band of hunters is ravenously hungry for fresh meat. They form up to flank their leader and approach the prey. They must hold his attention, so the young hunter can make his approach without alerting the beast. This encounter will be far more dangerous than they imagine. Especially for the eager youth who anticipates the tales he will tell of his boldness in the hunt—the admiration and pride in the eyes of the young woman.
Unexpectedly, the great beast falls silent. Weary unto death of his futile struggles in the muck, he falls to his knees and lowers his head. As if bowing down before them… these relentless carnivores who are destined to eradicate his kind.
And rule the world.
The leader of the small company, sensing an easy victory, slaps his thigh and laughs. This successful hunt will establish him as one to be reckoned with. Yes… after this, even more men will follow him.
The oldest man among them, faint with hunger, imagines a thick chunk of roasted flesh. Dripping savory grease into the fire. He licks his cracked lips. With enough fresh meat, maybe he will live through one more winter.
But it is not yet finished …
While the other hunters (all but one!) have kept the attention of the wary beast with waving torches and loud taunts, the spear-carrier has made a wide circle to the rear of the pond. And slipped silently down the stony bluff toward the water’s edge. Everything, he believes, is going according to the leader’s plan.
But not quite.
Someone has followed.
The naked youth takes the first tentative steps into the dark pond. The black water is ice-cold on his legs; he shivers. His fear is mixed with an odd sensation… a buzzing, tingling hum that prickles the skin on his neck. It is a warning. And then, like a flash of lightning on a dark landscape, comes the revelation. In an instant, the hunter remembers what shall come next. He has experienced this terrifying encounter far more times than a man of his tribe can count.
A thousand thousand times… and more.
He knows that it is time to die.
Though burdened with this heavy truth, he approaches the great beast with legs that cannot but go forward. What must happen is, so it seems, ordained. Once that darkness falls, he will persist in his relentless hunt… pursue the guilty soul of his murderer into eternity itself.
But to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
Men’s greatest triumphs, sweetest songs, foulest lies, bloodiest wars, most dismal follies… all must finally have an ending.
On occasion, someone will intervene and say: “Enough.”
On this night… a little child shall lead them.
And so once more the grim-faced hunter wades deeper into the moonlit ripple of frigid waters to approach his destiny. Once again, the unseen figure waits behind him in the shadows at the top of the low bluff. As the youth comes near to the heaving, hairy side of the great animal, ready to drive the long spear into the throbbing heart of the beast, the man in the darkness looses a brown river-stone from the sling. It smacks the mammoth on the rump… the startled beast raises from its kneeling position… turns its massive head.
The hunter knows full well what must come, as surely as night follows light.
He has seen it all before. A thousand thousand times… and more.
It happens so quickly—within a few beats of his heart.
The stricken mammoth sees the terrified young man with the spear… bellows its outrage… sweeps long tusks toward this small adversary. There is
a thunderous roar; a yellow arc flashes by his face.
The youthful hunter attempts a step backward. But he has sunk almost knee-deep into the thick ooze …
His feet are rooted in place.
