Feeling the sense of panic rising, he turned, redoubling his efforts to escape. Nostrils dilated, eyes wide with fear, he glanced over his shoulder once more. The air suddenly seemed stifling, filled with the promise of death, his death. Somewhere behind him, his pursuers were closing fast, calling to one another in a singsong, guttural tongue that sounded alien to his ears. Who were these tattooed outlanders? Where had they come from? Strange angular creatures whose agility and long striding gait now overwhelmed him with a sense of dread.
Behind and below, the Cro-Magnon hunting party moved nimbly over the rock outcroppings, fanning out to prevent any possibility of escape a they ran their prey to ground. Cries ofbloodlust rattled in their throats. Eyes darting, yellowed teeth flashing behind excited tight-lipped smiles. These were the Homo sapiens, aggressors from beyond the sun. Fierce interlopers who attacked without warning, took without asking, killed without hesitation.
Stopping, the young Cro-Magnon hunter raised his hand to shade his eyes against the afternoon sun, scanning the rocky upland for some sign of their quarry. Where had he gone? Surely he must be close. In one hand, he gripped a fistful of flint-tipped reed spears; in the other, his atlatl, a primitive tool fashioned from the femur of a saber-toothed cat that allowed him to accurately hurl a shaft far further and faster than seemed possible. Spotting movement among the rocks above, the hunter cried out to the others as he pointed toward the Neanderthal still scrambling to escape a hundred yards ahead. Instantly the others picked up the cry.
Planting his spears in the ground, the hunter quickly selected one, fixing it firmly in the carved cup at the far end of the atlatl. Then gripping the spear thrower by the opposite end, the hunter took aim and in a single, fluid motion, sent the shaft whistling through the air.
Up ahead, the Neanderthal could see the darkened recess beneath the rock shelf that marked the mouth of the cave. Half obscured by brush the opening might go unnoticed by all but a practiced eye. Seeing it made his heart soar. A rush of new energy infused his aching legs. Without warning, somewhere close, an unexpected rush of wind was followed by a deadly thud. Disoriented by its closeness, the Neanderthal felt his step falter but willed himself not to look. Having heard the whisper of their death sticks before, he fixed his gaze on the opening to the cave above as the loose shale unexpectedly gave way causing him to stumble again. Then the deadly rain descended as a flurry of flint-tipped missiles filled the air.
Grabbing a second shaft, the young Cro-Magnon rearmed his atlatl and took careful aim once more. Drawing his arm straight back, he snapped the atlatl forward sending the spear into the sky.
Exhausted, the Neanderthal lumbered toward the cave mouth, each step more painful than the last. Another forty meters. He could feel his hamstrings begin to tighten and cramp. Ignoring the pain, he refused to stop. Ahead, the cool protective darkness of the cavern’s mouth beckoned. Mechanically placing one foot before the other, he was almost there when he felt the spear impale him. Passing through his body just an inch beneath his right shoulder blade, it lodged in the ground before him, miraculously preventing him from falling. Staring in disbelief, he reached down, grabbing the shaft with both hands, sticky with his own blood, momentarily paralyzed.
Staring up at him from below, the Cro-Magnon hunters erupted, exulting at the sight of their now wounded prey. Howling and leaping in the air, they rushed forward, closing in for the kill like a pack of wild dogs. Loping up the steep incline, they moved now with the certainty of a successful hunt.
At the same time, stifling a cry, the Neanderthal gripped the shaft protruding from his chest and, through sheer force of will, drew his body upright, freeing himself from the spear. Then using the shaft to keep from falling, he glanced back at the hunters. Clearly there was no time. He had to act now. Casting the spear aside he lurched forward. Eyes fixed on the yawning entrance the Neanderthal began to move. Sweating profusely, he clutched his wound. He felt a strange sense of vertigo as the blood – his blood – seeped through his fingers, leaving a dark trail behind him as he staggered the last few feet, finally dropping to his hands and knees. Scuttling crab-like into the shelter of the cave, he managed at last to drag himself into the darkness.
Jabbering excitedly, the Cro-Magnon hunters approached the mouth of the cave at last. Scanning the ground, they stopped and stared. Expecting to find a fresh kill, they were clearly upset at discovering it had escaped. Annoyed, the young hunter who had delivered the fatal blow retrieved his spear. He ran his fingers along the shaft. Then pressing them to his tongue he began to wail. Picking up the cry, the others transformed themselves into a wilding – savage and rapacious and raw. Then spotting the darkened trail of blood leading into the cave, they hesitated. Stepping forward, cautious and uncertain, they peered into the blackness and began to chatter among themselves as to what exactly to do next.
From within the darkness just beyond the cavern’s mouth, the mortally wounded Neanderthal struggled to prop himself against the cool limestone wall as he listened to the strange cries of the interlopers now debating his fate. Aware of the urgent need to somehow warn the others of his clan, he grasped the string of shells and tore them from his neck. Then in a single motion, he flung
