Russia, 40’000 BP
Homo Deus
Cold hands burn in the winter chill…
— Lily Rose, Winter
Snow crunches underfoot. Cold, painful. He must move quickly if he’s to see another sunrise. He breaks out into a sprint. Thick, muscular thighs, well developed from years of experience, pump hard. He sprints past a line of trees—too small—then sees a big one to his left. He scrambles up the fat trunk with ease, begins to climb the branches to put more distance between himself and it. He stands on a branch, leans back against the trunk, panting to get his breath back. It, a flash of grey fur and claw, races past the tree before realising he has disappeared. Confused, it wanders around, sniffing the air. A breeze of frost-wind blows through the branches and the man tightens his grip. His hands, rough, hairy, are bone-white. He can’t stay here for much longer, but he can’t get down just yet. The animal below stops meandering, cocks its head ever so slightly. A twitch of the ears and it’s off, back the way it came. The man sighs, waits until it is out of sight before climbing down.
The man finds the river nearby. No more than a trickle, he treks up the valley, through the wet grass and snow-laden trees, until the trickle becomes a stream, until the stream becomes a river, until the river becomes a waterfall. Behind the waterfall, he finds his people again, safe and sheltered from the wet and cold. The smell of rotting flesh reeks from the far end of the cave where’s a scattering of dead creatures, some scaly, some furry, some small, some big, and a smattering of wood—branches, twigs, leaves—where a fire is yet to be lit. When his people see him again, a babble of noise bursts the silence. He embraces all of his men with big bear hugs, and then she comes to him. His woman: crystal blue eyes, thick black hair, small-breasted, tall. They touch foreheads for a moment, and he allows himself a moment to relax in her arms. Then they separate and he has to be strong again. Strong for his men, strong for himself. He goes to the back of the cave to get something to eat. Something small and slimy, with eyeballs bulging out of their sockets. He gulps down big chunks of meat, then picks the bones out of his teeth and throws them to the side.
Night closes in. He gets up slowly, careful to not wake anyone, and tiptoes to the mouth of the cave. All around him, the snow on the trees and forest floor and the torrential waterfall glow in the moonlight. He looks up at that silver disk in the sky and shudders. He looks away from the moon to a clear patch of blackness, briefly grazed by two shooting stars. He sighs. He stays out here for a bit longer, contemplating the inexpressible beauty of nature before going back inside and huddling with his people.
The next day, the men are up early. There’s a certain energy among them, animating their movements and lifting their tongues. They grab their spears from the back of the cave and then they’re out. Past the waterfall, they follow the water down, until the waterfall is a river, until the river is a stream is a trickle, past the trickle until it widens up into a river again and the river runs into a lake. The lake is big, too big to try walking across, but small enough to see the other side.
Silence. The air is heavy with silence. Not a single animal can be seen, hidden among the snow-laden vegetation. One of the men motions for the others to stop. He points at the floor, ten feet ahead, and leads the group to it. A footprint. As big as his hand, with four toe marks. Looking up, they can see the rest of the track going backwards. They all share a look and he, the tribe leader, nods affirmative. They follow the tracks back through the bushes, around the lake and into the valley. The wind is biting and the sun hides behind a cloud. They are on the verge of giving up when they hear it: a low howl, somewhere distant. They follow the tracks further, losing and finding them in quick succession. They’re coming out of the forest when they see it: a grey furred creature, alone.
The men break into a sprint; the creature sees them coming out of the corner of its eye. The tracker and the tribe leader lead the pack to surround the animal. It whips around, snarling and snapping at the men, feeling each sharp point dig into its fur, enraging it all the more. It jumps up onto its hind legs and lunges for the tracker, connects and takes his arm off. The thing shakes the man’s severed arm from side to side, spraying blood everywhere, and the man screams. He drops his spear and tries to cover his bloody stump with his other hand but it’s futile. He’s a dead man. The animal bears down on him, tears out his throat—and finds a spear in its own throat. The tribe leader grunts, pulls out his spear, blood running down the tip.
Two other men put the animal over their shoulders, and then, with one last look at the tracker, already starting to freeze, they head back. Up the valley, around the lake, up the river, the stream, the trickle, the bottleneck, up and up until they come to the cave behind the waterfall. It’s a long journey, and they take turns carrying the animal every so often.
When they enter the cave, the tracker’s woman looks for her man. Upon seeing him not there, she lets out a wail of grief. The tribe leader places an arm around her to comfort her but she pushes him away. She needs space, time. He too needs space. He is numb; his men are numb. They heave the animal onto the fire pit and crouch down, thinking about how to light the fire. The man, the tribe leader, still holding his spear, suddenly shouts and throws it down. His woman comes rushing to him, and he pushes her away. He staggers to the mouth of the cave, tears filling his eyes, and he opens his mouth let out the deepest, longest shout his people have ever heard. With all eyes on him, they don’t see the flame hidden in the kindling.
- © Nick Mann 2021
Nick Mann is currently studying Creative and Professional Writing and Film and Screen Media at St Mary’s University in Twickenham but is originally from Royal Wootton Bassett. As a writer, Nick is a jack-of-all-trades because as well as prose, he's written poetry, screenplays and adapted a short story into stage script. Nick also plans to write an original play at some point.
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