Alia the Counter

A cave girl of Pleistocene learns to count.

Alia

The ochre dust motes danced in the flickering firelight, illuminating the worried frown etched upon Alia’s face. Usually, she relished these gatherings, the warmth of shared stories and the comforting murmur of the tribe around the hearth. Tonight, however, a gnawing unease twisted in her gut. It had all started with the shells.

Alia wasn't like the other cave girls. While they chased nimble rabbits or wove intricate baskets from reeds, she found solace amongst the smooth, spiraled shells scattered along the glacial shore. She’d arrange them, instinctively grouping them by size and shape, a quiet symphony of order in their chaotic world. One day, an elder, his eyes clouded with wisdom born of countless winters, saw her at work. He chuckled, a rumbling sound like distant thunder, and plucked a shell from her arrangement.

“Marking the bounty, little Alia?” he boomed, placing another beside it. Then a third. “One, two, three shells. A growing hunt.”

Intrigued, she mimicked his action, feeling a spark ignite within her. The world, usually a blur of instinct and survival, sharpened with newfound definition. She began to count everything: the flints for their fires, the mammoth tracks in the thawing earth, even the pecks of the carrion birds circling overhead.

At first, it was a secret joy, a silent language she held close. But whispers spread through the cavern like smoke. The hunters found her counting the kill an unsettling disruption to their traditions. Storytellers claimed her numbered tales lacked the soul-stirring rhythm of the ancients. Fear wormed its way into their gazes, for in their eyes, numbers were the domain of spirits and omens, not the hearth and hunt.

Tonight, as the shaman wove a chant about the capricious Ice Goddess, Alia felt a tremor of isolation. The others averted their eyes, their whispers like icy shards against her solitude. She longed to share the intricate patterns she saw in the world, the logic woven through its chaos, but the fear in their faces held her tongue captive.

Clutching a smooth shell close, a silent testament to her ostracized knowledge, Alia retreated to the shadowed corner of the cavern. Tears welled, not for herself, but for the tribe that couldn’t see the world anew through the lens of numbers. She was alone in her understanding, a cartographer charting a landscape unseen by others, forever separated by the silent gulf of a different way of knowing. Yet, as dawn bled crimson across the glacial peaks, a flicker of defiance ignited within her. She would keep counting, whispering her secrets to the shells, for in their smooth surfaces, she saw not ostracism, but the promise of a world waiting to be understood.

Blizzard

A gnawing blizzard had trapped the tribe within their cavern for weeks. Food was dwindling, tempers fraying like frayed hunting ropes. The usual rituals of storytelling and shared memories felt hollow against the backdrop of mounting fear. Alia watched from a corner as whispers turned accusatory, fingers pointed at her - the ostracized counter.

“It’s her counting that angered the Ice Goddess,” spat Torak, his face etched with worry-lines deeper than the glacial canyons. “She disrupted the balance, and now we suffer.” The others murmured their agreement, fear a potent intoxicant in times of scarcity. Alia felt a familiar pang of isolation, but this time, a steely resolve hardened within her. She wouldn’t let their fear silence her, nor would she allow them to perish through ignorance.

The next morning, the blizzard raged with renewed fury. The elder, his once-bright eyes dimmed by worry, called for a council. “We have enough dried meat for three more days,” he rasped, voice weary. “After that, we face starvation.” Desperation hung heavy in the air.

Alia knew of a hidden glacial crevice where their ancestors had stashed surplus mammoth fat during bountiful seasons - a forgotten larder whispered about in fragmented tales. But its location was imprecise, a memory swallowed by time and tradition. It needed a different kind of knowing, one born of patterns and quantities.

She stepped forward, her voice small yet unwavering amidst the murmuring unease. “I remember stories,” she began, holding aloft a smooth shell. “They spoke of three distinct rock formations near the crevice - a jagged spire, a leaning boulder, and a flat slab where the mammoth bones were laid.” She closed her eyes, picturing the glacial expanse in her mind’s eye. “If we count their distances from each other, in terms of our hunting strides, it will lead us to the fat stores.”

A ripple of disbelief swept through the cavern. Torak scoffed, “Hunting strides? What use are numbers against a frozen wasteland?” But the elder, sensing a sliver of hope amidst the despair, held up a weathered hand. He gestured for Alia to continue.

She meticulously outlined her plan, weaving together fragmented memories and precise counts. She spoke of three paces from the spire to the boulder, seven strides from the boulder to the slab, and five more beyond that to reach the cavern mouth where the fat was hidden. The others watched, their initial skepticism slowly morphing into grudging attention.

The next day, armed with Alia’s numbered roadmap and a sliver of cautious optimism, they ventured out. Guided by her precise counts and the glacial landmarks she described, they navigated the blinding snowdrifts and treacherous ice shelves. Finally, at the confluence of three rock formations precisely as Alia had foretold, they breached the hidden cavern - their forgotten larders overflowing with preserved mammoth fat.

Jubilant cheers erupted, echoing through the storm-wracked peaks. Torak himself placed a calloused hand on Alia’s shoulder, his eyes filled not with scorn but with humbled respect. “The Ice Goddess heard your whispers, child,” he admitted gruffly. “She saw the order in your counting and blessed us.”

News of their salvation spread through the cavern like wildfire. Fear receded, replaced by a hesitant awe. Alia was no longer the ostracized oddity, but their unlikely savior - the cave girl who spoke the language of numbers and, in doing so, saved them from oblivion. The shells she held close were no longer symbols of isolation, but testaments to the silent power of understanding the world anew.