Just in Time by Phoenix

What if a small family of Neanderthal managed to survive to this day and were hidden in the south of France?

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A Short Story by Phoenix

 

The nearly dry stream trickled over rock and moss.  Little Rork trembled as he squatted there, hiding behind a bush, hands flat on the ground between his legs, his worn and tattered fur tunic hiked up, his feet planted.  His strong thigh muscles were tensed, ready to escape.  The Enemy was in the clearing.

 

His family had warned him not to come to this place as the Enemy came here often, but the other stream was dry from the summer heat and the tribe desperately needed water.  Old Merka was sick with fever and their water was gone.

 

The tribe usually waited until deep in the night to hunt, gather or fetch water.  But here he was, out in the light of day, visible and at risk of being seen.  His heart pounded in terror.  He was holding his breath trying to not make a sound, but he felt a scream that started deep in his chest trying to burst from his parched throat.  Rork had heard the horrible stories about the Enemy, but he had never seen them.  Now he saw them for the first time, with the sun illuminating their faces; four of them in a clearing only a very short distance from where he hid.  He could see their vicious eyes and their mouths moving as they spoke in a foreign tongue he did not understand.  One said something, and they all laughed loudly, sounds echoing into the thick forest.  They were safe in knowing that nothing could harm them,

 

If they spotted him, they would chase him, if only for a good sport, not to mention having him for their favorite meal.  He had managed to survive for eight summers and was only two and half feet tall, small even for the short people of his clan.  The Enemy was tall, had long legs and could run like the wind.  He had heard all the ancient stories, passed on from generation to generation, told over and over.  Such as the first time the Ancestors had seen these people.  They had timidly approached the strangers to befriend them, and to their shock, the Enemy wanted nothing of friendship, only murder.  And he had listened to the stories of the Enemy hunting his people until his tribe had dwindled.  And how those who survived stayed hidden, and moved about only at night to hunt, like invisible specters seen only by small creatures, owls and the moon.

 

His people called themselves the Only Ones, because they were unique compared to all others, walking on two feet�"at least until the Enemy appeared on the scene from some other place.  His tribe was not like other creatures on the plains or in the forests.  They were dangerous and cunning, and in those days they chased, hunted, and killed the bison and the mammoth in the sun.  They ate well, made fire, fashioned fine things for themselves, and ruled the dangerous world around them.

 

Until the new ones came.

 

The Only Ones had survived as the first people in the world for so long because they had conquered the world around them, becoming the most dangerous creatures in the world, being clever and shrewd to make up for their lack of size, lack of claws and horns and bare skin with no fur to keep them warm.  But the Enemy was far more dangerous and powerful and The Only Ones could not compete with this swift, cunning Enemy.  Soon there were many, many more of these strangers.  They came from some unknown place and their families multiplied with speed.  His people became the hunted instead of the hunter, killed and used as food, as if merely beasts.

 

Rork knew all this because of the legends.  From these stories he knew his people were no longer brave and powerful, only hiding from the Enemy.  That had been their way of life for so, so long.  Often it angered him to hide and only come out when the sun was long gone.  But most of time he was frightened because he had been taught to fear them.  Now there they were in the flesh, just a short distance from him.  He had brought danger upon all of them and Rork knew he needed to quickly and silently flee, but he was transfixed, fastened to the ground in terror.

 

The Enemy in the clearing had not yet caught his scent, but he could smell them.  They had a strong scent, almost like flowers but much more pungent.  The smell of them made Rork struggle not to cough.  There were two males and two females.  They chattered to each other and seemed to not have a care in the world.  Every now and then someone laughed.  They had no fear of anything in the forest.

 

Suddenly, a strange longing surged through Rork.  A feeling he had never felt before.  They were tall and straight and proud.  He wanted them.  No, he thought.  He wanted to be them.  He wanted to be tall and proud, also.  And suddenly he had a strong urge to be with them.  He wanted to be there in the clearing and talk with them, with the sun shining down on the meadow, birds singing and a fine breeze dancing on the grasses.  And, laughing with them because there was nothing to fear.  They looked so brave and strong and something else.  Something that was foreign in his meager existence.

 

Happy?  One of the males said something to a female.  The female laughed and playfully punched the man on the shoulder.  Rork wanted feeling safe as they did, not here in the bushes, frightened, shivering and hiding like a hunted rabbit.

 

Even as Rork’s fear had him frozen to this spot, he could not take his eyes off them.  They were handsome.  And they wore strange, yet beautiful clothing.  They were like his people, and yet very different.  The Only Ones were short and stocky, with soft, frizzy hair.  The Enemy had hair that looked silky and shiny that gleamed in the sunlight.  They had long noses, high foreheads, small eyes and narrow faces.  His people had large heads, large eyes, and a very short brow that slanted to a brow ridge, noses and jaws jutting forward with receding chins, and a mouth full of slightly protruding teeth.

 

He watched through the bush as one of the Enemies took a large piece of fabric and together they spread it on the ground.  Then they pulled things from packs and placed the objects and bowls on the ground cover.  It was food, strange and strong smelling.  It made his mouth water and his empty stomach growl.  He had not eaten in three days.

 

Then Rork’s heart nearly stopped beating.  Suddenly, there was a sound from the clearing, a horrible reverberation, a confusion of noise such as he had never heard.  He clapped his hands over his ears and bolted upright.  It felt as if his head was exploding.  As he suddenly stood, he became visible to them.  One of the men turned and looked straight at him.  The small boy and the man’s eyes met.  At first the man looked startled, then curious and then the man’s eyes had the look that many times he saw in this mother’s eyes.  She loved him so, and most of the time she smiled when she looked at him.  But many times he saw worry and fear.  This man did not smile.  But his eyes had that look of worry.  There was a kindness and worry in those eyes.

 

Rork felt as if he was in a magic trance listening to the noise, pleasant and pleasing as it was terrifying.  For many moments he stood, confused and fastened to the ground.  The man did not take his eyes away from him, but he hissed and motioned to one of the females.  The sound stopped, and the forest was silent again.  Like a lightning bolt, reality struck him.  The Enemy would kill him if they caught him.  He had imagined the kindness in the man’s eyes.  He had been taught this since he was a baby �" the Enemy would kill him and they would eat him.

 

And the emotion that had been strangling him suddenly escaped.  The Enemy in the clearing jumped up, jolted by Rork’s bloodcurdling scream that vibrated through the trees; the years of built-up tension of being hunted was let loose into the cloudless sky and upward toward the sun and space beyond.  He turned and ran for his life, stumbling over rocks and tree roots, hurtling through the forest.  Usually quiet and nimble, able to move like a ghost, he was now crashing and panting, running as fast he could but it felt as if he were running in place.  He quickly looked behind him.  One of them was giving chase and barked something in his strange language.  Rork forced a spurt of energy into his limbs and ran faster.  He looked back again.  He could not see him now.  It seemed like days before he finally reached a granite wall and pushed aside the bushes that hid the opening of his cave.  He dove for the small opening.  He was not careful to make sure the concealing bushes were back in place.  On his hands and knees he scrambled through the corridor that emptied into a room about twenty feet by thirty.  As soon as he entered, he let out a low, awful keening, waking them.  In the weak light from a crack in the ceiling, he could see their pale, thin faces.  There was no fire; they only made fire at night when the darkness would hide the smoke from the Enemy.  The cave was damp and cold.

 

Rork was trembling hard and sobbing now.  He hung his head, squatting on the floor of the cave, his chest heaving, as he convulsively scratched at the dirt on the floor, grabbing fistfuls and letting it go.  He wiped his running nose on his arm.

“I saw them,” he said.

 

They just stared at him.

 

“They heard me!  They saw me!  The Enemy!  Right now!  I have brought danger down upon us.  I have done such a bad thing!”

 

Rork let out a long wail like a frightened and wounded animal, caught in a trap and faced with sure death.

 

The entire clan converged upon him, all trying to put their hands over his mouth.  “Be quiet!  Be quiet!” they whispered.  They sat frozen, holding him, looking at the entrance.  Then they let go of him and moved to the back wall, dragging him along.

 

His father whispered, “Maybe they are too big to fit into the tunnel to our cave.  Even if they could get in, we will hear them and kill them.”  He scrambled over to his bedding and brought up a club with a sharp stone tied to the end.  “We must all be silent now.”

 

They fearfully watched the entrance of the cave for hours as Rork nestled close to his mother.  She stroked his hair, clutching him tightly in her strong arms.  He loved the smell of her.  That smell had always made him feel safe.  As he stared at the entrance to their little home, he thought about his people and how his people, once vibrant, alive and prosperous, had grown and populated whole areas.  But now, after all these many years, there were only six of them, six people shivering in a cave.

 

His mother was the head of the clan now, as the oldest woman always was.  But Wyla was not only the oldest woman; she was the only woman left.  Her hair was like Rork’s, a frizzy billow of light red, framing a face with flat, high cheekbones and direct hazel eyes, thick with lashes.

 

Reeda, his older sister, had died four moons ago, killed by a slip and fall in a stream.  She had hit her head on a rock.  And fourteen moons ago, a whole family, mother, father and two daughters had died of fevers leaving only their son, Ring.  Ring was twelve summers.  There was no one to be his wife.  He would never have children.  No one would.

 

The clan’s shaman, Tia, had also died at that time of fevers.  His son, Tan, was thirteen summers and considered a grown man, but he never had the magic skill for learning the shaman craft, so when Tia died, the clan was left adrift without the magic of the Ancestors.  Now no one could speak with the Ancestors again to find out what to do.  There was no one to protect them from danger.

 

Merka was the oldest man now, being twenty-four summers, old age for the clan.  The Only Ones rarely lived past twenty-five now.  They aged quickly, rarely seeing the sun.  Merka was wrinkled and his hair was streaked with white.  His back was permanently bent.  And as they all were, he was pale from sitting in caves during the day and going out only at night.  But Merka’s skin was not just pale; it was an unnatural shade of gray.  He was very ill.  He would be gone soon to be with The Ancestors.

 

Rork’s father’s name was Marak.  He was strong, brave and handsome with large blue eyes like his.  His brown hair was frizzy like everyone’s and pulled back with a thong.  His furs were tattered and worn, hand downs from years ago.

 

Rork’s mother, Wyla, had a round, pleasant face, and smile that went wide over her face.  Her blue eyes always twinkled when she looked at her handsome son.

 

She did not have any more children after Reeda and Rork, and the clan worried that the Ancestors were angry with them because had been no more children.  They all knew the clan was doomed.

 

Rork gazed around at his little cave.  The walls of the main room were jagged, light colored rock.  On the left there was usually a trickle of water that they caught into a rock that had been chipped until it formed a bowl.  This was their drinking water.  But it was summer and it was dry now.  On the walls, they had drawn pictures of the Ancestors with the history of The Only Ones.  These pictures were a tribute to the Ancestors and were sacred works, offered up to those who had lived before.

 

The pictorial history started from the right and circled the walls, with the first being drawings of the tribe on the plains, far to the east, when they followed the herds and life was good.  There were pictures of brave deeds and happy faces.  Then the drawings showed The Only Ones moving west, into the forests, thick with game, nuts, berries and vegetables.  Life was still good.  They built fine homes, made clothes of grasses on small looms, and had well-decorated pottery and art.  The Only Ones multiplied and flourished for many, many summers, and seasons without count.

 

But then suddenly, there were pictures of the Enemy, tall, swift and skilled hunters who pursued The Only Ones relentlessly.  Game was plentiful in the great forests, but it seemed that flesh of The Only Ones was the Enemy’s preferred meal.  Rork felt rage swell again until he thought he would scream, like he had out by the clearing when they had seen him.  He desperately wanted to hide no longer.  He wanted to go out into the sun, just as they did.

 

The drawings on the walls of Rock’s home showed his people fleeing and wandering toward the setting sun, traveling, homeless and hungry.  They wandered far until they could wander no farther.  They had come to the great water.  There was nowhere else to go but back in the direction they came.  They melted into the forest by the water and there they had been for a very long time.  And they became more cunning than ever and very, very careful.

 

The wall paintings showed his people digging tunnels into the ground inside of a large stone dwelling that was crumbling with age.  There they were left alone for many generations, hiding like rabbits in their elaborate tunnels.  Even though they had to be so very careful, the land by the great waters was good.  They made their tunnels comfortable.  The beaches were wide and beautiful and the pine forests that met the beaches were thick and luxurious with plenty of wild game for meat and bedding.  They fished, caught crabs at the water’s edge, hunted deer, small rodents and rabbits in the think forest.  The Enemy rarely came to this secluded spot.  Even so, they were careful and slept during the day and made not a sound.

 

A very long time passed before it happened that great numbers of the Enemy began to stomp around their safe haven.  They were loud and their voices were harsh.  Evil birds with stiff wings angrily soared overhead.  The Only Ones decided they had to run again before they were discovered.

 

They retreated deeper into the forest away from the setting sun and found caves to live in.  The little cave that Rork’s family lived in now was damp and there was little to eat.  They dug for roots and found small animals.  They were all so hungry.

 

This was how it had been for a long time.  And now Rork and his clan watched the entrance of the cave.  No one slept and it was deep in the night when Wyla finally said, “It is time.  The Enemy will surely be asleep.  We must move quickly now.  If we hide in here, we will starve and die of thirst.  We must leave this place.  They may come back tomorrow and try to enter this cave.  They know we are here.  Let us go.  Quietly.”

 

They bundled a few possessions in light packs for swift traveling, leaving the loom, pottery, many implements and taking only the clothing they wore.  They silently filed out of the place that had been home since before Rork was born.  They were fleeing again.

 

****

 

Morton and Jennifer Thomas had been living in the area of southwest France for about two months.  Their newly purchased villa was located in a peaceful woodland located within the Parc Naturel Régional des Landes de Gasongne, Frances largest national park.  To the north were vineyards and the medieval architecture of the Entre-deux-Mars region on the Dironde.  They were a little over an hour’s drive from Merignac airport.  Plus, there was the high-speed train, the TGV, in the Gare St. Jean in Bordeaux, about an hour away by car.  But even though they were so close to modern civilization, the villa was located in a very rural area just over the hill from ancient history, a region lost in time.  The villa was located close to the town of Bazas in the Garone Valley, a town of 4500 people and 2000 years old.

 

Jennifer and Morton Thomas had good reasons for moving from New York to this rural wood area and the quaint cabin that the French called a villa.  They were from Ithaca, New York, where he was a professor of Ancient History at Cornell, with a specialty on Ancient Rome.  He was on a sabbatical to complete his book about the Roman influence on modern day culture.  Jennifer had been a doctor on the emergency staff at Cayuga Medical Center in Ithaca. They had been married ten years with no children.  Now Jennifer was enjoying their life in their little villa in the woods of Southwestern France, happy to get away from the high-stress life of her profession.  She and Morton wanted children desperately.  Fertility tests for the both of them were positive, so she was sure it was the stress and long hours at the hospital causing the problem.  Here in the woods, she would garden, relax and maybe finally have a child.

 

Their two best friends, Julia and Nate Mueller, had flown in from New York, combining visiting their friends with touring the southwestern region of France, a driving tour of the coast and the western most part of the national park, Pyranees Atlantiques.  They had stayed the night in Bairritz, an exotic resort area close to the border of Spain and then drove to see Jennifer and Morton, enjoying a picnic in the woods, complete with CDs, wine and baked chicken.

 

It was a glorious day, and they had picked the perfect spot for their picnic.  They had spread a blanket on the grass in the clearing.

 

Julia said, “So, we saw the Lascaux II caves.  They said that the carbon dioxide of the tourist breath was making the wall art deteriorate in the real cave.  So they built Lascaux II to satisfy people’s curiosity about Cro-Magnon man.  Kind of a Disneyland version.”  She laughed.

 

They spread out plates of chicken and pasta.  Bread and fruit.  Plates and utensils.

 

“Nice picnic,” Nate said, “How about some local wine?”  He brought out glasses and opened the bottle of wine purchased from the Bordeaux region just a few kilometers to the north.

 

The sky was clear and the area smelled of pine and earth.  Jennifer Thomas held out her glass.  She was petite and had ash blonde, shoulder length hair.  She reached up and pulled it back and hooked the silky strands behind her ears.  Her hazel eyes twinkled even when she tried to be serious.  She didn’t seem to have a serious bone in her body, and when Morton commented on it, she always said, “Good thing.  If I were as serious as you, we would just dry up and blow away.”  Then she laughed with that light tinkling sound that Morton always found so special.  He could not help himself; that laugh always made him smile.  He often thought her teasing was so true; he was a very serious person, a humorless person who took his academia to heart.  But Jennifer saved him from this fate.  She made life fun.

 

The book he was working on would take about a year to complete.  Their little “villa” was really a cottage, a pleasant three-bedroom home, modern enough to be comfortable and old enough to give them the feeling they were living in a past long forgotten.

 

“Well, here’s to history,” Nate said.  “And here’s to your book, Morton.  And possibly, well, let’s hope that a new addition for you two is conceived in this wonderful place.”  Nate lifted his glass for a toast.

 

“Hey, Hey!”  They all saluted.

 

“We should call him James,” Jennifer said.

 

“James?” Morton said.  “Why, James?”

 

Jennifer said, “I have always liked that name.  But if it is a girl, how about Adele?”

 

Morton frowned in thought.  “Well, I suppose . . . “

 

“Look,” said Judith.  “Let’s have some music.”  She dug into her pack and brought a CD player and some CDs.  “How about Beethoven’s Fifth?”

 

Without waiting for an answer, she put the CD in the player, turned up the volume and the music blasted into the surrounding forest.

 

Moron looked over to the bushes.  “Look!!”

 

They all followed his gaze.

 

There, just about twenty feet away, was the face of a tiny boy about two and half feet tall, with an amazing bush of reddish hair falling around his head and shoulders like a huge halo.  He was frozen in place, eyes wide in terror, with his hands over his ears.

 

Nate said, “Wow!  Who is that?”

 

The boy’s eyes met Morton’s.  His brows and the outer edges of his blue eyes slanted down so that even in fear he had a permanently sorrowful look.  Morton looked into his eyes and saw mortal terror in the small round face.

 

Morton motioned to the CD player and hissed, “Turn that off!!  Now!”

 

There was emptiness in the boy’s eyes now, as if he had finally met death in the face and was resigning himself to it.

 

Julia complied and turned the music off.  The forest was suddenly still except for the rapid panting of the little boy.  With that, the boy jerked.  The fright that had seized his body seemed suddenly released.  He let out a blood-curdling scream.  His muscles tightened and flexed.  Then his action was a blur as he darted into the forest.

 

“Oh, my God.  Who was that?” Julia said.  “He must be lost or something.  What was that he was wearing?”

 

Morton ignored her and rose to give chase.

 

“Come back, Morton,” Jennifer cried.  “What are you doing?”

 

But Morton ran, swatting at the branches in his way.  For a few moments he lost him.  Then about twenty feet ahead, he saw the boy.  “Come back,” he said.  “I’m not going to hurt you.  I just want to talk.”

 

He was winded and sweating.  He ran after the boy for another ten minutes, now and then catching a glimpse of him through the trees.  Suddenly he was gone.  Morton came to the face of a granite wall.  Nothing.  He looked down to see if there were any footprints in the sandy soil.  Yes!  He carefully paced beside them, not breathing, making no noise.  Against the granite wall was a dense growth of bushes.  Carefully, he pushed some aside.  There was a hole.

 

Morton left the opening of the cave and returned to the clearing.  “I followed him,” he told everyone.  “But he disappeared.”  For some reason, he was not sure why, he left out the matter of the cave. And again, he realized he felt protectiveness for the boy and his hiding place, even from his wife and trusted friends. Well, strange, huh?

 

****

 

The Only Ones trekked in the dark, through a terrain that was heavily forested, trees tall and close together, creating a canopy of darkness.  Old Merka held the torch, which was soaked in resin to keep it burning.  Nothing much grew beneath these trees.  Silent as shadows they moved further inland.  Everyone except Rork was sweating hard; he was the only one without the fever now.

 

Wyla led the way, as was the custom.  She walked with the Leader’s Staff, an artifact with intricately carved designs in the polished wood that had been handed down for thousands upon thousands of summers.  Sick as she was, she was still nimble and quick.  Her red hair, let loose of the thong, billowed from her head to past her shoulder blades, from time to time glowing from the torch and sometimes caught in the light of a glittering half-moon that occasionally peeked through the treetops.   Rork watched her and his heart swelled as he walked quietly along, soft steps that never broke the silence.  She was majestic and imposing.  She was proud and clever.  She was wonderful and beautiful.

 

Small animals scuttled through the brush.  An owl hooted.  And the silent footfalls of the tribe came to the edge of the forest.  Wyla held up her staff for them to stop.

 

There in a clearing was a dwelling made by the Enemy.

 

Light came from openings in the lodge, and from the roof, a curl of smoke from a cooking fire inside wafted up into the dark sky toward the half-piece of moon.  It seemed that the Enemy in this place was not asleep.

Suddenly, a dog barked an alarm and raced toward them.

 

They ran, but the large dog with red fur was swifter.  It was upon them when Ring turned and raised his wooden spear with its sharp stone tip.  It was a vicious weapon.  As the dog lunged into the air toward Ring, he stabbed.  It yelped and fell.  It struggled to raise his damaged body, snarling and holding his eyes on his enemy.  Ring stabbed again and he lay still, warm blood seeping into the damp ground.

 

He grabbed the heavy dog by its tail and they continued moving, Ring dragging the beast behind him.  At least they had food now.  They just needed to find a place to build a fire and hide before morning.

 

Wyla said, “Let’s us make a sleeping place over there.  Now that the dog is dead, it cannot alert The Enemy in that dwelling.  So, we may be able to get more food, as the Enemy does not hunt.  They now keep tamed animals for whenever they want to eat.  I believe that smaller dwelling besides the larger one may have birds and eggs.  Maybe a goat.  Maybe even a cow.  We must risk staying here.”

 

Rork thought his mother was right.  They must risk making a place here for a while.  There was food here.   Besides, everyone was sweating with fever.

 

They all knew what to do.  They all had the skill.  They went about constructing a shelter, but after a few moments Wyla said, “Sit Merka!  You look bad.  You must lie down.”   He obeyed, and she covered him with a fur and continued to work with the others.

 

With talents learned over the years by the tribe, they pulled together branches and made a round hut in the densest part of the forest.  Around the hut they fashioned bushes so no one would ever know that anyone had made this thing, as it blended into the forest completely.  No one would dream that this tangle was a place of safety and shelter.

 

Rork’s people were too tired to eat the dog.  They all just passed out from fever and exhaustion inside the shelter, as Rork snuggled against his mother and father.  He felt their fast heartbeat and their skin damp with fever.  But he did not sleep; he just lay there listening to their soft coughing and their labored breathing.

 

Everyone except Rork slept through the daylight hours; Merka died in the late afternoon.  Ring was next.  Then Rork’s mother and father.  He frantically clutched at them, softly whimpering as they stopped breathing, went limp and died.  And last was Tan.  Rork curled up against his mother and waited as night ascended upon the dismal scene.

 

Rork was alone

.

The last of his people.

 

There would be no more.

 

He was truly The Only One.

 

****

 

The big red dog, Ralph, greeted Morton Thomas with enthusiasm every morning, jumping up with his large paws on his chest and licking him in the face, his tail wagging hard, nearly toppling the dog and man to the ground.  But this morning Ralph was not there.  Morton’s house was in a clearing, circled by a forest.  He searched the area around his house and then walked into the forest to look for him.

 

He searched the forest for hours.  Finally to the west, about fifty yards into trees, he saw dried blood on the ground and marks where something had been dragged.  He followed the marks deeper into the forest, eyes on the ground.  Suddenly, a movement caught his eye.  He ducked quickly behind a tree.  There, about twenty feet from him was the strange-looking boy that he had followed to the cave a couple of days before.  The boy was digging a hole, softly crying.  There were four other holes that looked like graves.

 

Morton wanted to approach the boy, but was afraid he would scare him again.  So he just sat on his haunches and watched.  Then the boy went into the bushes.  He realized that the bushes were actually a well-disguised, makeshift dwelling.  Amazing skill had gone into it.  The boy backed out of the dwelling, dragging a body.  The body looked to be about five feet tall, and even though it was bony, it still had a stocky build.  The face had no hair; the narrow brow had a ridge.  It had on a very worn, fur tunic and leather boots and leggings to the knees, wrapped with leather laces.  The face in death looked peaceful, but gaunt.  A pleasant face with frizzy hair held back with twine.  The man looked to be about seventy or eighty years old.

 

The boy pulled the body into one of the holes and spent time arranging it just so. Then he went back into the bushes and came back with some kind of pack.  He carefully arranged things that looked like the man’s belongings.

 

Then the boy entered the bushes again and came out with a woman.  The woman was very small, maybe a little over four and a half feet tall.  She was wearing leather leggings with thongs wrapped to the knee, a wrap skirt made of some kind of cloth and a worn, tattered, leather top.  She had an exquisite face.  Her forehead was narrow and just above her eyes was a slight brow ridge.  Her nose and mouth protruded past a receding chin that had a small cleft.  Her hair was an amazing mass of reddish frizzy hair, the same hue as the boy.  Her eyebrows and eyes slanted down; there was definite likeness.

 

This must be his mother! He thought.

 

He dragged the body, whimpering louder now.  Again, he arranged the body carefully in the hole and placed belongings beside it.  He put something that looked like a finely carved staff in her hands and worked to curl her fingers around it.  The tiny boy then pulled three more people out, arranged them and covered the graves with the soil, stamped it down to be flat and searched the ground for rocks.  He arranged rocks around the burial site to look natural.  When he finished, he fell on his stomach and for many minutes cried with a heart wrenching wail.  Morton had to resist going to the poor thing.  He backed away.  When he was sure he was out of earshot of the boy, he flipped open his cell phone.

 

Under his light brown hair, the man wore a leather, wide-brimmed hat that he called his Crocodile Dundee hat.  He wore expensive-looking, laced leather hiking boots.  The red plaid cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves was his favorite and looked worn and faded.  He was wide shouldered, six feet one, and had long legs.  He was lean, with a face of hard angles.  He would have appeared severe and unapproachable if it were not for his eyes.  They were large and green and kind.

 

“Jenn, sorry I’ve been gone so long.  No, I haven’t found Ralphy.  I know, Honey.  Look, in the woods west of our house, I saw that strange little boy again.  Yeah, the one I saw while we were having our picnic.  Honey, listen, I’m going to continue to search for Ralph.  But I also want to see what this boy is up to.  It seems he is digging graves for five people who look like adults and possible two teens.  I know!  It is weird.  Jenn, they were all wearing fur, had very short bodies and had low foreheads.  They look like some kind of pre-historic creatures.  Like Neanderthal.  . . . . I  know!  They don’t look like what we know as Neanderthal, you know, monkey-like and whatnot.  But do we really know what pre-historic man looked like?  Look, Jennifer, I’m sure.  No, I haven’t approached the boy.  I hid behind a tree and watched.  I’m afraid if I approach the boy, he’ll die of fright.   Like I told you, when I followed him yesterday, he was frightened out of his mind.  Now he has just buried . . . well, it looks like he was burying his family.  I see no one else.  He seems to be alone.  He’s sobbing and crying.  I mean, it looks like they all died last night.  Yeah.  What?”

 

He listened for a while.

 

“Look Jennifer, I know it sounds unfathomable, but what if, now listen to me for a minute, what if he’s real?  By some miracle a group of real cavemen managed to live up to now, hidden all this time?  I KNOW!  But think of it!  Okay.  Look, I’ll call you later.  I have to keep searching for Ralph.  And I’m going to continue to watch the boy and see what he does now that he has buried his people.   Okay, Honey.  Talk to you later.  I’ll call you in a couple of hours.”

 

Morton turned off the cell phone and put it in the pocket of his jeans.

 

He snuck up to the site again.  The boy had dragged out some things from the shelter, bundled them and strapped them onto his back and started walking north.

 

Morton waited until the boy was out of sight and shimmied into the shelter.

 

Oh, my God, Ralph! Oh!  Ralph.

 

He grabbed the dead dog and buried his head into its fur, hugging the big, red Labrador Retriever’s neck with its horrible wounds.  Tears flowed down his face.  “Oh, Jesus, Ralphy!”  He must have chased these people, tying to protect us.  Knowing Ralph, that’s what he would have done.

 

Morton and Jennifer had raised Ralph from a puppy and dragged him all the way from New York to France.   But Ralph was okay with it because he was with the two he loved.  He and Jenny loved that dog as if he were their own child.  And the dog loved them back with a passion.  God, Ralphy! Jenny will be so upset.  God!

 

Morton slithered out of the shelter and stood, wiping more tears with his shirtsleeve.  He shook his head trying to clear his emotions and took off to follow the boy, promising himself to return and retrieve Ralph in order to give him a proper burial.

 

I wonder where the boy means to go.  Just over the ridge is the city of Bazas.  If humans frighten him, then seeing that village will be the death of him for sure. Morton realized that from the moment their eyes met, he had a strange protectiveness over this little waif of a boy, his reddish hair a round bush circling his head and shoulders and his sad little eyes.  He was so tiny, only about two and half feet tall, but handled his body as if he were an adult.  There was nothing that was child-like in his movements or his manner.

 

Morton’s long legs strode with purpose across the ground that was in an upgrade toward the crest and the village of Bazas.

 

The sun was newly in sky again before Rork moved; he was numb with grief.  He finally left the shelter and found the right place to dig.   It was the forbidden light of day.  He dug until his little hands were raw and then he took out a scraping tool for scraping hides and continued to dig until he had graves worthy of the last of his people.  The forest was silent, as if all other living things there could feel that something significant in the history of mankind had occurred and any sound would be disrespectful to the thousands of Ancestors who had gone before and to this lone small boy laboring in the soil to bury the last of a race.

 

Weeping softly, he first pulled Old Merka out and laid him carefully in the grave.  Then his mother and father.  Then Ring.  And then Tan, the boy who had not learned the magic from his father. There is no more magic, he thought.   I do not know the magic of how to talk to the Ancestors.

 

He covered the graves with dirt and rocks while he openly sobbed.  It did not matter anymore that the Enemy heard him.  Finally, wearily he dragged himself to his feet.  He went back in to the hut for a few belongings and started walking north with no idea where he was going.  The labor of digging the graves had taken most of the day.

 

My people have spent many lives hiding and fearful.  I am the last of the Only Ones.  I alone carry our history or that we were even here on this land.  Am I going to spend the rest of my days afraid and hiding?  Will there be no one to avenge my people. He jutted his chin and surveyed the dimming forest.  And as he walked, he came to a revolutionary decision. I will not.  I may not be able to speak with the Ancestors, but I will avenge them for the many years of suffering.  Somehow, I will find a way to show them who we are and avenge them by showing our rightful place in this land.

 

He traveled for about an hour and evening was close, the first stars twinkling in the sky as he trudged up a slope and came up to a crest.  As he climbed the crest, he gasped.

 

There in the valley that lay before him were thousands of dwellings, lights twinkling like fireflies in the twilight far into the horizon.

 

He heard a sound.  A branch snapping.  Rork turned.  There was a man.  It was the man from the clearing who saw him that day.  The one who had chased him.  He was just standing there, looking at him.  Terror hit Rork like lighting striking a pine tree, cleaving it in two.

 

The boy’s knees crumpled and he passed out.

 

****

 

Jennifer was in the kitchen, not modern by the standards of their place in New York, but it had a dishwasher and a microwave.  The old world charm held just the change they had had in mind; a home build about 200 years ago, from local and natural materials and located in a peaceful woodland location in the Landes National Forest.

 

“I’m making a wonderful rabbit stew.  We’ll have it with some homemade bread.  Can you imagine?  Me making homemade bread?”  Her back was to him.  She chuckled.  She finished putting a dish on the sink, turned with a dishtowel in her hand and froze.  Morton was carrying a small, limp boy.

 

“He has a fever.”

 

“We need to get him to a doctor.”

 

“You are a doctor!”

 

“Well, of course I am, Morton!  But I mean a hospital.”

 

“A hospital would scare the bejeezas out of him.  Can you see what you can do?  Please.”

 

 

“What is the matter, Morton?”

 

“Jennifer!  If you had seen those people!  They were absolutely pre-historic!  I mean it, Jennifer.  This boy stood outside of Bazas over the ridge there and he looked like he had never seen a city before!  He just stood there and when he turned and saw me, he just passed out cold.”

 

“Put him over there.”  She pointed to the couch.  “Let me have a look at him.”

That evening he was still unconscious, but the fever had broken.  She put a pile of plates, silverware and bowls of food on the coffee table where they ate so that they could keep an eye on him.  They wanted to have food ready to give him when and if he came out of it.  As they ate, they barely took their eyes off the boy.

 

Nate thought, what will happen when he wakes?  Will he scream, be hysterical.  Pass out again.  Run?  Who knows?

 

He took a bite of his food, chewed slowly and then said, “I want to go back and look at the cave.  I’m telling you, Jennifer, they are pre-historic.  After I followed the boy to the cave yesterday, they must have fled.  I think they were wandering when they died.  You should have seen the shelter they put together.  I totally did not see anything but a bunch of bushes, and would not have until he went inside and came out with the first body.  I think they had no place to go when they came to the edge of our property.  Ralph must have seen them . . . . Oh, God!”

 

“What!”

 

“They killed Ralph.”

 

“Oh, my God!  Morton!

 

****

Jennifer had put aside her food and was sitting on the floor up against a large arm chair.  A tattered tissue was wadded up in her fist.

 

Finally, she asked, “What do we do with him?”

 

“If we tell anyone, he will become some kind of laboratory research animal, Jennifer.  We can’t let that happen to him.  Can you imagine what would happen in the scientific community?  A small group of prehistoric, even better, a small group of Neanderthal who managed to live into present day.  The poor kid would not live more than a month, if that.  What we have here is probably the last of the Neanderthals and we can’t tell anyone.”

 

“Not tell anyone?  The world needs to know, Morton!”

 

“Like I said, I want to get a look at the cave.  And if I see anything that looks like the scientific community needs to see, I’ll just put in an anonymous tip to Associated Press.  Okay?”  He paused, his jaw set with determination and his eyes bored into her.  “So, it’s our secret, right?”

 

She starred at him for about three minutes with her swollen eyes.  Crying had made her skin red and splotchy.  He just stared back, a stubborn set to his mouth.

 

Then Jennifer smiled weakly, looked at the tiny boy on the couch, and nodded.

 

“Okay.  Understand your point.  Look at him, Morton.  What a sweet face. Who would have thought?  I mean you’ve seen mock-ups of what scientists think these people looked like.  Hairy and ugly, like large monkey-looking people.  Dumb.”  Her eyes regained their humorous twinkle.  A small smile crept to her lips.  “Morton, just look at this boy!  He is gorgeous!”

 

Morton’s facile mind was already working on the problems.  What could they do to get him to trust them and not try to run?  How could they keep his ancestry a secret?  Or explain where he was born?  Jennifer is a doctor.  Maybe they could fake a home birth, or they could look into the laws of adopting a foundling . . .

 

Would he be able to fit in with other children?  They could home school him.  Would he become some kind of abnormality or freak?  He looks like a normal child, just rather exotic. . . Will he be able to fit into society? What if he is totally stupid with the IQ of a chimp . . . ?

 

Suddenly, as if she were on the same mental wave-length, Jennifer said.  “I’ll bet he is so smart.  We could send him to college.  Show him the world.  Who cares if no one knows where he came from?  Look Morton, he is so beautiful!”

 

The boy stirred and opened his eyes.

 

****

 

The article hit all the newspapers across the world with front page headlines:

 

NEANDERTHALCAVE FOUND IN FRANCE
Associated International Press

One of the most exciting anthropological finds in history has been found within a kilometer of the beautiful coastline of Landes, France, with its wild shores and sandy pine forests.

 

On the 10th of the month, Associated International Press received a mysterious anonymous tip that there is a cave with Neanderthal artifacts located in the Parc Naturel Régional des Landes de Gascogne �" The Landes National Park �" a vast area of natural landscape extending over 300 sq km., in the Aquitaine area of Southwestern France.

 

Scientists were alerted to the find and say that it is definitely a Neanderthal cave, complete with wall art that seems to show the history of the Neanderthal.

 

Dr. Judith Smith, Professor of Cultural Anthropology at Harvard said, “These cave drawings give us the best view of the life and history of the pre-historic Neanderthal.

 

“Neanderthal man lived from 120,000 BC through 40,000 BC, when they seemed to vanish nearly over night with the appearance of the Cro-Magnon, who lived from 40,000 to 10,000 years ago.  The wall in the cave seems to chronicle the history of the Neanderthal and it shows that they were hunted by the Cro-Magnon and killed off.

 

“If you think about it from the longevity perspective, the Cro-Magnon were a “Johnny-come-lately” and in comparison, very short-lived.  They only lasted about 30,000 years before the appearance of Homo Sapiens about 10,000 years ago.  The winners in the contest of long-term survival, obviously, are the Neanderthal.

 

“The drawings in the cave show the Neanderthal migrating from what could be the eastern steppes all the way to the Atlantic.”

 

Dr. Wilhelm Hersh, Head of Anthropology at Oxford said, “Up until now, no one really knew what happened to the Neanderthal.  This is an amazing find.”

 

Dr. Hersh said that it is possible that graves will be found near the caves.  Digs will start next month.  “If what we think is true, we hope to find the remains intact of Neanderthal man.

 

According to previous skeletal finds and scientific theories, Neanderthal man were short, stocky and hairy, with large heads, whereas the Cro-Magnon looked much as we do today.

 

Dr. Hersh said, “The drawings on the walls of the cave show the Neanderthal migrating to the coast, the shores of the Atlantic, which is thought to be the coast just a few kilometers from the cave site.  From some of the artifacts and from the wall drawings, the Neanderthal were much more sophisticated that previous thought.  What is not understood is some of the last drawings in the wall sequence, all of which seems to be a kind of historical document.  These drawings contain what definitely look like airplanes.  Naturally, they are probably large pre-historic birds, drawn in a rather stylized manner with artistic flare on the part of the artist.”

 

Associated International Press will have exclusive photos of the cave by next week.  Also by next week, a crew from Oxford will arrive to carbon date the drawings artifacts.

A month later, the following article was read around the world:

 

NEANDERTHAL HOAX IN FRANCE

Associated International Press

 

According to scientists, the wall drawings in the cave in the Landes National Park in southwestern France, a cave found after an anonymous tip was called into the press, is a hoax.

 

Scientists, after carbon dating the drawings and artifacts, found that it all is very recent, like within the past ten to twenty years.  When found for comments, Dr. Wilhelm Hersh, Head of Anthropology at Oxford said, “We all are terribly disappointed.  New tests are being done, but it does seem to be a hoax.”

 

“However, what is puzzling to scientists are the gravesites.  The bones found, according to them, are definitely a Neanderthal likeness.  But most of the graves are fairly fresh, some within the last year.  And, a few miles away, there are five graves with the same type of corpses that are only a few weeks old.  This discovery has the scientific community in a quandary.  Dr. Judith Smith, Professor of Cultural Anthropology at Harvard said, “The body types are what have everyone very puzzled.  They are all very small, but many show signs of advance age.  Nevertheless, and I hate to say it, but there are about 50 graves for these strange corpses, ranging in decomposition from a few weeks to just a few years.”

 

Who these people are is a question that now has the police involved, as this is now more than an awful hoax.  It looks more like a case of serial murders over a period of years.

 

****

 

Eight Years later

 

The smoke from the barbecue and the smell of grilled steaks filled the backyard.  Adele, a precocious seven-year-old, born and raised in France for two years, walked into the yard from the back door, and instead of addressing her parents, she just let out an exasperated wail.  “Mooommm, Rork is doing it again.  He is stinking up the whole house with his stupid science experiment.  Can’t you dooooo something?”

 

Morton sat in his lawn chair and looked lazily over at his wife.  Jennifer was setting a picnic table.  She said, “Just never mind, Adele.  Come here and help me with these plates . . . “

 

“Mom!  Dad!”  She looked up as a red-haired boy suddenly bounded into the yard, wearing a faded t-shirt and baggy jeans.  The red hair escaped a baseball cap in a mess of un-kept frizz.  His unusual skin was very pale sepia, but with an ever-so slight gold cast and small freckles sprinkled across his cheekbones and nose.  He had a narrow brow and thick reddish-brown lashes framed extremely huge blue eyes that slanted downward to give him a melancholy look.  He was grinning widely, showing his extremely white, even teeth that pushed his nicely shaped mouth outward.

 

Rork was very short for his age of sixteen; he looked more like twelve or thirteen.  His exotic looks were a hit with girls and his outgoing charm and wit made him very popular with teens and adults alike.  He was good at sports, in-spite of his smaller size, and his ability to grasp subjects quickly caused him to skip grades.

 

However, he had not always been this way.  For many years, Jennifer and Morton despaired because Rork was a very dark and introverted soul, hating life and everyone in it.  It was when he was twelve and was studying world history and then onto material regarding the supposed origin of homo-sapiens and those who came before, that he became immersed.  And that is when the transformation started.  He read book after book and researched the Internet about the missing link, the Neanderthal, the Cro-Magnon and all of the anthropological evidence found.

 

He told Jennifer that he understood now.  He said, “Homo-sapiens had not killed off my people, it had been the Cro-Magnon.  And I found a theory that Cro-Magnon had been killed off by Homo-sapiens.  Kind of like what you told me, what goes around comes around?  They killed off my people and . . . and Homo-sapiens killed them . .  and well, the Cro-Magnon are gone.” He stopped and smiled, “Unless some have survived like my people did and no one knows about it.”  He grinned even wider.

 

Jennifer and Thomas were shocked.  Poor Rork had thought he had been living with a mortal enemy by being with Homo-sapiens!

 

After these realizations, Rork joined clubs and sports at school, ran for class government and became a happy soul.  He was now sixteen and could have graduated high school years earlier and desperately wanted to.  But Jennifer and Morton felt going to college at thirteen, which he could have, and looking about eight, would be a disaster for him.  He kept insisting that he had much to accomplish and wanted to get on with it.  He wanted several degrees, one being a doctorate in anthropology and one being in science, although on that he was not sure which branch he would specialize in.  He said he would know when he found it.  When asked why, he said he had to prove to society that the “cavers,” as he jokingly put it, were really like and find evidence for what really happened to them.  He knew, but he needed to find a way to prove it so that the record was set straight.

 

They finally relented and they let him graduate high school.  Now Rork was waving a piece of paper as he jettisoned himself off the back-steps with a surprisingly nimble leap for his stocky frame.  His intelligent eyes sparkled as he yelled, “Dad!  Mom!  I’m IN!  I’m IN!  I’m accepted at MIT!”  His small fist pumped the air in a sign of triumph. “Yes!”

 

Jennifer and Morton looked at each other and smiled.  They shook their heads.  They were on the same mental wave length again as they both thought, Was the world really ready for someone like Rork Thomas?

Reviews

[Monica]

You have a beautiful talent with words!! Your descriptions, accuracy and imagination are an outstanding combination!!

[Ink Angel]

what an amazing story! positively riveting. Once I started reading just could nt stop. I love the Shaman aspect of this story. Thank you Phoenix :)