CHOOSING A LEADER

A prehistoric election of a new and hopefully strong leader

Picture the hills.

Picture them rolling to the left of where you stand, tree-covered, majestic.

Hear the wolves and bears and other beasties living in their shadowed depths, howling or grunting or baying by day and by night. Scary, huh?

Picture the river.

Picture it sweeping to the right, roaring where it falls over a ridge, the spray from it catching the sunlight and making a rainbow. Think of that: a rainbow before any global flood!

Hear that river. See it. Feel it in the air, pounding, roaring, there.

Picture the clearing.

Picture the circle of makeshift huts, straw roofs, featureless walls, homely doors.

Picture where they are, and the fires before them.

See the people.

See the men, swarthy, loin-cloths, tattoos of the wildest creatures, black on bronzed skin, but faces sombre and serious.

Rippling muscles. Beards, straggly hair, scars here and there. And maybe tears: yes: maybe tears.

Wonder at the silent, sombre atmosphere.

See the women. Topless with weathered breasts, huge n*****s, babies hanging from busy arms, gasping for their dinner, sucking, oh, how good!

Picture the children running about, some naked others not. Games need to be played, but maybe not today.

Hear the women calming them, fingers on lips, Hush, quiet for a while, not on a day like this...

The children, naked or not, stare. Clothes don't matter, not with that sun in that sky, beating down, huge, enormous. But their mothers do. Hush.

Feel the expectation.

Picture the procession, see the grief in weary eyes, watch as the body is taken from the largest hut and carried with slow pomp and ceremony towards the river. Strong men might cry, just a little bit.

The Chief is Dead. Long live the Chief.

Then see the men gather in a group: men, note, not women. The men have a voice, the women their chores. The men decide the future, the women live it.

Listen to the rumble as they talk. One stands up, remonstrates, another grins and waves his hand, a third shouts his objection and then sits down. A debate ensues, there will be a conclusion soon enough, but words must be spoken, thoughts aired.

The Leader must guide us through dangers...

The Leader must calm our enemies...

The Leader must negotiate - there are other valleys with other villages - the leader must talk...

The Leader must be wise...

The debate continues until after dark, and then the decision is made.

One man stands up, tall, greying, bearded, naked but for his loincloth.

Hear him call and see one of the women break away from the group and join him.

See her kiss him. See her hold one of his hands in both of hers and stare into his face. See that face, that strong face, watch as it breaks into a caring smile.

And listen to the rest of them cheer him.

Long live the Chief, they call, and he waves his hand before disappearing indoors with his woman. The door closes. The night crawls by. Fires die down. Little crowds dissolve away.

A choice has been made. They have a Chief. And of all the men in the village he is the best. They all know that.

There was no alternative.

Somewhere, in another valley near another stream, the people laugh and joke and dance round their own fire. Their own chief is their own chief and they need no other.

What happened down the valley means nothing to them.

Yet.