THE VERY FIRST ELECTION

When the chief of a prehistoric tribe dies, they need to find his replacement

Droopy the Fourth had been leader of the tribe in very prehistoric times until he died at the ripe old age of 47. He'd been a good leader, had led his men in skirmishes against the greedy painted men from the other side of the valley and even rescued the odd damsel in distress when she was being threatened by the one-eyed tiger that was never far away from the small settlement where he and bis people lived.

But, despite his famed skills and long tenure as leader of the tribe the poor Droopy the Fourth died. He accepted it as he lay on his death bed.

“I am dying,” he whispered to Ittular, his beloved and seventh wife - seventh because the first six had surrendered to death before him and he felt there was something amiss if he didn't have a female companion in life.

“You'll be okay, man-mine,” she replied, knowing that he wouldn't but afraid of hurting his feelings.

“No. I'm dying,” he assured her. “I've lost count of how many years I've lived, but it's got to be in the region of forty-seven...”

“So magnificent,” she gasped as if he'd lied about the dimensions of his piss-pipe. The word penis hadn't been invented then, and in fact lay as a collection of discrete letters not to be connected in that particular order for many thousand years.

“And I have orders for when I'm dead,” he said with more firmness than he felt. When a man's dying he rarely feels firm, and Droopy the Fourth didn't feel firm then. In fact, he would never feel firm again, and he knew it.

Ittular adjusted the rabbit-skin fir that was wrapped around most of her body because it was a cool winter and she liked feeling warm. “What are you orders, Master?” she asked with warmth and sincerity in her voice.

“When I am no more there must be an election,” he said, trying to sit up but failing, so weak was he. “All men and women of the tribe must have their say...”

“But that is democracy, and not to be even hinted at until the Greeks get it into their heads in ten thousand or more years!” she protested.

“That may be the case, but it is the only fair way,” he assured her. “As I state, every man and woman over the age of twelve summers must have their say.”

“Democracy and suffrage in one sentence,” breathed Ittular, “so great is the man...”

“As I say, every man and woman over the age of twelve must have an equal say,” croaked Droopy the Fourth, clearly on one of his very last breaths. “And the result must be clear...”

His voice was becoming so weak that Ittular had to press her ears close to his mouth in order to hear it.

After a painful pause he continued. “Yes, the result must be clear … the man to follow me … or the woman … must receive more than half of the votes, and that half must be not of the votes cast but of the votes that might have been cast if everyone did his or her duty at the poll...”

“You are so magnificent,” she whispered, reaching to tickle his flesh where he most liked it being tickled.

But that joy was one joy too much for him, and he closed his eyes, watched briefly as the world flickered out " and lay still.

Ittular was as good as he had known she would be, and with a huge amount of firmness she passed on her man's last wishes, and she did it with courage and conviction.

“Every man and every woman over the age of twelve must have an equal say,” she pronounced, and the way she explained it made it seem perfectly right to one and all of the tribe.

Two contenders emerged after a lot of debate and half a dozen fist-fights. They were Barnie and Smarmie and both quite capable of saying a great deal of convincing nonsense in far too many words - but that was to be the way of such contests through all of future time and consequently not as novel as it might have seemed in a truly honest society.

The day chosen by Ittular arrived, and most of the tribe had their say and so well-balanced were the contestants that Barnie beat Smarmie by only a handful of votes.

“I am the winner!” squawked Barnie. “I am now the Chief!”

“But no!” snapped Smarmie, “Look at the result, man! There are several adults over the age of twelve who didn't have their say at all...”

“But if they couldn't be bothered...” grunted Barnie disparagingly.

“It's not that!” roared Smarmie, “one of the women has actually having a child at the time, another had the palsy brought on by bad wine and a third broke her leg. Then of the men three were chasing that half-blind tiger and others were hunting for food! You may have earned more votes than me but you didn't win more that half of those entitled to cast a choice, and the rules laid down by our great deceased Droopy the Fourth were that the victor should do just that!”

“That's right,” declared Ittular. “We must have a second go at choosing a leader. My deceased husband and filler of my womb with his seed said so!”

And so they did have a second election.

And a third, and then a fourth - which Ittular won through default because Barnie had dropped down dead the day before and Smarmie fell into the jaws of one half blind tiger and was, sadly, ripped to pieces.

And democracy was at work.