Chapter 8
Makok sat on the dirt floor of his hut staring at the fire. Outside he could hear the wind howling, blowing snow so hard that one couldn’t see a spears length away if they went outside. He adjusted the furs around his shoulders as a strong blast of wind caused the walls to shift and the wooden frame to creak. Snow cascaded in through the smoke hole in the ceiling. A hissing was heard when a few flakes hit the fire.
Reaching over he added a piece of wood to the fire. The temperature was comfortable now but would cool down once the fire went out. Another blast of wind hit the hut and his wife glanced over at him. Makok gave her a reassuring nod. He knew this hut would hold since it’d already endured stronger storms over the past few winters. The heavy wood frame was covered, inside and out, with animal hides. The outer hides were in turn covered with the potting clay so abundant in Grass Valley. The clay was then fired so it would cure and harden. It was the hardened clay that prevented the wind from stripping the outer hides from the frame. The entrance was also made of hides and tied securely so only an occasional gust of wind sent snow inside. His hard work kept his family warm during the cold winter nights.
It had been almost twelve full winters since Jakto had led Karg’s Family from Home Cave to settle Grass Valley. Makok leaned back against a wall with a contented sigh as the fire snapped and popped. Their new home had proven even better than they’d imagined. The gardens produced more food than they ever saw in the old canyon. There was plentiful game in the surrounding valleys. Now he wondered why they’d waited so long to settle here. Everything had been so comfortable that several winters ago Jakto had suggested they try raising animals like the Tribe.
That little project had proved more challenging than the Family had expected, Makok remembered. First they had to catch the right animals and keep them in wooden corrals. A corral was something the Tribe of Circle Cliffs hadn’t worried about. Their animals could wander about their valley freely because there was no way out of Circle Cliffs. He gave a snort of amusement as he recalled some of the ‘events’ they endured as they worked to catch the horses, tame them and keep them in the valley.
At the snort Kerin, Makok’s wife, looked over at him. A smile brought one from her.
Once the horses had been tamed and grown used to the corrals the Family put up fences around the grassy areas of the valley floor and let the animals wander the pastures. Just as those concerns were solved another problem appeared: Long-toothed Eaters. It hadn’t taken the predators very long to learn where the easiest prey was. In the first two summers the Family lost many of the colts to the long-toothed Eaters before they came upon a method to protect the herd. Hunters were posted to watch for danger and drive the cats away. He gave a mental shrug. Even though some of the hunters died or were injured each year it was worth it. The horses were too valuable to lose.
Makok stretched out and settled against a pile of furs. He watched as his wife went back to showing their youngest daughter hand plays. The other four children, three sons and another daughter amused themselves.
A stronger than normal burst of wind hit the hut. The whole structure seemed to shake and more snow showered in through the smoke hole. Everyone looked up to see if the hut would collapse but Makok smiled again. Let the wind blow.
He went back to the problem he’d been pondering before getting sidetracked: How to strike from a distance. Their spears couldn’t be thrown fast enough to catch the agile long-tooth predators menacing the herd. Only axes were effective against the swift animals. But that meant the axes had to be wielded close in; a hand-to-paw fight. He scowled as he pondered. There had to be a swift, accurate way to kill from a distance.
Once again his thoughts shifted. The summer after the Family had left Home Cave Eaters and Things-in-the-air had returned to that canyon and took more people. It was just as Jakto had said would happen. In fact a pattern developed. At least once each summer the Eaters had gone to Home Cave to steal people.
Makok had also noticed something else. It was only Home Cave that had been visited by the creatures. Neither the Tribe nor the Family had heard the flying things thunder or spotted one flying nearby. It was always the Clan that was attacked. When that became apparent more of the Clan began leaving. More families left to find their own valleys closer to the warm jungles until just over fifty people were left living in the once crowded canyon.
The Clan needed something to strike the Eaters from a distance where the bad air was not. Makok gave a quiet grunt with a slight nod. Now that he thought about it both people had the same problem. The guards were just trying to protect different herds from different predators.
“Pater?”
Makok looked to see who was calling him.
“Pater?”
Makok located the caller. It was his oldest son who was sitting on the other side of the fire. “Yes, Mak,” Makok answered. “What do you want?”
“Watch!”
Makok saw his son, ten winters old, holding a sound maker. The Tribe had been making these items for quite some time. It was a piece of bent wood with several strings of dried gut drawn tight between both ends of the stick. They’d found that when pulling the strings and releasing them a sound was made. Shorter strings made higher sounds, longer strings deeper. The Tribes children would use the sound makers to occupy the idle time of the winter. Makok had brought one home for his family from a trading journey.
Mak fit a stick to one of the strings, pulled it back, then let go. The stick wobbled through the air to strike the inner hide wall next to his father. It fell to the ground. “See Pater!” he squealed. “I can make a stick fly, like a bird!”
“I see Mak,” commented Makok tossing the stick back, nodding his encouragement. “How far can you make it fly?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno.”
“Try to hit this spot on the wall,” asked Makok. He took a piece of charcoal from near the fire and made a circle on the hide wall near where he was sitting. “See if you can hit it from your side of the hut.”
Mak nodded, fit another stick to a string and took careful aim. When released the stick wobbled across the open area, over the fire, and fell into a pile of hides. “Oh, short!” he said. The boy picked up another stick to try again. By this time the other children had noticed the new game and were clamoring for a turn to make the stick fly.
The rest of the evening involved Makok and Kerin laughing at their children as they launched sticks over the fire at the target. The children took turns experimenting to find better ways of getting the stick to where they wanted it to go.
Over the next several weeks Makok watched his children continue with their experiments with their toy when they could. The snows of winter melted as spring arrived with its increased work for the entire family. The gardens had to be planted, watered, and weeded. Hides also had to be prepared, pots made and cloth worked. In their free time the children would add grasses, reeds, and feathers to the sticks to see if they could improve the accuracy and distance of the sticks.
One day as Makok was preparing for his turn to guard the horses Mak approached. He held up the stick for his father’s inspection. It was easy to see that all the strings had been broken. “Tim did it Pater!” accused Mak pointing at his younger sister who’d followed her older brother out to where their father was. “She pulled too hard and broke the string.”
“I did not!” protested the younger girl.
“Then how’d it break?” argued Mak.
“Stop it you two!” ordered Makok holding up a hand to forestall further argument. “There was a hand of strings here. Can both of you say you didn’t break one of them?” There was silence and neither child looked at their father. “I thought so. Now run off and I’ll see what I can do to fix it.”
After sending the two children back to help tend the gardens he studied the sound maker for a moment and then put it down. It might be easier to start over than to repair. It shouldn’t be that difficult to make one. Earlier
trading journeys to the Tribe of Circle Cliffs had let him see the toy being made. He’d even learned about different kinds of wood.
On his way to the pasture where the horses were being kept Makok stopped off at the stream and used his flint axe to cut several straight finger sized willows. He remembered that willow was one of the woods the Tribe used to make the toys. Since he was going to all this trouble he might as well make more one for each child and prevent future arguments.
When he was finished he had one stick for each of his children with two extras for mistakes. Then he carried the arm load to the small rise where he would guard the herd. Once there he propped the branches against some rocks then went to make sure there was nothing threatening the horses in his area.
A short time later Makok returned to his post satisfied that all was as it should be. Settling down with his back against a boulder where the view included horses grazing, he took out his knife, selected a stick, and began to strip the small branches and outer bark from the main shaft.
The whole process didn’t take very long and he soon had a pile of shavings at his feet. When he finished he held up the bare stick and examined its length. It looked right for what he had in mind. Next, he tried flexing it, to see if it would break when bent. “Not bad,” he muttered under his breath. “It has good spring and didn’t break. Not bad for a beginner but what can I do for the string?”
He knew that the Tribe used strands from the dried guts of animals for the strings but he didn’t have any available so he’d have to improvise. Pushing himself to his feet he looked around. “What can I use?” He muttered as he scanned the area. Then he shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing but grass and the…”
He stopped and stared at the horses. Now, why wouldn’t that work? Of course one wouldn’t be strong enough but if he braided several together it ought to work.
He walked down the slope and wandered through the herd of grazing horses. Selecting one that looked about right he went over and plucked several long hair strands from its tail. The beast gave a slight jump, whinnied and looked back. “Yah,” Makok said with a grin. “It’s a real pain. Now hold still.” A handful of tail strands were collected before the creature had endured enough and trotted off.
Chuckling, Makok headed back through the herd and up the small rise to his boulder. Another scan of the area revealed there were no signs of predators so he sat down and amused himself by braiding several strands of the collected hair into a single long strand. When he thought it was long and strong enough Makok tied the strand to one end of the prepared willow and then the other end causing the willow to bow. Plucking the strand he noted that it hummed just like the Tribe’s sound maker. “Well that’s one,” he said as he put it down and picked up another wooden shaft.
Two weeks later found the Family diligent in preparing for the summer’s heat and harvest. Makok was on guard duty once again and looked out over the pasture where the horses were grazing. Several colts had been born since spring began and would be the first prey for any predators. He knew the guard’s had to be very careful or the herd’s increase would be lost.
“Pater! Pater!” called Mak as he ran around a large rock and held up a good sized furry Runner by its long ears for his father to see. “Look what I did!”
Makok turned away from the horses and looked down at his son with pride. The Runners got into the gardens and ate the Family’s food. When they tried to stop the losses the Planters found it very difficult to kill the animal because the little beastie was very quick. Despite the difficulties his son had done it.
“Let me see,” he said and took the animal for an obligatory examination. Although the Runner was fast it was good to eat. In most instances the beast would have been stunned by a thrown rock then clubbed to death or strangled in a snare. That wouldn’t leave any meat which could be used. But this time was different. Holding the ears, he raised the dead animal higher so he could examine it closer.
“What’s this?” asked Makok pointing to a bloody spot in the side of the animal.
“That’s where I hit it,” answered Mak holding up a stick, “with this.”
Makok handed the Runner back to his son and took the stick. One end had been tapered to a point. Reaching out with a finger he tested the tip. He noticed the stick was smeared with dried blood from the tip to a point halfway down the shaft. The other end had bird feathers tied to the shaft. He looked down into the eyes of his son. “Tell me how you did this.”
A wide grin came across the boys face. “It was easy!” he gushed then his voice took on a lower tone. “I hid behind a bush with the maker you’d made for me,” Mak said and held up the Music Maker his father had made. “When the Runner got close I was very quiet. I pulled back on the string then let go! I hit it with the stick.” The grin widened. “On my first try,” he added.
“You’re going to be a great hunter,” Makok said and watched his son swell at the praise. “How far away from the Runner were you when you shot it?”
Mak looked around then stepped to one side and pointed at a bush. “It was from where I’m standing to that bush,” he replied.
Makok gauged the distance to be about ten paces then looked back to his son. “That was amazing,” he said. “Now, you learn the next thing about being a hunter.” Makok smiled at his son’s questioning look. “You killed it so you have to gut it and skin it before giving it to your mother.” He took out his flint knife and nodded at the Runner. “Now, the first thing…”
That event got Makok thinking. If a music maker could kill a Runner could it kill a long-tooth cat? This could be the answer he was looking for. After his time on guard was finished and he was on his way home he stopped by the creek to cut a willow. That night in his hut he made his own Maker. Mak saw what his father was doing and wanted one so father and son worked together.
The willow stick broke the first time Makok tried it. So did the second and third stick. He gave up on using willows and tried other woods. After a number of attempts Makok found that wood from the yew tree worked best. He called his invention a bow.
Mak helped his father make the shooting sticks that fit the bow. These were called arrows. But these arrows were different from those made by Mak earlier. Makok split the end opposite to the feathers and placed a small, triangle shaped piece of flint on the tip of the stick. This tip was tied in place using more hair from the horse’s tails.
After the bow and arrow have been fashioned the father and son did what came naturally and shot arrows at everything.