Marcus Austin

Uncovering the fossil

This story has been building in me for quite some time. I am interested in primal living, and the subject is intriguing to me because practices like the persistence hunt were all but, until recently, nearly forgotten completely.  What would happen to humanity if something happened and all we were left with is our bodies and our wits? What practices would we return to with no tools? The human body has been designed by evolution to run long distances. We have the same genes as our Paleolithic hunter-gatherer ancestors, so why can’t we run like they used to? Footprints were recently found, in Australia, of a man running that scientists concluded was running at 28 miles per hour. How come we are the weakest men ever, and modern runners are injured constantly, even with the all of the motion-control gizmo shoes? How did our ancestors do this type of running on a regular basis without being injured? The traditional Hollywood cave-men stories of yore with mammoth hunts, and rodeo showdowns with huge animals was over when all the big animals —along with the bigger, faster, stronger, smarter Neanderthal who did actually hunt animals like that—were moving into the forests, and eventually dying out. The animals that flourished on the grasslands, like deer, antelope, kudu, and the humans that could run them down and get protein and fat for our large brains were the ones who survived and thrived. There was no evidence for persistence hunts besides old tales, and obscure references, until recently, because no tools, no stone arrowheads are needed complete a hunt like this, so there is not much evidence to get left behind to be found two or three million years later. The spear throwing in the story is merely ceremonial; the Kudu was dying of heat exhaustion anyway. The Tarahumara used to throttle the deer they ran down after they collapsed, instead of using a spear like Karoha does. I once heard someone say that if a book you want to read doesn’t exist, write it.

There are echoes of how our feet are essential to us, even in Greek mythology. What saved Philoctetes’ life when he was abandoned on Lemnos by Odysseus? The bow of Heracles, of course; but, his lame foot rendered him incapable of catching food with his hands and feet—the bow allowed him to shoot sea birds. What would Philoctetes have done without the bow of Heracles if he hadn’t been bitten by a snake on his foot, and had it turn into a festering wound? Running is where the thought processes that allow us to be creative come from. To chase down an animal in the hottest part of the day requires a runner to be an excellent tracker, almost channeling the exact thoughts of the animal he is tracking—projecting his thoughts. If Mr. Kurtz was looking for past knowledge in the shrunken heads he had posted around his hut, staring back at him, I too would love to read a story about the types of activities that actually happened which allowed us to become what we are in the first place. If a good story tells us more about being a human, then how do you to justice to a story about something that had a direct effect on what we are as humans, and matters to us even more in times where so many of us are so far removed from a lifestyle where we can express our primal potential as Homo Sapiens—going to the mega-mart when you really don’t feel like it is hardly a persistence hunt.

Once the idea for the characters popped in my head, it was only a matter of figuring out how to get them to speak to each other, since these people use a very complex click language, as well as sophisticated hand gestures. Minot offers the suggestion of making the dialogue feel kind of like a foreign language, so I read some transcripts of recordings of San people oral literature, and they often refrained things, told stories, and joked with their peers—never to an elder, or youngster.  I tried to give their dialogue the feel of a different language, without losing the character’s voices, and I think some of this structure seeped over into the narrator’s voice giving things a dry quality, which I think is an issue that needs some more scrutinizing. Alicia Costello (who gave me excellent commentary and many editing suggestions) left me a particularly interesting comment about the part where Nate and Karoha touch each other’s fingers to say goodbye: “’touched fingers’ is kinda, um, sexual.  Well, in my view. I’d much prefer a manly ‘shook hands’ or ‘performed the traditional goodbye ritual’”. This hand gesture was borrowed from the Raramuri (running people, or Tarahumara) of the Copper Canyons in Mexico (they outran the conquistadors, and nearly every other trouble-maker in their history; surely they could run down a venado). A light touching of finger tips is the greeting used, instead of the traditional handshake—a handshake is considered controlling. Alicia is right, though; the brushing of fingertips is a more intimate gesture. Things like this I tried to include to give a sense of the cultural differences, so it’s kind of funny to see the dissonance between what Alicia expected of the characters in a particular social situation and what they actually do in the story.  

I had to cover a lot of ground in the story, and I wasn’t exactly sure how to get to the ending. One reader said the narration was a little dry, and I can see that to some degree. I think that may be a side effect of trying to tell a story about something so unfamiliar, and foreign. Paul Acevado told me to watch out for run-on sentences. Going through the story, I tried to look for areas where the flow was weak, and search for ways to improve the sentences. I made a number of changes to the opening paragraph thanks to the suggestions of Paul and Alicia. One reviewer did not like the run-on nature of the last sentence of the opening paragraph, but other readers picked up on the effect, and had positive comments about it.

Alicia said, in particular, that aside from some robotic narration, she enjoyed meeting the characters and experiencing the culture. The goal of the piece was to portray a culture which does not see much airtime. I don’t know if I did the persistence hunt justice, but I want to keep working on the story and see if it evolves into something more. Alicia said that the ending where he was with the dying kudu reminded her “of Empire Strikes Back and the Luke/Han scene in the blizzard on Hoth.” I can picture that scene in my head as vivid as the first time I watched it, and I may just be a Star Wars nerd, but for someone to compare something I wrote to that scene gives me hope that I did something right.

I hope my skills as a writer have not failed my characters, and I hope that there are some people out there who find this stuff as interesting as I do. I want to keep working on the story, and look into getting it published somewhere.  Even if I never get this particular story published, I think the process of digging up the fossil, as Stephen King would put it, working to uncover it, and then cleaning it up to get it looking good enough for display was invaluable to me.

Original draft:

Persistence

      Namkabe’s skin folded on his frame as he squatted on his heels upon the mountain overlooking their valley. The sun was settling into the earth and the colors mixed with the fine brush growing over the folds and crags in the hills and Namkabe just stared. A boulder in the distance, rounded and smooth, changed from orange to red and he thought of the story his father had told him of the people that sit on their heels—the baboons with their red butts. He laughed, and spilled some water from the ostrich egg he was holding. The texture of the wet eggshell intrigued him, but a breeze blew and he wiped his face with his wet hand and closed his eyes to enjoy the coolness. When the water had evaporated from his skin, he stood and turned his eyes toward the fire down in the village and he saw children running between the huts, laughing and chasing each other. He leaned into the wind and began to run down the mountain, falling forward towards the valley floor, supporting his body with each gentle step, toes spread wide, leaving perfect footprints in the sand, stepping between bushes, choosing two steps instead of one when in doubt, and feeling the mountain pass under him with each quick slap of his foot on the earth.

      He strolled up to the fire where Xabon was standing handing out the last slivers of springbok she had cooked to all of the hungry members of the band. One child was laughing especially hard at another who was standing, waiting for Xabon to give him his meat.

      “Nore, why do you laugh so hard at little Num? Is there a joke which I do not get?“ she said, handing Num his meat.

      “Ha ha! Yes, he has dirt in his hair. Nate dared us to jump over a tall bush, and I did it. I said to Num that if he couldn’t make it I would laugh at him until the morning. He ran as fast as he could and jumped! Then he fell. He fell and rolled around in the dirt!“ Nore said after taking his meat. He contorted himself into a fit of hysterical laughter, and ran off waving his arms around, still laughing.

      “You have already eaten your meat? Good, go and be strong young one,” she said to Num. He ran after Nore.

      “He has a steady gait, that one,” Namkabe said.

      “Unlike you, you tired old bull. Take this tender meat and fat since your teeth are falling out and your jaws are weak,” she said to him.

      “Where is all the other fat? Did you eat it?” he replied.

      “No, I gave it to the other men. They will need it since they will be running so much farther than you tomorrow,“ she said, and turned away, trying to conceal her smile.

      Namkabe sat down near the fire, but opposite to where Xabon was handing out the last pieces of meat. He had always enjoyed the nights with a full moon, the children were allowed to play as they pleased and dinner was always made with extra attention, even if the ingredients were growing scarce, as they were. Pondering the night that lay before him, he noticed Karoha and Nate sitting under the tree gnawing patiently, but intently at the ribs Xabon had given them.

      Karoha saw the old man turn towards them and he gave a gentle gesture, signaling to Namkabe a warm welcoming and an ultimate understanding of more than could be contained within a simple hand gesture between any two other people.

      “Tonight we must hold our spears close, but not so close as to shake our vision with the tremors of those who hold close a weapon of war. We will hold our spears like our grandfathers who wake in the middle of the night to a too careful rustling, cunning animal footsteps in the dark which cease when the glare of a man’s eyes pierces the darkness and frightens all those who stand in its way. We will pierce the darkness with our gaze, and not clench our fists, but prepare them by holding steady the weight of powerful tools, and like our grandfathers we will be ready to strike at the sitting baboon who leers at our young. Tonight we will prepare our bodies and focus our gaze through the light of the full moon on the kudu which run and play in the cool night, too close to a steady eye. We shall drink. We shall drink,” Namkabe said.

      “Take this, you senile old fool, and do not drop it. Karoha and Nate, please enjoy this water; it was collected from the clear spring this morning by Tike and the other young girls,” Xabon said.

      Xabon called out to everyone to bring their cups, and come to the tree. Tike came over, and Xabon asked her to give everyone water. Tike hoisted the heavy jug, and went around giving everyone a splash in their cups. She filled Karoha and Nate's cups to the brim again, and when she got to Namkabe she poured too much and it overflowed into the sand.

      Everyone drank in silence until Namkabe slurped the last drops out of his cup. Xabon stared at him until everyone started smacking their lips and chattering, at which point she walked away, the rest following in their own time.

      "I will go and keep an eye on the herd; you two can sleep and come find me in the morning," Namkabe said.

      "Very well. We will find you in the morning," Nate said. The two of them walked from under the tree, and went to get another glass of water before bed.

      Namkabe walked back towards the mountain, but decided to take a leisurely stroll around the south side, and keep an eye on the herd from downwind. He had always loved walking. It was the plodding of his heel in the sand that was so much less elegant than running, but that is what made it fun. Kick one leg out in front of the other and let your heel jam into the ground, and repeat until you get where you are going. Everything was less important when he walked, and he felt less important. He felt less like a sapling dancing with the wind, and more like a couple sticks tumbling down a hill. He came up on a decent sized rock, and he took a big step over it, losing his balance and having to give a little hop to stay on his feet. He heard an almost imperceptible rustling up the hill about fifty feet, crouched and began to stalk.

      He used every muscle in his body, and the grains of sand under his feet became tiny arms lofting him gently. He headed towards a rock that looked inviting, but he did not know why. It could easily be a snake under the rock, and he was about to be close enough for even a baby snake to get a decent bite. He stopped and listened. There was definitely in the crevice on the other side. He leaned around slowly, trying to get a peak with the help of the moonlight.

      "Eeeee!" he shrieked, trying desperately to stifle his own voice. The kudu herd was probably less than a mile from where was standing. A bird had flown out from the crevice and nearly scared him to death; he could not remember the last time his heart had beat so fast. Still a little worried that he had spooked the playing kudu, he lifted the big rock, sure that there was no snake under it now.

      "Ooh!”  he blurted, making the same mistake twice. He reminded himself again why he was out here, and what he was actually supposed to be doing.

      There was a little bird's nest, dappled with down, cradling five delicately arranged eggs. He could hardly contain his excitement, and did a little dance as quietly as he could.  He looked around and reached in to pick up the nest, but he decided against it and just picked up each egg, placing them in his left palm. He hefted the fragile pile in his hand, and rolled them around a bit, admiring the speckles in the moonlight. He put the rock carefully back in its place, and began to walk back downhill.

      There wasn't much he loved more in life than eggs, and the thought put a little more elasticity in his legs. He preferred them boiled and chopped up, but Xabon was back in the village, and besides, she was probably already asleep. Eventually he came across a decent bush, and carefully arranged the eggs in the sand a few feet away. He spent a considerable time plucking only the softest leaves from the bush and making a pile in the corner of his bag next to the two hide-wrapped ostrich eggs. He went over and sat on the ground next to the eggs, placing his open bag in his lap. He took the ten largest leaves and spit on each one, carefully applying one to each side of every egg. Then he arranged them carefully in his bag, brushing the small leaves evenly between them. He grabbed a handful of sand and poured it on top.

      Namkabe had tracked the kudu herd for nearly four miles before he became distracted by an inviting shade tree. He considered continuing the hunt, but he remembered he had breakfast and came up with a plan. He kneeled on the ground and dug a tunnel with his hands in the direction he thought the kudu would go. When he thought the hole was sufficient, he took the long, thin spear he had brought with him and shoved it as deep as he could into the sideways hole. Placing the rounded end of the spear in his ear canal, he listened. He could not hear it, but he felt it deep in his skull—there were elephants nearby. There had not been elephants in the area in six months, and he figured they were headed for, or already at, the watering hole the spear was pointing to. This was good because, if there was any water left at all, the elephants will have turned it into a drying mud pit by the morning, and if there was not any; water the kudu would stay near the elephants which he could track with the spear trick. Namkabe laid his bag on the ground near the trunk of the tree and curled up in the shade.

***

      "Where do you think he went? He tripped over this rock, and disappeared," Karoha said, worried that a lioness had caught up to the old fool.

      “There was no scuffle. The old fool is just messing with us," Nate said. He stood and ran off in the direction the tracks were headed before they disappeared.

      Karoha realized his mistake, but he just could not help jumping to such conclusions since the time he watched a pride of lions take down a full-grown bull elephant near a local watering hole during a particularly dry year.

      Nate caught up with Namkabe’s tracks after a few minutes of running, and gestured for Karoha to catch up.

      "See, I told you he was just fooling us. He was plodding along here, just like he does when he's giggling to himself like a little girl," Nate said.

      "Hey, what's that? Something happened to that bush up there," Karoha said, running

ahead.

      "He was here for awhile. He must have taken a kak nearby," Nate said.

      "Why would he pick off all of the tiny leaves for a kak?"

      "Well,—"

      "Aha! Look at this! That's what he was doing when we lost his tracks earlier. He must have found a Francolin nest up on the mountain. There were five eggs here; he must have been picking leaves to pack them for the morning," Karoha said, kneeling over the impressions in the sand.

      Nate agreed. They both stood around for a minute, and looked about. Nate took out one of his ostrich eggs and drank a few sips of water, before returning it to his bag. He leaned forward, and took off at a decent trot. Karoha followed.

      It was beginning to heat up. A mile in they started to sweat, and Karoha wondered if the kudu had gotten as wild Nate sometimes said they do when the full moon is shining bright.

      When they found Namkabe he was splayed out on the ground under the tree amongst the remnants of the Francolin eggs, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth end mixing with the dried protein on his face. He awoke to Nate and Karoha standing over him, catching their breath. Nate looked slightly annoyed.

      "Are you ready?" Namkabe asked, yawning and stretching,

      "Yes," Nate replied.

      Namkabe crawled over and put his ear to the end of the spear, yanked it from the sand, donned his bag, and stood. "Let us go."

      Karoha worried about the pace that Namkabe was setting. They had not spotted the kudu yet, so he decided to hang back a little. He did not like hunting during the dry season. The dry, loose sand made it necessary to float, to use perfect technique or risk using up the muscles in the feet too quickly. He preferred to hunt the springbok when the ground was wet; it not only allowed switching up his gait and utilize different muscle groups, but it also made the animal easier to track. Of course, the humidity complicated things a bit, but not so much that a little self-awareness could not fix.

      Karoha watched them stalk up to the hill about a half mile ahead—-he recognized the hill. He caught up to them as quickly, and as quietly as he could. They were close, and anything could spook the herd. As he approached Namkabe and Nate, they were speaking in soft melodic clicks and coos nearly impossible to discriminate from the sounds of birds. Before he could make out what they were saying, Namkabe began to stalk upwind. "What is he doing?" Karoha asked, imitating his favorite bird, "He said he has a plan."

      "Are we about to run?"

      "I do not know."

      Namkabe hid behind a rock, and let out a silent fart. When the kudu caught wind of it, they spooked and ran downwind, away from the thick bush to the north.

      Namkabe came running, and chucked a stick in the direction the kudu had gone.

      Run.

      The kudu were out of sight in no time, but Namkabe and Nate were already in a trance, matching each step and breath of the fleeing kudu, feeling their every emotion as if they were their own.

      "Which one are we chasing?" Karoha asked Nate.

      "The old bull."

      Karoha felt his head sag with the weight of its massive horns.

      Three hours had passed with the only expressions coming from their sweat glands and the hands of Namkabe and Nate. They had managed to separate the bull from the herd and the sun was just about at its peak.

      “I cannot run any longer." Namkabe said, slowing to a walk.

      Karoha and Nate did not look back.

      After the second loop around the mountain, Nate ran out of water. They were getting dangerously close to the bush thicket to the north, and Karoha would have given anything to be running behind Namkabe, smelling his egg-tinged flatulence again.

      They determined from the tracks that the bull had slowed again.

      "Karoha," Nate said, “I have run out of water. The bull is getting weaker, but it is possible that he will head into the brush and deceive you while he recovers. Take the old lizard's trail, and beat him to the crooked shade tree. You must hurry. I will head back, and meet up with Namkabe up on the mountain. We will wait for your signal."

      They touched fingers and parted ways. The old Lizard's trail was rocky, and littered with treacherous brush. It would be easy to trip and split his skull, and even easier to run across a sidewinder. The lizards would feel his footsteps and hide—there would be no much needed snack, but the sidewinders were hungry too. They would not go and hide at his approach, but stand their ground and puff. The snake's warning would be too late at the pace he would have to run through the trail.

      When he passed the place where Uahe had died five years ago, his thoughts were not with the kudu, and his legs began to fail him. He wanted to scream in agony, but he knew the kudu was within a mile, and did not want to spook him. He fell to the ground and clutched his legs. He laid there for a full minute, writhing in the sand before summoning the will to reach into his bag and get the last of his water. He sprinkled some of it on his face, and took a small sip. He struggled to his feet and staggered between the rocks and bushes, sipping slowly as he made his way down the trail.

      He began to regain his composure as he reached the brush thicket. His legs came back to him when he felt his head sinking again. He wasn't exactly sure where the crooked shade tree was anymore, but caring was not of necessity anymore.

      He heard a faint rustling, and stopped dead in his tracks. He felt tired again, instantly.   He let his body scream at him, and sank deep into the depths of his consciousness.

      He moved with the earth, conscious of no humanity until he found a faint impression in the sand.

      He reached and removed his spear from his back. He clutched it in his hand, crouching, stalking the prey which he only felt. He paused behind a large bush to breathe. He sidestepped from behind the bush. There he was, resting beneath the crooked shade tree. The kudu leapt to his feet, but stumbled. Its eyes glazed over, and it collapsed in the clearing. Karoha stared in disbelief. He uncoiled himself and threw his spear into kudu’s chest.

      The kudu groaned.

      Karoha walked over to the dying animal, and knelt beside it. He grabbed a handful of sand and sprinkled it reverently over the old bull. He placed his hands on the kudu and felt its last breath. Placing his hands in the kudu's mouth, he scooped out its sticky saliva, and rubbed it into his exhausted and burning legs. He lay in the sand next to the dead kudu for nearly thirty minutes. When he regained the ability to stand, he did so, and began to fumble around in his bag.

      Karoha hung his head, reached into the sky, and fired the flare gun.