The Boy of the Painted Cave

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  Stumbling, lurching through the forest, Tao heard their pounding feet as the hunters picked up the trail. Without looking back, Tao hurdled over the ground, dodging between the trees and bushes. The wolf dog followed close behind as Tao ran into the night. Branches whipped across his face, tree roots caught at his feet, holding him back. But if he could run fast enough, long enough, he knew he would outrun the hunters and save Ram.

  Breathing hard, he pushed his way through the underbrush, listening to the grunts and shouts of the angry men as they came after him. He ran faster and faster, twisting and turning through the trees and brush, trying to throw them off the track....

  ■ I owe a debt of gratitude to the scientists, historians and photographers who, interested in the prehistoric world of Altamira and other southern European cave communities, painstakingly collected specimens and other research which resulted in a body of work that helped re-create that ancient world.

  I have received help from many people but none more so than my editor, Patricia Lee Gauch, at Philomel Books. She spent long hours carefully going over each revision, suggesting vital changes and additions, deleting superfluous prose, weeding out clichés, refusing to settle for anything but the very best.

  I am also indebted to my son and daughter-in-law, Ken and Elsie Denzel, who initiated me into the world of word processing, making the difficult task of revision almost a pleasure.

  Finally I wish to thank Josephine, my wife, who spent many evenings going over the rough drafts, correcting my wayward spelling and unique style of punctuation. Without her patient efforts and moral support this book may not have been written.

  Copyright © 1988 by Justin Denzel.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any

  form without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A PaperStar Book, published in 1996 by The Putnam &

  Grosset Group, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.

  PaperStar is a registered trademark of The Putnam Berkley

  Group, Inc. The PaperStar logo is a trademark of The Putnam

  Berkley Group, Inc. Originally published in 1988 by Philomel

  Books, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada.

  Map illustrated by Anita Karl.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Denzel, Justin F. Boy of the painted cave / by Justin Denzel.

  p. cm. Summary: Forbidden to make images, fourteen-year-old

  Tao, the boy with the bad foot, yearns to be a cave

  painter, recording the figures of the mammals, rhinos, bison,

  and other animals of his prehistoric times.

  [1. Cave drawings—Fiction. 2. Man, Prehistoric—Fiction.]

  I. Title. PZ7.D4377Cav 1988 [Fic]-dc19

  87-36609 CIP AC

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07793-1

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Eighteen to twenty thousand years ago in the Dordogne valley of Southern France and around the foot-hills of the Pyrenees mountains, in Spain, there lived a Stone Age people who hunted the ancient beasts, the mammoths, the horses and woolly rhinos, the giant oxen and bison.

  All over the world other people did much the same thing. But only here, in this small corner of Europe, did there arise a group of superb artists who adorned the walls of their caves with beautiful paintings of those magnificent animals.

  Most of the primitive beasts are gone now, many of them extinct, a few domesticated and kept alive by man. But their colorful images live on, in the hidden caverns of the early cave painters.

  This is the story of a young cave boy who dreamed of becoming such a cave painter. It tells of his fascination with the wild creatures around him and of his fight against superstition and taboos.

  It tells of a world that has long since gone, a world that we will never see again.

  This book is for my

  grandchildren

  Megan, Stephanie and Christopher

  with much love.

  ONE

  Tao looked out across the valley with its endless waves of yellow grass rippling under the late afternoon sun. He could see the small band of hunters walking ahead, turning over logs and stones, searching for ground squirrels, moles and grubs.

  Dirt matted their dark beards, burrs and stickers clung to their bearskin robes. They had been out three days, but the hunting was not good. Now they were returning home, tired, almost empty-handed.

  The boy watched as the hunters disappeared over the brow of the hill. All day Tao had waited for this moment. With a rabbit in his hand and a leather pouch filled with moles and field mice dangling from his belt, he quickly hobbled over to the foot of a high embankment, where a smooth expanse of white sand had been washed down by the melting snows.

  He looked around once again, took a deep breath and placed the rabbit on the ground. Then, with the point of his spear, he began tracing the shape of the rabbit in the sand.

  He worked hurriedly, starting with the head, running the spear around the ears and along the back and stubby tail. When he came to the legs, his hand slipped, causing the spear to gouge a hole in the sand. He broke off a nearby willow branch and brushed away the drawing, then started over again. This time he worked carefully, guiding the spear along the natural curves of the animal’s body. When it was finished, he stepped back, studying it for a moment. He shook his head. No, it did not look like a rabbit. It was too stiff, not real.

  He felt a flush of anger and he shoved the rabbit aside. He looked over his shoulder again to be sure he was alone, then knelt down on the sand. With the fingers of his right hand he began to draw a picture of a bear. This he was sure he could do. Working from memory, he drew the huge head with its open mouth, showing the row of sharp teeth, the small round ears and the short snout.

  As he worked, a warm feeling welled up in him. He forgot the hunters and the rabbit. He thought only of the big brown bears he had seen digging for roots in the marsh grass or scooping salmon out of the icy creeks down in the valley. He remembered their strong shoulders and shaggy brown coats, and for a moment the image became a living beast flowing from his mind, through his hand, directly onto the sand.

  He finished his drawing by sketching in the high-arched back and sturdy legs. Then he stood up, brushing the sand from his knees. He looked down at the drawing, smiling broadly. It was good, he thought, the best he had ever done. Yet with time and practice he knew he could do better.

  He did not remember when he first began making pictures. It must have been many summers ago when he lived with Kala. At first she was frightened of this. It was taboo and she tried to stop him. Then she let him go. But he could draw only on the dirt floor within the skin hut, where he would not be seen.

  Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a soft rustling sound. With a shuffling of his deerskin boots he stamped out the picture and dropped quietly into a patch of tall grass. He waited, his heart pounding. He knew he could be severely punished, even banished, if he were caught making images. Except for a chosen few it was a strong taboo and against the secret rites of the clan.

  Y
et he longed to be an image maker, to be a cave painter like old Graybeard. He knew it was a foolish hope, for he was born of no shaman, he was the son of no chief or leader. He was only Tao, the boy with the bad foot. He did not even know his own father. His mother had died long before he could remember, and there was no elder to help him. Because of this, and because of his bad foot, he knew he could never become a Chosen One.

  Whenever he saw the bison out on the plains, or the giant aurochs and cave lions, he wanted to paint their pictures on the walls of the Secret Cavern, a magic place, far back in Big Cave, where only the Chosen Ones could go.

  Often, at night, he lay in front of Kala’s hut listening to the crackling fire and looking up at the sky. He saw pictures of deer and horses amongst the stars. By day the billowing clouds became herds of antelope or the lumbering shapes of the mountains-that-walk, the mammoths.

  Always during the hunts, he lagged behind the other hunters to watch the giant vultures tracing lazy circles beneath the clouds or to catch a glimpse of a woolly rhino outlined against the horizon. Sometimes seeing these things made him light-headed, almost bursting with joy, and he wanted others to see them as he did.

  He knew that Garth and the other hunters did not understand this. Even Volt, the leader, looked upon him as an idler and a dreamer, unworthy of respect or manhood. He liked Garth best of all, because sometimes the big black-bearded man tried to help him. But when the other hunters came by, Garth often turned away and had other things to do.

  Once again Tao heard the soft rustling sound in the grass. He waited, afraid to move. Then slowly he crept toward the sound, searching through the grass until he found a trail of pugmarks going around in circles. He gripped his spear tighter and fingered the leather pouch hanging from his belt. He was sure the scent of the dead mice had attracted a hungry animal and he had an uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

  He waited silently, listening. Off in the distance he heard the harsh, scolding caw of a raven. That was all. He started walking again, along the foot of the cliffs, heading back for camp. He had only gone a few paces when the rustling noise came again.

  This time he turned quickly, ready to defend himself. Then he saw it, peering at him through the shadows, a young wolf, its slitted eyes low and threatening.

  Tao hunched down and raised his spear. If it was only one wolf it would be an easy target. He started to throw. Then he noticed the animal swaying back and forth on unsteady legs. Weak and half starved, its ribs showed through the scraggly patches of gray hair. Its yellow eyes looked up at Tao with a vacant stare. It was only half grown and Tao was sure it must have been deserted by the pack.

  Slowly the boy lowered his spear. He could not bring himself to kill this helpless animal. Besides, such a scrawny beast would be a poor prize to take back to the clan.

  Tao put out his hand, speaking softly to the frightened animal. “Come,” he said, “I mean you no harm. You are hungry and I have food.” He held up one of the dead field mice. But the young wolf backed away, a faint snarl curled on its lips, saliva dripping from its mouth. Tao slit the mouse open with his flint knife and dangled it in front of the wolf. Again the animal cringed and shied away, its thin legs trembling.

  “Here,” said Tao, “eat. You are hungry. Do not be afraid.” With careful aim he tossed the mouse on the ground in front of the wolf.

  The little animal came closer, slowly, one step at a time, its yellow eyes watching the boy intently. It nuzzled the dead mouse, pushing it around, licking at the oozing fluids. Yet it still refused to eat. Tao shook his head, puzzled.

  It was growing dark now and he had to get back to the clan people with the rest of the field mice. He felt badly about leaving the little wolf, but he could not take him with him. He left the gutted mouse lying near the wolf’s muzzle.

  As he started to back away, the little animal looked up at him with pleading eyes. Tao shook his head sadly but there was little more he could do.

  He made his way between the huge boulders that littered the foot of the cliffs. Born with a bad right foot, a foot that bent down and turned in slightly, Tao walked with a limp. However, by curling his foot around the shaft of his spear, he had learned to travel with greater ease and, when in a hurry, he could vault over the hills faster than a running man. Now, because of the darkness, he went slowly, picking his way through the weaving shadows.

  He continued on through the oakwood forest until the fires of the little camp came into view. Here, in the clearing, a small group of skin huts was set up under the shelter of a massive rock overhang jutting out from the limestone cliffs. High above, Tao could see the great fire of the Endless Flame burning brightly, lighting up the entrance to Big Cave.

  A white haze of smoke filled the clearing and flickering campfires lit up the darkness. Tao smelled the odor of cooking meat. Fat dropped from the spits, sizzling on the hot coals as the women grunted to each other and roasted the few ground squirrels and moles the hunters had brought back. Children sat on their haunches in front of the huts. They had been many months with little food, and their sunken eyes looked up at Tao. He knew his handful of field mice would not go far to ease their hunger.

  He glanced quickly at Volt’s bearskin hut in the center of the camp, hoping the big leader would not see him. Then he went directly to the edge of the clearing where two bison skin robes were lashed securely to a frame of cross poles, forming a ragged hut. He knelt down in front of it and called softly, “Kala.”

  The flap opened and an old woman peered out. Her square face was lined with wrinkles. Strings of gray hair hung down over her eyes, and she held a child in her arms. She smiled broadly, her big teeth yellow from chewing deer hide and spruce gum. “You are late,” she said. “But you are safe.”

  Tao nodded and held out two of the mice. “We traveled far,” he said. “But we did not get much.”

  The woman took the mice in her brawny hand and held them up by the tails. “I still have some dried grubs,” she said, “and some roots. With these I can make a meal for the little one.”

  The little one was a girl child, an orphan from the winter famine. If it had not been for Kala, the elders would have taken her up among the boulders and left her for the hyenas. By caring for her, she had saved the child’s life, much as she had done for Tao.

  “Now you have another,” said Tao, smiling, touching the old woman’s shoulder.

  The woman thought for a moment. “Three so far,” she said. “You were the first.”

  Tao remembered it well. She had raised him as her own, when others had turned their backs because of his bad foot. He stayed with her for twelve summers, learning much from her wisdom and kindness.

  “The sun is getting warmer,” said Tao. “Soon the hunting will be good and there will be enough to eat.” He said it even though he feared it might not be true. Perhaps Graybeard would come and paint images in the Secret Cavern. If the spirits were pleased, great herds of horses, deer and bison would fill the plains and forests. The people would eat well and the clan would thrive. There would be many pelts with which to make new robes and boots, ivory and antlers to make needles, spears and knives.

  Kala and Tao talked for a few more minutes. Then the woman listened and put her finger to her lips. “Go,” she whispered, “before Volt comes.” She went back into the hut and closed the flap, and for a moment Tao could hear her humming to the little one as she started the meal.

  Tao went to the center of the camp near the large fire, to turn over the rest of his field mice. He was almost there when a dark shadow fell across his path. It was Volt, the leader. The big man planted himself in front of the boy. His sheepskin robe was singed and stained with spots of blackberry. He wore a necklace of bear claws. His dark beard was wild and unkempt.

  Tao felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he stood firm. In the light of the fire he saw the man’s left cheek gashed with livid scars that always turned his face into an ugly scowl.

  The man pointed a
fat, hairy finger at the boy and grunted. “Where have you been?”

  Tao hesitated, at first not knowing what to say. “I stopped by the meadow.”

  The big man grurr bled. “You are always late, always behind the others, dreaming, wasting time. You are a poor hunter when the people are hungry.”

  Tao saw the other hunters gathering around, attracted by the harsh words. Good, thought Tao, now he would tell them about the wolf dog. Wolf dogs were taboo, but he didn’t have to tell them he tried to feed it. Maybe the others would listen. “I heard a noise in the high grass,” said the boy eagerly. “I wondered what it was and I thought—”

  Volt shook his head and interrupted gruffly, “Enough!” he shouted. “We do not need wondering, we do not need thinking or dreaming. We need food.”

  The heat of anger flushed in Tao’s cheeks. This man was like a mountain. He would listen to nothing. His words were always harsh and sullen. He would tell him no more. He handed Volt the pouchful of field mice.

  The big man grunted again, glaring down at the boy. “And where is the rabbit?”

  Tao’s body stiffened. He had forgotten the rabbit.

  Volt stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “You ate the rabbit?”

  The other hunters crowded around the boy.

  “You ate the rabbit?” Volt repeated, his voice taut.

  Tao shook his head, unable to speak. Garth, the black-bearded one, who was always with Volt, knocked him to the ground. Tao lay there in the firelight, looking up at the tight ring of spears.

  “No,” said Tao, trying to catch his breath. “I would not eat while others are hungry.”

  Volt brushed the back of his hand across his scarred cheek. “Then where is the rabbit?”

  Tao squirmed, the sharp stones pressing against his shoulders. “I ... I forgot the rabbit. I left it back in the meadow.”

  Garth looked down at him, frowning, shaking his head.

  The men with the spears moved closer, Garth’s shadow falling across Tao’s face. He saw the dark anger in their eyes.