The Boy of the Painted Cave Read online

  “Yes,” said Graybeard. “Volt was here with his mother, gathering berries. Some beast attacked them. Volt was badly clawed. His mother was killed. So this became a place of evil. Now others hear the wild cries and wailing and think of demons.”

  When Tao and the old man came to the open valley, the boy looked around slowly.

  “Yes,” said Graybeard, “it is well to keep the wolf dog out of sight.”

  Tao agreed, then added, “But if Volt could see how well Ram hunts, maybe he would change his mind.”

  The old man shrugged. “Volt knows only the world of evil spirits. Unless there is some omen or sign, I do not think he will change his mind.”

  “You know much about the clan peoples,” said Tao.

  “For twenty summers now I have gone from clan to clan, painting in the caves, bringing news, and helping them when they are sick.” He stopped for a moment, running a knotted hand through his beard. “I have seen many young boys grow up to become hunters and young women become mothers.”

  Tao’s heart leaped. A ray of hope sparkled in his eyes. “You knew my mother, my father?”

  Graybeard shook his head. “No, I only know that your mother died shortly after you were born and that you were raised by Kala.”

  “Then you know Kala?”

  The old man hummed softly, then said, “Yes, we grew up together. But that was many summers ago, before you were born and before I became a shaman.”

  “Then you are also of the Valley People?”

  “Once. I left before my sixteenth summer. Now I am of all the clans.”

  When they reached the foot of the cliffs, they began to climb. They went slowly, for the old man stopped to rest many times.

  At the entrance to the little cave, the boy stepped aside to let the old one go in first.

  As soon as his eyes became adjusted to the dim light, Graybeard saw the drawings on the wall. He saw the sketches of the wolf dog, the charcoal drawings of the cave bear, the owl and the salmon. He stood there for a long time, looking from one to another. Then he saw the clay chalk and the charcoal sticks lying on the floor.

  Tao waited tensely. This man was the master. His words would mean much. He bit his lip and took a deep breath as he waited for the old man to speak.

  Graybeard turned slowly. “You did these?”

  “Yes,” said Tao, his chest swelling with pride.

  The old man looked at the drawings once again, measuring them with his eye. Then he rubbed his hand over them lightly and blew the chalk from his fingers. “Who showed you how to do this?”

  “No one,” said Tao. “I taught myself.”

  The old man nodded. He studied the pictures again, running his long bony finger over the lines, following the curves of the drawings, all the while mumbling to himself. Then he stepped back. His wrinkled face changed into an angry frown. With both hands he leaned down and picked up fistfuls of dirt and soot from the cave floor. He rubbed them across the wall, smearing them over the drawings, covering them up.

  Tao staggered backward in shocked surprise, disappointment and hurt showing on his face. “They are not good?” he asked.

  Graybeard was breathing hard, trying to control a fit of coughing. “Young fool,” he cried. “Do you not know better than to make images or signs where they might be seen?”

  Tao was numb. He could no longer think. “Then they are not good?” he asked again.

  The old man shook his head, his eyes flashing with displeasure. “It does not matter,” he said. “Good or bad, you are not a Chosen One. They could kill you for this.”

  Tao’s fists were clenched tight at his sides. Tears filled his eyes and he spoke in a choked voice. “I do not care,” he said. “It is only that I would like to be an image maker. I have thought about it for a long time. Even when I sleep I dream of it. I wish to be a cave painter, as you are.”

  The old man looked down at him, anger still flashing in his eyes. “It is taboo,” he said harshly. “Whether you believe in it or not makes no difference. It is taboo. It is the law of the clans and you must live by it.”

  EIGHT

  The old man walked back and forth, his feet shuffling across the cave floor. He stopped at the entrance and looked out across the valley. He was still breathing heavily, but the storm within him was over. “I am sorry,” he said. “It is a thing that must be handed down. My father was a cave painter. Now I am one. That is the way it has always been. It cannot start from nothing.” He stopped his pacing and looked down at Tao. “You must learn to live with things you cannot change.”

  Tao sighed deeply, biting his lip, trying to forget.

  A short while later they sat crosslegged on the cave floor, eating freshwater mussels that Tao had scooped from the creek. With sharp flint knives they pried open the blue-black shells and picked out the soft flesh within.

  The smell of birch tea filled the little cave as the leather sack brewed over the open fire. They ate in silence for a while. Finally Tao spoke. “Then it can never be?”

  The old man nodded impatiently. “I tell you again, unless you are born of a leader or chosen by the elders it would not be accepted.” He opened another shell and ate the contents, washing it down with a sip of birch tea. “For a thousand summers it has been in the minds of the people and cannot be changed.”

  “And I must not do this thing I love. I must not make images?”

  Graybeard looked out through the cave entrance, gazing off into the distance. He tugged at his beard for a moment, deep in thought. “Yes, yes, do it if you wish. But do not let the others know. They would not understand. And always rub out your images when you are finished.”

  The old man glanced at the cave wall where he had blotted out the pictures. “You have made a good beginning,” he said, “but you have much to learn about form and shape. You must study the animals closely. See how they look when they run or lie down. Notice the color of their fur in the bright sun or under the shadow of a tree.”

  Graybeard smiled. He had completely forgotten his outburst and his eyes shone as he spoke. “Go up on the high plains and watch Saxon, the sacred bull. See how the heavy muscles ripple beneath his shoulders. Watch how he moves his head and remember the angry fire in his eyes. Then put it all into your image.”

  “It is something like magic,” said Tao, his voice rising with excitement.

  The old man picked up his deerskin bag, shaking it, rattling the contents within. “Here is the real magic,” he said. “With these graven stones I can speak to the spirits of the animals and bring good hunting.”

  He took out seven flat stones, each larger than his open hand, each engraved with the figure of a different animal. He picked out one and held it up for Tao to see. On it was the engraving of a mammoth.

  Tao gasped. “It is the mountain-that-walks.”

  “Yes,” said Graybeard. “Three summers past they came through the valley and I drew this sketch.”

  “They have not been here since.”

  “That is true,” said the old man, “but now, from this sketch, I can draw others on the walls of the Secret Cavern. I can draw line for line, making the shape exactly as it was when I first saw it. In this way I can speak to the spirits of the great beasts and call them back to the valley.”

  With the point of his flint knife Graybeard began copying the picture on the dirt floor of the cave. “Here,” he said. “First make a large outline of the whole animal. Next find the high point of the shoulder. Then slope the back all the way down to the tail.” Graybeard swung his hand over the drawing, his eyes shining again as he drew the legs, the feet and the trunk, using short strokes to show the hair and fur.

  Tao leaned forward, watching closely.

  Slowly the rough picture of a mammoth began to take shape as the old man sketched in the curved tusks and the small beady eye. “You must do this over and over,” said Graybeard. “That is the way you learn. But I must warn you again, rub out your image as soon as you are finished.”

&n
bsp; Graybeard stood up and erased the drawing with the toe of his deerskin sandal. “Now I must go to the camp of your people,” he said. “Tonight there will be the celebration, and the ritual of the hunt.”

  Since he was not a Chosen One, Tao could not go, and he was sorry to see Graybeard leave. There was so much more he wanted to know. He got up, not looking directly at the old man. “I will go with you part of the way,” he said.

  They climbed down the ledge, with the sun shining in their eyes, and started out along the foot of the cliffs. Tao hopped along, now using his spear as a crutch with Ram trotting at his heels.

  “You will have to go more slowly if I am to keep up,” said Graybeard, stifling a cough.

  Tao slowed his pace to that of the old man’s. “If I went to the Mountain People,” he said, “maybe they would accept me as a cave painter.”

  The old man stopped. He shook his head. “You do not understand,” he said. “The Mountain People, the Lake People, the Valley People, they are all the same. Their life is filled with magic, taboos and evil spirits. If you cross the river into their land, you will not be welcome.”

  “Yet you travel from clan to clan without harm,” said Tao.

  “I have told you, I was born into the spirit world through my father. Now I can go where I please and do magic. By striking stones together I can make fire. By rubbing a dab of mud on a skin hut I can make a barren woman bring forth a child. By drawing the outline of a beast on a cave wall I can bring good hunting.”

  They walked on in silence again, with Tao deep in thought. Then he said, “Even though you can do all these things, are you saying it is not true, it is not really magic?”

  Graybeard shrugged and tugged at his beard. “I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps it is nothing more than words. Perhaps it is nothing more than shadows. Yet I am sure it brings hope to the people and boldness to the hunters. Many times the things I foretell do not happen. The people never question it. If the thing I foretell comes to pass, they are happy. One thing I know: if they wish to call it magic, then let it be so. If I try to tell them otherwise, they will be angry.”

  “Here,” said Graybeard, stopping once again. “I will show you something they call magic.” He reached into his deerskin pouch and took out a flat, round object. He held it in the palm of his hand and it glistened in the sunlight like silver fire. “This is a shining stone,” he said. “It was dug out of the earth and polished in the sand by my father many summers ago.

  They were standing in the open with the blazing sun high in the west. Graybeard walked slowly around the boy, flashing the sunlight off the glittering stone. Suddenly he pointed it directly at Tao’s face. The boy threw up his hands, his eyes blinded by the light.

  Graybeard smiled and placed the shining stone back into the deerskin pouch. “You see, it is not magic. It is only the power of the sun, nothing more. A long time ago it saved me from an angry bear.”

  When they reached the edge of the oak forest, Tao slowed his steps. “It is best if I stop here,” he said. “I cannot take Ram into camp and it would be dangerous to go too close.”

  The old man agreed. He hummed softly and began to make ready his magic. He opened his leather pouch and brought out an ivory amulet and a necklace of bear’s teeth and put them around his neck. From under his robe he took out a bison horn. He raised it to his lips and blew a long, trumpeting blast that echoed through the forest. The effort produced a spasm of coughs. “I can no longer blow as long or as loud as I used to,” he said. Then he looked down at Tao and smiled, a sly twinkle in his deep-blue eyes. “Now I am ready.”

  Tao watched the old man disappear into the oak forest. He heard the trumpet blare again and again. He knew the women and children would go into hiding and the camp would become deathly still.

  As Graybeard entered the clearing, the hunters would gather around, waiting for him to speak, eager for word of the coming hunt and news of the other clans. Then, as it became dark, the rituals would begin.

  Tao and Ram returned to the little cave, where the boy placed some kindling in the circle of stones that was his hearth. He blew on the live embers from the old fire and soon had the flames dancing again. He fed Ram, then, squatting on his heels, he brewed up some birch tea and roasted pieces of squirrel meat on a stick. When he was finished, he stretched out on his bearskin robe and stared into the fire.

  He remembered five summers past, when he was still a child. He was peering through the opening of Kala’s skin hut when he first saw Graybeard in the light of the big fire, speaking to the hunters.

  “Hunters of the Valley People!” Graybeard had shouted. “The great beasts are coming back. The spotted horses and the tarpans will soon be here. The bison will cross the high plains; the red deer will gather in the spruce wood.” His voice was clear and loud then. “We must be brave and strong. We must run as fast as the deer and throw our spears straight, then will there be much meat and skins to cover our bodies and warm our women and children in the winter. Let us go now, into the Secret Cavern, and make images to please the spirits of the great beasts.”

  The men listened and became restless and eager to go. Some of them stood up, chanting and singing. Others began to dance, their ivory amulets and bone bracelets jingling and flashing in the firelight. One played a simple flute made of a hollow bone with a hole drilled on top. He shuffled around the fire, playing the same two notes over and over as the hunters continued their dance.

  Tao had seen Graybeard climb up the path to the entrance of the Big Cave, followed by the hunters, carrying spears and torches. Then he could see them no more. But he knew they went far back through the winding, twisting tunnels of the cliffs and into the Secret Cavern. There, together with a few of the Chosen Ones, Graybeard painted images of the great beasts and asked the blessing of the spirits of the hunt.

  Tao remembered what happened the next day, too. The hunters went out into the spruce forest and up onto the high plains and across the valley to meet the great beasts. They were gone for four days. They brought back much food, and skins from which to make clothing, and bones and horns to make tools and ornaments. Some of the young men came back as brave hunters, some came back with terrible wounds, and two did not come back at all. The day after that there was another ceremony. This time it was sad and there was much crying and wailing.

  NINE

  The days were growing warmer as the sun climbed high into the heavens. The open valley was a sea of waving grass, with scattered clumps of birch and willow trees, thick with new green and yellow leaves.

  Slowly some of the great game herds came back, grazing and browsing across the land. Antelope and deer came first, wandering in small family groups, followed by bands of horses, the mares and colts grazing under the watchful eyes of stallions. The roving herds of animals increased and filled the land.

  The hunting was good now, and the clan had plenty to eat. There were many new hides, too, and the women sat around the fires beneath the cliffs, sewing boots, leggings and robes to replace the worn-out clothing of the year before.

  As Graybeard suggested, Tao began studying the animals more closely. He watched the loons and the great white swans feeding on the lake in the early morning mists. Twice he saw a cave lion stalking across the valley, its tawny coat blending with the buff meadowgrass. Together with Ram, he climbed the rocky passes to see the horned ibex and the mountain rams standing sentinel on the snowy peaks.

  Then, one morning, he took Ram up to the top of the cliffs. There they looked out over a sweeping plateau of high plains. It stretched beyond the horizon, and not far away Tao saw Saxon, the sacred bull. Heavy bodied, thick shouldered and sturdy, Saxon looked like a huge black monster standing in the middle of the plains.

  His eyesight was poor, but his sense of smell was keen, and he soon picked up the man scent as it drifted down to where he was standing. His head came up and Tao saw the long, curved horns white in the morning sun. In spite of his size Saxon turned quickly, tossing his head,
bellowing. Then he charged.

  Tao saw him running toward them, snorting and blowing. Quickly Tao grabbed the wolf dog by the scruff of the neck and led him up to the top of the rimrock, a small mound of limestone standing near the edge of the plains. Here they were safe from the great black bull pawing the dust below them.

  Tao looked down at the huge bulk of the animal. He saw the play of the powerful muscles under the shiny black hide. He cringed at the sight of the flashing white horns and he saw the angry fire burning in the dark, piercing eyes.

  Now Tao understood why this beast had been chosen as the caretaker of tribal laws. Anyone, man or woman, who broke the taboos of the clan was brought up on the high plains to face Saxon, the sacred bull. Given a spear and a flint knife, they were forced to battle this savage brute. If they lived, it was proof that they had done no wrong. None ever did. The scattering of sun-bleached bones lying across the plains told the story.

  Tao held Ram tight as the wolf dog growled. “Stay,” he said. “We have no quarrel with Saxon. We come only to look.” Tao dropped to his knees, studying the powerful beast. Saxon, he thought, you are bigger than I am and you are stronger, but I will capture your image on my stone. He took out a broad flat slate that he had brought with him. Then he sat down on the rimrock, his legs dangling over the edge, and began sketching a picture of the great bull. He tried to catch the heavy body, the strong neck and shoulders and the massive head. His flint tool cut deep, scoring bold white lines on the gray slate.

  Saxon grazed alone now, but soon the cows and yearlings would come back and he would once again be lord of the high plains.

  When Tao had finished his drawing, he blew off the dust and held up the stone. “Yes,” he said to himself, “that is good, that is the beast I want.” He looked down at Saxon, then threw back his head and laughed. “Go,” he said, “go back to your stomping grounds and wait for your cows. I have your spirit carved on my stone.”

  Saxon soon grew tired of waiting. He tossed his great head and trotted off across the plains. Tao and Ram climbed down from the rimrock and returned to their little cave. Here Ram lay down in a corner while Tao quickly began copying his picture of the bull. With a piece of yellow clay he made a large outline on the cave wall. Then, studying his sketch, he began drawing line for line, sketching in the muscular shoulders and the deep chest. Next he started the head with its long, curving horns. He drew easily, freely, watching his picture come alive as he filled in the details. It felt good to be working with the smooth, flowing chalk and he forgot to eat.