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- No One Died of Old Age
Lop-Ear got married. It was the second winter after our adventure-journey,
and it was most unexpected. He gave me no warning. The first I knew was
one twilight when I climbed the cliff to our cave. I squeezed into the
entrance and there I stopped. There was no room for me. Lop-Ear and his
mate were in possession, and she was none other than my sister, the
daughter of my step-father, the Chatterer.
I tried to force my way in. There was space only for two, and that space
was already occupied. Also, they had me at a disadvantage, and, what of
the scratching and hair-pulling I received, I was glad to retreat. I slept
that night, and for many nights, in the connecting passage of the
double-cave. From my experience it seemed reasonably safe. As the two Folk
had dodged old Saber-Tooth, and as I had dodged Red-Eye, so it seemed to
me that I could dodge the hunting animals by going back and forth between
the two caves.
I had forgotten the wild dogs. They were small enough to go through any
passage that I could squeeze through. One night they nosed me out. Had
they entered both caves at the same time they would have got me. As it
was, followed by some of them through the passage, I dashed out the mouth
of the other cave. Outside were the rest of the wild dogs. They sprang for
me as I sprang for the cliff-wall and began to climb. One of them, a lean
and hungry brute, caught me in mid-leap. His teeth sank into my
thigh-muscles, and he nearly dragged me back. He held on, but I made no
effort to dislodge him, devoting my whole effort to climbing out of reach
of the rest of the brutes.
Not until I was safe from them did I turn my attention to that live agony
on my thigh. And then, a dozen feet above the snapping pack that leaped
and scrambled against the wall and fell back, I got the dog by the throat
and slowly throttled him. I was a long time doing it. He clawed and ripped
my hair and hide with his hind-paws, and ever he jerked and lunged with
his weight to drag me from the wall.
At last his teeth opened and released my torn flesh. I carried his body up
the cliff with me, and perched out the night in the entrance of my old
cave, wherein were Lop-Ear and my sister. But first I had to endure a
storm of abuse from the aroused horde for being the cause of the
disturbance. I had my revenge. From time to time, as the noise of the pack
below eased down, I dropped a rock and started it up again. Whereupon,
from all around, the abuse of the exasperated Folk began afresh. In the
morning I shared the dog with Lop-Ear and his wife, and for several days
the three of us were neither vegetarians nor fruitarians.
Lop-Ear's marriage was not a happy one, and the consolation about it is
that it did not last very long. Neither he nor I was happy during that
period. I was lonely. I suffered the inconvenience of being cast out of my
safe little cave, and somehow I did not make it up with any other of the
young males. I suppose my long-continued chumming with Lop-Ear had become
I might have married, it is true; and most likely I should have married
had it not been for the dearth of females in the horde. This dearth, it is
fair to assume, was caused by the exorbitance of Red-Eye, and it
illustrates the menace he was to the existence of the horde. Then there
was the Swift One, whom I had not forgotten.
At any rate, during the period of Lop-Ear's marriage I knocked about from
pillar to post, in danger every night that I slept, and never comfortable.
One of the Folk died, and his widow was taken into the cave of another one
of the Folk. I took possession of the abandoned cave, but it was
wide-mouthed, and after Red-Eye nearly trapped me in it one day, I
returned to sleeping in the passage of the double-cave. During the summer,
however, I used to stay away from the caves for weeks, sleeping in a
tree-shelter I made near the mouth of the slough.
I have said that Lop-Ear was not happy. My sister was the daughter of the
Chatterer, and she made Lop-Ear's life miserable for him. In no other cave
was there so much squabbling and bickering. If Red-Eye was a Bluebeard,
Lop-Ear was hen-pecked; and I imagine that Red-Eye was too shrewd ever to
covet Lop-Ear's wife.
Fortunately for Lop-Ear, she died. An unusual thing happened that summer.
Late, almost at the end of it, a second crop of the stringy-rooted carrots
sprang up. These unexpected second-crop roots were young and juicy and
tender, and for some time the carrot-patch was the favorite feeding-place
of the horde. One morning, early, several score of us were there making
our breakfast. On one side of me was the Hairless One. Beyond him were his
father and son, old Marrow-Bone and Long-Lip. On the other side of me were
my sister and Lop-Ear, she being next to me.
There was no warning. On the sudden, both the Hairless One and my sister
sprang and screamed. At the same instant I heard the thud of the arrows
that transfixed them. The next instant they were down on the ground,
floundering and gasping, and the rest of us were stampeding for the trees.
An arrow drove past me and entered the ground, its feathered shaft
vibrating and oscillating from the impact of its arrested flight. I
remember clearly how I swerved as I ran, to go past it, and that I gave it
a needlessly wide berth. I must have shied at it as a horse shies at an
object it fears.
Lop-Ear took a smashing fall as he ran beside me. An arrow had driven
through the calf of his leg and tripped him. He tried to run, but was
tripped and thrown by it a second time. He sat up, crouching, trembling
with fear, and called to me pleadingly. I dashed back. He showed me the
arrow. I caught hold of it to pull it out, but the consequent hurt made
him seize my hand and stop me. A flying arrow passed between us. Another
struck a rock, splintered, and fell to the ground. This was too much. I
pulled, suddenly, with all my might. Lop-Ear screamed as the arrow came
out, and struck at me angrily. But the next moment we were in full flight
I looked back. Old Marrow-Bone, deserted and far behind, was tottering
silently along in his handicapped race with death. Sometimes he almost
fell, and once he did fall; but no more arrows were coming. He scrambled
weakly to his feet. Age burdened him heavily, but he did not want to die.
The three Fire-Men, who were now running forward from their forest ambush,
could easily have got him, but they did not try. Perhaps he was too old
and tough. But they did want the Hairless One and my sister, for as I
looked back from the trees I could see the Fire-Men beating in their heads
with rocks. One of the Fire-Men was the wizened old hunter who limped.
We went on through the trees toward the caves—an excited and
disorderly mob that drove before it to their holes all the small life of
the forest, and that set the blue-jays screaming impudently. Now that
there was no immediate danger, Long-Lip waited for his grand-father,
Marrow-Bone; and with the gap of a generation between them, the old fellow
and the youth brought up our rear.
And so it was that Lop-Ear became a bachelor once more. That night I slept
with him in the old cave, and our old life of chumming began again. The
loss of his mate seemed to cause him no grief. At least he showed no signs
of it, nor of need for her. It was the wound in his leg that seemed to
bother him, and it was all of a week before he got back again to his old
Marrow-Bone was the only old member in the horde. Sometimes, on looking
back upon him, when the vision of him is most clear, I note a striking
resemblance between him and the father of my father's gardener. The
gardener's father was very old, very wrinkled and withered; and for all
the world, when he peered through his tiny, bleary eyes and mumbled with
his toothless gums, he looked and acted like old Marrow-Bone. This
resemblance, as a child, used to frighten me. I always ran when I saw the
old man tottering along on his two canes. Old Marrow-Bone even had a bit
of sparse and straggly white beard that seemed identical with the whiskers
of the old man.
As I have said, Marrow-Bone was the only old member of the horde. He was
an exception. The Folk never lived to old age. Middle age was fairly rare.
Death by violence was the common way of death. They died as my father had
died, as Broken-Tooth had died, as my sister and the Hairless One had just
died—abruptly and brutally, in the full possession of their
faculties, in the full swing and rush of life. Natural death? To die
violently was the natural way of dying in those days.
No one died of old age among the Folk. I never knew of a case. Even
Marrow-Bone did not die that way, and he was the only one in my generation
who had the chance. A bad rippling, any serious accidental or temporary
impairment of the faculties, meant swift death. As a rule, these deaths
were not witnessed.
Members of the horde simply dropped out of sight. They left the caves in
the morning, and they never came back. They disappeared—into the
ravenous maws of the hunting creatures.
This inroad of the Fire People on the carrot-patch was the beginning of
the end, though we did not know it. The hunters of the Fire People began
to appear more frequently as the time went by. They came in twos and
threes, creeping silently through the forest, with their flying arrows
able to annihilate distance and bring down prey from the top of the
loftiest tree without themselves climbing into it. The bow and arrow was
like an enormous extension of their leaping and striking muscles, so that,
virtually, they could leap and kill at a hundred feet and more. This made
them far more terrible than Saber-Tooth himself. And then they were very
wise. They had speech that enabled them more effectively to reason, and in
addition they understood cooperation.
We Folk came to be very circumspect when we were in the forest. We were
more alert and vigilant and timid. No longer were the trees a protection
to be relied upon. No longer could we perch on a branch and laugh down at
our carnivorous enemies on the ground. The Fire People were carnivorous,
with claws and fangs a hundred feet long, the most terrible of all the
hunting animals that ranged the primeval world.
One morning, before the Folk had dispersed to the forest, there was a
panic among the water-carriers and those who had gone down to the river to
drink. The whole horde fled to the caves. It was our habit, at such times,
to flee first and investigate afterward. We waited in the mouths of our
caves and watched. After some time a Fire-Man stepped cautiously into the
open space. It was the little wizened old hunter. He stood for a long time
and watched us, looking our caves and the cliff-wall up and down. He
descended one of the run-ways to a drinking-place, returning a few minutes
later by another run-way. Again he stood and watched us carefully, for a
long time. Then he turned on his heel and limped into the forest, leaving
us calling querulously and plaintively to one another from the
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