The third sun since Tor's smoke had joined the clouds.
It was the third time the moon had shown its face since the Elder Mother had sent the trackers into the brush, and five suns since Tor the Stone-Breaker had been silenced.
...
The Deep Cave, The Elder Mother's shadow-place
The Elder Mother sat on her pile of furs, her face looking like a dried riverbed, cracked and grey.
The reason for her fury, carrying the weight of eighty winters, was the truth about the death of her sun, Tor.
Thanks to the Black Rock Tribe's eyes the truth had been dragged into the light and placed before the Elder Mother's feet.
Because this truth touched the blood of the First Ancestor, no other ear had heard it yet.
"Tor... my strong Tor. I did not weave the basket tight enough to hold you." The Elder Mother's voice was a low hiss, her hand trembling as she held the object brought to her by Gorn in the dead of night.
It was an arrow shaft. The wood was dark ash, fletched with the feathers of the mountain screamer.
But it was the binding that made her stomach turn to water. The sinew was tied in the 'left-hand twist.'
"Wolf-Tooth... I have let the wolf sleep by the fire too long. Tor never wanted to break your spear, yet his blood is on your hands." The Elder Mother's eyes filled with a wet, hot anger, burning with regret.
Wolf-Tooth, known to the tribe as Broken-Hand, was her eldest. But his heart had always been twisted like a root hitting a stone.
He had been jealous of Tor since they were small enough to ride on their father's shoulders.
Tor was the Elder Mother's heart.
Since the Great Fever took her mate forty winters ago, the Elder Mother had leaned on Tor.
She had never looked kindly on Broken-Hand, whose cruelty made the dogs whimper. She had kept him from holding the Chieftain's Spear.
It was only in the last few snows, as the Elder Mother's legs grew weak, that Broken-Hand had gathered the young, angry men around him. He promised them more meat, more raids, more women from the River Clan.
At the same time, Tor, holding the center of the valley, had been the shield of the tribe, loved by the old and the wise.
This difference was the spark that lit the fire. Whispers had been blowing through the camp like a cold wind that the Elder Mother was going to name Tor's line as the keepers of the law forever.
Perhaps it was Broken-Hand's fear of being cast out, or the hunger of the young warriors who wanted war instead of peace, but the truth was now heavy in her hand.
Tor had been struck down by a hunter who ate from Broken-Hand's fire.
Although the kill had been clever, done in the chaos of a boar hunt to look like an accident, the eyes of the tribe saw what they saw.
"Broken-Hand..." The Elder Mother's thumb rubbed the rough wood of the arrow shaft. The name tasted like bile. She wanted to scream, to order Gorn to smash Broken-Hand's skull with a rock.
But she froze.
If she killed Broken-Hand now, half the hunters would turn their spears on the rest. The tribe would tear itself apart. The lions and the River Clan would pick the meat from their bones before the snow fell.
She was trapped. The mother in her wanted blood; the Chieftain in her knew she had to swallow the poison to save the tribe.
After a long time, the Elder Mother pulled the air into her lungs, forcing the shaking in her hands to stop.
She looked at the shadow near the cave entrance. "Bird-Eye. Fetch the cub. Fetch Little Bear."
Bird-Eye, her youngest daughter, had been the Elder Mother's legs since Tor died.
"I go, Mother," Bird-Eye whispered, slipping out like a ghost.
Before the fire could eat another log, Arthur was led into the Deep Cave by Bird-Eye.
Old Flint, the tool-maker, walked as far as the entrance, his face heavy with worry, before stopping to guard the flap.
As she watched the boy walk into the light, the Elder Mother forced the corners of her mouth up. It was a weak thing, that smile, but it was all she had. She beckoned to Arthur.
"Little Bear... come. Sit by the heat."
Arthur moved quickly, his steps silent on the furs, and took the Elder Mother's hand. It was cold.
"Grandmother. I am here."
"Little Bear... how does the sleep come to you? Does the night bring bad dreams?" The Elder Mother tried to keep her voice smooth, like a polished stone, but the cracks showed.
"The sleep comes, Grandmother. But you... your eyes are red. You must not let the grief eat your strength. The tribe needs the Elder Mother. I... we all need you."
Arthur spoke carefully. He knew that in this brutal world, showing weakness was dangerous, but showing no heart was worse.
"Good calf. Do not fear for me. When the moon is right, we will call the tribe. We will give you Tor's spear. If you need meat, or furs, or new stones, you ask. I am here." The Elder Mother patted Arthur's head, her hand heavy.
"Grandmother..." Hearing her words, Arthur felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cave's draft.
He looked at her. He saw the arrow shaft she had tried to hide under her leg. .
He wasn't a true caveman. His mind, sharpened by a lifetime in a world of complex lies and corporate ladders, saw the calculation in her eyes.
She knew. She knew who killed his father. And she wasn't ordering an execution.
That meant only one thing: The killer was too strong to touch. Broken-Hand.
Arthur realized with a jolt of terror that if he stayed here, waiting to inherit a spear he couldn't lift, he would be next. Broken-Hand wouldn't let Tor's son grow into a threat.
An 'accident' would happen. A falling rock. A slip near the cliff.
"Speak, child. Do not hold the words in your belly. I am listening." The Elder Mother saw his hesitation. Her eyes softened, sad and knowing.
"Grandmother... I cannot stay in the main camp. The shadows here are too long. They choke me." Arthur finally let the words out, his jaw tight.
The Elder Mother didn't scold him. She didn't strike him for fear. She sat as still as a stone idol.
After the silence stretched long enough to hear the dripping of water in the back of the cave, she asked, her voice sounding like dry leaves, "Where would the Little Bear go?"
"I do not know. Maybe... the River of Sharp Stones. Or the Old Burned Woods. I have heard... I have heard the wind blows cleaner there. Maybe the spirits of the ancestors are quieter there. I need to clear my head." Arthur answered.
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
The River of Sharp Stones was a desolate place. Thin soil. dangerous water. It was where the tribe threw its broken tools. There was no glory there.
But Arthur knew that was exactly why he needed to go. It was a place Broken-Hand didn't want.
It was a place where a modern mind could experiment without the jealous eyes of the uncle watching every move.
However, considering why Arthur needed to leave, the Elder Mother didn't know how to stop him.
"Little Bear... will you walk back to this fire?" she asked.
Will he return? Arthur asked himself. If I don't have to, I won't. Not until I have a spear that can break a mountain.
While the Elder Mother held the heavy rock of power, Arthur could walk safely.
But how long did she have? In this time, eighty winters was a miracle. She could sleep and never wake up tomorrow.
Once she was gone, Broken-Hand would eat him alive.
Arthur looked at the fire, then at the woman who was trying to save him by letting him go.
"Grandmother," Arthur said, his voice low.
"I will take the ones who are tired. The ones Broken-Hand... the ones the warriors do not want. Old Flint. The ones with limps. I will take them so they do not burden the main camp. We will go to the River of Sharp Stones."
The Elder Mother looked at him sharply. He was taking the weak? The useless mouths?
"You take the dry branches?" she asked.
"Dry branches catch fire the easiest," Arthur said, a strange light in his eyes that the Elder Mother had never seen in Tor.
She sighed, a sound of deep, resigned grief. She reached out and touched his face.
"Go then. Take the Old Tool Maker. Take the ones who drag their feet. But take ten strong spears too. I will not let you walk naked into the dark."