Before Adam by Jack London

that it, too, at this stage of the proceedings, was the

thing expected of me. From not far away came an

answering cry. My sounds seemed momentarily to

disconcert the boar, and while he halted and shifted

his weight with indecision, an apparition burst upon

us.

She was like a large orangutan, my mother, or like a

chimpanzee, and yet, in sharp and definite ways, quite

different. She was heavier of build than they, and had

less hair. Her arms were not so long, and her legs

were stouter. She wore no clothes–only her natural

hair. And I can tell you she was a fury when she was

excited.

And like a fury she dashed upon the scene. She was

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gritting her teeth, making frightful grimaces,

snarling, uttering sharp and continuous cries that

sounded like “kh-ah! kh-ah!” So sudden and formidable

was her appearance that the boar involuntarily bunched

himself together on the defensive and bristled as she

swerved toward him. Then she swerved toward me. She

had quite taken the breath out of him. I knew just

what to do in that moment of time she had gained. I

leaped to meet her, catching her about the waist and

holding on hand and foot–yes, by my feet; I could hold

on by them as readily as by my hands. I could feel in

my tense grip the pull of the hair as her skin and her

muscles moved beneath with her efforts.

As I say, I leaped to meet her, and on the instant she

leaped straight up into the air, catching an

overhanging branch with her hands. The next instant,

with clashing tusks, the boar drove past underneath.

He had recovered from his surprise and sprung forward,

emitting a squeal that was almost a trumpeting. At any

rate it was a call, for it was followed by the rushing

of bodies through the ferns and brush from all

directions.

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From every side wild hogs dashed into the open space–a

score of them. But my mother swung over the top of a

thick limb, a dozen feet from the ground, and, still

holding on to her, we perched there in safety. She was

very excited. She chattered and screamed, and scolded

down at the bristling, tooth-gnashing circle that had

gathered beneath. I, too, trembling, peered down at

the angry beasts and did my best to imitate my mother’s

cries.

From the distance came similar cries, only pitched

deeper, into a sort of roaring bass. These grew

momentarily louder, and soon I saw him approaching, my

father–at least, by all the evidence of the times, I

am driven to conclude that he was my father.

He was not an extremely prepossessing father, as

fathers go. He seemed half man, and half ape, and yet

not ape, and not yet man. I fail to describe him.

There is nothing like him to-day on the earth, under

the earth, nor in the earth. He was a large man in his

day, and he must have weighed all of a hundred and

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thirty pounds. His face was broad and flat, and the

eyebrows over-hung the eyes. The eyes themselves were

small, deep-set, and close together. He had

practically no nose at all. It was squat and broad,

apparently with-out any bridge, while the nostrils were

like two holes in the face, opening outward instead of

down.

The forehead slanted back from the eyes, and the hair

began right at the eyes and ran up over the head. The

head itself was preposterously small and was supported

on an equally preposterous, thick, short neck.

There was an elemental economy about his body–as was

there about all our bodies. The chest was deep, it is

true, cavernously deep; but there were no full-swelling

muscles, no wide-spreading shoulders, no clean- limbed

straightness, no generous symmetry of outline. It

represented strength, that body of my father’s,

strength without beauty; ferocious, primordial

strength, made to clutch and gripe and rend and

destroy.

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His hips were thin; and the legs, lean and hairy, were

crooked and stringy-muscled. In fact, my father’s legs

were more like arms. They were twisted and gnarly, and

with scarcely the semblance of the full meaty calf such

as graces your leg and mine. I remember he could not

walk on the flat of his foot. This was because it was

a prehensile foot, more like a hand than a foot. The

great toe, instead of being in line with the other

toes, opposed them, like a thumb, and its opposition to

the other toes was what enabled him to get a grip with

his foot. This was why he could not walk on the flat

of his foot.

But his appearance was no more unusual than the manner

of his coming, there to my mother and me as we perched

above the angry wild pigs. He came through the trees,

leaping from limb to limb and from tree to tree; and he

came swiftly. I can see him now, in my wake-a-day

life, as I write this, swinging along through the

trees, a four-handed, hairy creature, howling with

rage, pausing now and again to beat his chest with his

clenched fist, leaping ten-and-fifteen-foot gaps,

catching a branch with one hand and swinging on across

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another gap to catch with his other hand and go on,

never hesitating, never at a loss as to how to proceed

on his arboreal way.

And as I watched him I felt in my own being, in my very

muscles themselves, the surge and thrill of desire to

go leaping from bough to bough; and I felt also the

guarantee of the latent power in that being and in

those muscles of mine. And why not? Little boys watch

their fathers swing axes and fell trees, and feel in

themselves that some day they, too, will swing axes and

fell trees. And so with me. The life that was in me

was constituted to do what my father did, and it

whispered to me secretly and ambitiously of aerial

paths and forest flights.

At last my father joined us. He was extremely angry.

I remember the out-thrust of his protruding underlip as

he glared down at the wild pigs. He snarled something

like a dog, and I remember that his eye-teeth were

large, like fangs, and that they impressed me

tremendously.

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His conduct served only the more to infuriate the pigs.

He broke off twigs and small branches and flung them

down upon our enemies. He even hung by one hand,

tantalizingly just beyond reach, and mocked them as

they gnashed their tusks with impotent rage. Not

content with this, he broke off a stout branch, and,

holding on with one hand and foot, jabbed the

infuriated beasts in the sides and whacked them across

their noses. Needless to state, my mother and I enjoyed

the sport.

But one tires of all good things, and in the end, my

father, chuckling maliciously the while, led the way

across the trees. Now it was that my ambitions ebbed

away, and I became timid, holding tightly to my mother

as she climbed and swung through space. I remember

when the branch broke with her weight. She had made a

wide leap, and with the snap of the wood I was

overwhelmed with the sickening consciousness of falling

through space, the pair of us. The forest and the

sunshine on the rustling leaves vanished from my eyes.

I had a fading glimpse of my father abruptly arresting

his progress to look, and then all was blackness.

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The next moment I was awake, in my sheeted bed,

sweating, trembling, nauseated. The window was up, and

a cool air was blowing through the room. The

night-lamp was burning calmly. And because of this I

take it that the wild pigs did not get us, that we

never fetched bottom; else I should not be here now, a

thousand centuries after, to remember the event.

And now put yourself in my place for a moment. Walk

with me a bit in my tender childhood, bed with me a

night and imagine yourself dreaming such

incomprehensible horrors. Remember I was an

inexperienced child. I had never seen a wild boar in

my life. For that matter I had never seen a

domesticated pig. The nearest approach to one that I

had seen was breakfast bacon sizzling in its fat. And

yet here, real as life, wild boars dashed through my

dreams, and I, with fantastic parents, swung through

the lofty tree-spaces.

Do you wonder that I was frightened and oppressed by my

nightmare-ridden nights? I was accursed. And, worst

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of all, I was afraid to tell. I do not know why,

except that I had a feeling of guilt, though I knew no

better of what I was guilty. So it was, through long

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