“No use, Hairy One!” they boasted, their voices light and gay. “We caught all the game this way. Turn back to your cave and sleep.”
Hwoogh dropped his shoulders and veered away, his spear dragging limply on the ground. One of the party trotted over to him lightly. Sometimes Legoda, the tribal magic man and artist, seemed almost friendly, and this was one of the times.
“It was my kill, Hairy One,” he said tolerantly. “Last night I drew strong reindeer magic, and the beast fell with my first throw. Come to my tent and I’ll save a leg for you. Keyoda taught me a new song that she got from her father, and I would repay her.”
Legs, ribs, bones! Hwoogh was tired of the outer meat. His body demanded the finer food of the entrails and liver. Already his skin was itching with a rash, and he felt that he must have the succulent inner parts to make him well; always before, that had cured him. He grunted, between appreciation and annoyance, and turned off. Legoda pulled him back.
“Nay, stay, Hairy One. Sometimes you bring good fortune to me, as when I found the bright ocher for my drawing. There is enough in the camp for all. Why hunt today?” As Hwoogh still hesitated, he grew more insistent, not from kindness, but more from a wish to have his own way. “The wolves are running near today, and one is not enough against them. We carve the reindeer at the camp as soon as it comes from the pole. I’ll give you first choice of the meat!”
Hwoogh grunted a surly acquiescence and waddled after the party. The dole of the Talkers had become gall to him, but liver was liver—if Legoda kept his bargain. They were chanting a rough marching song, trotting easily under the load of the reindeer, and he lumbered along behind, breathing hard at the pace they set.
As they neared the village of the nomads, its rough skin tents and burning fires threw out a pungent odor that irritated Hwoogh’s nostrils. The smell of the long-limbed Cro-Magnons was bad enough without the dirty smell of a camp and the stink of their dung-fed fires. He preferred the accustomed moldy stench of his own musty cave.
Youths came swarming out at them, yelling with disgust at being left behind on this easy hunt. Catching sight of the Neanderthaler, they set up a howl of glee and charged at him, throwing sticks and rocks and jumping at him with play fury. Hwoogh shivered and crouched over, menacing them with his spear, and giving voice to throaty growls. Legoda laughed.
“In truth, O Hairy Chokanga, your voice should drive them from you. But see, they fear it not. Kuch, you two-legged pests! Out and away! Kuch, I say!” They leaped back at his voice and dropped behind, still yelling. Hwoogh eyed them warily, but so long as it suited the pleasure of Legoda, he was safe from their pranks.
Legoda was in a good mood, laughing and joking, tossing his quips at the women until his young wife came out and silenced it. She sprang at the reindeer with her flint knife, and the other women joined her.
“Heya,” called Legoda. “First choice goes to Chokanga, the Hairy One. By my word, it is his.”
“O fool!” There was scorn in her voice and in the look she gave Hwoogh. “Since when do we feed the beasts of the caves and the fish of the river? Art mad, Legoda. Let him hunt for, himself.”
Legoda tweaked her back with the point of his spear, grinning. “Aye, I knew thou’dst cry at that. But then, we owe his kind some pay—this was his hunting ground when we were but pups, straggling into this far land. What harm to give to an old man?” He swung to Hwoogh and gestured. “See, Chokanga, my word is good. Take what you want, but see that it is not more than your belly and that of Keyoda can hold this night.”
Hwoogh darted in and came out with the liver and the fine sweet fat from the entrails. With a shrill cry of rage, Legoda’s mate sprang for him, but the magic man pushed her back.
“Nay, he did right! Only a fool would choose the haunch when the heart of the meat was at hand. By the gods of my father, and I expected to eat of that myself! O Hairy One, you steal the meat from my mouth, and I like you for it. Go, before Heya gets free.”
Tomorrow, Hwoogh knew, Legoda might set the brats on him for this day’s act, but tomorrow was in another cave of the sun. He drew his legs under him and scuttled off to the left and around the hill, while the shrill yells of Heya and the lazy good humor of Legoda followed. A piece of liver dangled loose, and Hwoogh sucked on it as he went. Keyoda would be pleased, since she usually had to do the begging for both of them.
And a little of Hwoogh’s self-respect returned. Hadn’t he outsmarted Legoda and escaped with the choicest meat? And had Keyoda ever done as well when she went to the village of the Talkers? Ayeee, they had a thing yet to learn from the cunning brain of old Hwoogh!
Of course the Talkers were crazy; only fools would act as Legoda had done. But that was none of his business. He patted the liver and fat fondly and grinned with a slight return of good humor. Hwoogh was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The fire had shrunk to a red bed of coals when he reached the cave, and Keyoda was curled up on his bed, snoring loudly, her face flushed. Hwoogh smelled her breath, and his suspicions were confirmed. Somehow, she had drunk of the devil brew of the Talkers, and her sleep was dulled with its stupor. He prodded her with his toe, and she sat up bleary-eyed.
“Oh, so you’re back. Ayeee, and with liver and fat! But that never came from your spear throw; you been to the village and stole it. Oh, but you’ll catch it!” She grabbed at the meat greedily and stirred up the fire, spitting the liver over it.
Hwoogh explained as best he could, and she got the drift of it. “So? Eh, that Legoda, what a prankster he is, and my own nephew, too.” She tore the liver away, half-raw, and they fell to eagerly, while she chuckled and cursed by turns. Hwoogh touched her nose and wrinkled his face up.
“Well, so what if I did?” Liquor had sharpened her tongue. “That no-good son of the chief come here, after me to be telling him stories. And to make my old tongue free, he brings me the root brew. Ah, what stories I’m telling—and some of them true, too!” She gestured toward a crude pot. “I reckon he steals it, but what’s that to us? Help yourself, Hairy One. It ain’t ever’ day we’re getting the brew.”
Hwoogh remembered the headaches of former experiments, but he smelled it curiously, and the lure of the magic water caught at him. It was the very essence of youth, the fire that brought life to his legs and memories to his mind. He held it up to his mouth, gasping as the beery liquid ran down his throat. Keyoda caught it before he could finish and drained the last quart.
“Ah, it strengthens my back and puts the blood a-running hot through me again.” She swayed on her feet and sputtered out the fragments of an old skin-scraping song. “Now, there you go—can’t you never learn not to drink it all to once? That way, it don’t last so long, and you’re out before you get to feeling good.”
Hwoogh staggered as the brew took hold of him, and his knees bent ever farther under him. The bed came up in his face, his head was full of bees buzzing merrily, and the cave spun around him. He roared at the cave, while Keyoda laughed.
“Heh! To hear you a-yelling, a body might think you was the only Chokanga left on earth. But you ain’t—no, you ain’t!”
“Hwunkh?” That struck home. To the best of Hwoogh’s knowledge, there were no others of his kind left on earth. He grabbed at her and missed, but she fell and rolled against him, her breath against his face.
“So? Well, it’s the truth. The kid up and told me. Legoda found three of ’em, just like you, he says, up the land to the east, three springs ago. You’ll have to ask him—I dunno nothing about it.” She rolled over against him, grunting half-formed words, and he tried to think of this new information. But the brew was too strong for his head, and he was soon snoring beside her.