day of peril, and when the allotted moons had come and gone, thedancers would go, too, and others would cross these barren wastes and dance their dances through the long nights.
Gumsto, watching the celebrants, thought: Kharu was right, as usual. The young to the young. The old to the old. Everything has its rules. And when he saw his wife dancing vigorously with the women, he leaped up and joined the men. Kharu, watching him, noticed that he limped slightly, but she said nothing.
The festivities had to be brief, for the clan must move on to safer areas, but in the moving, Kharu saw something else that disturbed her: Gumsto was beginning to lag, surrendering his accustomed position in the van to Gao, and when this had occurred several times, she spoke to him.
“Are you grieving over Naoka? You know she merited a younger husband.”
“It’s my leg.”
“What?” The simplicity of her question hid the terror she felt, for a damaged leg was about the worst thing that could happen on a journey.
“When we charged the lions …”
“They clawed you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Gumsto!” she wailed. “And I sent you on that mission.”
“You came, too. The lions could have got you.” He sat on a rock while Kharu explored the sore, and from the manner in which he winced when she touched certain nerves she knew that it was in sad condition. “In two days we’ll look again,” she said, but when he walked with a sideways limp, dragging his left leg, she knew that neither two days nor twenty would heal his hurt. And she noticed that aloft three vultures followed him with the same relentless attention he had exercised when tracking a wounded antelope.
Whenever the clan moved onward, she stayed close to him, and once when the pain surged with great force and he bit his lip to prevent tears from showing, she led him to a resting spot, and there they remembered the days when he had taken his eland to her father, that great hunter, and asked for Kharu in marriage.
“You were seven,” Gumsto said, “and already you knew all things.”
“My mother mastered the desert.”
“You were a good child.”
“I was proud of you. Taller, stronger than the husbands of the other girls.”
“Kharu, they were good days, in those lands around the lake.”
“But the water grew stale. The water always grows stale.”
“The rhinoceros, the herds of wildebeest, the zebras.” He recounted his triumphs from the days when his band ate well.
“You were as knowing as my father,” she conceded. Then she helped him rejoin the band as it moved south, and when it became apparent that he could never again lead the hunt, she told Gao, “Now you must find the meat.”
Gumsto’s accident produced an unforeseen result that both pleased and perplexed him. When the band halted eight days, both to replenish their ostrich eggs and give him time to recover, Gao quickly left the camp to find a large slab of smooth stone, on which he worked with furious energy during all daylight hours. From his resting place Gumsto could see his son, and guessed that he was creating a memorial to some important animal, but later, when Kharu helped him to the rock, he was unprepared for the wonder that was revealed.
Across a broad expanse Gao had formed not one eland but thirty-three, each as well composed as any he had previously drawn, but done with such fury that they exploded across their stony savanna. They leaped and quivered and exulted and rushed at unseen targets, a medley of horn and hoof that would astonish the world when it was discovered.
But there was a deficiency, and Gumsto noticed it immediately: “You haven’t colored them carefully.”
He was right. Gao had worked so feverishly to record this epic before his band moved on, that in the end he had simply splashed colors here and there, attempting to finish some of the creatures, satisfied with merely indicating the hue of others. The result was a confusion of movement and color, though it
Gumsto, watching the celebrants, thought: Kharu was right, as usual. The young to the young. The old to the old. Everything has its rules. And when he saw his wife dancing vigorously with the women, he leaped up and joined the men. Kharu, watching him, noticed that he limped slightly, but she said nothing.
The festivities had to be brief, for the clan must move on to safer areas, but in the moving, Kharu saw something else that disturbed her: Gumsto was beginning to lag, surrendering his accustomed position in the van to Gao, and when this had occurred several times, she spoke to him.
“Are you grieving over Naoka? You know she merited a younger husband.”
“It’s my leg.”
“What?” The simplicity of her question hid the terror she felt, for a damaged leg was about the worst thing that could happen on a journey.
“When we charged the lions …”
“They clawed you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Gumsto!” she wailed. “And I sent you on that mission.”
“You came, too. The lions could have got you.” He sat on a rock while Kharu explored the sore, and from the manner in which he winced when she touched certain nerves she knew that it was in sad condition. “In two days we’ll look again,” she said, but when he walked with a sideways limp, dragging his left leg, she knew that neither two days nor twenty would heal his hurt. And she noticed that aloft three vultures followed him with the same relentless attention he had exercised when tracking a wounded antelope.
Whenever the clan moved onward, she stayed close to him, and once when the pain surged with great force and he bit his lip to prevent tears from showing, she led him to a resting spot, and there they remembered the days when he had taken his eland to her father, that great hunter, and asked for Kharu in marriage.
“You were seven,” Gumsto said, “and already you knew all things.”
“My mother mastered the desert.”
“You were a good child.”
“I was proud of you. Taller, stronger than the husbands of the other girls.”
“Kharu, they were good days, in those lands around the lake.”
“But the water grew stale. The water always grows stale.”
“The rhinoceros, the herds of wildebeest, the zebras.” He recounted his triumphs from the days when his band ate well.
“You were as knowing as my father,” she conceded. Then she helped him rejoin the band as it moved south, and when it became apparent that he could never again lead the hunt, she told Gao, “Now you must find the meat.”
Gumsto’s accident produced an unforeseen result that both pleased and perplexed him. When the band halted eight days, both to replenish their ostrich eggs and give him time to recover, Gao quickly left the camp to find a large slab of smooth stone, on which he worked with furious energy during all daylight hours. From his resting place Gumsto could see his son, and guessed that he was creating a memorial to some important animal, but later, when Kharu helped him to the rock, he was unprepared for the wonder that was revealed.
Across a broad expanse Gao had formed not one eland but thirty-three, each as well composed as any he had previously drawn, but done with such fury that they exploded across their stony savanna. They leaped and quivered and exulted and rushed at unseen targets, a medley of horn and hoof that would astonish the world when it was discovered.
But there was a deficiency, and Gumsto noticed it immediately: “You haven’t colored them carefully.”
He was right. Gao had worked so feverishly to record this epic before his band moved on, that in the end he had simply splashed colors here and there, attempting to finish some of the creatures, satisfied with merely indicating the hue of others. The result was a confusion of movement and color, though it
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