B.C.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
this was something we had to write for school that i enjoyed the way it came out.

Submitted: February 15, 2010

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Submitted: February 15, 2010

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B.C.
key izead
The sun rose, a ball of untameable fire. As its first rays carressed Mirnth's harshly featured face, his long eyelashes fluttered open, the start of a new day. The birds sang and squawked, the river lauged and cried, the insects chirped and scuttled. The music of the jungle was  a severe song. Like life itsel, it was a homely beauty.
I sat weaving together the hides of the animals the men had caught. The other women had so carefully removed the precious skins, laying them so tenderly ancient tree boughs. The conditions were not good for drying, but despite the filtered green-tinted light, the unbearable humidity, it seemed that the clothes might be ready in time for the arrival of Sieba's child. The women had territorially defended the hides from scavengers, their careful placement far enough from the camp to keep predators away but close enogh to watch in case of scavengers. Hares and squirrels joined together on the tiny attire. Chips of ivory decorated the leathery article. A work of art, no less.
The smell of inhabitation hung heavy in the air. It was as hard to describe as why the sun moves in its circadian cycle. It was birth and it was death. It was growth and it was rot. It was peace and it was unease. Most of all, to each of us, it was home.
Our tribe was a small one. 84 people now, in the fall. Come two weeks, 85. Come spring, however, our numbers would hover at around 62.
I wandered over to the river to wash the dirt from my skin. Once I finished, I climbed high in the fig trees, letting the sun evaporate the water out of my dreads, to warm me up. Now high in the sky, the sun was almost as white as the wispy clouds around it.
I savored the figs as I watched the hunt below. Mirnth and the other men hooted, wild as the forest itself, as they  took down a mammoth. Normally our diet consisted of much smaller animals, but it got cold enough here that food got scarce. A mammoth would feed a tribe of sometimes 85 people for a while. I made a mental note to ask for more ivory.
As the sun bowed its head to the porcelain moon, I swung off the lowest branch of one of the fig trees. I helped cut up the meat with our sharpest stones.
Finally, tasks complete, I sat, face on Old Mothers lap. She sighed a great gusty sigh. This winter would be her last and it took no psychic to predict that. Even if survived she would be exiled next summer. Despite her skills as an apothecary, she was now of little use to the tribe. Her eyes were failing, as were her ears. Her hands shook. She had long since passed the time where she was able to collect fruit, and her days of combining plant extracts and making clothes were numbered. There was no shame in this. It was a thing of honor. At 52 years old, it was a small sacrifice to make. It would serve as her final gesture of good will toward the tribe.
The stars glowed faintly through the leaves. My stomach full of figs and meat, I fell asleep.


© Copyright 2019 Key Izead. All rights reserved.

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