So the animals fell and their meat was consumed, their bones were scattered and trampled by their surviving fellows, until the muddy margin that surrounded the shrinking lake glinted with shards of white.
But the drought wasn’t a disaster for the people. Not yet.
Mother had moved to the lake with the people, of course; no matter what remarkable internal trajectory she was now following, she still had to eat, to stay alive, and the only way she could do that was as part of the group.
But life began to get subtly easier for her.
Nothing could grow close to this mud hole, and as the drought continued— and the elephants and other browsers demolished the trees over an increasingly wide radius— the people had to range further to gather raw materials for their fires, pallets, and shelters.
Mother got help with this chore. Eyes, the staring, intense girl who had been so impressed by Silent’s stare, brought Mother wood, her skinny arms laden with the scratchy, dried-out stuff. Mother accepted this without comment. Later she let Eyes sit and watch as she made her markings in the dirt. After a time, shyly, Eyes joined in.
One of the younger men had been close to Eyes. He was a long-fingered boy, oddly fond of consuming insects. This boy, Ant-eater, jeered at Mother and tried to pull Eyes away. But Eyes resisted.
At length Mother took a long straight sapling trunk, thrust it into the ground, and set Silent’s empty skull up on top of it. The next time Ant-eater came sniffing around Eyes, he walked straight into Silent’s eyeless glare. Whimpering, he scuttled away.
After that, with the skull watching over her day and night, Mother’s power and authority seemed to grow.
Soon it wasn’t just Eyes who brought her wood and food, but several of the women. And if she walked down to the water’s edge, even the men would grudgingly make way and let her have first cut of the drought’s latest victim.
It was all because of Silent, of course. Her son was helping her, in his own subtle, characteristically quiet way. In gratitude she set his favorite toys out at the base of the post: the bits of pyrite, the twisted chunk of wood. She even took to leaving out food for him— elephant calf meat, well cooked and chewed by his mother, the way he had liked it as a small child. Every morning, the meat was gone.
She was no fool. She knew Silent wasn’t alive in any brute physical sense. But
he wasn’t dead.
He lived on in other, more subtle, dispersed ways. Perhaps he was in the animals who fed on the food she put out for him. Perhaps he was in the pallet that cushioned her when she slept. Perhaps he was working in the hearts of the people who gave her food. It didn’t matter
how
he was here. It was enough that she knew now that death was just a stage, like birth, the sprouting of body hair, the withering of the aging. It was nothing to fear. The ache she had endured had gone. When she lay on her pallet, alone in the dark, she felt as close to Silent as she had when he was an infant snuggling at her breast.
She was certainly schizophrenic. Perhaps she was no longer sane. It would have been impossible to tell; in all the world, there were only a handful of people like Mother, only a few heads filled with such a light, and there was no meaningful comparison to make.
But, sane or not, she was happier than she had been for a long time. And, even in this time of drought, she was growing fat. From the point of view of simple survival, she was succeeding better than her fellows.
Her insanity— if it was insanity— was adaptive.
One day Eyes came up with something new.
Inspired by the carved ivory figurine Mother still kept at her side, Eyes began to make new kinds of marks on a bit of flattened-out elephant skin. At first they were very crude, just scribbles of ocher and soot on dusty hide. But Eyes persisted, struggling to replicate in ocher on skin what she could see in her head. Watching her, Mother recognized something of herself, the painful early times as she strove to get the strange contents of her head
out.
And then she understood what Eyes was trying to do.
On this scrap of elephant hide, Eyes was drawing a horse. It was a crude picture, even infantile, the line poor, the anatomy distorted. But this was no abstract shape, like Mother’s parallel lines and spirals. This was definitely a horse: There was the graceful head, the flowing neck, the blur of hooves beneath.
For Mother it was another thunderbolt moment, an instant when the connections closed and her head reconfigured once again. With a cry she fell to the ground, scrabbling for her own bits of ocher and charcoal. Startled, Eyes quailed back, fearful she had done something wrong. But Mother only grabbed a bit of hide and began to scratch and scribble as Eyes had done.
She felt the first sun-bright premonitory tingling of pain in her head. But she kept on working through the pain.
Soon Eyes and Mother had covered the surfaces around them, rocks and bone and skin and even the dry dust, with hasty images of leaping gazelles and towering giraffes, with elephants, horses, eland.
When they saw what Eyes and Mother were doing, others, immediately fascinated, tried to copy them. Gradually the new imagery spread, and throughout the little community ocher animals leapt and sooty spears flew. It was as if a new layer of life had entered the world, a surface of mind that changed everything it touched.
For Mother it was a new kind of power. When she had recognized that the shapes she saw in her head had matches in the world outside, she had begun to understand that
she
was at the focus of the global web of causality and control— as if the universe of people and animals, rocks and sky, was just a map of what lay inside her own imagination. And now, with this new technique of Eyes’s, there was a whole new way to express that control, those connections. Taking the horse into her head and then transferring it, frozen, to a rock or a bit of skin was as if she owned it forever— no matter that the animal ran unimpeded across the dry plains.
Many people feared the new images and those who produced them. Mother herself had grown too strong to be challenged; few would meet the sightless gaze of that skull on the post. But Eyes, her closest acolyte, was an easier target.
One day she came to Mother, weeping. She was bedraggled and muddy, and the elaborate designs she had painted on her skin were smudged and washed away. Eyes’s language skills remained poor, and Mother had to listen to a lot of her circumlocutory pidgin before she understood what had happened.
It had been Ant-eater, the boy who had shown interest in Eyes. He had pursued her again. When she had shown no desire for him he had tried to force himself on her. But still she resisted. So he carried her to the lake and threw her into the water, smeared her with mud, tried to destroy her skin markings.
Eyes looked at Mother as if she expected comfort, a hug, as if she were an upset child. But Mother merely sat before her, her face hard.
Then she went to her pallet and returned with a fine stone scraper. She made the girl rest her head in her lap— and Mother jabbed the stone into her cheek. Eyes cried out and pulled away, baffled; she touched her cheek and looked in horror at the blood on her fingers. But Mother coaxed her back, made her lie down again, and again punctured her cheek, this time a little below the first wound. Eyes struggled a little, but she submitted. Gradually, as the pain seeped through her, she went limp.
When Mother was done with the awl she wiped away the blood and took a piece of ocher, rubbing the crumbling rock deep into the wounds she had made. Eyes mewled as the salty stuff stung her damaged flesh.
Then Mother took her hand. “Come,” she said. “Water.”
She led the reluctant, baffled girl through the listless herbivores down to the lake. They splashed out into the water, their toes sinking into the clinging lake-bottom mud, until the water came up to their knees. They stood still until the ripples had settled, and the muddy water lay still and smooth before them.
Mother bade Eyes look down at her reflection.
Eyes saw that a vivid crimson spiral looped from her eye and over her cheek. Blood still seeped from the rudimentary tattoo. When she splashed water over her face the blood washed away, but the spiral remained. Eyes gaped and grinned— though the flexing of her face made her aching wounds hurt even more. She understood now what Mother had been doing.
The tattooing was a technique Mother had tried out on herself. It was painful, of course. But it was pain— the pain in her head, the pain of her loss of Silent— that had given birth to the great transformations of her life. Pain was to be welcomed, celebrated. What better way to make this child one of her own?
Hand in hand, the two of them walked back to the shore.
For day after relentless day the drought continued.
The lake became a dank puddle at the center of a bowl of cracked mud. The water was fouled by the droppings and corpses of the animals— but the people drank it nonetheless, for they had no choice, and many of them suffered diarrhea and other ailments. Among the animals the die back continued. But there was little fresh meat now, and there was ferocious competition from the wolves and hyenas and cats.
The bands, of skinny folk and bone-brows alike, stared at each other sullenly.
Among Mother’s people, the first to die was an infant. Her little body had been depleted by diarrhea. Her mother keened over the little corpse, then she gave it up to her sisters, who took it away to put it in the ground. But the dirt was dry, hard packed, and the weakened folk had trouble digging into it. Next day another died, an old man. And two the next, two more children.
It was after that, after they had started to die, that the people began to come to Mother.
They approached her pallet, with the gleaming skull on its post. They would sit on the dusty ground, gazing at Mother or Eyes or the animals and geometric designs they had scratched everywhere. More of them began to copy Mother’s practices, pasting spirals and starbursts and wavy lines on their faces and arms. And they would gaze into Silent’s empty eye sockets, as if seeking wisdom there.
It was a matter of
why.
Mother had been able to tell them why her son had died, of an invisible illness nobody else had even been able to name; she had been able to pick out and punish Sour, the woman who had caused that death. Surely if anybody knew
why
this drought was afflicting them, it would be Mother.
Mother studied this rough congregation, her mind working relentlessly, ideas and interconnections sparking. The drought had a cause; of course it did. Behind every cause there was an intention, a mind, whether you could see it or not. And if there was a mind, you could negotiate with it. After all her people had already been traders, instinctive negotiators, for seventy thousand years.
But how was she to negotiate with the rain? What did she have to trade?
And overlaid on such musings was her suspicions about the people. Which of them could be trusted? Which of them talked about her when she wasn’t present? Even now, as they gazed up at her in a kind of desultory hope, were they somehow communicating, sending secret messages to each other with gestures, looks, even scribbled marks in the dust?
In the end, the answer came to her.
Ox, the big short-tempered man who had challenged her after the death of Sour, came to join her rough congregation. He was weakened by diarrhea.
Mother stood abruptly and approached Ox. Sapling followed her.
Ox, weakened and ill, sat piteously in the dirt with the rest. Mother placed a hand on his head, gently. He looked up, bewildered, and she smiled at him. Then she beckoned him to follow her. Ox stood, clumsy, dizzy, stumbling. But he let Sapling guide him back to Mother’s own pallet. There, Mother bade him lay down.
She took a wooden spear, its end charred, blood-soaked, hardened from use. She faced the people. She said, “Sky. Rain. Sky make rain. Earth drink rain.” She glanced up at the cloudless bowl of the sky. “Sky not make rain. Angry, angry. Earth drink much rain. Thirsty, thirsty. Feed earth.”
And, with a single fluid movement, she plunged the spear into Ox’s chest. He convulsed, his fists grabbing the spear. Blood spewed from his wide-open mouth, and urine spilled down his legs. But with all her strength Mother twisted the spear, and felt it rip at the soft organs within. Flopping, Ox fell back on the pallet, and did not move again. Mother smiled and wrenched out the spear. Blood continued to spill onto the ground.
There was silence. Even Sapling and Eyes were staring, open-mouthed.
Mother bent and grabbed a handful of sticky, blood-soaked dust. “See! Dust drinks. Earth drinks.” And she crammed the dust into the half mouth of her child; it stained its small teeth red. “Rain comes,” she said gently. “Rain comes.” Then she glared around at the staring people.
One by one they looked down, yielding before her gaze.
Honey, daughter of Sour, broke the spell. With a scream of despair she picked up a handful of cobbles and hurled them at Mother. They clattered uselessly on the ground. Then Honey ran away toward the lake.
Mother watched her go, eyes hard.
In her heart Mother believed everything she had said, everything she had done. The fact that it served a political purpose to have sacrificed poor Ox— for he was one of those who most openly opposed her— did not perturb her belief in herself and her actions. Ox’s death had been expedient, but it would also mollify the rain. Yes, that was how it was.
Leaving Sapling to dispose of the corpse, she walked into her shelter.
Despite the sacrifice, the rain did not come. The people waited as day succeeded arid day, and not a cloud broke the washed-out dome of the sky. Gradually they grew restive. Honey, particularly, became more openly derisive of Mother, Eyes, Sapling, and those who clung to them.
But Mother simply waited, serene. She was convinced she was right, after all. It was just that Ox’s death had not been sufficient appeasement for the sky, the soil. It was simply a question of finding the right trade-off, that was all. All she needed was patience— even though her own flesh was hanging on her bones.