Tsalmothua - Circa 8000 BCE

Tsalmothua - Circa 8000 BCE

It was far too late in the year for wood gathering, Xytok thought. Light and dark flickered past now, and the air had that cold bitter quality that promised the coming of the ice.

Three years ago, his tribe had numbered almost 400, secure and fortified in their compound. But then the crops had been poor. They'd cut down all the nearby trees for winter fuel, and without the trees the land had become dryer, water sluicing away uselessly.

They'd been hungry that winter, very hungry, and had to sacrifice almost half their Shaghui, the winter had been particularly savage and they'd used up their firewood and charcoal all too quickly. The white cold had been persistent, and snow and cold had clung through the flickering season, only being vanquished by the full warmth of day. They'd been forced to burn the blankets and clothing of the weakest among them to survive. Many had frozen to death.

Crops had begun late, the people had been at the edge of starvation. Only the flesh of their own frozen dead had given them the strength to survive by obliterating the small weak tribes around them.

The harvest that year had been poor, wood scarce even in the newly conquered lands. More powerful enemies pressed them on every side. Again, a harsh winter. The choice had been to devour the children or the remaining Shaghui. That had been no choice at all.

There would alway be more children.

The slaughter had come quick and early before starvation took hold. Frost killed more.

Xytok's nation was now less than two hundred.

The land was emptying again, he thought, as in the stores of the forefathers. The great dyings were coming again. The large tribes had devoured or crushed the small tribes. Now they were turning upon each other.

Xytok's band found the remains of the stand of saplings they had been travelling to. There was nothing left.

Nothing but twigs and dried leaves, Shaghui forage and not much of that. Beyond a stream gurgled, its waters almost depleted.

Despair filled Xytok's heart. He was no fool. He knew the lore of the ancestors. But more than that, he had worked the land with his bare hands. He knew the ways that water moved, had seen the deep marks of erosion. He knew that somehow, the trees were essential to keeping water in the soil, that they shielded against the winds and kept the land warmer.

Take away the trees, the world suffers, he thought. But what choice was there? They could endure poorer harvests. But they could not endure freezing to death.

Who had taken their saplings? he wondered. The most likely were the Tcho to the east, or the Myhri beyond the hills. It didn't matter.

They were well beyond a days walk from his tribes compound. They would travel a bit further and then make camp. Perhaps they could find more wood somehow. Even scraps and branches were now sought. Anything to keep the cold away.

As the dark came on, Xytok and his group found their rest in the shelter of a dry wash. It was already too cold.

Xytok and his followers made a small fire in the shelter, using dried grasses and sedge.

Too bad, he thought, that we could not burn dried grass all winter long. His mind played over notions for harvesting grass, twisting it into hard tight knots. Too late for that though.

He shifted a little, trying to be more comfortable. He picked up a rock, pressing against his thigh, jagged and sharp edged. He examined it critically. Not enough of an edge though, you couldn't make a good tool with it. And as rocks went, it was soft, it broke easy.

Useless. Pretty though, black. He'd seen this sort of rock here and there.

He sighed, and tossed it onto the sputtering fire, and watched bleakly as it began to burn.

Neither he nor his companions paid much mind, lost in their own bleakness and hunger, waiting for the dark flicker to end so they could flee back to home.

Perhaps he should take his band and their Shaghui and run, he thought. Where to, though? In good times, a man with power or wealth, or desperation and a remarkable ability to grovel, might join another tribe. In harsh times, outsiders were killed on sight.

Xytok became drowsy, half dreaming of some untouched empty land, a warm land, full of wood to burn, and roots and berries so plentiful they did not need cultivation, of full bellies through the winter.

Better yet, a land without winter, a land where the sky was not dark for half the year. No such land, of course, no where to flee too. Didn't the rock burn with such pretty colours? Wouldn't it be good if there was such a land that they could flee too.

The rock was burning?

Since when did rocks burn?

Xytok roused fully, crouched forward, staring at the fire. Yes, a rock was definitely burning. How as that possible?

Not all the rocks were burning. Just one. Why? He pulled out a stick for beating the blinded Shaghui, and poked the rock. Definitely burning.

He picked up a nearby stone and carefully dropped it on the burning rock. It did not catch fire. He used his stick to nudge it close to the burning rock. Still didn't catch.

Something about that particular stone then? But what? He poked it again, flames washed along a flat surface? Was this the pretty black stone he'd casually tossed into the fire?

Were there other black stones about? He felt about the campsite, as his companions watched with drowsing amusement, hunting about. He found another smaller stone, less by sight than by feel, the flat planes, the not quite sharp enough edges. And another.

He brought them close. Yes, one was black like the first. The other not so much. He tossed them both in. The second black caught fire, the first simply lay in the flames, inert.

Interesting.

He searched again, crawling around the campsite now on hands and knees, looking for the black rocks. His drowsing companions watched with amusement. He found a few more pieces, smaller, but unquestionably the same kind of rock.

He tossed them on, one at a time, carefully watching them burn. They burned with an odd smell, he noted, not like wood or grass. There was something else in it. They burned well though, much better than grass, slowly but giving a good heat.

Xytok sat back and thought long and hard.

First, he thought about killing his companions as they slept, and fleeing into the night with the Shaghui. Let everyone die, let the world die, he thought. Survive, endure with the secret of burning rocks. He would plow new fields among the corpses and make the world in his image.

But no, too hard to do, too many tribes surviving. On his own he was a dead man. His best chances were to master the black rocks that burned, and use them to help his tribe survive, and to make himself great among them.

He would need more rocks. A lot more. Even if they burned better and longer than wood, they'd still need a supply through the winter. Not the pathetic gleanings of a camp sight.

He'd seen this rock though, from time to time. But he couldn't quite remember more. No one paid much memory to useless things. You remembered the places of flint or clay, not pointless rocks.

He thought about the burning stones he'd found, examined a last fragment, before tossing it on the fire. Edges, flat surfaces. Not a stream rock then, most stones and pebbles of streams were rounded, shaped by water. This hadn't been in the waters long enough for its edges to be dulled.

Washed down recently then? And from upstream? Yes. That must be it. He visualized the landscape denuded of trees, swollen streams cutting into the sides of banks, washing away soil and gravel, tearing rock loose and carrying it along.

Tomorrow, he decided, they would search upstream along the dry bed, until they found the source.

And then?

Then he'd know, how much, where. He'd spend the remaining few days trying to find other sources. It would be buried probably, but he could make the Shaghui dig it out, break the hard rock for them where necessary.

The people would not accept it, not at first. Only later in the winter, when desperation set in, would they bend and become flexible.

And then, he would be a great man. He would be the father of fires, and take many women to himself and demand the sacrifice of other father's children.

He would have to kill his companions, he realized. Once they'd served their purpose, they would have to die. Only he could have the secret of the burning rock and where it might be found.

He smiled. He could hardly wait for the long night.

The future was bright, and hot with fire and blood.