Icy Crisis by Jerrel Swingle Dawn spread its cold light across a broad river valley that lay between the gray cliffs of Ut. Thick blue shadows cast by the eastern escarpment began to shrink on the slopes of the canyon as the ambivalent sun, illuminating everything, warming little, rose in the sky. Here and there small wisps of wood smoke rose undisturbed in the frigid air. A peaceful silence lay over the world, until a sudden boom, a crack of thunder reverberated and ricocheted off the surrounding granite walls of the valley. The air was rent with the sound of wails and screams of terror. Gurm turned his head slightly so his ears could collect and identify the sound that echoed down the canyon. He grunted. “Aw, camel crap,” he thought. “Here we go again.” Only last week he had been hunting on the uplands beyond the valley when he heard this same sound and looked toward the north where it had originated. He knew what it was. His eyes took in the familiar sight of the gigantic ice wall that rose almost higher than he could see. It was far, far away, but its crystalline surface could blind you when fingers from the cold fire in the sky touched it. Gurm was different from the others, meaning he was slightly more intelligent. On his hunting excursions and over many fire-risings he had figured out the cause of the thunder. He had seen for himself huge pieces of the face of the distant Ice God crumble and crash, always leaving a new face that would eventually crash again with a boom that shook the valley. He had learned there was no need to be afraid, it was just noise like the roar of a wounded mammoth, only less dangerous. He simply accepted it as another fact of life. It was easier that way, and less stressful. The people, however, didn’t understand and, as their appointed leader, he was always called upon to calm their anxieties. Most thought the sound was the voice of Tudwhe, the Terrible-Unnamed-Deity-Who-Hates-Everything, a being who does things no one can ever understand. Each time the thunder happened, it caused dismay and panic among those living in the protection of the valley’s caves and cliffs, and each time Gurm would have to go around reassuring everyone in his clan that they weren’t all about to die: “No, we’re not all about to die.” It was monotonous, but the duty came with the territory. Gurm had long ago decided that being a leader in Neanderthal society wasn’t really an honor?it was a royal pain-in-the-ass. As he strode from one family fire to another, he saw an unfamiliar figure approaching from the direction of the upper valley. The stranger came closer, panting, his breath coming in small frosty clouds and Gurm went to meet him, clutching his leader’s club. He didn’t recognize the newcomer. They both stopped when they came nose to nose, studied each other for a moment, then reared back, and smashed foreheads in traditional Neanderthal greeting. Before laying his flint-headed spear down, the stranger inquired, “You the head man around here?” “Unh-hunh,” Gurm replied, rubbing the lump swelling on his receding brow. “I’m Gurm, head of the Clan of the Cave Mice. Who’s asking?” “We’re all going to be OK,” Gurm told his visitor. “Take my word for it.” But before either could continue the conversation, a loud roar tore through the valley. “RAAAARRRGGHHHHHH!” “What in the name of Tudwhe was that?” Spog asked. “Oh, that was the call for all clan leaders to gather at the Sacred Cave for an important meeting. It’s kind of like a presidential press conference, only more civilized. Want to come along?” “Sure. Why not? I’m kind of new at this.” They joined a sizable contingent of cave dwellers who were moving toward a huge cleft in the western wall of the valley. Most gathered just out of curiosity. It was something to do to break up the daily monotony of trying to survive. There were only a few actual clan leaders. Gurm and Spog made their way through the crowd and moved toward the entrance of a large cave that lay in an opening in the canyon wall. A bonfire blazed in front of an enormous flat boulder. “This is the Sacred Circle where we’ll squat with the other clan leaders,” Gurm explained. “And that’s the Sacred Altar.” A general stirring among the assembly interrupted him. Many in the crowd fell to their knees and began moaning in supplication as a tall five-feet-ten-inch figure appeared out of the depths of the cavern. The man appeared to be ancient, maybe even thirty-five summers. He had long scraggly hair, one good eye, smelled, and carried a carved wooden staff? the Sacred Rod of Authority. A tattered wolf skin cape was draped around his shoulders. He approached the Sacred Altar, picked up the Sacred Chunk of Rock and slammed it three times onto the top of the altar. At the same time, he unleashed another mighty roar. “That’s the call to order,” Gurm whispered to his companion. “Who’s the mouth?” Spog asked. “That is our shaman, HE-WHO-SPEAKS-WITH-A-VOICE-LIKE-THUNDER THAT-SHAKES-THE-BLUE-MOUNTAINS-AND-CAUSES-WATER-TO-FALL- FROM-THOSE-PUFFY-WHITE-THINGS-IN-THE-SKY.” Gurm paused for a moment in silent reverence. “But we just call him HeeHoo for short.” Another clansman appeared beside the shaman carrying a slab of stone and a flint chisel. He approached HeeHoo, kissed the dirty hem of the wolf-skin cape and squatted down beside the altar. “Who’s that?” Spog asked. “That’s the clan’s historian, Sawuf,” Gurm explained. “Sawuf?” “Yeah. That’s just short for his real name, Sad-Assed-Writer-Of-Unsold-Fables.” His companion snorted. “That’s got to be a lousy job,” he said. Gurm agreed. “He’s not really a happy man.” They all turned their attention to HeeHoo who struck a dramatic pose, holding the Sacred Rod of Authority high overhead while his one good eye scanned the crowd in front of him. The shaman then looked down at his historian who was trying to get situated in a comfortable position. Sawuf laid the flat tablet on his lap and raised his hands holding the Sacred Chisel and Sacred Hammer. “You ready?” HeeHoo asked. “Yeah, I’m ready, but just don’t grunt so fast. This takes time, you know.” Sawuf was in a lousy mood this morning, and sitting on this hard rock cave floor made his butt hurt. “Call the roll,” HeeHoo commanded. “Just do it.” “Okay, okay…. Clan of the Cave Mice!” Sawuf shouted and ducked his head as a large rock sailed past his ear. He looked up at HeeHoo. “Can’t we figure out something a little simpler to let us know they’re present? Like just saying “Here!” or something? I’m tired of this.” HeeHoo was unmoved. “It’s tradition,” he said. “Keep going.” Sawuf growled in protest but continued to shout the roll, each time ducking the rocks thrown his way. Despite his best efforts, one caught him on the shoulder and another bounced off his knee. Each time it happened, he complained loudly. “Stay with it,” HeeHoo counseled. “We’re almost finished.” Sawuf became more sullen, but continued. “Clan of the Cave Snails!” he shouted. Spog looked over at Gurm who handed him a fist-sized stone. “Just throw it at him,” he advised. “He’ll get out of the way.” “Seems kind of dumb,” Spog said. “Hey, it’s tradition and it’s part of the fun. Go ahead and throw it.” Spog did as he was told and gave the rock a fast ride toward the historian’s squatting form. He was a little short with his throw. The missile hit the stone floor, deflected, and caught Sawuf in the mouth, knocking him backwards. “That’s it. That’s enough! I quit!” the enraged scribe shouted as he got to his feet spitting blood. He threw down the Sacred Hammer and Chisel in disgust and started to leave. “Get back here!” HeeHoo commanded. “Look. We can probably dispense with the roll call for now. I think we have enough clans here for a quorum.” Sawuf wiped his bloody mouth on a rough piece of hide and glared at HeeHoo. “You’re either going to change this stupid procedure or get yourself another scribe,” he grumbled. “I’ll think about it,” Hee Hoo offered. “Just hold your equuses.” He paused, his slanting forehead furrowed in thought. Did I say that right? Equuses? Equui, Equuiae? . . . Maybe just “horses.” Oh, well. He turned his attention to the clan leaders and again raised the Sacred Rod of Authority in a gesture designed to get their attention. “Leaders of the Clans!” HeeHoo bellowed. “We are all faced with a most serious life or death problem!” His opening comment provoked an immediate outburst of panicky wails. “We’re all going to die!" “We’re doomed!” some screamed. Many began crying, moaning and running around in mindless circles. “Oh, the humanity! The humanity!” Some prostrated themselves. HeeHoo lowered his arms and shook his head in disgust. “Why the Muk did I start the meeting like this?” he asked himself. The whole scene had fallen into disorder and confusion. He grabbed the Sacred Chunk of Rock and pounded the Sacred Altar. The sound reverberated off the cave walls and the effect was immediate. Everyone in the crowd stopped their caterwauling and looked at HeeHoo in anticipation, although pitiful whimpering could still be heard here and there. “No, we’re not all about to die,” HeeHoo thundered. “And we’re not all doomed.” He paused for dramatic effect then added, “But the possibility exists.” He instantly regretted his last observation. This ill-conceived pronouncement again sparked an eruption of howls, and, in some cases, loud boos.. Sawuf looked up at HeeHoo from his chipping. “Not doing too well today, are we?” he smirked. The shaman looked at the chaos he had unintentionally created. “Mammoth dung!” he said, grimacing. “Now, why did I say that?” Out on the other side of the Sacred Fire, Spog was ignoring the uproar around him. He grinned and nudged Gurm with his elbow. “Who’s the sexy broad over there?” he asked, pointing at a statuesque four-foot-eight female who was winking and flirting with the other clan leaders on the other side of the circle. “Just get a load of those hairy legs! Unh! Unh! Unh!” Gurm smiled. “You think that’s great, you should see her armpits!” “But who is she?” Spog insisted. “That’s Ygg, short for ‘You Go Girl.’ She’s kind of the clan mascot, for lack of a better word,” Gurm explained. “I think she’s in heat.” HeeHoo tried to restore order. Pounding the Sacred Altar with the Sacred Chunk of Rock, he managed to quiet things down somewhat. “People! People! Settle down!” the shaman shouted. He looked around frantically. “Where is our sergeant-at-arms? We need order. Dum, where are you? Get your worthless butt out here and do your job!” A loud frustrated grunt was heard and the squat, burly sergeant-at-arms, Dum, appeared from behind a boulder. He was adjusting his wooly rhino loincloth. “What in Muk are you doing?” HeeHoo demanded. “You’re supposed to be out here for crowd control.” “Hey,” Dum snarled. “I had to take a crap.” He picked up a large club and, being in a bit of a temper, began flailing away at those causing the most disturbance. A few well-aimed blows and howls of pain brought the crowd into compliance. “No,” Gurm replied. “He’s just Dum.” he shaman decided not to go for dramatic effect this time. He raised the Sacred Rod and addressed the assembly in his most serious voice. “I had a vision the other night,” he announced. “It was a very strange vision.” “Yes,” he continued, “I had a vision. I saw a row of men, not unlike ourselves, all dressed in white coats.” “What’s a coat?” someone in the crowd asked. “It’s – uh – kind of like a long pelt, only tailored, with lapels. Anyway, they had a message that affects us all. They warned me that we will have a problem with something called ‘global warming’ and that we must slow it down or stop it.” “What’s ‘global’?” a clan leader wanted to know. What’s ‘warming’?” asked another. HeeHoo brushed away the frost that had formed on his shaggy mustache. “It means the Ice God might be melting,” he explained. “The air won’t be as cold.” Gurm and Spog looked at each other in puzzlement. “What’s wrong with that?” The clan leader next to Spog shrugged and said, “Doesn’t sound bad to me.” “Hey,” another chimed in, “I think I’d like to lay on a beach somewhere?maybe get a little tan.” “Clansmen!” HeeHoo commanded. “You’re missing the point. We have to cut down on our emissions.” “You mean we can’t break wind any more?”“No, no, no. That’s not what I mean, although that would probably help matters. I’m talking about fires. We have to cut back on building fires. There’s too much smoke in the air.” This statement prompted a general outpouring of angry shouts. One incensed leader protested, “You’re out of your sloping, chinless skull. How are we gonna cook our meat? You ever try to eat a raw lemming?” HeeHoo was undeterred. “No,” he admitted, “but I hear something called ‘sushi’ is quite good, and reindeer tartare can be tasty if seasoned properly.” Cries of disgust rippled through the crowd, many of whom were on their feet, some brandishing clubs and others picking up large rocks. Outright rebellion was in the air. “What are we supposed to use to thaw our soup?” someone shouted. “Yeah! And what’s with this ‘Sacred Fire’ business if we’re going to have a ‘No Smoking’ policy?” At this question, everyone fell silent and all eyes turned toward the bonfire blazing away in front of the Sacred Altar. In the commotion of the announcements it had been forgotten, its significance ignored. “We have to have the Sacred Fire,” HeeHoo insisted in a voice that brooked no disagreement. “We need it! The clans need it! It’s tradition!” “You mean you can have fire, but we can’t?” an infuriated clansman cried. What had merely been scattered yells of discontent became a chorus of savage bellows. The clans’ bloodlust was rising. HeeHoo was momentarily nonplussed, and Sawuf looked around apprehensively. He got to his feet, ready to run. At this moment, a figure clambered to the top of a nearby boulder and shouted for attention. It was Nrd, leader of the Clan of the Pale Invertebrates. “Friends! Neanderthals! Fellow cave dwellers! Listen to me! I have a proposal!” The mob paused in their thirst for mayhem and stared at Nrd, more out of curiosity than sodality. Nrd enjoyed his role of the rational statesman, somewhat superior in thought processes to his peers. He smiled, and in a conciliatory tone continued, “Let us reason together. Let our emotions cool and let our intellects take over.” Many in the crowd looked at each other with doubt and suspicion. Intellects? “I believe we can come to a mutual understanding that will benefit everyone.” Unfortunately, Nrd had failed to gauge the emotions of his audience. “I propose that we form a committee to study the problem!” This recommendation was met with stunned silence. He continued. “We can choose the best and the brightest among us to be on the committee, and then . . . and then . . !.” He smiled, beneficently, fraternally, and opened his arms in a gesture of all-embracing fellowship. “ . . . We can have hearings!” Before he could quit smiling, Nrd disappeared under an avalanche of fur-clad fury. HeeHoo and Sawuf could barely hear his muffled screams. The clans then turned their attention to their shaman, their spiritual advisor, He-Who-Speaks-With-The-Voice-Of-Thunder-That-Shakes-The-Blue-Mountains, etc., etc. They began to approach the Sacred Altar. Sensing a threat to his well-being, HeeHoo fell back on the one thing he felt would reestablish his power. He inhaled and exploded with the most tremendous roar of his life. It made his one remaining eyeball hurt. It resounded down the valley, bouncing from cliff to cliff. The furious mob stopped in its tracks in querulous uncertainty and regarded the imposing figure of the shaman they had always followed and obeyed. “You will calm yourselves and do as I say,” HeeHoo demanded. “There will be no fires, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and only then with special permission.” “Why?” someone challenged. This classic question, profound in its simplicity, logical in its pursuit of enlightenment, and imbued with the individual’s eternal search for truth and justice, resonated throughout the gathered clans. In answer, HeeHoo resorted to the ultimate edict used through all the ages by those in power. He raised himself to his full height, held the Sacred Rod of Authority aloft and pronounced his verdict : “Because, I said so!” * * * “Where did you say you found this?” The tall man examining the slab of stone laid down his magnifying glass and stood stretching his back. He had been poring over this specimen for some time. “And how do you date this, or have you had time to make a determination?” “Off hand, from the confirmed dating of other artifacts found in this area we believe it to be 25,000 to 30,000 years old. But that’s why I wanted you to be the first to give it a thorough inspection. Your expertise and reputation, Dr. Digwell, will go a long way toward acceptance of our thesis.” Douglas Digwell, the world-renowned paleoanthropologist shook his head in disbelief. “If what you are proposing can in some way be verified, this will certainly be the most astounding discovery in human history, at least since the Rosetta Stone. Do you realize what you’re suggesting ? that some form of written communication actually predates the Sumerians by 20,000 years? And that it was created by Neanderthals? The whole idea is absurd and could result in careers being destroyed?yours and mine.” “I know, and that’s why I don’t want it made public yet.” “And how do you know that these marks and scratches weren’t caused by some kind of natural occurrence? Professor Greystone, you’re straining credulity.” “Please look here, Dr. Digwell,” Greystone said, picking up the magnifying glass. “I didn’t notice this myself at first, but do you see this particular configuration of marks? If you’ll look carefully, you’ll see this very same pattern repeated at intervals over the entire surface.” He pointed, here, and there, and there, and there. Digwell was stunned. Taking the glass from his colleague, he began studying the slab again. “You’re right!” he finally exclaimed. “You’re absolutely right. Amazing! But did you notice down here at the bottom? I see traces of that same pattern, but it appears to have been scratched through, as if to obliterate it. Could this possibly be a reference to something specific? Where did you say this was uncovered?” “It was actually on top of a grave site. Underneath it we found traces of a skeleton that appeared to be someone of importance. It was in a fetal position, surrounded by a number of quite lovely lithic artifacts. The strangest thing, though, was that we also observed what appears to be two pieces of a long wooden rod resting on either side of a fractured skull. Most intriguing.” Dr. Douglas Digwell nodded in agreement. “Indeed,” he said. ----------- Jerrel L. Swingle is a retired art educator. His work has appeared in the on-line magazines Applecart, E-clips, The Woman's Corner, and in Good Old Days and Storyteller magazines. He and his wife live in O'Fallon. Copyright © 2006. Do not reproduce without permission. Home Contents