There! --there they are. A pair of fine Tallhorns grazing in open
field. Two for dinner. Homo Whoso eyes his prey.
He sniffs. Gemsbok!
He begins to
move, slowly, downwind --Stops and
rests on the flat of his right hand ... then with caution starts working his
way around the Tallhorns.
Homo Whoso
doesn't need to concentrate on balancing himself. He takes his two-leg status in stride. Comes naturally. Here on
the veldt in its high grass being upright helps in hunting food.
Whoso is an
advanced manape but his vocal chords are still deficient for speech. Without a symbolic vocabulary, he is barely
capable of intuitive grunts and guttural onomatopoeia. Whoso's attempts at reasoning are solely
reactive aberrations. Nevertheless, the
brain of Homo Whoso is quite intelligent.
He stops and
stoops.
The manape
watches his newfound meal standing unaware of his presence. He is uncomfortable because of the hot
afternoon sun. Feels this discomfort is
directly associated with overhead passing of the great Firebird.
The same great
Firebird he can never look upon. In
fact, Whoso's right eye has developed a cataract from trying. But Whoso does not associate hazy sight with
its intense ultraviolet. Whoso only
associates tearful pain to looking at Firebird.
However, he does
know when it's time to get out of hot sunlight. Time to find shade. Find
thick foliage.
Whoso
frowns.
Shade is shadow
that moves very slow.
Shadows are
fascinating.
His own shadow is
an extension of himself and is sometimes in him and sometimes out. Everything has a shadow and those shadows
are part of a world that evokes metaphysical thought. Realizing he can not reach out and touch the sun or the moon or
even jump to the top of a tree is somehow less profound to Whoso than realizing
he can not pick up his own shadow. Nor
can he run away from it! And you can't
stop another’s moving shadow by standing or sitting on it.
All quite
incredible.
Whoso stands to
better view his distance to the black and white headed Tallhorn. Among the knurled groundsel of the veldt he
sees a few widely spaced pillars of giant lobelia towering above tall yellow
reeds. And several acacia. The lobelia marks his rest spots and signals
safety. Too far away.
Fortunately just
fifty metres ahead of him is a darkened grove of thorn trees surrounding a big
pink baobab.
Good shade.
Very quietly
Whoso moves toward the ancient baobab.
The great tree is a survivor of several prairie-fires. Plus the Flood. The manape moves ten metres and stops to sniff and listen. He tacks downwind of the grazing
gemsbok. Whoso has not mastered the art
of throwing rocks for food. However, he
can carry boulders up a tree and hurl them back down on top of any food
beneath. But most often Whoso sneaks up
and catches his blood-filled food by surprise.
He will have to leap upon one of the unsuspecting Tallhorns. But first Whoso must get very close. He does not run fast as he once did. Whoso is grown old.
* * *
Whoso likes to
remember there once was a Her.
She.
One apart from
the Others.
They were
helpmates. Him and Her.
She spends more
time with him than Thum. And he with
her than Thum.
She is why Whoso
comes to live apart from the other Bulls in the hills. She is why he no longer visits the Mystery
Caves of the Womb-men. She and Whoso
find a special cave of their own. She
makes multicolored markings on its dark back wall. These resplendent animal renderings are actually alive and can be
seen to breathe and move about in firelight.
Once, Whoso got too excited and attacked one of her bigger images with a
rock --He pounds and pounds on the
beast! --Finally it stops moving. Victory!
He mounts Her.
In fact, within
this special cave Whoso can mount Her whenever he wants.
And in this cave
She gives to Whoso ten live and four dead Children. She buries her dead babies in the Earth and streaks black ash on
a wall.
One of Her
newborns had a tail nub so they killed and ate it.
During winter
droughts there is no food and they must feed the weakest girls to the strongest
boys.
Of the seven
sibling survivors, three cubs appear to be different. These frail males barely have hair.
She likes these
hairless Ones best.
Hairless Ones
require less delousing. But they are
more helpless longer. They need more
nurturing time and tit from Her.
As the cubs
mature the Hairs and No-hairs do not associate with each other and are not
friendly.
They play
separately.
The No-hairs make
softer and longer lasting voice sounds.
They sing. They frequently
wiggle their fingers at each other. The
No-hairs eventually begin to wear pelts and girdle their genitals.
Whoso personally
favors the four pelted Cubs because they look more like his Her.
He recalls his
Brave Woman's strange ways with stones and sticks. She taught Whoso to use a strong staff to break bones and
bludgeon or gore. Showed handy ways to
smash rocks making big sharp pointed teeth.
She wove several
small nests from vines and twigs and placed them inside their cave. Some of these nest walls are hard packed
with clay and covered with skin to keep out bugs. Family food is placed into these nests rather than on floor. Her
nests are magic. If an object is put
inside one and covered --it vanishes!
When uncovered --it reappears!
Whoso and all the Children delight in watching her do this over and
over. They giggle and laugh.
She has another
amazing trick.
Place a long thin
tree trunk in special spot on small boulder.
Then a light down can make a heavy up.
She makes several such seesaws for the amusement of their communal
cousins and guests.
But best of all
for Whoso are frosted gold honeycombs She brings sticky from the stinging
hives.
His favorite
Womb-man frequently uncovers fossils of ferns and fish encased in solid
stone. Whoso believes ferns and fish
will grow from the rocks. She shows him
other stones that look like shells and bones.
She finds flies
and ants asleep in amber nougats.
This starts Whoso
wondering.
This is when
Whoso begins staring at the sun to see emerald flame.
He was with Her
when the moon fell.
And the world
exploded.
Afterward. Whoso awoke alone. No way of knowing where he was.
The air stank of
sulphur and rotting flesh.
Whoso looked out
upon a vast flood littered with mountains of mud and splintered trees. He faced an incomprehensible deluge of
debris.
Eventually the
lone Whoso discovered a dozen other battered survivors and joined their
starving band.
He traveled with
Thum many days. Their relationship ended
one hot and rainy afternoon. His newly
adopted tribe left him behind without a second thought….
Whoso had climbed
aback a great mammoth to secure their next feast. Whoso crawled up its neck.
Plunged his sharp stick point in big eye. Beast rears! Shakes stick
from bloody eye. Bucks! Whoso slips, falls. Lands bad.
Tears right leg ligament. Rolls
to side in pain. Quickly crawls
away. The wounded beast charges the
frightened hunters. His group quickly
scatters before mammoth tusks and scurries into jungle green. Leaving Whoso helpless on the ground.
Alone.
Thum took his
stick too.
* * *
Now his leg is
almost healed. He best keep moving
toward the baobab. No mid-day breeze on
this veldt. No bird songs. Only the cicada castanets to accompany the
always buzzing gnat balls hovering about his ears and moist orifices. Black flies walk freely on his brown
face. Whoso accepts it as part of
living. His matted coal black head hair
is ribboned with flaxen and a touch of grey and sequined with shiny black
lice.
Sweat beads brow
ridge slope. Pug nosed. Front teeth missing and most others
rotten. Brown tough hands with callused
fingers and scarred knuckles. Palms of
pink.
Whoso comes to
the large tree and the dark thorn grove.
Crouches.
He admires and
then picks up a straight and stiff fallen baobab branch. Holding this freshly broken tool Whoso looks
up and sees through the leaves Great White Creatures.
Ghosts.
He scrutinizes
the clouds to see the familiar faces and bodies of plant and animal
friends.
That night when
Whoso looked to the stars he observed the twinkling outlines of these same
animal friends. Their motions appeared
to his grasping mind as shifting frames of thick fog.
Motion.
Leans backward to see overhead…sky spins…earth tilts under
his feet. He imagines moon is moving
and clouds are still, or, sometimes stars are moving and moon is still. And whenever Whoso sees a meteor flair he
thinks it’s a falling star.
What is a star?
Whoso once came
across smoldering pieces. In the late
night glowing aerolites looked like stars spread upon the earth. Yet, whenever he touched one --it burned the
skin, like Firebird! His right hand
bears thick scar tissue as a reminder.
He associates
that sun and stars might be the same stuff and the stars be sun eggs nurtured
by moon till they fall from the giant nest.
Seems to Whoso, after stars hit the ground they must break open and
leave their hot-hot hatchlings.
Very
confusing.
When Whoso has
such a mental perplex ion and wants to end its anxiety he dances. He starts by jumping in place. He paces back and forth. Walks in circles. Spins till he falls down.
But he always
jumps first just to shake a few ideas loose.
By carefully
repeating this choreographed ritual Whoso abstracts numinous thought
feelings. Hears bicameral cues to
relive a variety of archetypal anagrams.
Whoso's visions
are fabulous.
Learned how to
produce ideas at will. Model dynamic
egregious. Then receive solutions.
Whoso is the
first hominid genius.
Whoso takes a
black obsidian blade from around his neck.
The knife-chisel hangs from thong tied a necklace between two quartz
beads and two ochre beads. Many moons
ago She gave this necklace to him.
Using its sharp blade Whoso starts to shape a point on the baobab stick
he has found.
Instinctively he
knows there is at least one other presence nearing itself to him on the
veldt.
Another large
presence besides his waiting Tallhorns.
A presence eyeing
his resting place.
Eyeing his dinner.
Whoso can feel an
animal coming near. He can sense a mind
attempting to interpret shade and safety.
Another hungry mouth?
Whoso alertly
cocks his head to listen and sniff the still dry air.
Hears no
crackling of dry grass.
He relaxes. Whatever the beast is Whoso can sense no
immediate threat. Not coming near.
But now, others….
Though he can not
count and knows no numbers Whoso begins to realize there are more than two but
less than ten fingers of unknown something’s prowling somewhere out there.
Sniffs.
Not dogs.
Definitely not
lizards.
Cats. --Big cats.
Were it a cool
night instead of a scorching afternoon Whoso would stretch his open palms flat
tight then slowly weave them about as though rubbing inside a dome. Whoso would continue this flat hand seeking
until he caught the direction of the cat body-heat in pink centers of his
stretched palms.
Whoso detects
movement by aligning objects with his simian crease. Doing this he would find each cat.
But not now. Not in infrared noise blare of midday
sun. Hands not see.
Whoso is alone
and vulnerable to attack. Knows he
should try to catch up with Thum.
Safety in groups. He can
overtake Thum since his leg and knee have healed. Easy tracking. Camp
following ground-apes, hyenas and jackals drop tell-tail markers behind them on
the trail.
Whoso--the
manape--meditates. Somehow this manape
understands that when he rejoins Thum it can never be the same trusting
relationship.
None in the tribe
were of his gens so none were obligated to come to his aid. But still Whoso felt castaway when all
abandoned him. All ran to hide. He vividly reviviscences crying out to Thum
from the ground:
"Nanny! Nanny!"
Whoso can yet
hear his own voice frantically calling forth sounds She taught him:
"Elu! Elu!
Allah! --Eli!!!"
Whoso remembers
his feelings of fear and sorrow. He lay
there. Watching his companions pass
from sight. Gone. Possibly forever. Leaving him alone. And
they took his stick. This is a yet
fresh and very painful memory to Whoso....
Whoso inspects
the sparse selection of baobab trees for signs of fruit or eggs. His dark eyes scan the nearby veldt for
termite hills or berry bushes. He
wishes to feed on the grasses as do the Tallhorns. But too much grass makes him retch. Whoso does not want to retch.
Yet he does not want to have to kill to eat. Does not want to slaughter one of the two lovely Tallhorns still
in graceful graze. Whoso not that
hungry. Yet.
Remains
crouched.
Daydreaming in
the shade. His almost dozing mind again
traumatically recalls the time when the moon fell.
* * *
One night he
looked up…and in the sky saw another moon!
A little sister moon. Had not
noticed it before. Whoso showed the
little moon to Her.
Soon the small
moon doesn't want to sleep during the day!
Small moon starts
to grow in size like Her did with child.
Bigger and bigger until much larger than first moon. Bigger than Firebird!
Almost fills the
sky.
Finally, in the
cold of winter the moon cracks open.
KaWaaBAMM!
Whoso screams
--ears hurt and bleed.
BOOM!
Pieces fall to
earth. Like the sun eggs drop.
Makes many
flames. Much smoke. Makes nose and throat burn. Skin itch.
Makes flood.
Flood!
Whoso and Her and
No-hairs are scattered pebbles washed over a waterfall. Cave submerged.
Thick mist.
Next the
hoarfrost.
Then mixed light
and heavy dew that burns on skin. Later
impenetrable dark clouds of buzzing flies busy feeding on rotting carrion. Whoso survives by scooping up their maggots
and chewing soggy leaves.
* * *
If he knew how
add solstice cycles from then to now Whoso would know twelve years had passed
since the impact.
Whoso's life is
over thirty-three orbits long. Except
orbits are different now that a moon has fallen. He thinks the seasons change sooner and last longer.
Maybe. Perhaps.
Whoso can never
know whether his memories are authentic or not. There is no possible way for him to tell if what might have or
might not have been ever actually was or wasn't. But in Whoso's hypnagogic mind the falling moon and the Flood did
really exist just like the big blue Spike did once upon a time.
* * *
Spike.
The cobalt blue
cone point pricks the earth. The round
base held high in the air is surrounded by treetops. A dizzying seventy-seven degree angle of slope. Top-heavy.
A beautiful glittering blue in the daylight and glowing blue in the dark
night. In dark he can see its violet
halo.
When Whoso feels
cold the Spike feels warm.
When Whoso is hot
the Spike is cool.
Spike is the
smoothest hard ever felt for Whoso.
Their Clan
admires its slick wetness.
Children love to
scamper around Spike to tag and tackle.
In fact, Whoso's
most happy memories are of laughter-screaming chases with She and the No-hairs
around and around and around the big blue cone.
Whoso also
recalls beautiful lights.
Before sleep ...
squatting in their cave mouth see dozens of tiny lights winking and floating in
the dark jungle. Most are tear
shaped. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue.
When those few lights that stay lit for a long time move about they
leave faintly blurred edgewaves of white streaking in their wakes.
Occasionally, a
larger and brighter light flashes in the foliage at the far black edge of the
field.
Once this bright white one came out from the jungle and
levitated across the dark field until it arrived at their cave entrance. From inside their den the two primates squat
and squint at the apparition. Then
light orb projects its white ray directly upon Whoso! And upon Her! And then
upon the Cubs! The roving ray holds
longest on the No-hairs. It changes to
blue then back to white.
Thus, for the
first time, Whoso and the Family can see deep inside their cave home. What’s that on the back cave wall?
Handprints!
Red-hands!
All the Children
huddle and cuddle in fear.
Red-hands!
Later, comes a
sighting not made at night. Made mid
morning. Deep sky clear of clouds. She points it first--
See!
See silent silver
dot turn to sleek sliver in azure sky.
He and She hypnotically watch the shiny object during one whole sun
day. Flying disc shifting silver shape
almond and back to disc again. It sails
slow silent circles.
Many vivid
rememordreams of Her and the Cave and the blue Spike and the silver disc and
the twinkling colored lights and the gold crystal Honeycomb. And of Her strange No-hairs ...
No-hairs. Ah. Yes. These are the images
which provide Whoso his life's most pleasurable moments....
* * *
But now Whoso's
empty stomach vies for its share of attention!
He gazes up to fruiting branches.
Baobab gourds green, not good ... bad bread. Whoso must eat soon.
Hmm? Hunger brain wants to know
if this shady mulch might be a prime place to dig for some white worms.
Grubs good fast
food.
Whoso
squats. Presses his left thumb into the
soft soil. Sniffs and licks to
taste.
Whoso
stands.
Methodically the
old manape appraises the two meaty gemsbok.
Then manape quizzically looks back to the earth. He pokes his newly sharpened stick point
into the darkest dirt. Turns over a
small grass clump. Snorts. In its roots he sees something squirming
creamy and plump. –Why, there's
another!
Whoso smiles
broadly.
His eyes slowly
rise from the worm feast to squint across the veldt at the grazing
Tallhorns. He again looks down at the
new turned dark soil.
Milky worms
wiggling away!
Hurry.
Whoso reaches
down to grab some grubs.
A special thank you to Jak Brand for her editing
advice and review.
Homo Whoso
Copyright 2007 by Oris Bracken