Hope of Earth (8 page)
Authors: Piers Anthony
Both Sam and Dirk delighted in their mates, and before long both women had babies within them. This time the band was strong enough to support new children. With two grown men, hunting was good, and Ned was big enough to help them scare out game.
As both Flo and Wona grew fat with their babies, their men lost interest in sex with them. This could have been awkward, for Flo knew that grown men never lost interest in sex itself. But Dirk was devoted to Flo, and remained close to her and treated her well throughout, and Sam remained hopelessly fixed on Wona. It was apparent that neither man had any inclination to stray.
Jes, not yet a woman, took more of a hand in managing the foraging as Flo’s ability to get around diminished. Jes had had experience at the time of Flo’s first baby, so was competent. The children, remembering the hard times of the past, worked hard too. So their band of eight remained viable. In fact, Flo gained more than enough weight. This time she would not be impoverished by thé birth of her baby, and she would be competent to nurse it and care for it. She would not have to give it up, this time. That pleased her.
But she did still wonder what had happened to her firstborn. In her mind she saw the baby growing into a beautiful child, with hair as black and glossy as obsidian, and with dark eyes in which knowledge of the spirits lurked. A pretty child, who would surely one day be a beautiful woman, and nice in personality. A perfect child; a joy to her family. One who would always make a good impression.
Flo found herself crying, as she usually did when thinking of her first baby. She knew that the girl was probably ordinary, if she survived at all. But Flo’s fancy was free to picture her as ideal, and the image would not fade. She hoped that whatever family had her was a good one, that would appreciate her and love her. As Flo would have, had she been able.
The time of birthing came. Wona was first, which was not surprising considering Sam’s eagerness to have at her. She did not want Sam near for the occasion, and Sam, incompetent in any such matter, was satisfied to go out hunting with Dirk and Ned. Flo and Jes attended her, and it was just as well that they had experience, because Wona was difficult to deal with. She screeched constantly in pain when her belly contracted, and accused the two of them of making it worse. She didn’t want them to touch her, but she couldn’t seem to get the baby out by herself. In fact it was as if she didn’t want to part with it; she closed her legs and said she had changed her mind. But she couldn’t stop the contractions. Finally Flo and Jes consulted, then acted together. Flo caught Wona’s arms and held them up over her head so they could not get in the way, and Jes used her feet and hands to wedge Wona’s legs apart and keep them that way. Jes kneeled, watching for the baby, and then took careful hold of its head and pulled it slowly out. Wona’s screams must have echoed to the camps of the neighboring bands. But they got the baby, and cut its cord. It was already crying, but could hardly be heard above Wona’s cries. Then Jes lifted it clear, and got out from between Wona’s legs, and the legs closed again, as if not aware that what they had enclosed was already out.
Flo let go of Wona’s arms. “Done,” she said. “Girl.” Jes was cleaning the baby off with moss and rocking her to try to quiet the crying.
Wona’s eyes narrowed.
“Girl?
Boy.”
She might want a boy, but she couldn’t change what she had. “Girl,” Flo said firmly.
Jes brought the baby to her, and they finally prevailed on Wona to let her nurse. But the woman was scowling. She blamed them for letting a girl be born.
Sam was thrilled. He said the baby looked just like her mother. He named her Wilda. He held her and carried her around with him for some time, displaying a devotion that surprised the others. But of course he had never had a baby before, so there had been no chance for him to show such a side.
When the moon cycled back to a similar form, Flo bore her own baby. Wona was nowhere near, which was just as well. Jes attended her, and so did Dirk, and the birthing was easier than the first one had been. Flo neither screamed nor protested, as a matter of pride, and soon had a baby boy.
She was almost disappointed, because she had hoped for a girl just like the one she had lost. But a boy was good too.
“Good,” Dirk agreed. “Flint.”
“Flint,” Flo agreed as she nursed him. Dirk had done what Sam had, and given a name similar in its initial sound to that of the mother. It was a compliment.
Dirk was no less devoted to Flint than Sam was to Wilda, though he didn’t carry him around a lot. Instead he did his best to facilitate Flo’s caring for him, bringing her everything she needed. But she did not need much; she had been through this before, and experience was a wonderful guide. How glad she was that she could keep this one!.
Thus the triple ploy: sex appeal, romantic love, and attachment. Instead of putting out pheromones to compel the service of all males in the vicinity at the time of ovulation, as most animals did, the prehuman woman shifted to visual signals and reversed her reproductive strategy, actually concealing her moment of fertility. This was not done to make her sexually unapproachable, as most animals are to their mates most of the time, but the opposite: to make her continuously appealing. Developed breasts became objects of sexual interest, as did the fleshy buttocks and the outline of her body. (Some disagree, believing that only the fact that these parts are normally covered makes them of interest. Nudist camps go far toward nullifying the appeal of concealment. But most men of most cultures are definitely turned on by the firm flesh of young women, and “peepers” do spy on nudists. Why bother to cover those parts in warm weather, if they are not critical?) This meant that a given male did not have to shop among a dozen females to indulge his chronic sexual appetite; he could be satisfied by a single woman, who could accommodate him any time or all the time; there was no limit. That was the carrot. There was also the stick: if he did travel between females, he could not be sure of siring offspring with any, because no one could tell when it would take. In fact, if he spent time with one, but left her alone for a day, some other male might come and fertilize her that one time—and that one would take. So there was no way to be sure of impregnating a given woman except to remain with her all the time, allowing no other man access to her. And if he couldn’t leave her even briefly, how could he go out to sire anything with any other woman? He was locked in. Thus love: complete devotion to one partner, even when she becomes temporarily sexually unappealing in the advanced stages of pregnancy. Such love may seem exhilarating, but nature has a cynical agenda, leading the polygamous male to monogamy, lest his line die out. A contemporary study indicates that such romance typically loses half its force in eighteen months, and most of it in about four years—just long enough for the woman to conceive, géstate, bear, and nurse the resulting baby. Which means that the father gets to know his offspring before his infatuation with the mother fades. Such acquaintance leads to commitment, which is a different kind of love. It has no sexual component, but can be quite strong; men will commonly risk their lives to protect their children, once they know them. Even if their relationship to the mother breaks up, their commitment to their children can remain. Thanks to the triple ploy. Current research indicates that there are actual hormones in the brain that govern these stages; it is not mere imagination. Nature leaves little to chance. Of course women too can be interested in sex, and fall in love, but their commitment to their children always existed, perhaps a woman’s strongest emotion; it is the men the triple ploy evolved to handle. It is the men who are most dazzled by sex, and who plunge most heedlessly into love. Even with modern intelligence and knowledge of consequences, men are still governed by it. This is shown also by its negative aspects: prostitution, rape, stalking, abuse, and murder of a given woman, rather than lose her. A man may throw away his career and life, because of his unwise fascination with a woman who wishes to separate from him. Love is a two-edged sword, and extremely powerful. Sex, love, attachment: there is little else like the triple ploy.
One possibly confusing sidelight: Homo erectus at this time developed a sophisticated stone tool tradition, notably the Acheulean chipped hand axes, that served him in good stead for more than a million years. Flint was a prime material for this. Thus the name of one character. But as it happens, no Acheulean tools have been found in east Asia, because Erectus migrated there before their invention. Flint as a stone existed, however, so the name is not actually a mismatch, though in this volcanic region obsidian would have been preferred.
A
RMS
R
ACE
The prior volumes assumed that mankind had an aquatic stage, which was when the fur was lost and women became permanently breasted. This volume assumes that there was no water stage, and that breastedness was an aspect of the female family strategy. The increasing size of the brain drove the species to shed the last of his fur, to make his cooling system as efficient as it could be. But this leads to some questions. What happened when the weather got cold? This must have been the original reason for clothing: to replace the warming effect of the lost fur. But that stage would not have been necessary if the brain had not continued to increase, forcing such an extraordinary measure. Why did that brain keep growing far beyond the point required for efficient survival? For the capacities of the brain of modern mankind, which are still being explored, developed when he was primitive. It seems like vast overkill, for the life he led at the time. But nature does not waste her energy. There had to be a compelling reason. And there was: the arms race. The setting is the southern end of the Great Rift Valley of Africa, 150,000 years ago.
T
HEY SAW THE CURL OF
smoke in the sky ahead, and veered to intercept its source. Fortunately there was a good side path leading that way, for they were in unfamiliar territory. Small smoke on a clear day, in contrast to large smoke, was a sure sign of a human being, and they were looking for a band in this vicinity with which to trade.
It turned out to be a boy of about ten, three years younger than Ned. He was tending a small fire, over which he was roasting a tough root. He stood as the two of them approached. He seemed to have a bad scar across his forehead, as if he had been burned there and the color had not faded. They stopped at a respectful distance, and Ned spoke. “Here is Ned,” he said, enunciating each word carefully as he tapped himself. “Here is Jes.” He tapped his sibling on the shoulder. He did not identify her as female, as she normally concealed her gender from strangers. She was tall, bony, and homely, like a man, so this was more comfortable for her, and safer.
“Here is Blaze,” the boy said, tapping his chest. “Blaze make fire,” he added with pride.
“Pot make fire,” Ned said, showing he understood. Fire was hard to make, but easy to keep, if a person nested it in sand and dry moss to keep an ember going. So each band had its cultivated hearth, where the fire never quite went out. When it was time to cook something, the fire tender would bring dry leaves or grass and blow on the ember, and get a flame from it. When the fire had to be moved, they would pack an ember with its sand in a hollow stone and carry it. It was surprising, however, to entrust such a responsibility to a child.
“Blaze make fire,” the boy insisted. “See.” He got down on the ground, where he had several fragments of stone. He lifted one and banged it against another, making a spark fly.
This was intriguing. Could he really make fire without an ember? Ned and Jes got down on the ground and watched closely.
Blaze made a little pile of very fine dry moss, then banged his rocks together so that more sparks flew. At first they missed the pile or faded out before reaching it, but then one landed directly in it and made a little scorch mark. It was possible!
“Blaze make fire,” Ned agreed, impressed. “More sparks will make a fire.”
The boy glanced at him, perplexed.
Ned realized that he had spoken too quickly. Some people could not distinguish fast sounds, and some did not understand tense. He repeated what he had said, this time carefully separating each word.
Blaze broke into a smile, understanding. “Blaze make fire,” he said once more. “Many sparks.”
It took many sparks to accomplish it, because of their random nature, Ned saw. But the principle was there. “Show Ned make fire,” he said.
Blaze hesitated.
Jes brought out a swatch of fiber net. She stretched it between her hands, showing how it was flexible yet strong, its strands intricately looped to form patterns of circles. Such netting was precious, because few women knew how to do it this way. Their family had learned to harvest, cure, and soften certain tough vines so that they were thin and flexible even when dried out, and could be woven into durable nets. “Trade,” she said. “Net—make fire.”
Blaze smiled, delighted. Maybe he had simply wondered whether they were serious. Now they had shown they were, for a trade deal was a serious matter.
