Mists of Dawn (72 page)

“What
happened?
The
mammoth
.
.
.”

“Tlaxcan
and
Roqan
drove
him
back—the
whole tribe
hit
him
at
once.
He
died
fighting,
but
no
one else
was
injured.”

There
was
an
awkward
silence
then,
and
Mark
became
aware
of
the
sounds
drifting
up
from
below
the cliff—quiet
laughter,
the
low
voices
of
people
at
work, the
chip-chip
of
stone
tools.
The
world
was
curiously hushed
after
the
bedlam
of
the
hunt,
and
the
silver moon
was
already
high
in
a
sea
of
stars,
floating
in lonely
splendor
through
the
night.

“Mark?”

“Yes?”

“I—I
owe
my
life
to
you,”
Nranquar
said
haltingly. This
man
who
faced
death
without
a
tremor
was acutely
embarrassed
at
showing
his
emotions,
but
he was
trying.
“I
have
stood
in
your
way
ever
since
you came
among
us,
and
now
you
have
saved
my
life. My
life
is
yours.”

“It
is
forgotten,”
Mark
assured
him,
placing
his
hand on
Nranquar’s
shoulder.
“I
would
be
proud
to
call you
my
friend.”

“You
are
one
of
the
Danequa
now,”
Nranquar
said softly.
“You
are
my
brother.”

Mark
felt
a
thrill
go
through
him
at
the
words,
a thrill
and
a
tingling
happiness.
A
few
short
months ago—or
fifty-two
thousand
years
ago,
perhaps—these people
had
not
even
existed
as
far
as
he
was
concerned.
They
were
savages,
names
in
a
book,
dawn men
who
had
once
roamed
the
earth.
And
now
their friendship
and
approval
meant
more
to
him
than
anything
else
in
his
life.
He
did
not
spoil
the
moment with
words;
all
had
been
said
that
needed
to
be
said, and
he
knew
that
now,
whatever
happened,
the
Danequa
were
his
people,
and
he
was
one
of
them.

“Let
us
join
the
others,”
Nranquar
said
finally.
“They are
waiting
for
us.”

Following
Nranquar’s
lead,
Mark
felt
his
way
down a
path
that
led
to
the
bottom
of
the
cliff.
The
moon was
bright
and
clear,
but
they
did
not
need
it
when they
reached
the
Danequa.
Great
fires
were
burning redly
in
the
night,
and
the
delicious
smell
of
wood smoke
filled
the
air,
together
with
that
of
roasting meat.
The
Danequa
were
feasting
while
they
worked, and
they
were
tired
but
content.
Mark
noticed
that they
had
recovered
their
dead,
and
the
two
warriors they
had
lost
slept
the
final
sleep
under
a
robe
by the
fire.
Their
loss
somewhat
dampened
the
spirits
of the
Danequa,
but
there
were
no
demonstrations
of grief.
There
would
be
time
enough
for
that
when
the work
was
done.
Nor
was
this
lack
of
feeling
on
then-part,
Mark
realized.
It
was
just
that
these
people
lived with
death
at
their
side
always;
death
was
no
novelty to
them,
and
they
had
to
save
their
sorrow
for
when they
had
time
for
it.
Time
enough
to
remember
the dead
after
they
were
buried
with
their
weapons
and charms—time
enough
to
remember
the
dead
on
the long
winter
nights,
when
the
families
were
alone,
when the
spirits
howled
and
moaned
down
the
snow-driven winds.