The Yellow Man
The tribe sat in their cave, glaring at the firepit. The remains of a boar still cooked themselves upon the flame. There was enough food there for most of them to be satisfied, and for the rest to hungrily covet. Nobody moved. Nobody dared move. In spite of their hunger, the Yellow Man was there.
The Yellow Man had come in hot times. Now that it was growing cold, they had become accustomed to him. He was naked, like them, except for the furs that he’d laid claim to.
The hunters hadn’t liked him at all when he had come. Their atavistic instincts were clear: He was one more mouth that would try to take from their kills. Their half-formed reasoning power told them that he was foreign and to be feared. They had tried to bash him with their clubs until he stopped moving, like any other animal. They had tried, and their clubs had smashed themselves into uselessness against his head. He was unfazed by the attack. He didn’t even fight back, which left instinct at a hopeless loss and by its very unfathomable nature obliged them to what passed among the tribe for logic. He didn’t want to fight them, said reason, because if he did, he would fight, and any man who didn’t die like a normal animal would win.
So they tolerated him, and waited to see what he did.
The Yellow Man, it turned out, never went on hunts. He took no part in the killing of game. This, the tribe knew, meant weakness. He was clearly as fit as anyone among them, and probably even more so. Soon they noticed that he ate nothing and took nothing of their kills. What’s more, they discovered that there was one time when he would fight. He fought when game returned and the hunters and warriors started to make their play for the choicest pieces. At those times he would throw men away like a child throwing rocks. Reason hadn’t yet suggested the idea that they try together; instinct sufficed here, and simply hurling themselves at him was as much as they managed to attempt.
The Yellow Man subdued many hunters the first night. Then he did something strange. He divided the kill up, calmly picking it apart, casually distributing shares to everyone. Young and old, weak and strong, child and adult, everyone had something to eat. He did the same with the water supply.
This, of course, meant that the hunters had to find a way to kill him. They stayed awake after nightfall, feigning sleep under their furs. When the moon was high in the sky, they came for the Yellow Man, and discovered also that he did not sleep. He fought them off effortlessly, showing no signs of fatigue despite the hour. And when dawn came, they found him still awake. For three days the hunters would keep themselves up and watch him, stabbing their arms with sharpened tusks and using the pain as a stimulant. But still he stayed relentlessly conscious, watching them.
He took nothing at all. He gave nothing back, except food to the weak. Gradually the hunters realized that they couldn’t keep him away. He wanted no part of the tribe’s food and had no interest in its women. He was simply determined that all should have an equal share. It was madness, but he was unstoppable by any force at the tribe’s command. They could do nothing but honor it.
Time passed. The world became cold and hot and cold again, and the children grew. They knew the Yellow Man well. They knew his ways, and they learned from them. They watched his face as they grew older and he stayed unchanging and eternal. And their children, too, knew the Yellow Man.
The hunters of the third generation shared with their tribe. They knew no other way. To them, the Yellow Man was a strange figure who simply watched them. They knew nothing of his strength or power. They knew nothing of his unnatural invulnerability. He simply watched, and smiled. And one day, he was gone.
Comments
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good read...love stories of tribal hunts and primitive ways of life...every play Myth?mmorpg about 1 month later:
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Can't say I did, sorry :)Bill Garrett 4 months later:
