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23.
Soon, he thought, he must begin to venture off this rock.
Also, he must have fire. In anticipation of whatever tiny spark he managed to make, he created the means to capture it. On a boulder that had no water puddles, he placed three stones the size of his head. Over this he placed the largest flat rock he could find. This would be the most important spot in his world—its Los Alamos, where he would harness fire.
Under this primitive rain shelter, he built a small chamber out of pieces of slate that he stood upright and topped off with another piece of slate. He kept one upright aside as a little door. There would be plenty of draft through there, but in a high wind he could block it somewhat. He must maintain a steady flow of air without letting his tinder burn itself out. He collected straw and bits of dry wood. He was overjoyed to find a huge tree that had been clipped by lightning and was full of charcoal. If he could create a fire, he thought, he could also create more charcoal. It would be a primitive variety, not the refined product of an industrial kiln, but it would burn reasonably well if dry. The driest place on the cliff was in his shelter, so he took an armload of charcoal there.
It took him hours of sitting patiently, clicking rocks together, rubbing wood until it was hot enough to sting his fingers. His back ached, and his arms and hands were raw. He also had several disappointments, where he got a little smoke, but in his anxiety his breath blew the fire out instead of creating a flame.
By the end of the second day, he had created a small bow, using a strip of hide from his coat, and a foot-long sapling. He found a straight stick about a foot long, whose end he rubbed into a point. He twisted it into his bow and placed the point of the stick into a depression in a tree log. He surrounded this with the finest tinder, including an abandoned bird’s nest. Then, steadying the stick in a fold of his coat, he ran the bow back and forth for a long time until smoke began to puff up. He blew into the tinder gently, and whooped when tender little tongues of yellowish fire curled up. Quickly he added more tinder, then coarser tinder, until he had a dry limb whose end was aflame. This he took to his little chamber on the rock, and lit the charcoal within. He had to douse the fire in the log with sand, so that the whole cliff would not go up in flames. Now he had his fire! With the bow and stick, he could make fire as often as he needed.
Now he’d begin cooking. He built a campfire not far from his shelter, in a depression surrounded by round rocks. Here he laid by a heap of dry wood and got a regular fire going. He found two Y-shaped sticks and sank them into the ground on either side of the fire, and across this he laid a long, straight stick: his spit!
He made himself a spear from a small, green sapling that he cut down using a sharp rock. He rubbed its point sharp, and then hardened it in the fire. Now he went hunting for a chicken. The matter was done quickly, and it was a bit gruesome, but it was necessary for his survival. Having speared a chicken, and finished it off with a rock, he carried it back to his campsite. He plucked all the feathers off (a tedious job). He cut it open and carefully removed the organs associated with waste, to avoid poisoning the whole innards. He was so hungry that he did nothing more to prepare the bird. He stuck the spit through it and roasted it over the fire. After an hour or so, during which he sat in great anticipation, and during which fat dripped down into the fire and rose in sparks, leaving a greasy smell in the air, he was ready—and he was not disappointed. This was the first meat he’d ever eaten, and he gorged himself. He knew he could not store the excess, and that poultry could become poisonous quickly, so he ate until he threw up. His stomach was not yet producing the enzymes required to digest meat, and it would not accept any more for now. Yet he felt good after drinking some water, and surely some of the meat stayed down. Also, from the way the fat burned, he knew he had another source of fuel.
He was pleased with his progress. Now he had fire, and meat, and water, and he was dry—but never warm enough. He was afraid to build a fire in the shelter, lest it asphyxiate him. He was surprised, however, how much longer he stayed dry when he went to sleep with a full stomach. Early mornings, before dawn, were still the worst—He huddled and shivered desperately for several hours until the sun came out to warm him.
Then came the rainy day he’d been dreading. He sat in his shelter, dodging one leak after another, but the main mass of it held, or he would have died from cold. He shivered all day long, and the night was so terrible that he got up in the dark and hobbled about in order to burn some energy. He waited, minute by painful minute, until at long last the sun, taking its time, laid a gray line across the horizon, and then its yellow ball rose, and he just kept walking in circles, mumbling hysterically and shivering, until its warmth began to bring his temperature up. This had only been a mild foretaste. Autumn and winter were yet to come, and he had no idea what the weather would be like at this latitude in this epoch. Life was not worth living this way. He must foray out to do battle with the world. He must learn somehow to work around the rippers and whatever other enemies he might have.
Immediately he set to work, building his arsenal.
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