299,525 BCE – 299,405 BCE | Episodes 97–120

The rain's cycle went mad. Three seasons became one, and one season split into three. Riverbeds appeared, wetlands dried, forests became grasslands. The paths of beasts changed. The movements of people changed too.

Shaping stone. The skin on the right thumb grew thick. A deep groove formed on the left index finger. Blood blisters burst, swelled again, burst again. Only the sound of scraping could be heard.

More groups gathered at the water sources. Seven, eight, countless numbers. The faces of those who came from afar were unfamiliar. Their tools were different. Their ways of shaping stone were different. They remained wary. Kept their distance. But water was necessary.

When shaping, time became unknowable. Even as the sun declined, the shaping continued. Even as the fire grew dim, the shaping continued. Even as others slept, the shaping continued. It felt like fleeing from something through the shaping.

The old ones vanished. No footprints or droppings could be found. Only the sound of wind echoed in the caves. Only people remained. People had no choice but to face each other. Tension mounted.

The right shoulder ached. Lifting the arm became painful. Still, the shaping continued. The method changed. Supporting the stone with the left hand, striking with the right. The sound changed. The rhythm changed. The shapes that emerged also changed.

Smoke rose from a distant valley. A fire. The forest burned. Animals fled toward them. Deer, boar, small creatures. People followed the beasts in their migration. Prey increased. But the sky grew hazy with smoke.

Collecting the fragments of shaped stone. Not discarding even the smallest pieces. Using them in combination. Embedding small stones into large ones. New forms emerged. Tools never seen before came into being.

Skirmishes between groups increased. Shoving at water sources. Fighting over prey. Some threw stones. Some drew blood. But it never became killing. Not yet, not that far.

Good stone for shaping grew scarce. Walking far in search of quality stone. Walking one day, two days, three days. Some days yielded nothing. Some days brought discovery. The days of finding nothing became more frequent.

The right shoulder aches. Lifting the arm is painful. Changed the way of carving. Supporting the stone with the left hand, striking with the right. The sound changes. The rhythm changes. The carved shape changed too.

Gathering fragments. Not discarding even the small ones. Combining them. Embedding small stones into large ones. New shapes emerge. Tools unlike any seen before.

The wrist trembles. Carved too much. But cannot stop. Walking far in search of good stones. One day, two days, three days. More days without finding than with.

At the watering place, a scuffle began. With another group. Gripped stones. Did not throw them. The others did not throw either. Glared at each other. The others withdrew. Drank water. It was bitter.

Smoke covered the sky. The forest is burning. Animals came fleeing. Deer, boar, small beasts. People moved too. Prey increased. But breathing is difficult from the smoke.

Running out of stones to carve. The trembling in the wrist will not stop. But carving continues. Keep carving. Combining fragments. Making new tools. Still do not know how to use them.

My right shoulder aches. It's painful to raise my arm. I changed how I carve. My left hand supports the stone, my right strikes it. The sound changes. The rhythm changes. The shape that emerges has changed too.

I gather the fragments. I don't discard even the small ones. I combine them. I embed small stones into larger ones. New forms take shape. Tools I've never seen before.

My wrist trembles. I carved too much. But I cannot stop. I walk far in search of good stones. One day, two days, three days. More often than not, I find nothing.

There was pushing at the watering place. With another group. I gripped a stone. I didn't throw it. Neither did they. We glared at each other. They withdrew. I drank the water. It was bitter.

Smoke covered the sky. The forest is burning. Animals came fleeing. Deer, boar, small beasts. People moved too. Prey increased. But the smoke makes breathing difficult.

I'm running out of stones to carve. The trembling in my wrist won't stop. But I carve. I continue carving. I combine the fragments. I make new tools. I don't yet know how to use them.

Hands trembling. Trying to chip the stone, but the fragments won't fly properly. Gripping the handle of the assembled tool, fingers lacking strength.

Sitting down. Knees aching. Back curved and won't straighten. But still chipping. Continuing to chip. Gathering the fragments, arranging them, searching for a form. A new tool. A tool never before seen.

Breathing shallow. Chest heavy. But still moving the hands. The sound of striking stone has grown weak. The fragments have grown small. Still chipping.

Setting the assembled tool on the ground. Trying to stand, then falling. Lying down. Looking at the sky. Smoke obscures the sun. But it's bright.

Breathing about to stop. Starting again. About to stop. Starting again.

A stone fragment in the hand. Gripping it, not letting go. Fingers growing rigid.

Breathing stopped.

The stone in my hand feels warm. I don't know why it's warm. When I grip it, my fingers move. I strike the stone. Fragments fly. They fly sharper than usual.

Something has changed. Different from yesterday and all the days before.

In the distance, a herd of the old ones is moving. They leave large footprints. A group of people follows behind, keeping their distance. The struggle over water sources continues.

I stand up. My feet feel light. My back has straightened. I carve the stone. I look at the carved fragments. I can see shapes. Shapes I have never made before.

A child was born in another group. The mother collapsed from exhaustion. An elder tends to her. The birth cry was carried away by the wind and vanished. One of those who went out hunting has not returned.

I combine the stone fragments. I bind them to a wooden stick. A new tool. It fits well in my hand. When I lift it, it cuts through the air with a sound. I don't yet know what this can do.

The climate grows unstable. Either too much rain falls, or none at all. The river's water level changes suddenly. Days pass without finding food. Half the group moved to another place.

I walk carrying the tool. My footsteps are light. My body moves differently than before. When I find stones, ways to carve them float into my mind. My hands move on their own.

The body of one of the old ones was found. It bears wounds. Wounds made by tools crafted by people. No one knows who did this. Tension spreads through the group. The watch has increased.

At night, I gaze at the tool before the fire. What shall I do with this tomorrow? Hunt? Cut wood? Or create something else entirely? I fall asleep while thinking.

Strikes stone. It chips. Strikes again. The hands remember.

When rain falls, enters the cave. Carries stone inside. Even in darkness the hands move. Only the sound of chipping can be heard.

Observes tools made by tribe members. The shape differs from their own. Allowed to touch them. The weight is different. Changes grip.

When drinking from the river, sees stones settled on the bottom. Picks up those with good form. Wet stones chip more easily.

Encountered a tribe of old ones. Both maintain distance. They too carry tools. The shapes resemble those made by humans. They gaze at each other. The others were first to leave.

At night, examines tools by firelight. Light strikes the blade portion. Sharpness reflects in the eyes. Tomorrow will cut something with this.

When chasing prey, raises the tool high. The sound of cutting wind. The body feels light. Feet swift.

Split the stone. It becomes two. It becomes four. Until it fits in the palm of the hand.

Some begin to leave the herd. Over how to make tools. Those who will not yield their own methods. They form new herds and depart. Watch them go. Do not wave.

Search for stones by the riverside. Well-shaped ones. Those that seem easy to split. Wet stones feel familiar in the hand. When dry, they have a different texture.

Met the ancient people's herd again. This time they approached. Show each other's tools. Let each other touch them. The making methods are similar. Who taught whom? Who imitated whom?

At night, cut meat with the carved stone. It cuts well. When it hits bone, the edge chips. Carve the chipped part again. The stone grows smaller.

The children have begun picking up stones. Striking them, imitating the adults. It doesn't go well. They cut their fingers. Blood flows. Still they continue.

When chasing prey, the thrown stone struck true. Rush to the fallen beast's side. Finish it with the carved stone. Blood adheres to the stone. Wipe it clean. Use it again.

Carve stone beside the fire. The fire's heat warms the stone. It becomes easier to carve. Or is that imagination? Have the hands simply grown accustomed?

Split the stone. It becomes two. It becomes four. Until it fits in the palm of a hand.

Some began to leave the group. Over how to make tools. Those who would not yield their methods. They formed new groups and departed. We watched them go. We did not wave.

Searching for stones by the riverside. Those with good shape. Those that seemed easy to split. Wet stones fit comfortably in the hand. When they dry, they feel different.

We encountered the old people's group again. This time they approached us. We showed each other our tools. Let each other touch them. The making methods were similar. Who had taught whom? Who had imitated whom?

At night, cutting meat with the sharpened stone. It cuts well. When it hits bone, the blade chips. I sharpen the chipped part again. The stone grows smaller.

The children began picking up stones. Striking them in imitation of adults. It doesn't go well. They cut their fingers. Blood flows. Still they continue.

When hunting prey, a thrown stone hit its mark. I ran to the fallen beast's side. Finished it with the sharpened stone. Blood sticks to the stone. I wipe it clean. Use it again.

Sharpening stone beside the fire. The fire's heat warms the stone. It becomes easier to sharpen. Or is this imagination? Perhaps only my hands have grown accustomed.

The river water receded. New stones appeared. Colors I had never seen before. I picked one up. Heavy. It would not split when struck.

When the river water receded, an unfamiliar stone appeared. Heavy and hard. It would not break when struck.

Held it in hand. Warm. Different from other stones.

The young ones in the group showed interest. The old ones shook their heads. They were wary of unfamiliar things.

The one would not let go of the stone. The reason was unclear. It felt right in hand. That was all.

Breathing grew shallow.

Lying down while still holding the stone. The members of the group watched over. A line of red powder remained on the back of the hand.

A young one brought water. Held it to the lips. Could not swallow. It spilled from the corner of the mouth.

Eyes closed. Opened. The sky was visible.

The weight of the stone disappeared from the chest. Someone had taken it. No longer understood.

Breathing stopped.

The members of the group waited for a while. No movement. Growing cold.

The young one picked up the red stone. Tried drawing a line. The same color appeared.

I wake at the base of a tree.
Stone pressed against my back. I move my neck. Pain.

I stand.
My legs tremble. Yesterday too. The day before.
I walk.

I find water.
Cup it in my hands. Drink.
Once more.

Sweet.
It lingers on my tongue. Why sweet?
I cup again. The same sweetness.

Someone groans in the distance.
I stop. Listen.
A different way of groaning. An unknown voice.

I do not approach.
I leave the water. Keep walking.

I kick a stone. The sound of rolling.
Kick again. A different sound.
I pick it up. Light. A hole runs through it.

I blow breath through it. Sound emerges.
Again. A high note.
I carry it as I walk.

I hide in tree shadow.
Someone passes. Heavy footsteps.
I hold my breath.

They pass.
I walk again. Still gripping the stone.

I reach a cliff top.
Look down. Smoke rises.
I see flames. People are there.

I blow breath through the stone. The sound echoes.
Those below look up.
They run away.

Many seasons passed.

The coughing wouldn't stop.
Blood mixed in. His throat burned with pain.
He spat red into his palm and stared at it.

His companions kept their distance.
Only his mother came close, setting down a bowl of water. Warm hands touched his forehead.

Sleepless nights continued.
With each breath, his chest grew heavy. His heart beat irregularly.

He curled up in the depths of the cave.
The voices from outside grew distant. Children's laughter, the low murmurs of adults around the fire.

His mother's hand stroked his cheek.
He wanted to remember the weight of that touch.

His breathing grew shallow.
His chest stopped rising and falling.

He closed his eyes.

It was a year when much water flowed. The earth was soft, and the root vegetables grew thick. The beasts too were plump and well-fed, and the number of people who gathered doubled.

The one was carving stone. In those hands, the stone fragment changed shape. It became a blade. It became a point. Someone would use it. It would pass into someone's hands.

Yet even as the belly filled, the body grew lighter.

In the morning, it took time to rise. At midday, the hands trembled. At evening, there was coughing. At night, there was no sleep. Morning came again. Rising was no longer possible.

Lying down, the one touched stone. Still could carve. Still could make. Only the fingertips moved.

Voices sounded nearby. Gestures could be seen. Someone approached. Moved away. Approached again.

The stone left those hands.

Someone picked it up.

Breathing grew shallow.

Eyes closed. Opened. Closed again.

Did not open.

Someone else was shaping stone. Gazing at the glinting stone fragment.

A male's cry could be heard. People coming from across the river. Many of them. Holding sticks in their hands. Rising to feet as well. Gripping the stone tight.

Running. Feet kicking against the ground. Breathing growing rough. Voices pursuing from behind. Angry voices.

Hiding in the thicket. Leaves touching the face. The heart's sound loud. Footsteps drawing near. Passing by. Growing distant again.

Not moving for a while. An insect crawling up the arm. Brushing it away.

Standing up. The stone fragment in the hand. Glinting. Beautiful. But because of this, being chased.

Throwing it into the river. The sound of water. Ripples spreading. Disappearing.

Turning around, another glinting stone lay at the feet.

Mist pools in the valley, and morning light illuminates only the ridges. The southern group is moving. About ten more than yesterday. Smoke rises from three locations, each sitting facing a different direction.

The sound of striking stone echoes rhythmically. This one's hands have grown more certain than five years ago. They know where the chips should fall. The body remembers the angle of the blade. The teacher only nods now, no longer guiding with touch.

The river's water level has dropped, revealing new stones on the sandbar. Good quality stones. But the southern ones see the same. For three days now their footprints have remained along the riverbank. They have not yet crossed.

This one goes with the teacher to select stones. They stop at the shallows leading to the sandbar. Eyes are felt from the opposite shore. Countless gazes meet across the water's surface. No one steps into the water.

The wind direction has changed. The scent from the south grows stronger. Burned meat, medicinal herbs, and something unknown. The group's smell is changing. Have new ones joined, or has something else shifted?

The teacher makes a small growl. This one responds with the same sound. The two move away from the river and search for stones elsewhere. But the good stones are on the sandbar. Everyone knows this.

At night, the southern fires appear larger than before. Their number has increased too. They are preparing something. The sound of grinding stone mingles with the wind. The same sound echoes from this side.

This one continues making stone tools. With each movement of the hands, something accumulates. Not just skill. Something else. Though incomprehensible, it builds with certainty.

Near the end of the fifth winter, something unusual occurred. A woman from the southern group crossed the river. In her hands she carried a stone tool. Its shape was different from the way they were made here.

The third season was coming to an end. The rain did not come.

A half-carved stone remained in the palm. The fragment that should have become a blade had already lost its form. Fingertips traced the edge. It was not sharp.

Days of walking in search of water. The soles of feet were cracked, with dried traces of blood. The backs of companions grew distant. Could not stand up.

Sitting still, gazing up at the sky. There were no clouds. The sun passed overhead, and shadows grew long.

The throat was parched. The tongue was thick, unable to swallow saliva.

The stone tool was placed upon the knees. Someone would pick it up. Someone would continue carving.

Wind brushed across the cheek. Eyes closed.

They did not open.

Away from the group.

Huddled against a rock outcropping, knees drawn up. The sounds of conflict echoed in the distance, but there was no looking that way. A small grass had sprouted at the feet. It would not wither even when frost fell.

A hand reached out, touching it gently.

There was warmth.

On the day snow piled up to the knees, the one left the cave.

The others in the group huddled around the fire in the depths. The share of prey was small. The meat that came to the one was only the meager portions clinging to bone. Still, the belly rumbled.

Walking with feet sinking into snow. Each step sinking deep, requiring strength to pull free. Breath puffed white and quickly vanished.

Approaching the river ice. The surface was thickly frozen, and beneath could be heard the sound of flowing water. There might be fish. Striking with a stone. The ice would not crack. Struck again. The hand went numb.

Looking back, footprints continued through the snow. The one's own footprints. Beside them were other footprints.

Looked up. No one there.

Placed a hand on the footprint. The size was the same as the one's own. The depth the same. But the shape was slightly different. The toe marks were unclear, and the heel part was shallow.

Standing up and walking. Looking back, more footprints had appeared. The one's own, and another.

Wind blew. Snow swirled up and buried part of the footprints. But they did not disappear completely.

The one continued walking. The footprints continued too.

By the time of returning to the cave, snow had begun to fall. All the footprints were buried.

But the one remembered. That someone had walked alongside.

The one sat in the depths of the cave, knees drawn to chest. The coughing would not stop. The taste of blood spread through the mouth. Outside, wind struck against stone.

Four days without eating. Fell while trying to drink water. Could no longer rise.

The companions had moved to another cave. Only the one remained. No one looked back. That was the way of things.

Pressed hand against the rock wall, trying to stand. No strength left in the legs. Sank down again. Breath shallow.

The fire had died two days ago. The ashes cold. The one reached out, grasping the ashes. They spilled through the fingers.

The sound of wind outside grew distant. The depths of the cave became quiet.

The one's eyes slowly closed.

Kneeling at the river's edge. The sound of flowing water. Cupping water in the palms. Cold. Taking it into the mouth.

A face reflects on the water's surface. Two eyes. One nose. One mouth. It looks as it always does. But today is different. Something is different.

For a long time, gazing at that face. Water falls through the gaps between fingers. Cupping water again. Looking again.

The face's outline wavers. Ripples spread. Perhaps a fish jumped. Perhaps the wind blew.

Standing up. Footsteps treading on stones. Turning around. The water's surface grows quiet again. The face reflects again.

Beginning to walk. Stopping after a few steps. Turning around again. Looking at the water's surface. The same face is there.

Heading toward the group. Smoke from the fire is visible. The smell of someone roasting meat. The belly rumbles.

But the feet are heavy. Turning around many times. The river's sound grows distant. Thinking about the face reflected on the water's surface.

Why continue looking at that face? It was the same face as always. But something was different. What was different?

I don't know. I don't know, but I cannot forget.

The stone is heavy in the hand. Carving. Carving again. The blade chips.

No food for three days. Yesterday only water. Today nothing.

The group went far away. To search for food. The one cannot walk. The foot is swollen. Sitting still, carving stone. Continuing to carve.

The sun tilts. No one returns.

The stone tool is complete. A beautiful blade. No one sees. No one will use it. Placing it on the knee.

Night comes. Cold. No fire. No kindling. The one grips the stone tool. It is not warm.

Morning does not come.

The stone tool falls from the one's hand. No sound. Because it falls on grass.

Breathing grows shallow. Grows shallow.

Wind blows. Caresses the one's hair.

And then silence.

Sitting atop high rock. Knees drawn up. Wind brushing across cheek.

The distant smoke had grown thicker. Thicker than yesterday. Drawing nearer.

Standing. Calling down toward the cave below. Low. Long. Sound of warning.

Companions lifting their faces. Looking toward the smoke. Those holding stones. Those cradling children. Those guarding fire.

Sitting on the rock again. Continuing to watch.

Something small leaped at the feet. An insect. Grass to grass. Light. Never stopping. To move like that.

Reaching out. The insect leaped away. But that way of leaping. Could not leave mind.

Night came. Time to change watch. Descending.

Sleeping in the cave depths. Even in dreams, something was leaping. Through grass. Over stones. Beyond water.

Morning. Atop the rock again. Smoke even closer.

Today one companion came alongside. Watching together. Pointing. Nodding.

Midday. The insect appeared again. Two this time. Different ways of leaping. One high. One far.

Evening. Shadows visible beneath the smoke. Walking things. Number unclear. But certainly walking.

Night. Cannot sleep. Remembering how the insect leaped. Leaping high. Leaping far. The way of leaping when escaping.

Tomorrow. The smoke will draw closer still.