299,405 BCE – 299,285 BCE | Episodes 121–144

Over five years, boundaries became unclear.

At the eastern edge of the beginning lands, two groups met more frequently. One that carved stone, kept fires burning, and painted in caves. The other shorter in stature, with prominent brow ridges, speaking in different sounds.

Exchange had begun. Meat and stone. Fur and fire-seed. Sometimes children too. Though words didn't connect, intentions passed through hand movements.

Yet tensions existed. Skirmishes at water sources. Overlapping hunting grounds. At times blood was spilled.

In the northern foothills, a new cave was discovered. Spacious, with water nearby. Both groups desired it. No one lives there now. They watch each other.

The climate was gentle. Rain fell adequately, game was abundant. Both groups increased in number. Many children were born, more survived to adulthood.

But abundance bred new problems. Insufficient foraging grounds. Insufficient dwelling places. Young ones wandering in search of new lands.

At twilight, smoke sometimes rises from distant mountains. New fire. New groups. Whose, remains unknown.

Watchers report. Different footprints. Different tool marks. On this land, no longer just two groups.

A time of change approaches.

The wind changed.

The wind covering the primordial land carried a different scent than before. Not the scent of beasts. Not the scent of blood. It was the scent of something burning.

Smoke rose from beyond the ridge. Thin and straight. And from another ridge as well. From another valley too. Dots of smoke stretched into the sky. Each from a distant place. Each equally thin.

Those who saw the smoke began to move.

The group in the valley floor started packing their belongings. They carried children on their backs and took the hands of the elderly. They went down along the river. The group in the rocky shelter withdrew deep into their cave. They piled stones at the entrance. The group on the hill took up weapons. They sharpened spears. They gathered stones.

The smoke increased further. In the distance. And in yet more distant places.

It was a number of smoke columns never seen before. It exceeded the number of groups that had been known until now. There were new ones. Where had they come from? Why now?

The river water grew murky. Something was happening upstream. Fish floated to the surface. Birds stopped singing. Even at night, no howling could be heard.

Each time the wind changed direction, the smell of smoke grew thicker. Mixed with the scent of burning wood was something else. A sweet smell. A rotten smell. Unknown smells.

There were nights when the stars could not be seen. Smoke covered the sky. The moon was hidden too. In the darkness, only footsteps echoed. Multiple footsteps. Many footsteps. Footsteps whose origin could not be determined.

When morning came, there were tracks. Unknown tracks. Different in size. Different in stride. Different claw marks. Tracks of something that was not human. But tracks resembling human ones.

Blood mixed into the water source. Whose blood, no one knew. Seeing the red water, the beasts fled as well. Herds of elephants headed north. Herds of deer disappeared to the east. Birds of prey vanished from the sky.

The boundaries between groups became ambiguous. Those who fled and those who pursued. Those who hid and those who searched. Those who raised weapons and those who raised their hands. Who was ally and who was enemy could no longer be determined.

Screams were heard in the middle of the night. Screams resembling human cries, but not human screams. Long, low screams that echoed endlessly. As if in response, different screams from different places. And yet more screams from other places.

The earth rumbled.

Not footsteps. Not thunder. A sound echoing from somewhere much deeper. The ground trembled. Stones rolled. Trees fell. Something very large, very heavy, very numerous, was moving.

The smoke finally covered the entire sky. Though it was day, it was dim. The sun could not be seen. There were no shadows. Everything was dyed the same shade of gray.

And then it became quiet.

The wind stopped. Birds did not sing. No insect sounds either. Only the sound of water continued. The same water sound as always. But because nothing else could be heard, only the sound of water echoed strangely loud.

Change had begun. Change from which there was no return.

Smoke rises from the valley. Many columns. Black and thick, stretching into the sky. Wind scatters the smoke, but new smoke is born again.

The group across the river moved. Before dawn. Killing their footsteps. Carrying only what they could bear, burning the rest. Their dwellings, their stores, the bones of the dead. All wrapped in flames.

At the eastern rocky outcrop, another group gathers. Those who would normally fight over territory. They communicate through gestures. Occasionally, thick voices echo. A warning, perhaps. Or a call.

The river's water level has dropped. Something is happening upstream. Fewer fish. Birds too. They cross the sky with unfamiliar cries.

The smell of smoke rides the wind. Not the smell of wood. Nor of hide. The smell of something ending.

Even when night comes, the smoke does not stop. It spreads to hide the stars. The moon's light grows thin. From the watchtower, as far as the eye can see, smoke is everywhere.

At the great river's fork, two groups stare at each other. The water is shallow. They could walk across. But no one moves.

On the cliff above, another band cracks animal bones. The sound of tongues lapping marrow echoes. Smoke scent drifts downwind. Someone keeps the fire burning.

In the northern forest an old female searches for the last fruit. She digs at tree roots. Claws bite into earth. What she finds is a rotted mass. She puts it in her mouth. Spits. Searches again.

At the eastern rocks a young male bleeds. He fought another male. Won. But the wound runs deep. Infection begins. His companions watch from a distance. They do not approach.

By the water's edge a child alone stacks stones. Builds them high. They fall. Builds again. The mother chases fish. The child's voice cannot be heard. Only stones make sound.

In the south three families have joined together. Their numbers increased. Food is not enough. Someone must leave. Eyes meet. No one opens their mouth.

The river flooded.

Rain fell without end. Thirty days, forty days. Water dropped from the sky, and the earth could no longer swallow it. The river swelled, overflowing its familiar banks. Water entered the forest, flowed into caves, leaving only the high places as refuge.

The group on the far shore moved. Chased by water. To this side.

The eyes of those who crossed were different. Hungry. Mothers carrying children were first to cross the river. Without making footsteps. Young men followed after. Clutching stones. The old ones stayed on the far shore until the end, but when water reached their feet, they too crossed.

Those on this side retreated. To high rocky places. To caves. Abandoning their familiar places.

The first clash came before dawn. At the water source. A young man from across approached a woman from this side. Trying to drink water. Men from this side threw stones. The man from across fell. Blood mixed with water.

Then the fighting continued. Over places. Over food. Over water.

Those who came from across were desperate. They had no place to return to. Until the water receded, they had to stay here. Those on this side could not yield either. Food was limited. Winter was approaching.

The herd split. Those close by blood clustered together. Distant ones glared at each other. Children hid behind their parents. The old ones watched in silence.

One morning, an aged woman vanished. She was found by the river. Not breathing. No one knew who did it. Someone from this side, or someone from across.

The next day, a boy from across disappeared. Found at the bottom of the cliff. Had he fallen, or been pushed?

Fear covered the herd. When night came, all slept gripping weapons. Stones, sticks, sharpened bones. Only blood relatives could be trusted. Everything else was enemy.

The water gradually receded. The far shore became visible. Mud-covered earth appeared. Dead animals lay buried in the mud.

Some of those from across began returning. Swimming. Clinging to driftwood. But many remained on this side. There was nothing left over there. Everything had been swept away by water.

Those who remained created new boundaries. Drew invisible lines. From here to here is our place. From here to there is their place. Those who violated were pelted with stones.

But the boundaries were vague. Prey did not know boundaries. Fruit-bearing trees stood straddling the borders. The fighting never ended.

The season changed. Cold came. Food became scarce. The weak died first. Children fell first. Then the old ones. Disease spread. Those who coughed multiplied. Some began spitting blood.

The herd grew smaller. But the fighting continued. Over scarce food. Over warm places. To survive.

Along the river on the flatlands, another group had begun to migrate. Carrying children on their backs, leading the elderly by the hand. Northward. Herds of beasts were moving too. Those with great horns formed lines as they walked. The grass was beginning to wither. Water sources were drying up. The sound of insects had changed. The high notes disappeared, leaving only the low drone of wings.

East of the river, the ice had melted. The waters swelled, narrowing the places where one could cross. The western group began to move. Carrying children on their backs, leading the elderly by the hand. Footprints remained in the mud.

Smoke rose from deep in the valley. Whether from a campfire or wildfire, none could tell. Birds took flight in flocks. Beasts fled in directions different from their usual paths.

Before the cave, two groups encountered each other. Each gripped stones, keeping their distance. Children hid behind, only the footsteps of adults echoing. Eventually one side yielded the path, and the other proceeded first.

At the shore, there were those who gathered shells. They collected nuts carried by the waves and licked salt from stones. Pointing at distant island silhouettes, they murmured something.

In the forest, nuts lay fallen on the ground. Someone had passed this way before. Branches broken, leaves trampled. Those who came after followed these traces, searching for the same nuts. Some could not be found.

When night came, fires dotted the landscape. Each light isolated in the darkness. Occasionally, howls echoed. Whether from human or beast, none could distinguish.

In the primordial land, the rainy season stretched on endlessly. Rivers overflowed, carving new channels. Wetlands spread, and root vegetables clustered there in abundance. Fish gathered in shallow waters to spawn. Birds covered the sky, and from the seeds they dropped grew fruit never before seen.

The eastern group remained by the water's edge. Their numbers grew. Laughter never ceased. The western group moved to higher ground. There they discovered caves and began leaving handprints on the walls. In the south, three families converged, becoming a large herd. In the northern valley, a band of the old ones moved slowly onward.

The rains nourished the grasslands too. Herds of herbivores swelled, and the carnivores that hunted them multiplied as well. Carcasses returned to the earth, nurturing new shoots. This world keeps turning. The rains end, the dry season comes, and the rains return again.

Encounters between groups became more frequent. Sometimes they fought, sometimes they mingled. Blood mixed with blood, and wisdom mixed with wisdom.

In the primordial land, at winter's end, chunks of ice blocked the river. The water sought another path, carving rock, cutting a new valley.

The one felt the body warmth of companions huddled together in the shadow of rocks. The color of the sky gradually brightened. Birdsong returned.

Beyond the valley, another group was moving. They walked the high ground, occasionally stopping to point directions with their hands. The distance was too great for voices to carry.

The one descended to the riverbank with companions. They caught fish by hand in the newly formed shallows. The water was cold, numbing fingers. Fish slipped away and escaped. After many attempts, finally one was thrown onto the shore.

The group on the high ground stopped moving. They seemed to be watching. Neither side carried weapons. They only gazed at each other. Wind blew, grass swayed.

Among the one's group, an elder picked up a stone. Not to throw, but to draw a line on the ground. The others followed, drawing lines as well. The meaning was unclear, but they were trying to express something through the movement of their hands.

When night came, fire could be seen on the high ground. Other fires in the distance too. Small lights scattered across the primordial land. Each struggling to survive.

The one tended the fire. Adding kindling, protecting the embers. When the flame grew small, anxiety came; when it grew large, relief. The fire seemed like someone to talk to.

As spring deepened, encounters between groups increased. When they met at watering places, they quickly separated. There was no conflict yet. Only tension.

The one learned to chip stone into blades. At first, hands were cut and bled. Pain taught the lesson. The body learned the angle and pressure needed.

One day, the group from the high ground approached. The one's companions gripped stones. But the others came empty-handed. An elder woman stepped forward and placed something on the ground. Berries.

The one also picked up berries and placed them on the ground. The woman nodded. Others brought out berries too. A small exchange. No words.

Through the summer, such encounters continued. Sometimes they exchanged things, sometimes they kept their distance. Everyone felt the change. New relationships were being born.

The one's hands became skilled. Chipping stone, carving bone, shaping wood. When showing creations to companions, others began to imitate. Knowledge spread.

In autumn, three groups gathered nuts in the same valley. Initially wary of each other, but with nuts abundant, there was no need to fight. The one observed children from the other groups. They were doing the same things.

Before winter came, the one's group found a new cave. On the walls were handprints. Someone had pressed hands against the surface and left traces. They seemed ancient.

Beyond the mountains, another group had found a new cave. Children ran toward its depths. They played, pressing their palms against the walls. Women returned with gathered fruit. Men followed the tracks of prey.

Near the sea, waves continued to carve the rocks. Small fish swam in the tide pools. Wind swept up sand, forming hills.

Night came. Stars appeared. Somewhere, a fire burned.

In these five years, the number of people has greatly diminished. But those who survived are stronger than before. They make sharper stones, bring down prey more quickly. Their power to sense danger has also increased.

The climate was unstable. Years of much rain and little rain come in turns. River water levels change. Animal paths change too. People began moving frequently.

Clashes between groups also increased. Over water sources. Over hunting grounds. Over safe caves. Those who were once far away are now in the next valley. Boundaries became unclear.

Children became adults early. Past ten, they imitate hunting, learn how to chip stones. What is needed to survive must be learned in a short time.

The old people are still in the northern mountains. Sometimes they show themselves. Larger than humans, covered in hair. They too seek water. Three peoples live on the same land.

The stars turn unchanging. But on the ground, everything moves.

Ice melts on the northern peaks. Water carves the valleys, cutting new riverbeds. The beasts have changed their paths of migration.

Where three rivers converge, groups face each other. Hands gripping stones, arms raising spears. The children have been pushed into the depths of caves. Women block the entrances.

In another valley, an aged one walks alone. Footprints disappear beneath snow. No looking back.

At cliffs near the sea, flocks of birds head south. The wind has shifted. The scent of grass grows thin.

Before dawn breaks, wolves howl across the valley. Voices pursuing prey. The sound of fleeing hooves.

The struggle over water sources continues for five days. Blood soaks into earth. Whose blood, no one knows anymore. Children huddle together in darkness. Voices from outside grow distant, then near.

Smoke rose from beyond the valley. It continued for three days. On the fourth day, the wind shifted and brought the smell. The smell of burned meat. The smell of burned hide. And something else mixed in.

The elders of the group gathered. They made gestures of throwing stones at each other. They made gestures of raising their hands. They produced low sounds from their throats. The children were driven to the back of the cave.

The smoke stopped. But no one went toward the valley.

Until the moon waxed full, scouts went out. Some did not return. Those who returned were bloodied, dragging their feet. The one was surrounded by companions and tried to communicate something, but gestures were not enough. Lines were drawn in the ground. Stones were arranged. But still it was not enough.

Eventually the entire group moved. Usually they would migrate following prey, but this time was different. It was movement like fleeing. The time to gather belongings was short. The footsteps of mothers carrying children on their backs were hurried.

When crossing the river, another group appeared from the opposite bank. They were watching. They held stones. They held spears. But they did not attack. They only watched.

The two groups faced each other across the river. Neither moved. Until the sun tilted.

When night came, fire burned on the far side of the river. Fire burned on this side too. Neither group slept. Sentries stood watch. Those holding weapons formed circles.

On the morning of the third day, the group across the river departed. But no sounds of relief arose. New footprints had been found from another direction.

The footprints were many. They moved with the gait of those who knew this land completely. Not the footprints of pursuing prey, but the footprints of patrolling territory. The footprints of the masters of this land.

The most experienced hunter in the group examined the footprints. Crouched down and sniffed. Tested the moisture of the earth with fingers. Standing up, something was communicated to the companions. Gestures alone would not convey it. Stones were stacked to show height. Hands were spread to show width. But still it was not enough.

In the end, the group would move again. This time toward the mountains. A treacherous path. A path with little food. But they could not remain on the flatland.

During the movement, shadows were seen on distant hills. Standing shadows. Shadows watching them. The number could not be counted, but it was clear there were many. And it was clear that those shadows too held stones, held spears.

No longer did any place remain in this land that belonged to no one.

Before dawn broke, the first cry arose from the eastern valley. Short, sharp. Then it ceased.

In the primordial lands, eight groups lived scattered apart. Those by the river, those beneath the cliff walls, those deep in the forest. Each called only themselves "human," naming the others "outsiders," "enemies," "ones close to beasts."

In the south, three groups continued their standoff over the same watering hole. The drought had lasted two years, and the small spring was their only hope. Last night, the first blood finally spilled. One fell, two fled wounded.

In the northern forest, a different conflict had begun. What started as a small skirmish over an animal carcass had become a battle where they stole each other's young. The boundaries between groups were being redrawn in blood.

This world continued turning unchanged. Those who fought, those who fled, those who hid—all existed beneath the same sky.

A wall of clouds rose in the southern sky. The wind shifted, and moisture returned to the air. The rainy season was approaching. Eight groups lived scattered across the primordial land. Each found water sources, hunted prey, and split stones to make blades.

The one's fingers traced the stone's fractures. The sound of striking echoed. Fragments flew. Another strike. Watching the stoneworker's hands. Trying to imitate, gripping a stone. Heavy.

Smoke rose from the eastern valley. Then vanished. Rose again. Perhaps one of the groups had begun to move. In the northern forest, beast cries continued through the night. Something was about to change.

The stone was placed on the ground. Another stone was picked up. Struck. Only sound came. No chipping. The stoneworker approached and took the stone from the one's hands. Offered a different stone. This one softer.

The river's water level dropped. The flow that usually reached the knees now came only to the ankles. Those who caught fish were troubled. They had to change where they set their nets. The children picked up gleaming stones from the shallow riverbed.

The gleaming stones were gathered. Twelve of them. Arranged in a line. Gathered again. This time arranged in a circle. The stoneworker saw this and laughed aloud.

Fire was visible on the western hill. A large fire. Was the grass burning, or was one of the groups roasting a large catch? The wind direction was poor; the scent of smoke didn't reach them. Watching alone revealed nothing.

An attempt was made to go see the fire. Steps were taken. Stopped. An adult's hand pressed the shoulder. A shake of the head. It seemed dangerous. Giving up, sitting back down.

The wall of clouds drew closer. Rain had not yet fallen, but the air grew heavy. The animals were restless too. Birds flew south. Species not usually seen were mixed among them.

Looking up at the birds. Watching until the neck ached. Flight was incomprehensible. Why didn't they fall? Spreading their wings, riding the wind, disappearing into the distance.

When night came, drum sounds echoed from afar. Several groups seemed to be sending signals to each other. Short sounds, long sounds, short sounds again. Trying to convey something. But what they conveyed remained unknown.

Clapping hands to match the drum sounds. The same rhythm. But the meaning was unclear. Only the sound was interesting.

By the river, a child was stacking stones. One, two, three. Attempting to place the fourth, they toppled. Beginning again from one.

On the mountain slope, an aged one gathered nuts and berries. When the basket filled, it became too heavy to lift. Discarding half the fruit, they began to walk slowly.

Across the lake, smoke was rising. Someone had made a fire. The wind shifted and the smoke vanished. Ripples spread across the water's surface. Perhaps a fish had jumped.

Smoke rose from across the river. Three streams, four streams. Carried away and thinning in the wind.

On this shore, the women were piling stones. Carrying children on their backs, leading others by the hand. The men sharpened their spear points, glancing at each other's faces. No one spoke. Only gestures carried meaning.

Shadows of smoke reflected on the water's surface. On the far bank, another group was likely making similar preparations. Across this river, two tribes faced each other.

The seasons turned, and prey grew scarce. Nuts were few. The river's fish, hunted from both sides, dwindled in number. Yesterday, a woman who went down to draw water was struck by a stone. When she returned with blood streaming from her forehead, the men's expressions changed.

Even after dawn broke, the smoke from across the river did not fade. If anything, it grew thicker. Were they increasing their numbers? Or were they burning something?

The elder of this shore stood up. A woman, bent with age. When she raised her hand, everyone gathered. Her finger pointed to the river, then to their own dwelling place. Then she shook her head. They would leave this place—that was what it meant.

The children began to wail. The young ones could not understand. The mothers lifted them up, binding them to their backs. The men took up spears and stone blades.

The elder woman raised her hand again. This time she pointed toward the mountains. Away from the river, to higher ground. There water would be scarce, but those from across the river could not easily follow.

The sound of gathering possessions echoed. Animal hides, stone tools, dried meat. They could not carry everything. The heavy things would be left behind. Only the fire seed must not be extinguished.

The sound of the river grew distant. Looking back, smoke still rose from the far shore. Would they notice that this bank had emptied? Or would they continue their vigilance for some time?

Only footsteps echoed on the mountain path. Even the children's crying eventually stopped. The tribe continued its quiet migration. Seeking a new dwelling place. Seeking a place with water and food.

By the time the sun reached overhead, the group had reached the ridge. Looking down from there, the river appeared like a thin line. The smoke, too, looked small. Distance had created safety.

The elder woman sat down on a rock. The others also set down their heavy burdens. Here they would rest before proceeding further into the depths. Beyond the mountain lay another valley. There too might be a river, with fish swimming in it.

In the beginning land, time accumulates.

Rain falls, stops, and falls again. Grass sprouts, withers, and sprouts anew. Seasons cycle, the same fruits ripen in the same places, animals gather at the same water sources. Predictable days. Stable days.

The group swells.

Birth cries echo in the depths of caves. Small life cradled against a mother's chest. Beside her, another mother delivers her child. Most of the newborns survive the winter. Come spring they crawl about, by summer they fill the air with laughter. In autumn they pick up stones to throw, by winter their bodies have grown larger.

Their numbers become too great for a single cave. Some move to nearby hollows. Others cross to the far bank of the river. Yet they still live as one group, within the reach of each other's voices.

Food is abundant. Nuts, roots, animal meat. Fish swim in the river, birds fly over the fields. There is leisure to craft stone tools. Time to tan hides. Room to let children play.

But as people multiply, so do problems.

Order at the water source. How to divide a kill. Caring for sick children. Where to bury the dead. Who decides?

The loud-voiced decide. The large-bodied decide. Those with strong arms for throwing stones decide.

The group across the river grows in the same way. They want to use the same water source. They chase prey in the same hunting grounds. Boundaries blur.

One day, children from both groups encounter each other at the riverbank. A stone-throwing game begins. At first there was laughter. But one stone strikes a head, and blood flows. Crying. Angry shouts.

Adults come running. They stare at each other, growling, puffing out their chests. Stones in their hands. Spear points aimed at one another.

But no one delivers the first blow. Not yet.

When night comes, discussions continue in both groups. Through gestures and growls. What to do. How far their territory extends. How close to let the others approach.

Between the moon's waxing and waning, no answer is found.

Morning comes, and smoke rises from across the river. Fire is lit on this bank as well. They signal their presence to each other. Not yet war. But preparations have begun.

Women hold their children close, seeking safe caves deeper inside. Men sharpen spears, pile up stones. Not to throw or defend, but simply to keep their hands moving.

The seasons cycle gently. Food remains abundant. But in their hearts, a new weight has taken root.

Five seasons turned on the first land. The river flowed the same path and bent at the same places. The fruit-bearing trees bloomed at the same time and bore fruit at the same time. The animals traveled the same paths and drank at the same watering places.

The people continued striking stones. Children learned by watching their fathers' hands. They used tools made by their grandfathers, trying to create the same shapes. They failed and made them again. They bled and made them again.

The group grew larger. The number of children born increased. The number of children who survived also increased. There was enough food. There were fewer reasons to fight.

But there were changes too.

The northern group came down south. They began meeting at the watering place. At first they watched each other from a distance. Then they stood holding stones. And then someone bled.

The wound was not deep. But the memory was deep. That face. That sound. That smell.

They came to live on both banks of the river. While drinking the same water, they slept with their backs turned to each other.