299,285 BCE – 299,165 BCE | Episodes 145–168

Five groups live along the river. Upstream, children chase fish, while downstream, elders carve bones. At the rocky middle reaches, two groups meet. They show each other their stones. Sharp stones and round stones. Both fit well in the hand.

Beyond the valley, different voices echo. People who do not know this river have crossed the mountains. They make fire in another way. Rubbing wood against wood. Smoke rises. The wind carries it.

Deep in the forest, one lies fallen. Motionless since yesterday. Small creatures pass nearby. The sun sets and rises again. The forest remains unchanged in its green.

The river continues to flow. The five groups watch each other, avoid each other. Sometimes drawing near, sometimes moving apart. Like the turning of seasons. Like stones worn smooth by water.

A dry wind is blowing. In the south of the beginning lands, three groups stand at a crossroads. Those who raise clubs over water sources. In the north, another group sleeps deep in caves. A woman giving birth moans. In the eastern grasslands, a man lies fallen, motionless. His throat torn by beast's fangs. The blood has already dried.

On the river's island, children stack small stones. Higher, higher. The wind topples them. They stack again. Laughter mingles with the sound of water. Upstream, an old woman carves fish bones. Sharpening them. To pierce something.

On the western cliffs, a man walks alone. His foot slips. He tumbles down. His head strikes rock and stops. He doesn't move. Birds call in the distance.

The clouds grow thick. Rain might fall. Or might not. The groups live scattered. Sometimes meeting, sometimes fighting, sometimes helping each other. Children are born and die. This repetition.

Abundance bred conflict.

At the eastern edge of the original land, three groups faced each other over a watering place. They hurled stones, raised growling voices, and the wounded fell. Blood soaked into the parched earth.

In the western valley, another group had split apart. Food was too plentiful, and they quarreled over who should take what. The direction the elders pointed and the direction the young ones headed were different. Half moved to another cave.

Along the southern river, a band of the old people moved quietly. Heavy footfalls. Bent postures. They did not fight. They only walked. Sometimes they stopped and looked up at the sky. When they passed groups of humans, both kept their distance. There was no hostility. Simply as different beings.

On the northern plateau, a woman was giving birth. With the third labor pain, the child was born. The first cry was carried on the wind. At the same hour, in another place, an old man drew his final breath.

Clouds drifted. Shadows raced across the ground.

The conflict ended, leaving weariness behind. The water source at the eastern edge was stained with blood, and no one approached it anymore. The three groups scattered, each seeking new places. Those who were wounded could no longer walk and were left behind. When night came, the distant howls of beasts echoed.

In the western valley, the fractured group chose two paths. One headed south, chasing the warm winds. The other climbed to the northern highlands, settling in a place rich with stones. The children adapted to the new environment quickly, finding edible fruits before the adults did.

By the time the moon had waned thrice, change occurred. The group that had gone south returned. In their hands they carried fruits never seen before, and their bodies appeared sturdier than before. The group from the northern highlands also came down. They had learned new ways to work stone.

The two groups met at the water source. At first they were wary, but eventually they shared fruits and taught each other how to work stone. The children played together, and the adults compared each other's skills.

However, one group did not come. Of the three groups that had caused the conflict at the eastern edge, it was the one that had lost the most. Those who went searching found only scattered bones and torn hides. Whether they had been attacked by beasts or died of hunger, no one could know.

The two surviving groups joined together, forming a new community. Their numbers were fewer than before, but their knowledge had grown. The location of the southern fruits, the ways of working northern stone, and the cost of conflict. All of this needed to be passed on to the next generation.

In the southern valley, the group that discovered new caves continues to guard their fire, never letting it die. At the northern cliffs, another group has learned to chip stone, mastering the art of making sharp blades. The eastern water source remains untouched, tall grass growing high to hide the traces of blood.

Among the scattered peoples, the smallest group remained on the mountain slope. At the place where they had left behind the wounded, only those still able to move stayed. They gather nuts and berries during the day, and at night huddle together in fear of the beasts' cries.

On the western plains, fresh footprints of the old people were left behind. They too are moving, seeking new places. Sometimes smoke can be seen rising in the distance. It is unclear which group it belongs to.

The seasons turn, and cold returns. The water sources begin to freeze over. Food grows scarce, and each group faces harsh times ahead. Under the starlit sky, they sleep facing different directions.

In the southern valley, a newly born child reached toward fire for the first time. At the northern cliff, someone scraped hide with a sharpened stone. No one approached the eastern water source. The scent of blood still lingered there. In the western forest, those gathering fruit moved from branch to branch. The people scattered among three groups each walked facing different directions. No one looked back toward the mountain slope.

The sound of cracking earth echoed through the valley. The dry season continued, fissures running along the riverbed. Upstream, another group fought over water sources. The sound of stones being hurled. Someone's cry. Smoke rising.

In the shallows downstream, women dug for roots. Children searched for insects in the mud. The old ones worked hides in the shade of trees. Their hands had grown slow.

Beyond the rocky hills, the young pack pursued prey. Footsteps fading into distance. Some would return, others would not. When night came, they would count. With fingers. With stones.

The wind changed. The scent of rain. Thunder rumbling in the distance. The parched earth trembled.

The earth trembled.

At the western edge of the beginning land, a mountain split open. Black smoke rose into the sky, and red light illuminated the night. Birds took flight eastward all at once. Four-legged beasts also fled, carrying their young on their backs.

The fire mountain's rage had begun.

Ash rode the wind, falling even in distant valleys. River water grew hot. Fish floated belly-up downstream. Tree leaves withered and fruit fell. The sky hazed gray, and the sun's light weakened.

People fled into caves. Group by group, they huddled together in the shelter of rocks. Children coughed. The elderly breathed with difficulty. They shared food and drank water carefully.

But the fire mountain's rage brought unexpected things as well.

From the ash-buried earth, new grass began to grow. Root vegetables grew large. River courses changed, creating new watering places. The paths of beasts also changed, increasing hunting opportunities.

People realized. Disaster was also blessing.

The knowledge each group possessed also changed. Groups near the fire mountain learned to cook meat using hot stones. Groups downstream learned to heal wounds with ash-mixed earth. Groups beyond the mountain found new paths and became able to travel far distances.

Knowledge mingled together. Opportunities for groups to encounter each other increased. There were conflicts, but there was also cooperation. Children mimicked the gestures of other groups. They learned new sounds.

The old ones also moved. Their groups migrated northward from the south. They encountered groups of humans. At first they were wary of each other. They threw stones at one another. But as starving beings, they eventually shared prey. They gathered around fires.

Words did not communicate. But necessary things were conveyed. They showed with hands, responded with grunts. They warned each other of dangers and taught each other where to find food. Children knew no boundaries and played together.

When the fire mountain's rage subsided, the world had changed.

The arrangement of groups had changed. Knowledge had spread. Blood had mingled. New tools were born. New ways of hunting spread. New sounds became the prototypes of words.

On the beginning land, a new era had begun. An era when humans and the old ones walked together.

Five seasons have passed since the western mountain split open. The black smoke has ceased, but the sky still shows red sunsets. At the eastern edge of the beginning land, another change has started.

At the glacier's edge, a massive beast covered in white fur has fallen. Its tusks were as long as a person's height. Those gathered around cannot agree on sharing its meat. Three groups arrived simultaneously, each claiming the prey as their own.

In the northern forest, a band moves threading between the trees. Over forty in number, they walk with the children surrounded in the center. Ahead of them, a column of smoke rises. Another group's fire.

In the cave along the river, an elder drew a final breath. In that one's hand was clutched a small fragment of stone. Lines were carved into the stone. No one knows the meaning of those lines.

In the southern grassland, a young mother has just given birth. But the child does not cry. Does not move. The mother continues to sit there, holding the child, for three days. Her companions left her behind and moved on.

Throughout the beginning land, the number of groups is increasing. Food is abundant, but space is limited. Signs that conflict will arise have begun to appear everywhere.

More than two thousand lived in the beginning lands. Abundant times continued, but for that very reason, new suffering was born as well.

The groups had grown large. Food was plentiful. Many children were born, and many survived. But space was limited. Conflicts arose over good hunting grounds, good water sources, good dwelling places.

Small battles of throwing stones broke out everywhere. Those who won gained territory. Those who lost searched for other places or died.

One group occupied caves on a clifftop. Another group brought a river confluence under their control. Yet another group made a fruit-rich forest their territory.

Tensions over boundaries grew daily. When they spotted strangers, they threw stones. There was no dialogue. No communication through gestures either. They simply excluded.

The smoke that had risen from the western mountains had stopped. The sky was again clear blue. But on the ground, different smoke was rising. Smoke from burned dwellings. Smoke from the aftermath of conflict.

At the edge of the eastern glacier, the giant beasts were disappearing. The long-tusked beasts, the long-haired beasts—none formed herds anymore. Whether people had driven them away, or the climate had changed, the reason was unknown.

It was an age of change. Abundance and conflict existed simultaneously. People continued to multiply, but were being lost at the same time.

The ice walls began to collapse.

At the distant northern edge, beyond the white mountains, something groaned. The sound did not reach them, but the feet of those ones felt the earth's trembling. The river's flow increased. The water flowing over the rocks was cold and heavy with mud.

The scattered groups across the primordial land began to move. Those dwelling in the southern valleys shouldered their burdens and headed north. In the western hills, herds of great beasts larger than any seen before were migrating. The hairy giants thundered across the ground, advancing in search of new grass.

Change came swiftly. In lands that until yesterday had been locked in ice, green shoots were sprouting. The surfaces of frozen lakes melted, revealing the shadows of fish. Birds circled the sky, seeking new places to build their nests.

The boundaries between groups grew unclear. Those moving in search of abundant land stepped into the territories of others. At first they only observed from a distance. But good hunting grounds and good watering holes were limited.

Several groups met at the same riverbank. A large band of about fifty and a smaller group of about twenty. The large band gripped stones, the smaller group stepped back. Yet no battle occurred. The river held many fish, and the banks bore enough fruit from the trees for all to eat.

The children approached first. Children from different groups began chasing fish together in the river's shallows. The adults watched warily but observed the scene.

When night came, each group gathered around separate fires. But the distance between them had shortened. Those who in former times would not meet even after walking a full day now dwelt within earshot of each other.

The climate's stability brought new possibilities. When land grew abundant, the need for conflict diminished. Yet at the same time, people gathered with unprecedented density. Encounters with strangers became commonplace, and gestures and grunts alone could no longer convey all that needed expressing.

At the boundaries between groups, new sounds began to emerge. Signals used by one group alone spread to others. Sounds pointing to water, sounds warning of danger, sounds for sharing food. Sounds and gestures combined to take on more complex meanings.

The earth continued changing. With the ice's retreat, the world where people dwelt expanded as well.

After the first winter came, the land changed. Ice melted at the glacier's edge, and its waters nourished the plains. Grasslands spread, and beasts gathered. People scattered.

In the northern rocky places, one group draws wall paintings in a cave. They press handprints one upon another, carving the shapes of beasts with lines. Along the southern river, another group carves bone for the first time, making needle-like tools. In the eastern forest, there are those who weave bark to make vessels.

The old ones are moving too. They are larger than people, more powerful. But few in number. Sometimes they encounter groups of people in the valleys. Sometimes they throw stones at each other. Sometimes they maintain distance and gaze at one another. Sometimes they even exchange children.

Conflicts have begun as well. Over watering places. Over beast carcasses. Over safe caves. They strike each other with sticks and stones, and many are wounded. The winning group gains the place. The losing group scatters.

The seasons turn. Rain falls and rivers overflow. The dry season comes and grass withers. People migrate, separate, sometimes converge. Children are born and elders die. They chase beasts, gather fruit, tend the fire so it never dies.

Rock that fell from the sky sank into the sea. Water boiled up, became clouds, and covered the sky. The wind changed, and rain ceased to fall. Grass in the grasslands withered, and river levels dropped. In the depths of the forest, the last fire went out. In the northern glaciers, ice began to thicken. On the southern coastline, waves carved rocks, creating new inlets. In distant mountains, snow fell and accumulated, filling the valleys. The beasts headed south.

The land was abundant. Fruits were plentiful, beasts were fat, and water sources never dried. The group continued to grow larger.

Through five winters, the people had doubled. Many children were born, and many survived. There was enough food. New caves had been found too. The old cave had become too cramped.

But problems were also arising.

Beyond the river was another group. They had grown large just like this one. They aimed for the same prey, gazed upon the same fruit-bearing trees. There was no conflict yet. But when their gazes met, the air grew heavy.

More had become skilled at splitting stones. The technique for making sharp blades was spreading. Not just for hunting. But for when something might happen.

At night, fires could be seen in the distance. The fires of the other group. Their fire must also be visible from over there. Each side was counting numbers, measuring strength.

The abundance continued. But that very abundance was calling forth new tension.

By the river, a young one catches a fish. With bare hands. The third one. Companions rejoice.

In another place, a child is about to be born. The mother suffers. An aged one extends a hand.

On a distant mountain, a group of the old people moves. Seeking food toward the south. Footsteps shake the ground.

Clouds cover the sky. Rain begins to fall.

Fissures spread across the earth. Water springs forth, carving new riverbeds. Fish flow down from upstream.

At the southern cliffs, another group leaves handprints on the walls. They dip fingers in mud and press them against the rock face. Children imitate them. Palms overlap, shapes dissolving.

Conflict erupted in the eastern valley. Stones flew over food. Those with flowing blood are carried to the cave depths. Their breathing grows shallow.

The wind has changed. The scent of rain approaches. Beasts begin their migration. Herds separate and merge again. Footsteps overlap, the ground trembles.

The earth is splitting. A massive furrow stretching diagonally across the primordial land from south to north continues to deepen. The sound of water bubbling up never ceases. New rivers are born, washing away the old paths.

Fish flow down one after another from upstream. They beach themselves in the shallows, showing their silver bellies. The group's members catch them by hand and strike their heads with stones. Blood stains the water red.

Smoke rises from beyond the cliffs. Another group gathers around fires. Their numbers are growing. Children's voices carry on the wind. At night their fires gleam like scattered points of light. As if stars had fallen to earth.

The cave paintings multiply. New handprints appear one after another on the southern cliff face. They coat their hands with mud and press them against the rock. Adult hands, children's hands, infants' tiny hands. Overlapping, forming layers.

The animals are changing too. Large beasts descend into the valleys. The hairy creatures that usually dwell in the highlands are moving in search of water. Game has become abundant. But danger has increased as well.

The climate is mild. Rain falls in moderation, and grasses and trees flourish. Fruits ripen and root vegetables grow fat. Yet the distance between groups is shrinking. Territories begin to overlap. Skirmishes break out, with stones thrown back and forth.

Something strange appears in the night sky. A different kind of light manifests. Not shooting stars. Fixed points of light that remain still are multiplying. The elders look up at the sky and shake their heads. They gesture that these are unknown lights.

Beyond the canyon, another group continued their migration. Those bearing heavy loads formed a line. Even when a child cried out, they did not stop. The aged ones were beginning to fall behind.

In the southern sky, birds drew circles. They had caught scent of something. The corpse of a beast, or the smell of rotting fruit.

The sound of water echoed through the valley. A new river washed away the old path, continuing to carve the stone.

The earth grows warmer. The river channels have stabilized, and grass flourishes in deep green. Far across the eastern plains, herds of great beasts have begun their migration. The thunder of hooves shakes the ground, and birds take wing. In the western valleys, others tend fires that never die. Smoke drifts on the wind, announcing their presence through scent.

On the southern cliffs, an elder has fallen. The young ones gather around, voicing low calls. In the northern forest, a child is born, its first cry echoing between the trees. Everywhere the same—birth, death, what remains. Countless beings breathe beneath the stars. They struggle, bear young, die, create. The sound of the river does not change. Neither does the wind. Only the seasons turn.

The valley is narrow.

Two groups have arrived. Both followed prey southward. A herd of mammoths passed through the valley, and human groups followed in their wake.

The eastern group is large. The western group somewhat smaller. Both need water, both need prey.

Five years ago, the climate stabilized. Ice retreated, grasslands expanded. Prey multiplied, and humans multiplied. Groups split apart and began moving in search of new lands.

But rich places are limited. Between valleys stretch rocky highlands. Lands without water, lands without prey.

The population has exceeded a thousand. Encounters between groups are becoming more frequent.

Some groups yield the path. Others fight. Stones fly, blood flows. The winning group remains, the losing group scatters. Sometimes they are completely destroyed.

In this valley too, something will eventually happen.

Smoke rises from two places. When night comes, two fires will illuminate the valley.

At the edge of the grasslands, rain had fallen for two days.

In a hollow near the water's edge, a group had gathered close. Some fifty people. They clutched their children while their feet sank into mud, sheltering dry branches beneath their bodies to keep the fire alive. That fire had been carried from the territory of another group. No one said so aloud, yet everyone knew.

On the far side of the grasslands, beneath a rock ledge, another group sheltered. Around thirty. The night before, they had come upon the first group at the water. Someone had lifted a stone. There had been snarling. Then the rain had intensified, and both sides had withdrawn.

This world holds all of it in its light. Those who guard the fire. Those who lifted the stone. The small ones sleeping in the mud.

Farther still, along the cliffs above a river's upper reach, a slender column of figures walked. A handful of people. Their appearance differed from the older ones. The shape of their bones, slightly unlike. They did not stop. Perhaps there was something that pursued them when they did, or perhaps this was simply how these particular people moved.

This world makes no distinctions.

In the rain, a flame trembled. Beneath the rock ledge, someone let out a low growl. Along the distant cliffs, feet pressed into mud.

A grassland stretches out.

The line of hills slopes gently from east to west, and beyond them the lowlands continue. At the edge of the lowlands, there are several watering holes. The wet season and the dry season come and go with steady regularity, and for decades now that rhythm has not broken.

The grass grows tall. The animals multiply. Even fruit that falls before it ripens will come again the following season. The group moves from place to place, ranging beyond their old territories, and still there is no shortage of food. This has gone on for some time.

Children are born. They grow. The grown ones bear children of their own. The shape of the group has begun to carry a density it did not have before.

But a larger group means more contact.

At the watering holes, traces of other groups remain. The ash of old fires. Gnawed bones. Broken branches. Something passes through those who see these things. There are no words. Only growls and gestures — and yet the meaning carries. That place is ours.

In the eastern lowlands, two groups spent the night near the same fruit trees. In the morning, they saw each other. Neither moved. Those carrying young retreated. Young males stepped forward. A low sound rose between them.

No blood was shed.

Not that day.

But the following morning, one lay fallen beneath the trees. There were marks on the skull where stone had struck. The one who had struck was gone, westward. Those who remained gathered and stood in a ring around the fallen one. They did not cry out. They simply stood. No one moved until the sun was high.

In the grasslands to the north, a different story is unfolding.

There is a group where the old people and the new share the same watering hole. They do not approach each other. Yet they look upon the same fire, and pass the same night beneath the same sky. A child of the old people looked toward a child of the new. The child of the new held that gaze for a moment, then ran back to its parent. This has happened more than once.

This world illuminates everything that belongs to this age.

That abundance continues does not mean the causes of conflict have vanished. That abundance continues means that those who have multiplied have begun to sense one another's presence. The same watering holes. The same fruit trees. The same fire in the night. Once, there was too much space for any of this to matter. Now, there is not.

At the western edge of the grassland, two fires are visible.

Each belongs to a different group. Neither has gone out. Each watches the other's fire.

The night deepens. The wind stills. The two fires simply burn.

The grassland tilts from east to west, and the soil is damp at the edge of the lowlands.

The middle of the dry season. One of the watering holes has dried up. Only mud remains in the shallow depression, surrounded by the prints of hooves. Animals came, and left. One group had claimed this place as their territory. Another group knew it too.

On the far side of the grassland, away from the lowlands, three individuals from an archaic lineage shelter among the rocks. They do not use this watering hole. They lap water that seeps through cracks in the stone. One child sits on a rock, dangling its legs.

On the western slope of a hill, a woman from one group gave birth. The child lived. Its cry was sharp, and it moved on its mother's belly. Another woman severed the cord with a stone.

To the east, young members of two groups contested a boundary. They raised their voices and held stones, but no one had yet thrown one. The sun tilted. Both sides withdrew.

There are no clouds in the sky. When night comes, the stars will appear.

The grassland tilts, the lowlands are damp, the stars give light. Nothing passes judgment. They simply exist, all at once.

The grassland is full.

The dry season has ended, and the rains have returned. The watering places filled. Hoof prints sank into the mud and gradually disappeared. The animals came back, the grass spread, the earth grew soft. The group did not divide; they remained in one place. Children were born. More of them lived to grow.

That changed the shape of conflict.

Abundance raises the question of ownership. The quality of a stone tool raises the question of who makes it. The breadth of a place raises the question of who sits there. Those with louder voices move to the front. Those who strike stone well move to the front. All others fall back.

A quiet exclusion has begun.

Along the southern edge of the first land, following the border of low shrubs, one group has been shifting its position, little by little. Whether they are being pressed away or choosing to leave, there is no way to tell. The rain falls equally. The grassland spreads without distinction. And yet differences arise between places, and the watering holes have their near and their far. In the midst of abundance, the margins are decided, quietly.