First Hunt

First Hunt

A tale of a boy's first hunt, near the end of the Paleolithic (Late Stone Age-40,000-10,000 YBP), somewhere in modern day Europe.

         The island stood solitary, uninhabited as the boy beached the skin boat. A glance back across the expanse of water showed no trace of his village, only the endless waves of the lake they called Gamshe. Climbing over the edge of the craft, he shivered as the water lapped about his feet and ankles. He drew in a deep breath, held it, relished the salt-brined air as it tingled the back of his throat. With dove-like eyes, a grin growing on his bronzed face, he gazed about the unfamiliar land. His First Hunt! He raced across the sand toward the dense forest.

"Will you forget your weapons and supplies?" Jantar’s uncle smirked as he spoke, contorting the jagged scar from his own First Hunt.

Jantar blushed and sprinted back. His uncle gave him a reassuring smile. The expression somewhat conflicted with the old wound running the length of his face but the boy thought it a glorious thing. His father was a sickly man from birth, unlike his mighty, fearless Uncle Manwa. Even as he contemplated these differences, he watched him easily heft his heavy back frame from their boat, muscles rippling.

They had worked side by side for many days, from the rising of the sun to its setting, to create the craft. Mammoth skins were stitched together, stretched over bones and wood, and finally, secured with wooden pegs and lengths of rawhide. Once completed, they'd covered the entire thing with pitch, making it watertight, though they had to apply fresh coats quite often.

Yet, past taunts of his peers slithered in, striking at his tender pride. Last. Always we have been last! But today, I will become the hunter, the provider. I will make the journey during Hunusk, trading time. No longer will we live in poverty, taking handouts from others. Shame and love collided in his heart; resentment over his father's infirmities, which brought their family low status, and love for his kind and patient father, who had taught him many useful skills. I will claim glory!

Jantar raced to catch up with the small band of men as they followed a path through an opening in the brush. The countless oaks, maples and surrounding tangle of brush soon engulfed the hunting party. Birds cried out overhead, and nearby, dry leaves and twigs crackled as unseen creatures scampered away. Here, he breathed in a new smell: damp animal droppings mixed with strange mushrooms, herbs ... things unknown, he shivered. Heartbeat matched marching steps as his brown eyes darted around, relishing each new affront to his senses.

Single-file they crept into the interior of the island. Twenty minutes into the march, Chief Tanavay brought the men to a halt. He pointed to the recent tracks, indicating their chosen prey. Its fresh scat littered the wooded glen. Without a sound, they unshouldered their sturdy packs made from woven cattail reeds. Obsidian-tipped spears, some set in atlatls, spear throwers, glittered now and then in the scant rays of sunlight. They waited. Jantar followed their example, squatting down on the balls of his feet, knees spread wide, every muscle rigid. Clad only in the soft breech clout his mother had made from an auroch's hide, he ignored the multitude of tiny gnats and mosquitoes feeding on his body.

Myriad days had he practiced thrusting and throwing at a target made from a discarded water buffalo skin, until his arm ached. All of his training had paid off; his aim was accurate, his thrust lethal.

Sounds of the forest became intensified as his eyes took in every movement. A porcupine sat atop a rotting stump to Jantar's right, its black eyes staring at the intruders. Before darting away, it puffed out its thick coat of cylindrical spines and shook its stout body. The boy held his position as he watched the posturing animal and Manwa rewarded him with a nod of approval. How proud my sister's husband will be when he makes his first kill! No more will they suffer dishonor.

The youth, jaw clenched, waited ... and waited, his legs going numb. Leaves rustled as the brush parted about thirty feet to the left of the hunters. Out stepped a giant boar with curving tusks. As soon as it spotted the hunting party, it locked gazes with Jantar. The forest receded; gone were his tribesmen, nothing moved, no breeze blew, no birds called out. Only the boy and his prey existed. He could hear his heart as it thumped faster and faster. The trance broke. The wild pig began shaking its massive head from side to side. Spittle flew out in a spray from its gaping mouth as it eyed each of the men. The band fanned out and encircled it.

It sensed the trap and made several darting advances toward them, retreating to the center each time. They held their ground. The pig eyed a weak spot, Jantar, and charged him. It barreled past; one of its tusks making contact with the boy's thigh. A crooked gash opened up, blood trickled down. He ignored the pulsating pain. His good leg supporting his weight, he cocked his spear behind him, anticipating the next attack ....

The boar was short and stocky, weighing more than three Jantars, still, it was nimble and quick and easily swung around, racing toward its smaller foe.

Jantar pivoted as the beast came again. He plunged his spear deep into the creature's side, feeling the weapon's resistance as it pierced though skin, fat and muscles. The animal stumbled forward a few paces, grunting in its pain and confusion. It stood quivering for a long moment. Exhausted, it dropped to its knees and keeled over. Blood poured out of the yawning wound, flowing down its coarse hair, spreading crimson on the forest floor. The animal attempted to raise its head. Four legs pawed at the air. It continued drawing in shallow, gurgling breaths as blood filled its lungs.

Jantar cried out with a prolonged, deep howl, "Ow-ooh!" the call of a successful hunter of the Clan of the Wolf. Eyes dilated, his sweat-drenched hair whipped back and forth as he danced in victory around his injured prey. He dropped to his knees. His shaking right hand groped for the flint knife attached to his rawhide belt. Eyes closed, he fingered his amulet and murmured thanks to the animal's still hovering spirit; It would provide sustenance for his whole tribe. He grasped the boar's head and quickly drew the sharp-edged blade across its throat, severing the jugular. Blood spewed up in an arc, covering his boyish chest and thighs with the warm, sticky life-giving fluid. It attempted to draw a final breath, then went slack, silent. He dipped a finger in the gash and drew a line across his face from cheek to cheek, and another from his forehead to the tip of his chin, making a gory cross.

The men whooped and shouted, clapping their newest hunter on the back. Uncle Manwa approached, pulling his elated nephew to his feet. Grasping the young man's right hand, holding it aloft he cried, “Jantar, The Hunter! The boy now man!"

Manwa searched through the various pockets of his pack and produced a wad of cattail fluff to use as swabbing. He also took a small leather pouch out. It contained a mixture of herbs, which helped clot the blood and reduce infection. He sprinkled them on Jantar's oozing wound, covered it with the absorbent material and finished the dressing with a piece of soft doe-skin cloth, binding it all to the boy's thigh with strips of rawhide.

The youth crouched and made the necessary cuts to remove the boar's yet-warm heart. He lifted it high above his head, tiny droplets splattering on his upturned face. Silently, he once again gave thanks and brought it to his open mouth. Tearing off a section of the organ, he savored the coppery flavor of the meat. He passed it to Chief Tanavay, who likewise partook of the boar's life-force. Each member took their turn according to rank.

Later, as they sat around their evening fire, the boy reenacted the successful kill. His tribesmen pounded out a rhythmic beat on shallow bone drums, faster and faster, until the fatal spear-plunging climax. Jantar gloried in the comradeship of his fellow hunters as they gave him many compliments on his bravery and fine hunting skills.

As the fire burned to embers, Jantar's last thought was not of how like Manwa he'd become, but rather, I will be strong in your place, Father. He had grown not only in the prowess of a hunter, but in character as a man as well.

The soft thrum of the hunters' drums carried across the water to his village. Jantar's father raised his head from his sleeping pallet and listened with pride. My son is a Hunter… a single tear coursed down his weathered face. He smiled for the first time in many moons.





(Word Count: 1,630).
Featured in the WDC, December, 2009 Action/Adventure, February 2012 Short Story & March 2012 Drama Newsletters.

1st Place in the "PDG Alumni Challenge Forum" , March 2012.


The term Paleolithic was coined by archaeologist John Lubbock in 1865. It derives from Greek: παλαιός, palaios, "old"; and λίθος, lithos, "stone", literally meaning "old age of the stone" or "Old Stone Age."

For historical reasons, "Stone Age" usually refers to the period in Africa, whereas "Upper Paleolithic" is generally used when referring to the period in Europe.

http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Pal

The aurochs, the ancestor of domestic cattle, was a type of large wild cattle which inhabited Europe, Asia and North Africa, but which is now extinct.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auroch

YBP = Years Before Present.