Mammoth Boy Read Free Page B

of the least shred of gristle, fat and sinew, his belly quaking for such nourishment after days of raw fungus, handfuls of berries and grubs prised from rotten logs. Then each bone was cracked with stones for marrow and juices to suck dry.
    Only after the last splinter had been dealt with did Urrell think to look at the drawing on the ground. It was the outline of a bison, the bison he had witnessed, with spears in its sides and a rear hoof caught in that trap-like box.
    He was absorbed in this when his heart tripped as he heard a tread and realised that he, in turn, was being intently observed.

CHAPTER 3
    U rrell crouched stock-still, eyes locked with the watcher, who appeared to be alone. He too kept still, offering no threat of violence.
    They had time to examine each other. The stranger was little above the lad’s height, with shaggy hair and a remarkably intense gaze from yellowish, goat-like eyes. He seemed to understand how hungry the boy was. From a pouch he drew out a sizable chunk of cooked flesh, still on the bone, and held it out invitingly. As the boy did not budge, he beckoned with the other hand. Still the boy dared not shift.
    The rank weeds, the fetid smell.
    Holding out his offering, the watcher slowly advanced towards Urrell, pausing to instill trust before moving forward again. Urrell saw he was unarmed and limped. It was clear he meant no harm, even meant good. When he was a few paces away he tossed the meat to the lad and squatted to see how it was received, never taking his light eyes off Urrell’s face. He uttered a few words in a strange language, underscored by gestures urging the boy to pick up the food and to eat. It was enough to allay some of Urrell’s wariness, enough for him to pick up the joint and sniff it: venison, cooked right through. He bit. It was delicious. He chewed and tore at it, his hunger overcoming fear. An expression of pleasure and approval on his provider’s features was accompanied by more words, ones conveying a tone of friendly interest. Urrell nodded and grunted.
    “It is very good,” he said. “I am very hungry.”
    “Good. Then you eat, eat,” said his benefactor in the boy’s own language. He spoke it haltingly, as if recollected from a far past.
    So Urrell did as bidden, ravenously, on his hunkers opposite this strange short man who had appeared out of nowhere bearing sustenance and was now squatting a few paces away watching him eat his fill.
    That the watcher spoke his language did not surprise the boy much.
    He was used to hearing different languages among the women in the camp when they conversed among themselves, or crooned to their infants. They came from distant places, exchanged and traded at moots, or stolen, bringing with them strange ways and words, so that boys like Urrell hanging round the camp picked up smatterings of words, mainly names of things, leaf movements, animal moods, ghostly occurrences, and objects brought from faraway places, passed from hand to hand and held to be valuable or potent due to their very rarity. His red spearhead, now the bear’s, had been one.
    “Where you come?”
    The boy answered by pointing up and over the cliff he had been following.
    “How many days?”
    Shy to risk speech with this unusual being and loth to look straight into that yellowish, enquiring gaze, Urrell kept his eyes fastened on his venison haunch-bone and held up one hand, fingers outspread, clenched and outspread twice, to signal how long he had been travelling.
    The answer seemed to satisfy his questioner who left him to get on with his meal.
    Then: “How you called?”
    “Urrell.”
    “Ah, Urrell, Urrell,” repeated the stranger, savouring the name, fluting the sound.
    As the boy said nothing, the man volunteered: “I, Agaratz.”
    By now the bone was picked clean. No excuse remained for staying crouched, so Urrell stood up slowly, unsure of himself, avoiding sudden movements that might look hostile. His spears he left on the