The First Book of the Pure Read Free Page A

fire and taught his people how to cook food, but
sometimes the joy was in the taking of it at the site and moment of
the kill.
    This had gone on for many years, with Gheret
still the chief. The old and slow died, and the young, at least
some of them, grew up. Eventually his people could speak clearly,
and he led them in a less brutal but still crude life together.
    For a long time the tribe grew, adapted, and
either drove away other tribes or slaughtered them. Any dissension
was met with an instant and brutal response from Gheret. The tribe
respected him, or more accurately, they respected his strength and
feared him. Gheret found that to be very lonely, after long enough.
One day he walked past three young men of the tribe, and one of
them clearly flinched as he looked at them. Gheret could smell
their fear along with the sweat and dirt of their unwashed bodies.
“Why do you fear me? I’ve done nothing but good for you and this
tribe.”
    The youth nodded, almost groveling as he
answered. “Is it true that you were chief in my father’s, father’s,
father’s day?”
    “Even if that were so, why should that make
me someone to fear?” Gheret was genuinely interested.
    The young man was unable to answer. Gheret
didn’t like being feared. In fact, he realized at that moment that
he hated it. It kept him apart from the others, and other than
giving orders or taking a woman, he felt no part of the tribe he’d
nurtured and kept alive.
     
    ***
     
    One day, months later, he spoke to Ghar, his
right hand man, a short, muscled, tough man, scarred from many
hunts and fights. “You must be ready to lead. I will die
someday. You know that. Everyone dies. You’ll then be chief.”
    Ghar was very skeptical. “You’ve been gored,
and even slashed by the great cats, yet you heal and live - always!
You can’t die my chief.” By this time the tribe had moved into the
cliff caves and were using fire in the normal course of their rough
lives. Gheret had given them better weapons than crudely sharpened
sticks. He pushed his hair back, worn shorter now, and easier to
keep clean, and placed a finger on his full lips, like the motion
one would use to hush a child. It was his “thinking” motion. All in
all he thought he had been very good for the tribe.
    “Ghar, I vividly recall the first time I
found out that I would not die easily. We’d been on a hunt long
ago, and as we approached the meat we had killed, fights broke out.
Two attacked me, from my own tribe! My own hunting party! One I
killed, but the other, a great warrior, struck with his spear
before I had turned to him. I saw that point come out my chest,
close to my arm, and I knew I was dead. I also knew I would use my
last breath to take him with me, so I attacked with no concern for
living beyond killing him. He cut me deeply with his stone knife
before I killed him, and the hunters gathered around me, not
knowing what to do. They’d never seen anyone live long after such
injuries. They removed the spear and sat with me. They kept the
flies off as the blood pooled and dried. They washed some of it
off, and took care of me even though they knew I would die. The
next day when I woke up I was more surprised than they. I was
stronger then, so they waited with me another day. We had food from
the hunt, so they were in no hurry to return to the tribe. The next
day I was strong enough to walk, all bleeding stopped. So we slowly
returned to the tribe. Later, after other severe injuries, I found
that I always managed to heal.”
    Ghar was impressed with this unexpected
sharing, but not surprised at the legendary stamina of his leader
and friend. “Ha! I said you’d never die. You are Gheret.” As if
that settled any question about it, he started grooming his long
thick beard with his fingers, pulling out twigs and bugs and pieces
of recent meals.
    “But death will come. And when it does, you
must not do anything. I’ll go apart when it’s time. Do not try to find me. Let