"Close the throat of the valley. No one walks out. The killer must not slip through the fingers of the mist. I want the smell of the guilty one before the moon is full three times."
The Elder Mother's voice was loud.
"It will be done, Great Mother." Gorn, the Lead Hunter, lowered his head until his chin touched his chest, his knuckles white around his spear shaft.
Gorn knew that if he couldn't drag the one who stopped Tor's breath back to the cave within the time the Elder Mother demanded, his days leading the hunters were shorter than a winter day.
Although the Black Rock Tribe was a circle of many families, and the council of elders had voices that carried weight, the power of the Elder Mother was like the mountain itself... old, unmoving, and capable of crushing anything beneath it.
No one could deny that the Elder Mother, who had guided them to the Valley of Mists when the ice was still biting the land, held the true heart of the tribe.
To strip a man of his spear and name was, for her, as easy as snapping a dry twig.
"Where is the meat of my son now?" The Elder Mother asked, the fire in her eyes dimming into a pool of grey sorrow.
"In the Spirit Tent. Soft-Rain is there. The shaman is burning the sweet-grass,"
Gorn replied, his voice rough as gravel.
Soft-Rain, the mate of Tor and the mother of this new Arthur, was the daughter of the River Clan's old chief. She was the bond that kept the peace between the fish-eaters and the rock-dwellers.
"Move your feet. Let us see Tor one last time. I must look upon the face of the one the spirits took too soon."
The Elder Mother let out a breath that sounded like the wind through a hollow log, her body, usually stiff with pride, curling inward like a dying leaf.
The Spirit Tent was a structure of dark hides stitched with sinew, set apart from the living fires.
A group of torch-bearers moved slowly from the Great Cave, winding their way toward the Spirit Tent like a snake of fire in the twilight.
Inside the Spirit Tent. The sun had moved the width of two hands across the sky since Tor's body had been carried in from the river, and the warmth had left his skin, leaving him as cold as the river stones.
Sitting near Tor's head were his mate, Soft-Rain, and his two daughters, Berry and Fern.
Even Little Fern, who had seen only ten winters, knew that the stillness of her father was the kind that never broke.
Seeing the man who was once a towering wall of muscle and laughter now lying on the furs, his face pale and grey like ash, both Berry and Fern could not hold the water in their eyes.
They howled, a sound that tore at the throat, their hands clutching Tor's stiff arms.
Soft-Rain was quieter. She rocked back and forth, a low hum vibrating in her chest, holding back the scream that wanted to tear the tent apart.
But the way her fingers dug into the earth, and the red swollen skin around her eyes, showed that her spirit was bleeding just as badly.
The heavy sound of the Elder Mother's walking stick hitting the hard-packed earth announced her arrival.
Soft-Rain looked up, her eyes swimming, and saw the Matriarch pushing through the flap, Arthur gripping her arm to steady her.
"Mother... Tor is..." Soft-Rain tried to speak, but the words turned to mud in her mouth.
In the tribe, the bond between a mother-in-law and a daughter-in-law was usually stiff, filled with silent judgments about tanning hides and cooking meat.
But given the Elder Mother's shadow over the valley, Soft-Rain could only bow her head, exposing her neck in submission and grief.
"Soft-Rain. Berry. Fern." The Elder Mother nodded slowly to the woman, then moved her milky gaze to the girls, and finally, her eyes locked onto the mound of furs where Tor lay.
She struggled to push the word past her teeth. "My son."
"Tor!"
Calling the name of the Stone-Breaker one last time, the Elder Mother shuffled quickly to the furs, dropping her stick.
She ran her withered, leather-skinned hand over Tor's face, which was already hard to the touch. The Elder Mother whispered,
"Rest, my wolf. Close your eyes. Your mother will make the ground drink the blood of those who did this. I will watch over Soft-Rain and the little ones. No tooth, no claw, no spear will touch them. Go to the Great Sky Hunting Grounds, my son."
Then, she stiffened. "Gorn!" Turning her head, the Elder Mother, who was weeping a moment ago, became the Chieftain of Chieftains again.
"Sniff the ground! I do not care if it is the River Clan, the Cave Walkers, or the savages from the Salt Flats. If you find a footprint, a broken twig, a scent that does not belong... bring me their heads! Tell the valley that to help the killer is to declare war on the Black Rock!
We will burn their huts and break their bones, whatever the cost!"
"Yes, Great Mother. I run now." Gorn did not dare look her in the eye, nodding rapidly before backing out.
The anger of the Elder Mother was a storm that every family in the valley knew to hide from. No one dared to question her command or the sharpness of her judgment.
"And prepare Tor for the Sky Ledge immediately. Do not let his spirit wander in the dark too long. The sooner the smoke carries him up, the sooner I can breathe." The Elder Mother commanded.
The passing rites of the Black Rock people were not simple, especially for a warrior like Tor, who was to be given the honors of a Great Chief.
It was not just about burning the body. They had to mix the red ocher paint to cover his skin, gather the weapons he would need in the next life, and hunt a stag to burn alongside him so he would not go hungry.
This preparing of the meat and spirit would take days, a delay that made the Elder Mother's hands shake with impatience.
"I hear you, Grandmother." Arthur spoke up, stepping into the space Gorn left. He had to be the voice now.
It was not until the Elder Mother had whispered a long list of promises to Soft-Rain and the girls that she allowed Arthur to lead her back to the main cave, leaving the dead to their silence.
***
Three suns later. The Place of High Smoke, overlooking the bend of the river.
This was the sacred ground of the ancestors, where the charred bones of the brave had been mixing with the dust for more seasons than the oldest tree could remember.
And now, another pile of wood was stacked high, waiting for the body of Tor.
The mist of the morning still clung to the trees as the Elder Mother stood at the front of the tribe, wrapped in the black fur of a cave bear.
Behind her stood every man, woman, and child who could walk, surrounded by the strongest spear-bearers standing guard.
Tor had been a giant among them. He had cracked skulls in the War of the Long Grass, he had brought meat when the snows were deep, and he held the title of "The Arm that Does Not Tire."
Because of this, even those from the smaller outlier families had come, bringing polished stones and dried meat to throw onto the pyre.
Tor's body, wrapped in the finest lion skins and painted with the red clay of the earth, was carried on a frame of cedar poles.
It moved slowly up the winding path to the ledge.
With the wailing of the women and the rhythmic thumping of the drums, the body was lifted onto the wood.
The tribal shaman, a man covered in feathers and rattling bones, threw dust into the wind and shouted the song of parting.
Arthur stood there, the heat of the torch in his hand warming his face, feeling completely lost.
The flames roared to life, hungry and bright, eating the wood and the furs.
Arthur watched the sparks fly upward, his mind reeling.
He had been in this brutal, raw world for only three moons when he lost his shield, the powerful Tor.
What do I do now? Arthur thought, staring into the fire. I am a software engineer from the 21st century wearing the skin of a savage. I don't know how to hunt a mammoth. I don't know how to lead a war party. And now, half the tribe is looking at me to pick up the heaviest spear in the valley.
As the fire crackled, snapping like breaking bones, Arthur looked across the flames.
Through the heat haze, he saw a figure standing on the edge of the crowd.
It was a man with a scarred face and a left hand that twisted inward like a claw... Broken-Hand, his uncle.
Broken-Hand wasn't wailing. He wasn't singing the parting song. He was watching Arthur.
And in the flickering light of the funeral pyre, Arthur saw a grin that looked sharp enough to cut skin.
The smoke swirled, blocking the view, but the cold feeling in Arthur's gut remained.
The Stone Age was not just about fighting tigers; the wolves were standing right next to you by the fire.