A scene from a short story I have been working on...
“GROK BIT STOCH DERN,” declared an old man. His voice was strong, his age only apparent in his face and thin skin. The whispers in the large, cavernous cave dissipated slowly as the men took their places on the floor surrounding a large, spread out fire, built so shallow it looked more like a scattered pile of burning logs than a well built fire. As each man squatted or kneeled, they found their own little bit of flame to reflect on, their eyes set, eager for something, their faces revealing no more. Behind the men animal hides, fur up, were strewn all over the floor. A flash of lightning revealed women and children sitting just beyond the reach of the fire’s light, all but the youngest also focused towards the men sitting around the fire.
Charsu sat to the right of the Great Seat, where Mohba would soon be sitting to lead the Tribal Age Ritual. Mohba is known to wait until the din dims down before coming into the circle, as she was doing this night. Charsu frowned as thunder rumbled in the distance. The Test would be difficult if the rains come.
I final hush settled as Mohba began shuffling into the room, hunched over, both hands holding a large staff for support. She was the eldest of the clan and had been in charge of the annual ceremony since it’s inception, thirty years ago, the year the great Matarsu showed them a way to settle, to no longer be nomadic. Since then the tribe has flourished. They are dry and warm every night, no more sleeping in the outside, wherever the herd stops. Even their clothing had improved, everyone having many different outfits as they no longer needed to carry their house with them.
Mohba settled into the Great Seat, sighing with relief as her weight shifted off her old, tired legs. She kept her head down for a few moments, settling her breath. She felt what little strength she had left begin to return as she lifted her head to address the tribe. She began speaking of Matarsu, with the pride of a descendent she told his story. Though the story was only 30 years old, she spoke it with a reverence usually saved for deities. Some have even whispered among themselves that he could have only learned his ideas from a higher being.
Charsu waited patiently. Soon Mohba would be sending him out into the outside by himself to bring back food for the tribe. He was ready. For two years he had learned and refined his skills, learning how to grow and maintain his primary weapon, learning how to hide and ambush small game, learning the methods of Matarsu.
“Charsu,” Mohba said, looking down at him, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Are you ready for the test?”
“I am,” Charsu replied, reaching for his sharpening rock hanging in the pouch on his side.
“Show us your weapon,” commanded Mohba.
Charsu stood up and stepped into a brighter spot of firelight. He removed the large tanned hide wrap from his right foot. Some of the men gasped as Charsu held his foot up, resting on its heel, revealing a very large pointed toe nail. “His toe nail grows strong,” the men whispered among themselves, nodding with approval. Giggles could be heard from the younger women watching the ceremony.
Mohba slammed her staff once and the clan again grew quiet. “Charsu,” she spoke with authority, “you may prepare yourself in the traditional way, then leave at once.”
Charsu shuffle walked to the mouth of the cave. He kept his right foot forward, 'in the traditional way,' as Mohba had directed. He squatted over his foot, at the same time removing the sharpening stone from it’s pouch. He gave his huge, long toenail a couple of final strokes, making sure the point was sharp enough to penetrate his prey’s skin. Once satisfied that he was ready, Charsu stood, returning the sharpening stone to it’s pouch, and disappeared into the outside.
