Pic met more flint-workers; on the banks of the Seine, also along the Somme River farther to the north; but it was ever the same. He saw only small ill-hewn flakes, none of which bore signs of the Terrace Man’s wonderful craft. Poorer handiwork Pic had never seen.
With each disappointment, he grew more and more depressed. He began to look upon the art of the Terrace Man as a myth; a fanciful creation of his own brain. He became moody and irritable and wished himself back in the Vézère. Then from a solitary hunter, he learned of men who lived on the banks of a river lying beyond the great Channel Valley to the north. His spirits rose and he lived in hope once more. He led his two animal friends across the Somme River, over hills and valleys to the great Boulogne-Calais ridge or heights overlooking the broad isthmus connecting Britain and France.
Near Boulogne, the trio descended from the heights into the valley, across which man and beast[108] might travel dry shod; no small convenience, for none knew of boats or rafts or how logs might be used as transports across the water. But the great valley was dry so the Ape Boy and his companions passed over it with no inconvenience save from the choking chalk-dust stirred up by their own feet. A day’s journey with a week more added, brought them first into Britain, then through the Kentish Downs to the London Basin. Before them, in the distance, flowed the Thames River, winding its way leisurely towards the North Sea from the direction of the setting sun. Such a stream were scarcely broad or swift enough to bar the trio’s northward march. A swim to the opposite bank meant no more than a bit of exercise calculated to make the red blood of a Mammoth and Rhinoceros flow fast. Strangely enough neither one made any effort to cross the river, both merely contenting themselves with strolling along the valley’s southern border. Their behavior was suddenly become care-free and without purpose. The cool breezes sweeping down from the Scottish glaciers and North Sea, gave the air that life and snap which Hairi and Wulli considered indispensable to their bodily comfort. These hardy wanderers could make themselves at home in any country whose food-supply and climate accorded with their standards. To them, Kent[109] seemed a land of charm, so now they slowed their pace and proceeded to enjoy themselves.
Pic too found much to occupy his mind. The stepped banks or terraces of the Thames reminded him of those he had seen lining both sides of the Somme; the low, middle and high terraces—three successive water levels, beginning with the highest at a time when the river was first carving its way through the valley. And there were places where flint-workers gathered during the spring and summer months; so when his companions stopped to graze, he shouldered his ax and walked along the slopes keeping a sharp lookout for those whom he wished most to see. He was feeling a wee bit homesick and hungry too, for a sight of human faces,—not because he felt any friendly feeling for his own kind, he assured himself; but only from Terrace Men could he learn aught of how blades, such as the one he bore, were so finely made. He had not gone far when he observed a group of flint-workers on the bank below him; so down he went to make their closer acquaintance.
They squatted on the slope with only their heads visible and faces turned towards the river. As Pic drew nearer, their shoulders and bodies came into view. He recognized in them, beings like himself—the race of Moustier. His heart sank. His mind had pictured the Terrace Man as something different.[110] His ax,—the blade of Ach Eul—represented an ideal—a perfection of flint-working art. The artisan must be constituted of more than common clay. Did the genius of the Terraces stalk abroad in the guise of such humble folk? He hoped; but something within him, foretold bitter disappointment.
The Men of Kent were so busy with their flint-making that they paid little attention to the approaching figure, doubtless considering it one of their own number. Not until Pic stood amongst them did they realize that he was a stranger. All stopped work and eyed him with disfavor. Pic gazed boldly about him. He saw none but old men and boys. “Where are your warriors?” he demanded.
A youth pointed eastward.
“Hunting?” Pic asked curiously; then muttered to himself: “Of course; some must find food while the others work.”
The youth nodded civilly enough. His courtesy was due to a glimpse of the Ape Boy’s wonderful ax.
“Have no fear; I come as a friend,” said Pic as he observed the other’s concerned expression. “Are you Men of the Terraces?”
The youth shook his head: “No; we are cave-folk.[111] We live among the hills. Only in the warm season, do we come here.”
Pic sighed, took a deep breath and turned his attention to the work in which the group was engaged. He almost dreaded to look down and see what he most feared.
Before each artisan was a small pile of flint-lumps. Thin chips covered the ground between each pair of feet; small, roughly-fractured flakes lay together on one side. Pic dropped on one knee and examined the flakes.
“Are these your best work?” he asked at last in a voice that trembled. He did not even raise his eyes as one of the men answered: “Yes, they are the best.”
“Enough;” he still gazed dreamily at the flakes,—small, shapeless things—but his thoughts were elsewhere. “I have failed,” he said bitterly. “These would shame a child. The Terrace Man is not here.”
As he arose to his feet, thinking, striving to gather courage for fresh hopes, dark figures loomed about him on all sides as though sprung from the earth. With a startled exclamation, he raised his ax and squared back, determined to sell his life dearly. But as he glanced behind him, he saw how vain would be his efforts. A dozen flint-axes were held ready to strike him down. One step forward[112] or backward and the blades would crush his skull.
His muscles relaxed. He lowered his weapon. His captors in turn lowered theirs and crowded more closely about him. In a moment Pic had recovered from his surprise and was boldly returning the fierce looks directed upon him from all sides. Then one of his captors, who appeared to be the leader, a giant in bulk and strength, stepped forward and eyed Pic so threateningly that the latter shrank back with half-raised ax.
A human race more brutal the Ape Boy had never beheld. Its overhanging brows, sloping forehead and projecting muzzle were so exaggerated that the entire head resembled that of a huge monkey. This likeness was increased by the monster’s broad, flat nose which was crushed in and marred by a ragged scar extending far into one cheek. The thick body, crooked limbs and hairy skin were even more animal-like than the hideous head above them.
Pic took in all of these details at a glance and found them far from reassuring. Nor—judging by his scowling face—was the Man of Kent improved in temper at sight of the youth before him.
“Who are you?” he growled in a voice that sounded like the mouthing of a famished wolf. Pic’s lips tightened as he returned the monster’s piercing stare.
[113]
“A man.” He was about to add the words: “like yourself;” but withheld them as inappropriate.
“For what are you here?” demanded the chieftain, enraged by this fearless reply.
“I came alone, as you see me, to learn how these people made their flints,” answered Pic, pointing to the old men and boys to whom he had first spoken. “I thought them Terrace Men. That is why I came.”
“Terrace Men? Bah!” snarled the monster glaring fiercely at the strange fish that lay so calmly in his net. He had expected a struggle or cringing howls for mercy. The flint-ax would mend either; but now he held his hand, confounded by the Ape Boy’s reply and manner and yet all the more enraged because of his own perplexity.
“Bah!” he roared again. “May you and your Terrace Men find rest in a lion’s stomach. We permit no strangers amongst us; therefore begone. You may thank your good fortune that we do no worse by you;” and he ground his teeth as though angered and disappointed at having shown such unusual clemency.
Pic made no response. His captors shuffled back on both sides to let him pass. As he looked into their scowling faces, he felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness; a sudden realization that he was an[114] outcast in a strange land, in spite of the people of his own race gathered about him.
The brutal chieftain watched him narrowly, half hoping that by some word or act the Ape Boy would provoke his further wrath. In this, he was disappointed. Without a word, Pic shouldered his ax and prepared to go his way. As the great blade flashed in the sunlight, the Man of Kent started with amazement. So large and fine a flint, his eyes had never seen. He looked down at the head of his own clumsy weapon, then at the other with envious eyes.
“Hold; what have you there?” and he pointed a finger at the cause of his sudden interest.
Pic turned, surprised by this outburst. In a moment he saw its meaning.
“This is my ax,” he replied calmly; “my father’s,—made by a man of the Terraces;” and he held the weapo............