Contemporary story
On

A Civilising Influence

Sunrise. Milky light spills over the lip of the cave. When it falls on my face I rise. The little one is still sleeping, her fist pressed against her cheek. I watch the dawn, my toes braced against the rock floor, poised above the vertical fall at the mouth of the cave, certain death if you do not know the narrow crumbling path.

A golden mist hangs over the valley, smudging trees and hills, melting into the horizon, many, many days' walk away. Silence, except for the whisper of the wind stirring the leaves in the treetops far below me.

The little one stirs, yawns, stretches her arms and legs. Her hair is thick and golden like the hazy sunlight and falls heavily to her narrow waist. The moon has been made and unmade many times since she came to me.

We eat berries and some of the eggs the little one found yesterday, when I thought she'd left me. Just as I was trying to scent her on the breeze, I heard her call from the top branches of an oak tree. She came back to me then and showed me the eggs. She'd carried them down in the strange white pouch we'd found crumpled on the forest floor when we were hunting.

 

I was smaller than the little one when Mama went away. I had only just learned which plants to eat and how to snare rabbits. She went to gather food one day and did not return. I waited until nightfall came for the third time, all the while calling and calling for her. Then I was alone. I took care when making a flame as Mama had shown me, for I knew it could burn and destroy as well as warm and give life. When I close my eyes and try to see her now, all I can remember is her eyes, the colour of young leaves, and the smooth river pebbles with holes in them which she had threaded on a strip of hide and tied round her ankle.

On the walls of the cave are many figures. They are those who came before. Now I know they are the same as me, but at first I was not certain as they had shown themselves like sticks with arms and legs. They are hunting big animals that I have never seen and I think they died when the animals went away. At night the stick people would come to me out of the darkness. They whispered to me of sharpening stones to make a killing stick. Then they showed me handpictures deep in the cave where the sun only licks with its tongue before it sinks behind the trees in the valley. I put my palm against the handpictures and saw that my fingers matched with theirs.

Before the little one came to me, I thought I was the last of my type. I watched the animals and plants and saw how they grew and lived together. Only I had no companions. My days were spent gathering food and breaking stones to make sharp edges for killing and cutting open fish or small animals. Bigger animals, those with tusks or claws, I let alone.

 

I was in the forest collecting roots and plants on one of the days before she came to me. A great crashing tore the silence and many figures burst into the clearing. They had hairy faces, but the rest of their bodies were covered in the flimsy skins of some strange animal, not brown or black but the colours of flowers. In their arms they carried long sticks, but not taken from trees. They were shiny, like light glinting off water.

They made a great roaring when they saw me. For a moment I thought they were they were like me, but then I saw their bodies were straight and hard, so I knew they were not. They circled me, slavering as they come nearer and nearer. I thought they are going to kill me for food and my head and chest pounded as if I had run a great distance. But they threw me down and each one in turn attacked me between the legs. I could not see what weapon they used. Afterwards I was alone and bleeding. I dragged myself back to the cave and slept until long after dawn the next day. When I woke I was weak and there was no water in the cave. It took me a long time to crawl down the path to the stream where I drank and slowly bathed my crushed body.

It came to me that the attack had injured me so badly that my body had become sealed, for I no longer had blood when the new moon came. After many days I noticed my belly was becoming distended. I thought the poisons of my body were gathering there. As my body swelled, I thought I would die, but death did not come, so I continued to hunt and gather food. I got slower as my size increased.

One morning I awoke to find I was lying in a pool of sharp smelling fluid. Then I was in great pain and knew the end was coming soon. I could not lie down, but paced the floor of the cave like a beast. The pain changed and suddenly my body was forcing me to squat down and expel the thing that had been growing inside me. For the first time I thought I might not die. Then, on the ground between my legs was a new creature, still attached to my body with a pulsing, twisted cord. I severed the cord with my teeth and looked at the new creature. It made a mewling sound. I picked it up and cleared away the bloody matter that was lying across its face. Then I realised what it was. Another me. A companion. A little one. I held it to my body and it nuzzled against the soft parts of my chest, its mouth searching. It found what it wanted and sucked fiercely and I was glad.

This was long ago. The moon has been made and unmade many times and I have seen the little one learn to walk upright, to eat the things I bring her and to hunt for herself. She becomes more like me and now begins to take on my shape, bleeding with the full moon as I now do. We are complete.

But now she hunts further and further away from the cave. Sometimes it is nearly dusk when she returns to me and I begin to fear she has gone forever. She brings back things that she finds. The strange white pouch, made from thin shiny stuff. It is big enough to carry two rabbits. On it are marks in many colours, brighter than I have ever seen. It is becoming torn now.

And one day, a thin silvery blade, much finer than I could make out of stone. I think it is made from the same material as the shiny sticks carried by the hairy face creatures. I have sharpened the blade and use it to divide skin from flesh, flesh from bone.

As the sun sinks into the trees, she sits at the mouth of the cave and gazes at the place where the distant line of the forest meets the sky. She scratches crowds of stick figures in the sandy floor of the cave, and presses her hands into the cold fire to blacken them so she can match the handpictures on the walls.

I do not like to go far away from the cave but I am becoming fearful that she will leave me. Then, after many days of her returning after sunset, I follow her into the forest the next morning. We travel further and further from the safety of the cave until I can only follow or be lost. She moves silently, seeming to float over fallen logs and great boulders green with moss. She pauses in a place where the sun cuts through the leaves and lets the warmth flood onto her upturned face. As I stop, crouching behind a tree to conceal myself, my foot dislodges some loose soil to reveal a deep, narrow cleft between two rocks. I manage to throw my weight back onto my other foot just in time to avoid plunging into the crevice. As I look down I see, partly covered with soil and rotted leaves, a round skull and many other bleached white bones. The largest of these are long and straight like those I can feel in my legs. Then I see the lower part of one of the long bones is wedged between two sharp stones. I can see how it has become twisted and smashed with the effort of trying to free it. Scattered on the rocks around it is a rough circle of river smooth pebbles with holes in them. I do not move for a long time. Something inside me that had been silent for a long time begins to cry out in pain.

Then I am aware that the little one has started to move again. She still does not know I am close behind her. Not a bird or animal is startled by us.

She stops by the stream and drinks, then bathes among the swaying weed. I see her trying to catch fish in her hands as I have shown her. I crouch on a stony shelf jutting over the bank. I watch her just below me. She lies among the grass at the edge of the stream, snatching at butterflies, crunching up the ones she catches with her sharp little teeth.

There is another watcher. From where I crouch I can see a figure approaching from upstream. It passes under my hiding place. It is wearing the same thin brightly coloured skins as those others, but its face is not hairy. It does not slaver. The little one springs to her feet and I think she is going to run. But she does not. The other sits a little distance away from her and she slowly squats down again.

The other puts out a hand. In it is something brightly coloured. The little one wants it. Very slowly she approaches on all-fours, her body tensed to spring away. Her hand darts out and the next moment she has snatched the object from the hand of the other and is back in her place.

They watch each other. I watch them. This other could be like us. Then it removes the top part of the brightly coloured skin it is wearing and I see that it is not like us. It has a hard chest and has hidden its hair under the skin it was wearing. It starts to move slowly towards the little one. She does not move.

I lift both arms into the air and use all my strength to smash a heavy rock into the back of its skull. It crumples like the thin white pouch. The little one backs away at first, then comes closer to look at the creature as it lies bleeding. Her hand clutches a string of red and blue stones made of rock as transparent as water.

In the cave after dark, I am planning the best way to remove and carry the meat from such a large creature when we return to the stream the next day. The little one stands at the entrance to the cave, her form black against the light of the full moon. Then she is gone into the night. I watch for her until the sun comes up but she does not return. I wait for her call from the treetops but I do not hear it.

I wait until the day is fully come and then I go down to the stream with the silvery blade. The other is still lying there, too big to have been carried off by any of the night creatures. As I sharpen the blade on a rock, I notice the string of transparent blue and red stones laid on the creature's forehead.

Options

Introducing your ereader mobile app!

Manybooks

Get The Best Reading Experience

App linkApp link

Rate this story:

Average: 5 (1 vote)

Comments

Permalink

"CAVE" when pronounced in the French language has either a house "basement" conotation but most often used to describe human behaviour as the pure "idiot". Indeed, man the male is constantly present in your thoughts as someone who must regain the other species trust if IT wants to stay alive. Your short story A Civilising Influence has given me hope for a future generation to really come up to terms with each other. The Mother is so lovable youd wish shed be your own mommy. Great thanks for your love of boulders turning into flourescent pebbles onto quiet sandy clean beaches. Hopes the little one might get better respect and resposibility from the other kind of Human Being. Men have still to learn a lot before understanding a womans heart. Anyway, youve done it for me tonight. Stay with us Gerald Brassard

Permalink

This is a great peice of work. I must say, Ive been reading some things on this web site and this one for sure caught and kept my eyes on the screen. Personally the dark sexual area take some gettin used to but i respect there apperance in the story, its a nice eye opening view of sexual brutality.

Permalink

An excellent story, the writer has put thought into the psycology of her characters. There is not speech taught, so none is used, there is the assumption of things the protagonist sees in the world, a kind of simple inetrpretation. The character has definatly lived her live away from civilisation and thinks and acts in appropriate ways. I really like this aspect of the story.

Permalink

Simple and direct with the harshness that came with the proper representation of an awareness very different from civilized man. Impressively subtle distinction drawn between the feelings of the mother and the instincts we would expect of a wild animal. This story caught and held me to the end. Very successful.

Permalink

Well, I have read my fair share of sotries before, and to be frank about it most bore me before the end of the first page. But your story was great. Well written. I hope that you dont mind me giving some advice though. Some of the grammar needs correcting on the spelling of some of the words in the story. Great job, keep writing.

Permalink

I agree that this was a thoughtful, well-written piece. Very realistic background with what you would expect from someone living wild. The Mothers simple thought patterns evoked sympathy and bravery. The story held my attention and was a pleasure to read. I think the details of the sexual rape were necessary in showing the Mothers psychology. It would have been nice though to catch a glimpse of the little ones view of things. This was a good read.

Permalink

Nice thought provoking story. There is no pretense. Violence comes, violence goes without obtrusivenss. It evokes a different type of emotion. Well knit sentences. Good work. Hope to see more.

Permalink

Im sorry but I just dont buy the logical premise here. You mean to tell me that a lone female who survived alone in the wild from an apparently young age (hunting, fishing, using tools, making fire, etc.) has not observed sexual reproduction in nature. She is really so ignorant of this very fact of nature that she doesnt realize what happened to her after she was attacked (i.e. having a child!!!). Sorry, just dont buy it.

Permalink

The story was great. It captured my attention the way few short stories do. I also think that this story is very identifiable. I was able to empathize with the characters and I think others can too. It was spectabulous!

Permalink

COMMENT ON COMMENTS ---------- Ive seen some disparaging remarks about the main characters ignorance of reproduction. May I just make note that theres a basic rule observable in the biology of our world. Survival is key; adaptation is key to survival. Thus, specialization is a dangerous thing. The most adaptive species (least specialized) have the greatest chance for longevity. One of the most dangerous specializations is instinct. Youll find the more adaptive species on earth are also those with the lesser degree of specialized instinct. Where instinct fails to educate, culture is developed. It is obvious that the main character is culture-depraved, but no doubt the mother is contemplating reproduction and may be able to instruct her little one to some extent...viola! Culture! I believe the author has done as good a job as Ive ever seen observing the habits of the conscious, near-instinctless, primal human subsisting without the benefit of a greater human community. Thank you Gaye Jee, it is refreshing!

Permalink

What a god-awful story. Im very sorry to those of you who love it (and have the perfect right to) but there is really no tactful way to say that I just hated it. The main character is an unbeliveable idiot; I can see how some things might be interpreted differently by more rural people, bit yous think they would get it after a while. Also it is completely unbeliveable that the "little one" would have such a strong tie with civilization that she could aquire knifes and other more modern objects, when her own mother dosent comprehend them.

Permalink

Simply written,almost devoid of emotion-it succeeds in conveying a "coming of age story." The mother tries to prevent the inevitable, but we must all leave the nest. The end is great but I think there should have been more clues by the narrator with regards to her origin.

Permalink

...plain...

Permalink

This story reads like a piece of drift wood floating in a stream the wrong way. Such an illusionist, the main character, in the woods yet not in the woods, in a cave yet not in a cave, devoid of understanding to her surroundings which, one would have to assume, would be the complete opposite. She is jumped and fertilized and carries upon her shoulders an absurd revenge for man in general. That poor fellow in the end of the story, the one who gives the beads to the little one, he never saw it coming. That fake birth, too, so bland and unnatural—in the face of the wild, a female is a female, a man, a man, both savagely and unquestionably ready to do what it takes to move onward the species at hand. The innate characteristics of propagation will see to this. Moreover, the narration of the story is by the main character!—beyond that jungle else in the midst of some telepathic fiesta, there is, somewhere, one heck of an educational system.

Permalink

This story was very thought provoking, but I didnt like it that much. I thought that they story didnt have anything that captured my attention and it didnt have a really good story line. If the story was gone into detail a little better it may have been better but there wasnt a lot of basis for what going on. The story ended very quickly and maybe if it were a little longer there may have been more details gone over.

Permalink

the story is good. there dose seem to be an emotional detachment but i like it because that sort of detachment comes in the face of survival. but it flowers again the little one. the only thing i thought it laked was curiosity. the man didnt have a beard so shouldnt he have gotten a little more study? -g

Permalink

Well, coming from a civilized male, my comments
may not be worth much, but here it goes.
I understand the narrative nature of the story due
to the setting and situation of the main character. I
was however a little surprised by the vocabulary
used in the narrative thoughts of the character, the
mother. The vocabulary used isnt consistent. Like
the simple ways to describe the first mothers ankle
bracelet but that her stomach or belly was
"distended"??? How about "bigger"? But its not my
story....
I do have a hard time buying the fact that she hasnt
observed the mating and birthing processes in
nature.
There could have been some existence of her "own"
language, just an idea.
I do have to say that in the end, the story was
rescued from being a feminist story by the
daughters disappearance, perhaps due to the fact
that she saw her mother violently protect her or
because she had sensed genuine care from the
civilised man trying to rescue her from her wild life.
But I dont know why he took off his shirt and my
guess is, neither did her mother, so I might have
crushed his skull too if she were my little girl.
Good creation. Charles O.

Permalink

A solid, laudable, effort, but still an amateurish piece. Contains some good visuals, and not a bad character development, but portions are confused and contradictory. What I found most disconcerting was stumbling over the gramatical and structural rocks strewn throughout. Still, better than many I have read. Shows hard work, and promise.

Permalink

What I liked about this story was that the reader could easily consider the characters and events as symbolic of various ideas, according to the readers interpretation and personal experience. The reader did not have to work at it and the story stayed around long after it was read. I do not know what more someone would require from a short story. As to the comment that the main character should have observed the sexual activity of the animals, there are a lot of people today who truly believe that teenagers are unable to figure sex out on their own. Obviously, thats a little silly. Maybe the story, intentionally or unintentionally, comments on that.

Permalink

I’ve started reading ALL of the stories on this web-site. So far, I’m in the J’s, imagine that. This is a very provocative, and possibly, a controversial story. I can tell by some of the comments that the IQ’s of some are quite low, and they do not understand the philosophy of “CONSTRUCTIVE CRITISISM”.
This story moved well, the narrative did have some complications in flow, like losing a reader in the midst of a trivial time, ie…[”At night the stick people would come to me out of the darkness. They whispered to me of sharpening stones to make a killing stick. Then they showed me handpictures deep in the cave where the sun only licks with its tongue before it sinks behind the trees in the valley. I put my palm against the handpictures and saw that my fingers matched with theirs.”] but all in all, this is a fine piece. This story is very well worth taking the time to read. It’s a story that forces us to think.
Very well done.

^Rob

Permalink

About the reproduction thing...dont animals do it a little differently than us? And wouldnt SEEING two rabbits going at it be a little different from unwillingly experiencing it yourself? What Im trying to say is that the fact that she didnt know what happened doesnt make her a dummy. Besides, she was tryin to survive...she wasnt studying the critters of the forest.

Permalink

I enjoyed this story, but disagree with the rigid
logical nature enforced on the main character. I
would imagine that primative women would be
more in tune with their emotions and the joys of
motherhood. Even unaware of what was happening
to her body, I found it hard to believe she would
think of her swelling stomach as poision. Rather,
humanitys instinctual behavior is often motivated
by subjective emotional experiences. It is more
likely that her body with its pregnancy-caused
hormonal fluxuations and emotional cascades
would generate in her awe, wonder, and love for the
life she would start to feel kicking and moving
around in her stomach. To suggest that such
feelings are logic-based and require an
understanding of the process of birth and
procreation lacks credibility to me. We humans like
to think of ourselves as primarily logical creatures,
but it was and is our emotional lives that direct
much of our behavior today and ensured our
survival in earlier times.
Freeman Wicklund, Maryland, USA

Permalink

A Civilizing Influence… (I think) this piece is a well written, unique look upon something deemed ugly of civilization, where we can harbor influence. I see a woman lost in a strange world, toiling her resources to eek a life for herself, as she seems so alone. Then she is confronted with a sin, a disease inflicted upon her, but not of her creating. The paintings, perhaps symbolize her family and their comfort, as the story states they speak to her, and she finds likeliness within the images, making her hand like theirs. The ‘poison’, in my opinion, is her first look on the subject. “I’ve been raped my life is over” her mentality is poison, and the object growing in her, initially remains naught but an idol of the plague. Time churns; her mentality follows in the wake and finds a miracle from the curse. Later in the story the woman gets her revenge, killing the same kind of creature that has afflicted her. Her daughter however, perhaps INFLUENCES the biggest lesson of all for the woman, forgiveness. This can be found as the woman returns to the body, finding her daughter has returned the man’s necklace of shiny rocks to his body, despite his actions against her. Its hard to forgive… Good job Gaye Jee

Interpreted by Darron

Permalink

Fiction is for entertainment. Ive read some of the comments on this tale and have come to realize that some people need to repeat English 101.

Very interesting. Thank you for the story, Gaye!

BR

Permalink

Hmmm... so this cavewoman has the vocabulary to say, "...my toes braced against the rock floor, poised above the vertical fall..." and "...slavering as they come nearer..." but she doesnt have a word for daughter? And why does she have a name for her mother ("Mama" -- note the capitalization, this isnt just a baby sound but is a proper noun) but does not have a name for her child ("little one" -- NOT capitalized)? That is a major inconsistency in what is otherwise a nice story.

Permalink

This is my first time on this site and I truly enjoyed this story. I cant tell you how many times over the years I toyed with the idea that humans evolved from a mating of men from outerspace and monkeys.
Great Job! I wish that the story could continue.

Permalink

I think this story would be better if it was written in
the third person because the main character is telling
the story. She doesnt understand much but can write
a story about her life. Poetic licence maybe but doesnt
work for me. If the language was more like a child it
may have worked and might have been more fitting.
Good idea though and not a bad read.
Lee

Add new comment

Plain text

  • No HTML tags allowed.
  • Lines and paragraphs break automatically.
  • Web page addresses and email addresses turn into links automatically.