The
year is 62,000BRW (Before Roger Waters) and time is a very unfamiliar
thing. Days are not even invented, life is ungovernable. Day comes,
day goes, and night comes and stars twinkle, as they have always
done. Nature's creatures go about their ritual of survival and
reproduction, foraging for the plentiful food supplies that abound.
In
a distant land that would one day become Yugoslavia, a tribe of
CroMagnum men, women, and children cower under the sky, the
threatening spring thunderstorm hovering over their very existence.
The cluttered, heavily forested landscape hides their existence from
prying eyes of the great predators overhead, and muffle their sounds
from the forest creatures seeking the weak and infirm for prey.
Hunkered
down in their sparse cave, the tribe is going about their daily
ritual, the slaughter of the deer being butchered and hung to mature,
and the hides being expertly crafted into fashionable clothing for
the children and mothers. The menfolk are all gathered around the
fire, patiently talking of the hunt, sharing in the ritual of the
sherbet root, and the Daytura leaf tea. All the men that is except
one!
Hunkered
back in the group, almost lost to obscurity, is the young thinker in
the tribe, Crickstigbo. The eternal dreamer, the reluctant hunter,
the predisposed painter and recorder of the tribes history on the
caves walls, the drawer of the sky and the orator of the tribes
history. Crickstigbo rarely gathered with his fellow hunters, finding
the fascinating world of his dreams more to his liking, and the
artistry of his daubing his main pleasure.
But
poor Crickstigbo was disturbed this wondrous evening by an event from
the night past gone. His mind shifted now to his drawings and the
recognition of the disaster he had drawn. It had troubled him all day
during the hunt, forcing his mind from the activity going on around
him. So much so that he had almost become sabre tooth tiger meal, if
not for his lightning fast youthful reflexes, and the timely
interference of his brothers skilful lance thrust. The thought of the
chaos he had created had totally overridden his normal survival
processes and caused his premature departure to the after world.
One
of the elders, Crickstigbo's Uncle Trughotjk, spied the troubled
youth sitting back from the gathering, and noted the tense stress
marks on his weathered and tanned brow. He excused himself from his
fellow hunters, and limped over to the far off figure.
"Huh,
Crickstigbo, what's troubling you my boy?" The low guttural
grunting sound so deep it nearly shook the cave and all in it, but
the sense of warmth and worry strained every vocal utterance.
It
drew Crickstigbo's attention, washing away the deep thought of his
dilemma, if only for a short while.
"Huh,
hello Uncle," replied the troubled orator, his voice laced with
serious contemplation. "I'm just thinking you know."
"Yeah,
I noticed, but what on Grafdesgat's back have you been thinking
about. Been at it all day, haven't you?" The old man, almost
bent double as his forty three years sagged under his decaying
strength, reached a gnarled hand to his favourite nephew, grabbing
the younger man's hand and pulling him to his feet so that they could
talk eye on eye.
"Come,
tell me your problem, it must be very grave indeed to trouble you so,
and if it troubles you, it troubles me."
"Uncle,
I did something last night, and I am very afraid of what I have done,
very afraid." The normally placid Crickstigbo was shaking as he
said these words, his fear obvious for all the tribe to see.
Of
course, in a society where very little vocalising took place, the
long discourse now had the whole tribes attention, all gathered in
the cave now aware of the young mans' discourse.
Trughotjk
placed a great hairy arm around the poor boy, and sensing the import
of his words, and the nervousness of his fellow tribal conclave, he
ushered Crickstigbo back towards the darker end of the cave, to the
cavern offshoot that was Crickstigbo's room and the repository for
his paintings. They both skirted through the deerskin-covered portal,
and into the lard lamp-lit room that the door led to.
The
old man surveyed the room, marvelling at the talented work on
display, the history of his group. As the leader, he felt a sense of
pride that his tribe could record their life, as no other group he
knew of had attained such dextrous skill yet. The drawings of deer,
birds, eagle, beer, and wild cattle abounded, as did the latest
fascination of the boy, the sky pictures.
He
also marvelled at the thoughts his historian had expounded, the
sounds he made that paralleled nature's song, and his attempt to tame
the day with signs signifying parts of the daytime and night-time
too. But he also thought the poor boy crazed at times with his
attempts to get other members of the tribe to follow his lead.
"Uncle,
I have done something that will alter life as we know it forever,
something that is so against nature that it will through everything
into chaos, and I can't get rid of it, no matter how hard I try."
Crickstigbo's staccato admission immediately grabbed the old man's
attention.
The
boy turned towards a dim end of the cavern, pointing to a strange
object drawn on the wall. Trughotjk's incomprehension spread across
his face at the strange drawing, and a trickle of fear sweat edged
its way across his cheek. His nephew's thought telepathized to his
mind, and the concepts that entered frightened him, breaking loose in
his mind, the destruction of their life as plain to see as day was
against night.
"Get
rid of it, now!" commanded the frightened CroMagnum Chief. "Get
rid of it, I say, I see nothing but bad coming from this."
"But
Uncle, I can't, no matter how I try it just won't go away, and I fear
it will never go away now. You have seen it, and I have seen it, and
it is there forever now, in our minds, and in the future of our
lives."
The
exasperated leader crouched to the floor of the cavern, the thoughts
of the strange drawing clouding his mind, confusing the shapes of his
natural world. He had seen something of it before, but never like
this! The trees were almost the nearest to the shape in his world, or
perhaps the odd crack in a rock, but this one was starker, more
distinct than anything he had seen before. And yes, in his mind, he
too saw chaos coming from it.
"What
do you call it, Crickstigbo, this linear interference to natures
existence, this mind numbing threat to our sheer existence, what is
it called?" Trughotjk's grizzled gruff question eating into the
heavy air of the cave.
"Well,
Uncle, I haven't really given it much thought, but there may be
something in what you say that would adequately do. I like your
reference to lineal interference in nature’s existence, something
rings about that." The orator mused for a second, then looked at
the figure again, realising the straight drawing needed a proper
description, and the thoughts started to flow, eventually settling
into a logical pattern. L for lineal, I for interference, I for in, N
for Nature, E for existence.
"How
about we call it a LIINE, Uncle, L, I, I, N, E. The sounds match the
drawing and the thoughts I have had match the connotation of those
sounds."
_______________________________________
5,000BRW
Plato
was foraging through the ancient scrolls unearthed from the capsule
in the cave. His travels had taken him many miles, and the cave he
had found had provided good shelter for the night, and as it turned
out, a treasure trove of such great wealth that it made him wonder at
the chance discovery.
The
word had been around for some years, the shapes of design also, and
all had been attributed to the Sumerians, and to the other ancient
cultures of the near past. But the scrolls he now surveyed with his
keen brain outdated these by so long he shuddered to think how old
they were. The drawings in the cave certainly showed creatures he had
never seen before, and amongst them, strange manlike figures in the
pursuit of their prey, and in the tasks of their everyday life.
Judging
by the work, it was all done by the same artist, the shapes having
very similar styles and lines, the work of a great mind. But his
attention was repeatedly drawn back to the drawing in the corner. The
line, with numerous scratches and smudges on it as if someone had
deigned to remove it, stuck out like a sore thumb in the gloom, it's
starkness testimony to another's work. Or was it?
Plato
was puzzled. This was the first time that he had seen such a line in
any cave art, everything before having that flow of nature in its
style. So had someone else found this cave since, and done the
graffiti to this treasure trove? If that had been the case, then it
would be probable that other drawings would have been similarly
damaged, and in his inspection of the hidden grotto, there appeared
to have never been any life in here for centuries, or longer! His
logical mind thought immediately to the line again, and the
importance of his find. Did some early ancestor of man already know
about the line, contrary to popular belief? If so, why had they tried
to destroy what they had created?
Plato
mused on this for some time, and finally he reached a decision. Up
until the time of this drawing, everything, he assumed, in cave art
was shaped to nature, and straight lines were never to be seen when
one looked at nature. Almost-lines everywhere, but nothing anywhere
that could be deemed dead straight! Ah, eureka!! They were afraid of
that line, because it wasn't natural!! Hence the need to get rid of
it. But they never did. It was evident in all walks of life now, in
everything man did. It was the guide to the existence of Homo
sapiens. It formed the letters of language, measured the time,
moulded the environment of human life, and created the boundaries of
existence and conflict.
Head
heavily burdened by this thought, Plato lay down on the cavern floor,
and suddenly realised that above the invention of tools, the wheel,
alchemy and mathematics, the greatest single destruction to nature on
earth was a CroMagnum line drawn on a cave way back in the ether of
time.
And
he wept. As Trughotjk and Crickstigbo had so long ago in the same
room, and as Man would for years to come, without fully realising
why.
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