Ab,
looking down the valley, over the flashing flame, into the forest hills,
in whose deep shade lay Little Mok, old Hilltop and Ab's mother, could
see the lusty youths in the village, running, leaping, wrestling and
throwing spears, axes and stones in competition. A strange oppression
came upon him and he thought of Oak lying in the ground alone on the
hillside, miles away. Ab felt, even now, the strong, helpful arm of his
friend around him, just as it was in the evening journey from the Feast
of the Mammoth homeward, when he had been rescued from almost certain
death by Oak. A lump rose in the throat of the man of many battles and
many trials. He shook himself, as if to shake off the memory that plagued
him. Oak came not often to trouble Ab's peace now, and when he came it
was always at night. Morning never found him near the Fire Village.
The young hunters, rioting like the young men in the valley, were passing
now. Ab looked upon them thoughtfully. He felt dimly a desire to speak to
them, to tell them something about the hurts they might avoid, and how
hard it was to have a great, heavy load on one's chest at times--all
one's life--but the cave man was, as to the emotions, inarticulate. Ab
could no more have spoken his half defined feelings than the tree could
cry out at the blow of the ax.
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