Giants of Africa (3)

WHOOMMM!!!

When I swung the cord in my hand, a sound like a bull bellowing and something buzzing at an in-between frequency filled the air and echoed in every direction.

It was louder than I expected—enough to startle me.

Naturally, Mother, who had been watching from the side to see what I was doing, jumped in surprise.

"Pretty Eyes! What the hell is that thing!"

"Hmm. Animal call noise?"

I had no way to explain it, so I said that and looked down at the bullroarer in my hand. Its shape was so simple there was nothing to say about it—a wide scapula split and shaved down into a leaf-like shape, then tied to a cord.

Especially since I'd deliberately made the board thin to raise the pitch, it produced a sound like a swarm of large bees buzzing.

If I spun several of these at once, it could sound like an entire colony of bees.

Seeing Mother's curious expression, I let her try it and showed her how to use it. She got excited and started spinning it with a whoosh.

WHOOOOMM!!!

BUZZ! WHOOOMM!!

And mid-spin, she even changed the cord length to produce different tones. Truly, the applicability of humans in this era was beyond admiration.

I watched that for a moment, then walked over to where I'd prepared for the next step.

In a pit dug about a meter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠deep, the ash water was filled to the brim. Floating on its surface were tufts of hair and grease that looked, to anyone watching, about as healthy as you'd expect.

I stirred it a few times with a long stick, and a piece of faded, partially degreased rawhide was hooked onto the end and pulled out.

By the way, the leather used here came from dismantling one of those large one-piece garments—clothing made from a single large hide with holes punched through and laced together with cords. Just taking it apart gave you a large piece of hide.

Particularly, since it was leather given as a gift, most of it was short-haired, soft belly hide, which was even better.

I tugged at the fur on the leather with my fingers. Without even putting force into it, the hairs came out smoothly—time to process.

"...I didn't think I'd be doing this myself."

Leather processing isn't easy, and the methods are things ordinary people rarely encounter.

So why did I know this?

Simple. I was a graduate student working under a professor who truly valued experimental archaeology.

And as I mentioned before, professors don't do the hard work.

Scraping rawhide in the corner of the university, soaking it in ash water or stale urine—those are all graduate student tasks.

I draped the lye-soaked hide over a log I'd prepared near the water's edge. Then I scraped it with a dull flaking tool. The loosened follicles began to release the hair roots smoothly.

After scraping it to a certain point, I rinsed it in clean water, scraped again, and repeated this several times until the pale leather emerged.

If I were making something from this, I could soak ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it in tannin to tan and harden it, but what I needed right now didn't require that.

Once the fur was removed, if I stretched and dried the leather on a frame, it would make an excellent drum.

I set the fur-processed leather aside and went back to working on the next hide when someone tapped my back.

"?"

I turned around in confusion. There stood a small figure with a notably low nose.

"Pretty Eyes, what are you doing?"

It was none other than the Paranthropus boisei individual who had asked me last time how to make a stone knife while giving me grain.

He was holding a bundle of water plants in his arms.

"Is that for eating?"

"No, no. I'm ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠going to dry this and make a tool to drive away the Ground-shakers."

At my words, he looked at me with an expression asking if that was even possible.

"The Ground-shakers?"

"Yeah. Make a loud sound to scare them off."

Watching his face fall into thought again, I thought inwardly that such a reaction was only natural.

The Ground-shakers—elephants—are a disaster that walks.

Normally they play an important role maintaining the grasslands by creating water holes and breaking trees, but once they start charging like this, no one can stop them.

After a long pause, the boisei individual looked at me and spoke.

"I will help too."

"Help? Why?"

I truly didn't understand why he would want to help me.

Their diet consists mainly of plants—grasses, grains, tree fruits.

While fruit is scarce here, edible grasses and roots are fairly abundant, which is why they are the ones with the least worry about food.

"Don't your people have plenty to eat? You eat grass and roots, after all."

He shook his head.

"Because of the Ground-shakers, we are starving too."

Saying that, he looked down at the water plants in his arms, sighed, and tossed them onto the ground.

"We don't eat just any plant. The plants we can eat, other people can eat too. Until now, it was fine. Your people ate meat. Other people ate meat. Fish were eaten. We could all eat together."

His words were simple.

Normally, each species had its own varied diet according to preferences, so the plants and roots they ate were plentiful. But now that everyone ate only those plants and fish, food ran out in an instant.

Truthfully, this was why a group couldn't grow beyond a certain size.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The food resources available in one area are limited, and nature can only sustain a group of about fifty.

Until now, it had been fine.

Many people lived in Arti, but they didn't all eat the same things.

Some caught fish. Some gathered shellfish. Some hunted small animals. Some picked fruit. Some dug roots. Some gathered grass seeds and stems.

Eating was different, gathering places were different, and required skills were different.

But all of that was cut off because of the elephant herd.

Beyond the grasslands stretching past the marshes surrounding the lake lay the forests where fruit grew. And the grasslands were where countless animals gathered in search of water and green grass.

But with elephants occupying those grasslands, every flow was blocked.

"Water plants are soft, but tasteless. But we have to eat them. Because we have to live. But we hate eating them. So we help. Drive away the Ground-shakers."

Saying that, his eyes were very bright. His right foot was gently crushing the water plants on the ground, radiating an aura of visible annoyance.

"...Were water plants really that unpleasant to eat?"

Well, considering water plants are slimy and smelly, it makes sense.

"...What's your name?"

"We people don't have names. Names are only given by you grassland people."

I didn't know that. It seemed like naming was a Homo erectus cultural thing.

I thought for a moment, then spoke to him.

"Do you like anything?"

"Huh? Why ask that?"

"Just say anything."

When I urged him, he thought for a moment and spoke.

"I like birds. Because birds fly freely."

"Good. Then your name from now on is High Bird."

"High Bird?"

"Yeah. That's your name."

"My... name...?"

High Bird repeated the words dully.

His face was quite something to look at. His eyes went round, his mouth parted slightly, and the foot that had been crushing the water plants stopped moving.

It was the expression of someone who had just been handed something vitally important they'd never known existed in their entire life.

"Yeah. High Bird."

"I am... High Bird?"

"Yeah. Because you like birds. Birds that fly high. So High Bird."

To be honest, I'd just tossed the name out without much thought. I couldn't yet properly combine abstract words like "freedom," "sky," or "dream" in the language of this era.

But High Bird didn't seem to think that way.

He pressed his chest with his fingers.

"I am High Bird."

And he said it again.

"I am High Bird."

His voice was small, but strangely, it was very serious.

This is something I'll deal with later, but Paranthropus boisei have a far more sharing-centered society than other human species. They share everything gathered in the wild, and the concept of personal possessions doesn't exist.

Because of that, the concept of names is unnecessary to them. There is no individual, so there's no reason to distinguish one person from another.

High Bird kept tapping his chest and muttering to himself for a while, then suddenly lifted his head and looked at me.

"Pretty Eyes."

"Yeah?"

"I am High Bird."

"Yeah, I just named you."

"Then I help."

"You already said that."

"No."

High Bird shook his head firmly.

"Before, I helped because I hated water plants. Now, I help because I am High Bird."

"......"

What.

It sounded cool, but if you thought about it carefully, it wasn't far from just saying he didn't want to eat water plants. But since he was being so serious, there was no point in pressing the issue.

I just nodded.

"Fine. Then High Bird, hold this for me."

"Got it."

I picked up one of the hides with all the fur removed and grabbed the wooden frame I'd prepared. The frame wasn't anything special—just a flexible branch heated over fire and bent into a circle, then bound with cord.

The problem was stretching and fixing the leather onto it tightly.

A drum's sound depends entirely on how tightly the hide is stretched. Too loose and you only get dull thuds; too tight and it dries out and splits.

On top of that, this era has no metal knives, no fine tools, no screws. The only option was to punch holes, weave cord through, and pull tight by hand.

"Hold here. Don't let go."

"I won't let go."

High Bird gripped the hide firmly with his short but strong arms. The sight was quite trustworthy, so I pulled the other side with all my strength.

Screech.

"......"

"......"

The leather tore slightly.

High Bird looked at me.

I looked at High Bird.

A silence passed.

"Pretty Eyes."

"Yeah."

"Is this how it's done?"

"No."

Either I failed to control the force, or a small hole appeared during leather preparation. I'd flattened it as much as possible before soaking in ash water, but without a metal blade, there was no choice.

I grabbed another hide and had High Bird hold one side the same way.

I tugged the leather gently, then made a hole at the edge with a sharp stone knife, and threaded a tough tendon cord through it.

Tendon cord tightens and hardens when dried, and becomes flexible again when wet. It was hard to find, but it was quite useful for this kind of lashing.

"Pull slowly. Don't yank all at once."

"Slowly."

The hide stretched on the frame began to tighten.

I tapped the surface with my fingers.

Thud.

Still dull.

I pulled the cords a bit more.

Thump.

The sound came alive a little.

I pulled again.

Boom.

This time, it sounded properly like a drum. Even though the leather was still damp, it was quite good.

"Oh."

High Bird's eyes went wide too. Just pulling the leather, and it made that kind of sound—it seemed amazing to him.

Maintaining that tension, I connected all the back of the drum. Soon, a quite respectable frame drum was complete.

"Once the leather dries like this, it's done."

"Oh! Then can we drive away the Ground-shakers with this?"

Seeing the hopeful look in his eyes, I shook my head.

"One of these isn't enough."

"Then...?"

I pointed at the pale hides still floating in the water, their fur not yet fully removed.

"We need to make more. Enough for ten hands."

At that, High Bird suddenly thought for a moment and said:

"Can I cancel the helping thing...?"

"No. Get over here. We have to pull the fur."

Abandoning a free worker who came on their own would be academic probation for a graduate student.