Episode 2 - Crime and Punishment (1)
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I tapped the bone again. The sound I remembered was hidden somewhere in my memory. It rang like a xylophone, yet it was slightly duller than the tone I recalled. Probably because this bone had not been separated from its body for very long. Still, the shape, the resonance—there was no mistaking it. I had seen and heard this exact sound before, in front of that pit, where a child had been striking bones.
Bone sounds might seem alike to the untrained ear, but every creature’s skeleton sings differently according to density and form. And when I considered that the wounds on this particular body were still fresh…
“So they managed to bring one down.”
Yet greed had driven them further, inflicting needless agony on this child.
I felt my jaw tighten on its own as I stared at the obsidian spear in my hand. Blood and pus had soaked deep into the wood, but the craftsmanship was meticulous—the shaft straight, the surface evenly fire-hardened. After studying it a moment longer, I began to walk.
The moment I moved without a word, Tall Bird and several others fell in behind me. Their faces were tight with tension, no doubt reading the storm in my silence.
“Pretty Eyes. Where are you going?”
“To find the owner of this spear.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“I have a good idea.”
We walked on until the ground ahead opened into a warren of dug-out caves. The clay-rich soil here held its shape well; the tunnels did not collapse. I stopped before them, stamped my foot hard, and shouted.
“I am Pretty Eyes, son of White Wind and Fast Foot!”
One by one, figures emerged from the holes. Every one of them wore ornaments fashioned from bone. Long strings of bone beads hung from their necks, polished rings circled their wrists, and rows of small teeth dangled from their waists. The workmanship was astonishing. These were not crude break-and-thread pieces. The bones had been filed, shaped, and fitted with clear intent. Their skill with bone was refined enough to pass for Neolithic craft.
Yet I was in no mood to admire their jewelry. My hand still clutched an obsidian spear crusted with blood and pus.
The instant their eyes fell on it, they flinched. That single reaction told me everything. They knew exactly where this spear had been buried.
“Whose spear is this?” I demanded.
No one answered. Heads dropped. Eyes darted toward one another. A few mouths twitched, but no sound emerged. Their silence was confession enough.
I tightened my grip on the shaft until the wood creaked.
“I asked whose spear this is!”
This time my voice cracked across the hollows like a whip. Slowly, their gazes converged on a single cave—the very one where I had last seen a child tapping bones for play. I walked toward it. The soft crunch of soil beneath my feet sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness.
That was when I noticed the common thread among their ornaments. The most prominent pieces—the necklaces, chest plates, central belt charms—were not ordinary bone. Ivory. Massive fangs. Carnivore canines. Treasures not easily won. These were not mere byproducts of the hunt; they were trophies, proof of prowess, displays of dominance.
I drew a slow breath. At last I understood why they had attacked the elephants. It had never been about meat. They had wanted the precious bones.
A foul stench suddenly stabbed my nostrils. My modern mind inside this more sensitive body pinpointed the source at once: a low mound near the center of their dwelling area. I thrust the spear butt into it and pried the earth aside. Inside lay black, rotting flesh alive with maggots. Even at a glance I could tell the meat had come from a single large animal.
Disgust twisted my face. I moved on, stopping before the cave.
“Come out,” I said, keeping my voice low.
There was movement within.
“If you don’t come out, I will set fire to the entrance. Come out now.”
Only then did four figures crawl from the darkness: a man and woman who appeared to be the parents, and two children. One of the children was the boy I had seen before.
“Is this spear yours?” I asked the man who seemed to be the father, holding it out for him to see.
He nodded, face white with terror.
“Did you drive this spear into the young Earth Rumble?”
Again he nodded, body shaking.
“Why?”
No answer.
“Why?” I repeated.
At last his lips moved. “W-what’s wrong with hunting?”
Something inside me snapped.
Thwack!
I swung the spear shaft into his stomach. The bone ornaments covering his body clattered like shaken dice.
“Urk?!”
He collapsed, groaning. I drove the spear point into the dirt beside his face.
“You call that hunting? You already had one kill. Greed made you throw this spear at a young Earth Rumble you couldn’t even finish off. You gave it nothing but pointless suffering. That is what you call hunting?”
He curled into a ball, trembling violently. His terror seemed excessive. No matter how angry I was, a grown man should not fear a youth who had barely begun his second growth spurt this much—unless…
His wide, quivering eyes gave me the answer. My face still bore the war paint I had worn while driving the elephant herd away: mud, ash, dried blood, and sweat mixed into a demonic mask. Rage layered on top of it made me look like something out of nightmare. These people had likely never seen such a face. Their fear was only natural.
I swallowed hard. As the first heat of fury cooled, I noticed my own fingertips were trembling.
What was I doing?
The man’s crime was undeniable. But did that justify me beating him, threatening him, promising to burn his home? The thought chilled the center of my chest.
Then the image of the rotting wound on the baby elephant rose in my mind. The creature that could neither live nor die properly. The days it must have spent crying in agony.
I clenched my teeth.
“Hunting is done out of hunger,” I said slowly. “Killing in order to survive. That is hunting.”
The man panted against the dirt.
“But that is not what you did.”
I pointed the spear tip at the ivory ornament on his body.
“You did not kill to eat. You did not kill out of necessity. After you already had one, you threw this spear at a young Earth Rumble simply because you wanted more bones.”
I swung the tip toward the others. Hunting was never a solitary act; they had all taken part.
“You are no different. Why were you not satisfied with one? You could not even finish eating a single carcass, yet you let the meat rot while you chased after more bones?”
An elderly man stepped forward.
“Bones… are proof,” he said. “Proof of what our lives have been. Proof that we were valiant and strong.”
“Is it right for innocent lives to suffer for your proof? Is it right for everyone at Ati to suffer for your proof?”
The old man fell silent. Not because he had no answer, but because he did not wish to give one. Resentment still burned in his eyes, as though I had insulted everything they had built.
“We… had to be strong,” he muttered. “If we are weak, we are robbed. If we are weak, we starve. If we are weak, other groups drive us out. Bones are not mere decoration. They are a warning visible to all. A warning that says: do not touch us.”
I exhaled slowly. I understood. In this era, weakness was death. Displaying strength, proving courage, sowing fear in others—these were all legitimate survival strategies.
But.
“Is that so important?” My voice had grown quieter.
The old man flared up. “We live this way! We prove our lives and protect ourselves! What is so wrong with that?!”
I could not suppress the bitter laugh that rose in my throat. I pointed at the mound where the rotting meat lay buried.
“You could not even eat what you killed. The proof you claim is so precious is rotting right there. Tell me again—what exactly is so important about that proof?”
His mouth closed once more. Perhaps he felt it was unfair. To them, hunting was daily life; being condemned so harshly for a failed hunt might seem unjust.
But.
“That rotting flesh of the young Earth Rumble is the proof. It proves that your lives are rotting.”
The simple fact that they had killed something, neither eaten nor shared it, and let it spoil left them with no defense. Even in an age when preservation was difficult, they knew better. They knew that drying meat, smoking it, wrapping it in clay could keep it far longer.
“Yet you did none of those things.”
The spear tip lowered.
“Because meat was never what you wanted.”
Someone clutched the ivory at their throat as though losing it would cost them half their soul. I looked at each of them in turn.
“What you needed was death itself. Death you could show others. Death that would declare you strong.”
The old man’s eyes wavered.
I pulled the spear from the ground. The obsidian blade, clotted with blood and pus, gleamed wetly in the sunlight.
“This is power,” I said. “The power I gave you.”
I lifted the spear so they could all see it clearly.
“But having power does not give you permission to live however you wish. Those who hold power must bear responsibility. Because when power strikes, life ends—and death cannot be undone.”
Slowly I lowered the spear until its tip touched the earth.
“You did not understand that.”
And perhaps I had not understood it either. What right did I have to threaten them this way? Yet I could not let the matter pass. If such things happened again, there was no guarantee the elephants would simply block the plains instead of sweeping us away. Three adult elephants could overwhelm hundreds of people. An enraged herd of mothers who had lost their young would be far worse.
“What you killed was not merely one young Earth Rumble.”
I looked slowly around at every face.
“You touched an entire herd. You touched their memory. Their anger will not end inside your caves. It will come to Ati. It will come to the water’s edge. It will come to the paths where children gather fruit.”
Their faces hardened as realization dawned. Only now did they grasp that a single thrown spear did not end within their own homes.
I laid the obsidian spear on the ground.
“Therefore, punishment is required.”
The man’s shoulders jerked.
I looked at him and shook my head.
“I do not mean I will kill you.”
To kill him would be nothing more than answering rage with rage. And I did not yet possess the right to pass such a sentence. Perhaps no one ever truly did.
I gazed at the people gathered before the cave—at the ivory around their necks, the bone rings on their wrists, the tooth charms at their waists. These were the objects that convinced them they were strong, that instilled fear in others, that proved the way they had lived.
I pointed.
“All the ivory and bone ornaments you possess.”
The air before the cave froze.
“Put them down. Every last one.”
The moment the words left my mouth, hands flew to throats, clutching ivory. Others wrapped arms around waist charms. A child seized the bone ring on his father’s wrist. The woman who had not wept even at the threat of death now trembled.
To them these were not mere decorations. They were proof of the hunt, proof of courage, proof that they had conquered fear. They were the names that announced who they were before other groups.
I had decided to take those names away.
They clutched their ornaments in silence. In that quiet I understood: what I was about to seize was not bone.
I was about to take their honor.