The Caves

Photo by Louis Vest
The Caves by Jody Azzouni

My daughter holds my hand, and I tell her about the caves. How much food we had then. How there were shadows that we had tamed with our hands. That we made the shadows on the walls take shapes, like birds, like animals. That we made the shadows dance. Against the fire. Perhaps I exaggerate. I don’t remember.

I rub mud onto her breasts. They are so firm, almost ready to nurse. The right child. With my blood in it. In a year or two, it will be too late. She will be too old. No one will keep her. I rub mud over her legs. They are starting to hair. I don’t have much time.

We have found some fruit. Each globule is so intricate in its flavors. And in its beauty. Like they were made to entice us. To keep us living. Or wanting to. I listen to everyone eat, the quiet little whoops and sighs of pleasure. And then so quick, it’s over. Like a cat snatching your child. There is no more fruit. Except for the one in front of me, the one that I’ve been watching. I give it to my daughter.

Once, I saw our stomachs bulge. We’d found a carcass, deserted for some reason. Not even carrion birds. Not even hyenas to fight off. Some of us ate. Some of us didn’t. And then the ones that had eaten got sick. Laid themselves out on the ground. Groaning. Their stomachs expanding.

Some of us died. That day. And later. No one blamed the dead animal. Except me. We eat dead animals when we find them. Whenever we can. But some of them I don’t trust. Like that one. That’s why I’m the only mother left. That’s what I think. Because I trust insects more than I trust meat.

I smell them. Pungent. Close by, very close by. The others smell something too, but they don’t know what it means. The father blithers. Go this way, I say. That’s what he says, I say.

The father moans. They think his moaning means something too. About them. About what they should do. I know that he is feeling pain. That the pain is bad enough for him to moan, and that it is getting worse. Much worse. I can smell his flesh changing on him. And I can smell the others, that they are so close now.

Why do we get sick? my daughter asks me. I don’t answer. I know what hunger is. That you’ll eat anything, take any chance. You’ll eat what you find. That’s how your ancestors made you, that’s how you’ll make your children. You’ll do anything to make children. I can’t say that to her. I don’t know why.

I carry a beautiful rock. Small. I take it out. I’ve always loved looking at it. At its colors. I gaze at it the way we all gaze at the fire in the evenings. I don’t know why we love to do that, I don’t know what we see that makes us want to keep looking. I’ve never known. The father once said that we were looking for people, for the people who live in the fire, who dance at its tips. I’ve always loved the father.

I press the rock into my daughter’s hand. I’m giving it to her. The rock, she whispers. You give it to your lover, I tell her. When you have to, I say. If he loves you, he’ll let you keep it, I say. He’ll keep you. She doesn’t understand. She will when she has to.

I dress her in the evening. I tie strips of fur around her waist so that they dangle, hang down below her waist in bands. So that her beautiful body is present and absent behind them. I’ve never understood why this works. Why glimpsing is more tantalizing than seeing. She doesn’t want to wear it, but I’m firm, even angry. She yields. She wants to know why I’m making her wear this. I tell her that it will be cold soon.

There is so much that is true that I’ll never tell her.

I’ve told her this. To hide if something happens. If another tribe finds us. To come out after they’ve calmed down. After their frenzy is over. This is what I can do for her.

Everyone is sleeping and the father moans quietly. They are so near. I smell them constantly now. He moans again. It is quiet, late. The rest of us are sleeping. I press my hands softly against his throat. He gurgles a little, tries to resist my hands. But only a little. I close my eyes tight so that no water leaks out.

In the morning they will find us. I’ll see their strong angry faces. He’ll be the tallest, the strongest. His black hair. As he swings his rock at my face, as he kills me, I’ll think of his fierceness, of his muscles. I’ll know that he’s the one. That he’ll keep my daughter. Make children with her.

Children. My blood in their young bodies. My planted seeds growing in another tribe. Like trees, like tall trees.

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Jody Azzouni has been writing (one way or another) pretty much forever. His fantasy life, he’s frightened to report, is mostly (made-up) interviews, diary jottings, and other wordy things. There’s occasionally an image or map—but rarely. He has recently been published in Alaska Quarterly Review. Some previously published work is on Azzouni.com.