Some forty thousand years ago plus or minus a few odd centuries, years, months, weeks and days, a strange group might have been seen wending its way northward through the very heart of France. It was the Ape Boy and his two animal friends, the Hairy Mammoth Elephant and Woolly Rhinoceros. The two shaggy beasts lumbered on side by side, the former towering twice above the height of his smaller companion. On the Mammoth’s neck settled deeply in the depression between head and shoulders, sat Pic with ax held across his thighs and his hyena robe trailing behind him in the breeze.

Hairi a beast of burden? How hath the mighty fallen! We must go back a bit to learn why.

When the duet became a trio—Ape Boy, Mammoth and Rhinoceros—and the party left the Grotto of Sha Pell to journey northward, Spring was already far advanced. Warm weather was something of a hardship to Hairi and Wulli, all bundled up as they were in their shaggy overcoats, to say nothing of thick woolen underwear concealed beneath. And so they made all haste to reach a more congenial climate. In spite of their vast bodies and stumpy legs, both could travel fast; but the need of food and rest had some voice as to the speed at which they travelled. They were tremendous eaters, but unfortunately the high rocky country provided poor feeding-grounds.

Their favorite foods were scarce, the grass-tufts few. Their northern march was a constant turning this way and that in search of edibles which were snatched up greedily wherever found. On the rough ground, Pic had the better of his comrades. No rock was too high, no ravine too deep to bar his way. His step was sure, his head clear and he found little trouble in making rapid progress over obstacles which caused the others endless annoyance and delay. Up hill, down dale, through tangled forest undergrowth and over fallen trees, the Ape Boy led the other two a merry dance until the party approached the Loire River. Here the tables were turned. The ground which they had covered was a gradual descent from forested highlands to comparatively level lowlands as the land-surface dipped down to the northwest. On the high, rough country, the Mammoth and Rhinoceros had been at a disadvantage but in the broad level region of the Loire, food was abundant and everything promised a speedy journey.

But now an unforeseen complication arose; Pic was too slow. He could not walk as fast as the others, simply because his heels were much too short; also each big toe stood apart from its mates and lacked stiffness. Soft, flexible feet were well suited for climbing and clambering about in rough, broken country;—among cliffs, ravines, rocks and tangled undergrowth—but in the open they were at a disadvantage. With his short heels and soft feet, Pic promised to become a burden to his friends, through no real fault of his own.

“Where is Pic? Stopping to crack rocks, I suppose,” grumbled the Mammoth, as for the fifth time he halted and observed the one in question lagging far in the rear. Pic was shuffling along at his best gait with knees half bent and head held forward, making hard work of the little he accomplished and tiring fast with the doing of it.

Hairi and Wulli ground their teeth and stamped impatiently until the laggard finally caught up. He halted before them, squatted on heels and haunches and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked warm, tired and discouraged, knowing well that the best he could do was poor enough. His comrades’ remarks were little calculated to give him comfort.

“You must walk faster,” Hairi scolded. “If you cannot do better than that, I will soon have to carry you.”

“Carry me?” Pic looked up quickly at the great giant towering over him; at the Elephant’s head-peak and mighty shoulder-hump and the deep depression where neck joined body. His face brightened. He rose to his feet and stepped to the Mammoth’s side.

“Yes, it might be done if you will. Raise your foreleg.” He laid his hand on the great right wrist which rose above the level of his own knees.

“Fancy my taking orders from small creatures,” Hairi thought to himself; but he raised his foreleg obediently and stood waiting, curious to see what would happen next. The Ape Boy climbed upon the outstretched limb and reaching on high with his hands, secured a firm grip on the Mammoth’s ear. “Now your trunk,” he commanded. “Help me to climb up.”

Hairi’s trunk curled around sideways and raised the other with scarce an effort. With this assistance Pic scrambled up. Before the astonished Mammoth realized what had happened, his neck bore a rider and for the first time in his life, the head of a living creature towered above his own.

“I am so small, you can easily carry me,” a voice sounded from behind his ears. “Now you may go on as fast as you please.”

Before many hours, the Mammoth had become accustomed to his rider and in that time the wisdom of the new arrangement became apparent to all. From his elevated position, Pic was enabled to inform his friends regarding the nature of the country ahead and call their attention to various interesting things among which they passed. Then too, he selected the best routes and chose the safest fords when crossing streams. In these and many other ways, he relieved his friends of many perplexing problems. In short, he had become the eyes and brains of the party.

Northern France was beginning to prepare itself for a season of warm breezes and sunny skies when our three tourists crossed the Loire River and entered the more rolling country beyond. And yet none but hardy forms of green growth dared show themselves; for the ice-fields yet hung threateningly to the north, casting their sombre shadows over Western Europe. Only scattered clumps and single trees—dwarf birch, fir, spruce and arctic willow strewn sparingly along streams and hillside—marked once-forested regions. Coarse grass and sedge formed but a threadbare carpet on meadow and pasture land. And yet this semi-bleak waste abounded with animal life,—hardy forms in keeping with the grass, brush and trees. There were wild horses, stilt-legged bison with shaggy heads and shoulders, long-horned cattle and lesser creatures of the open pasture lands; stags, roe-deer and Irish Elk of hill and glade; and least numerous but most menacing, prowling wolves and hyenas which crawled and skulked from sight, awaiting their chance to secure any tender colt, calf or fawn or even grown animal that strayed from the protection of its fellows.

Horse, bison, ox and all stopped work—feeding, playing, sleeping—to inspect the strangers coming from the south. As the latter drew nearer, all eyes, ears and noses were gradually drawn to the Mammoth or rather to something upon his neck which looked and smelled like a Trog-man, but of course must be something else. Men and beasts did nothing but quarrel with one another as a rule. No elephant ever travelled about with a man upon his neck; such a thing was unheard of in the animal world.

But for all that, something of the kind was happening under their very noses; so the horses, bison, oxen and everything else crowded as closely as they dared along the line of march, leaving a wide lane through which the strangers might pass without interruption.

Hairi could not conceal his satisfaction at this publicity so suddenly thrust upon him. He held his head high and swept on at his most majestic gait while the spectators stared and admired and wished they were as big and grand-looking. The Ape Boy caught the spirit of his noble steed and bore himself right royally, with ax held over one shoulder, like a ruler parading before his vassals.

Several days journey in this regal splendor brought the party to the border of a vast, shallow depression scooped as it were from the earth. Its sides were coated with patches of loam and sand becoming deeper towards the bottom as though giant hands had washed therein and left their grime. It was like a saucer—a mighty basin too broad for mortal eye to span—bounded by a rim of encircling hills which dipped lower and lower as they swept in two wide arcs to the northwest. Thus the saucer stood not squarely on its broad base but tipped as though to empty itself of a river winding through it from the southeast. After passing a small island which reposed at the bottom of the saucer, the river swung from northwest to southwest, then turned back and forth upon itself thus forming a rude inverted letter S.

Far to the southeast, a tributary joined the larger stream. Low hills and pastures, sloping towards the valley through which the central river flowed; scattered shade-trees dotting the western lowlands; scrub and brush adorning the eastern heights;—such was the Paris Basin, the Seine River winding through it and the Marne tributary flowing from the east.

Slopes, river banks and even the river surface itself were dotted and blotched with living forms, single and in groups, some motionless, others shifting restlessly about; sleeping, lunching or besporting themselves as wild animals do when in the midst of congenial surroundings.

A herd of horses was gliding swiftly along the southern slopes overlooking the valley—sorrels, bays, chestnuts, with manes and tails streaming behind them—all uniting to form a single moving mass of color. Groups of long-horned cattle lined the river-banks farther below, standing high and dry, wading in the water or swimming with all but their heads submerged.

To the west, a score of bison grazed beneath the scattered shade-trees. Others lay on the grass near by, chewing their cuds and gazing dreamily into space. A tiny calf consisting of a small piece of body mounted on four stilts, ran here and there calling “Ma-ma” and causing no disturbance but its own noise. By some peculiar combination of sight, smell and sound whereby cows and calves find each other without mistakes, the bawling infant soon discovered the object of its search and its troubles ended with a draught of home-brewed nectar, of which the fond mother carried an abundant supply. Meanwhile the bull bison leader found nothing to do but loll about awaiting the day’s end and whatever the morrow might bring. But with all his cud-chewing and seeming laziness, he kept one eye upon a burly brown bear who in the distance was poking the stones and rotten logs about with his big paws in search of grubs and things that bears like when honey is scarce and the berries are still green.

In spite of their apparent lack of interest in any but their own affairs, bison, horse, ox, bear and all frequently turned their noses windward to sniff the air as though suspicious of its tainted odor. Grass-eaters, even hunting-animals never trusted blood-thirsty creatures that roved in packs—wolves, hyenas and more particularly, other strange beings beyond the pale who walked on their hind legs and fought with sticks and stones.

As the three travellers glided down the Basin slope and neared a more abrupt descent to the river, Pic espied a group of figures on the bank below him, near where the river made its first sharp turn from south to north. He said nothing of this discovery for fear of alarming his companions; but already the Mammoth had begun to show signs of uneasiness. His trunk had caught a strange scent below him. With each step, his pace slackened. The Rhinoceros shared his comrade’s increasing concern. His ears were held pricked forward to catch the sound of that which he smelled but could not see.

Suddenly, two of the distant figures jumped up. A shout; and every figure stood erect. A score of wondering faces stared up at the Mammoth and Rhinoceros. A second shout followed. The figures—faces and all—dropped to the ground and lay still.

At the first shout, Hairi gave a great bound which almost unseated his rider; at the second, he stopped abruptly, only to move forward again as Pic patted his cheek and spoke reassuring words to coax him on. Nearer and nearer, they approached the prostrate figures, not one of which moved or made a sound. When but a dozen paces distant, the Mammoth stopped and refused to advance another step. He hung back on the shelving bank, beneath which he could see dark figures kneeling with their faces in the dust. His nose told him that these were Trog-men, a fact concerning which his eyes and ears now felt some doubts, for the prone forms neither moved nor made a sound. When eyes, ears and nose failed to agree on things, those things had best be avoided.

To Pic, sitting astride the Mammoth’s neck, the sight of the prone figures was astounding. Men either fought or fled in the face of danger but never did they pretend to be asleep or dead. Why did they act so? He saw a score of human beings grovelling in the dust. About them lay piles of cream colored lumps, also hammer-stones and axes scattered in confusion. He suspected treachery; but if this were an ambuscade, one more remarkable he had never encountered.

“Can these really be men?” he asked himself. “So silent and still all; lying upon their faces. What does it mean?”

As if in reply, one of the figures stirred. A grizzled grey head raised itself. A pair of deep-set eyes peered up furtively at the towering Mammoth. Hairi threw his trunk aloft and settled back. The Rhinoceros squared his legs. The Ape Boy looked down. He saw the face of an old man with heavy brows, sloping forehead and massive chinless jaws. The eyes shone like those of a fanatic—of one inspired.

The patriarch’s lips moved. “The Man Mammoth!” he muttered in an awed voice, so hushed that it sounded scarcely above a whisper. “He comes to jar the heavens and hurl down fire. Woe to us!” He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

Low howls and white puffs arose from the dust as his companions added their dismal chorus.

“Arrah! What is that you say?” demanded the now thoroughly mystified Pic. “Man Mammoth? Man and Mammoth, you mean. Tell me, Old Grey Head, is this some of your trickery?” He raised his ax on high as he said this and glared fiercely from one figure to another.

Low moans and white puffs again arose from the bank below him. Once more the patriarch uncovered his face and gazed in awe at the Mammoth-head and its human rider.

“What trickery can we poor cave-folk offer to the Man Mammoth who sees and knows all? We but humble ourselves that he may shine upon us and cease to ravage the land with flood and flame.”

“Agh-h,” grunted Pic. He smiled and his eyes twinkled. Now he understood. The Cave-men mistook him for a god because he rode upon the Mammoth’s neck. To them, he and the Elephant were one; part man, part beast—the Man Mammoth, ruler of the sky whose smile was sunshine; lowering clouds, his frown; and storm, his wrath. With thunder and lightning, he vented his rage upon the earth.

“Why do you all herd here above the valley?” Pic asked in a low voice that—to the humble cave-men—fore-shadowed clear sunny skies.

“We came to find and hammer the flints,” replied the patriarch rising to his knees and pointing at the bank above him. “Here lie the finest in the land.”

“Flints?” Pic leaned far over the Mammoth’s neck and looked eagerly at the ground beneath him. He saw yellow lumps, broken flakes and hammer-stones, in profusion. “Whoow-w!” he sucked in his breath and gazed at them in astonishment.

He had intruded upon a colony of flint-workers. These men were merely engaged in procuring one of life’s necessities; means for destroying other lives to preserve their own. The bank was a chalk-ledge overlooking the Seine. It was the center of a thriving industry—a mine and munitions factory combined. It contained wealth more precious than gold or silver; for to these men unfamiliar with metals, flint was the staff of life whereby they were enabled to exist.

There it was in piles freshly extracted from the chalk, awaiting the first manufacturing operation—splitting by the hammer-stone. Many lumps already split, also the wax-like flakes hewn from them, lay strewn upon the ground. Flints! and such wonderful ones too! Pic’s eyes caught the lustre of broken flakes. Was the workmanship as fine as the material itself? He looked at the blade of his own ax and trembled. The secret of its making, might at that very moment be lying at his feet.

“We must know more of this. Why do you stop, clumsy beast”—these last words were addressed to the Mammoth who showed a decided reluctance to move closer.—“Forward. Do you fear a handful of cave-men? Agh! hurry, I say.”

Hairi shook his head from side to side and protested with loud grunts, but ended by descending the bank and striding among the workers and piles of flint. At a signal from his rider, he stopped. Pic peered down between his head and shoulder. His gaze alighted on a hide heaped with broken flakes. The patriarch who had first spoken was kneeling beside it.

“Fling-stones,” Pic exclaimed in tones of withering scorn. “Is this your best work? Stand up, old man and answer before I lose patience and bid the Mammoth crush you where you lie.”

The patriarch scrambled to his feet and stood with head bowed, arms folded across his breast; awed in spirit but heedless of bodily danger. Pic’s heart softened.

“Is this your best work?” he asked, again pointing to the broken flakes. “If so, it ill becomes such fine material to be so butchered. Have you none like this?” He held out his own ax by its long wooden handle so that the other might see.

The old man’s eyes brightened as they caught sight of the wonderful blade. He stepped forward and stood directly beneath the Mammoth’s chin. His arms were outstretched towards the great flint like those of a worshipper before a shrine.

“Marvellous,” he muttered in an awed voice. “Never have I seen so fine a blade. May I touch it, noble master?” His palms trembled as they hovered over the object of his adoration.

“Yes, you may touch it,” replied the Ape Boy with a kindly smile; and for an instant the ax was hidden between the old man’s hands.

“Ah, Blade of Ach Eul!” he murmured devoutly. “None can equal it. Never will the work of us poor cave-folk equal that of the Terrace Men. We strive in vain.”

“Well spoken,” Pic interrupted. “None can equal it. But how was it done?” This question was delivered with such earnestness, the old man trembled.

“Of that I know nothing,” he stammered. “The Terrace Men have passed away and their secret with them.”

“Who were the Terrace Men?” asked Pic. His voice shook even more than that of the patriarch.

“A race of flint-workers who once lived on the high river banks—the upper terraces,” was the answer. “But this is the Man Mammoth’s Weapon; incomparable with the Terrace Man’s finest flint. And yet it is much the same.” He patted the blade reverently. “But as calf’s flesh pleases the taste more than does that of the aged bull, so does this blade of Ach Eul shame the work of mortal hands.”

“Blade of Ach Eul—it is well worth a name. And these Terrace Men—where may they be found?” asked Pic. “You and your fellows might learn much from them. Agh! even my turtle-backs are more finely hammered. Not a knife nor ax-blade in the lot—mere fling-stones; children’s’ and women’s work.”

“They once lived on the banks of a river to the north,” the old man replied. “But no longer do we see them or their blades. The Terrace Men are gone and their secret with them.”

“Um—we shall see. Go on,” Pic said to the Mammoth. The latter picked his way carefully among the prostrate men but made no effort to avoid their flints or tools which he scattered recklessly about with his ponderous feet.

For an instant, Pic’s eyes blazed at sight of this wanton desecration; but another look at the small, ill-hewn fragments and he held his peace.

“Well done, good old friend,” he whispered. “Even you have no patience with such feeble efforts,” and without deigning so much as another glance at the cave-men or their clumsy flint-making, he urged his steed down the bank to the river while the Woolly Rhinoceros followed close behind.

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