I hold my gift, tied up tight in a fig leaf and raffia. I gently pull the edges of the raffia and the leaf unfurls. My heart leaps; A lump of rich black coal rolls off the leaf’s edge and into my grateful, eager hands.
My eyes, as black as my gift, seek out my parents. This precious new fuel and what it means to them is not lost unto me.
My father and mother both nod, “Boy-With-Spirit-Of-Coal, off with you, the rest of this day is yours, and take your gift with you.”
I race down the valley, through herds of Bison feeding on palm grass, to my secret place. I climb a familiar crag, passing up the sure-footed Snowy Mountain Ram.
I finally reach the entrance to my granite studio. I light a branch wrapped in leather soaked in oil. I make my way to the far back wall and light a fire of twigs and dung.
The cave soon glows in oranges and warm flickering yellows. My eyes gaze upon my father hunting a Bull Bison. Now I can finish his bow and arrows.
The Plains Tiger I saw stalking an Auk, takes shape too.
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