Well I’m underway!

Last Thursday, I announced that I had decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month.  Or NaNoWriMo as it is more familiarly known.

It’s clear that to achieve the goal of 50,000 words by the end of November, it must be all about writing; writing flat out.  Any distraction from writing will make it impossible to maintain the average of 1,670 words a day for 31 days!

So just warning you that as I publish each chunk of the book here on Learning from Dogs don’t expect anything like a polished result.  Given the miracle of actually completing the 50,000 words then December will be the time to edit, refine and polish.

Mind you, any feedback good, bad or indifferent would be fabulous to have from you.  OK, enough said, on with the show!

oooOOOooo

Learning from Dogs

In the beginning

Omo stirred, aware that she had heard a sound. Somewhere out there in the deep night. Somewhere not far outside their cave. Jogod fast asleep next to her. Omo could see from the light of the fire that burnt at the entrance of this ancient limestone cave that Jogod had one arm across the skins that covered them. Like the early tribes before them, before they arrived and took their tribal lands, living and sleeping in a cave without fire would offer easy pickings for the many animals that preyed on them.

Even so, Jogod’s arm still cradled the small club he had used the previous day when out hunting.  Just in case creatures decided to try their luck this cold Winter’s night.

There it was again. Some creature in pain. The sound was the sound of whimpering.

Omo shook Jogod’s arm. He was awake instantly. It was instinctive. Their survival, as with all the members of their clan, depended on always being alert to danger.  Always keeping ahead of the many wild beasts that wouldn’t, and often didn’t, hesitate to feast on them; on the unwary, or on the sick, or on their young. Another reason for the protection of their cave.

Omo had her hand over Jogod’s lips to prevent any sound coming from him. There it was again, that whimpering sound. Possibly the sound of a very scared small animal. Perhaps more than one animal.

The darkness of the night outside, their cave surrounded by the dark forest, made it impossible for Omo and Jogod to leave the protection of their group. Nothing for it but to wait for the sun to rise, light up the sky and shine down into the forest.

They sat back-to-back in their cave, their bedding skins about them, each listening. Each trying to identify the animal from the sounds. A faint night-time breeze stirred, the gentle air wafting across the cave entrance. The breeze carried a familiar odour. Jogod picked up the scent of wolf! Not an uncommon odour because the wolves were constantly shadowing the group, drawn by the smells of their cooking, hoping to find a scrap of meat, a bone, a piece of skin. But Jogod smelt only young wolf. That was unexpected. Unexpected because the young wolves were always within the safety of their wolf pack.

Slowly the blackness of the night sky gave way to a hint of pale from the edge of the land from whence the light of the day always came. The paleness spread and became half-light. Further into the cave, as each of the other members of their hunting pack stirred, Omo, almost silently, touched each one on the shoulder or arm and motioned to remain perfectly quiet. Each of them in turn smelt young wolf, heard the whimpering, waited for more light.

Soon it was time. Time to search out these young wolves. Jogod and Omo, with Gadger and Kudu.  Gadger and Kudu, both experienced tribe elders, especially when it came to dealing with the wolves and other animals who ate their peoples.  All four of them fanned out and, as quiet as that night-time breeze, slowly followed the scent upwind.

It was not far to go. As they closed in on the sound, it became clear to them that not only were there two young wolves, but most likely one of each gender.  They all knew from past experiences how the sounds of a male wolf, even a young animal, sounded so differently from that of the female.

Then they saw them.  Just a few strides away two young wolves perhaps of age only two or three passings of the moon; four at most. The two young creatures had been attacked by an unknown predator; the rest of their pack must have abandoned them. Nature was so cruel at times.

The tearing of their small bodies was clear; dried blood all over their fur. The two frightened young animals quietened down as the hunters came up to them.  There was nothing that could be done for them. The young wolves must be left because it will only be a matter of time before more predators will arrive to take advantage of an easy kill.

But Omo had come forward and was crouching next to the shivering creatures. These two young wolves were utterly exhausted. Too tired to move, to try and flee from these humans who always tried to attack them and their packs. Yet Omo was speaking quietly to them and deep in the heads of these tiny animals so, too, was some instinct talking to them. Omo was not coming to harm them. This animal who walked on two legs, who made sounds like no other animals in the land, who so often was such a deadly threat to their wolf-packs; this time something was different. This animal was going to help them.

Omo’s arm slowly reached out and the fingers of her hand drifted across one of the tiny heads, the gentlest whisper of a touch of finger on fur. The whimpering stopped. The two frail cubs instinctively knew they were safe.

874 words. Copyright © 2013 Paul Handover