Rocks
by
Ken Green
The sun had dipped to the tops of the mountains. It had been a good day
of gathering, and the baskets were full. The tribe had returned to the
camp, and Shaman was making the fire. Everybody else sat in the circle.
Time to make tools.
Oomla sat next to Da, like she always did. He picked up a tool rock,
and a chipping rock, as did she, as did the rest of the tribe.
They began chipping, and fell into a seductive, drowsy rhythm.
“Da,” Oomla said, chipping at her rock, “Do you ever think about rock?”
Da’s brow furrowed. Neanderthals have big brows, so when they furrow
them, it’s an event.
“Think about rock all the time,” he said, “Think, ‘This is good rock
for making axe.’ What else to think about?”
“No, Da. Do you ever wonder what rock…is?” Oomla peered deeply at her
rock, as if it held secrets.
“Rock is rock,” Da said, settling the issue.
“Yes, but what does that mean?” Oomla asked, “I could take this rock…”
“You already have that rock,” Da said, then gave her rock an appraising
look, “That rock make good spearhead. You should make spearhead.”
“Yes, Da. In my hand, I hold one rock. But if I smash it just right,
I’ll have two rocks.”
“Why ruin good spear head?” Da objected, “Rocks not grow on trees,” he
admonished.
“And if I take one of the two rocks, and smash it into two rocks, what
do I have?” she asked.
“Many rocks,” Da answered, “And father angry with you for wasting good
rock.”
“Exactly,” Oomla said, “One rock, two rocks, many rocks. But isn’t
‘many’ just the sound we make when we can’t count anymore?”
“When you talk like this, my head hurt. Why you do this?”
She put the tool rock on the ground. “One rock,” she put the chipping
rock next to it, “Two rocks,” frantic, she found a pebble and added it
to the collection, “What is that?”
“Many rocks. Why you so stupid?”
“No! It can’t be many. I can still count all the rocks. There has to be
something that’s more than two, but less than many. Why don’t we have a
sound for that?”
“We no need one. Look,” he said, holding an empty hand up, “One hand,”
he held up his other hand, “Two hands. No need for more.”
“Yeah? Well, what about this?” She held up a finger, “One finger,” she
held up another, “Two fingers,” she held up a third, “What do I do now,
Da?”
“Why you count fingers?” he asked, “You afraid you lost some?”
“How would I know?”
“You hands look fine. Why you no make spearhead?”
“This is important, Da,” she said.
“No,” Da said, “Spearheads important. Make a good spearhead, we tie it
to stick, kill mastodon. Then we eat mastodon. You like mastodon.”
“But that’s all we ever do. We hunt, we gather, then we make new tools
so we can hunt and gather again. Nothing ever changes.”
“Oomla?”
“Yeah, Da?”
“Make spearhead now. Or I test new axe on you head.” He lifted the axe
in a menacing manner.
“Fine,” she said, chipping away at the rock, knocking small chips off
it, creating a point and edges.
“You good at make things,” Da said.
“Thanks,” she said, not meaning it. “Wait. Look at these little chips
I’m making.”
“Yeah,” he said, “You make good spearhead. You very good daughter, when
you not talk.”
“That’s not the point. Each of these tiny flecks of rock is still…made
out of rock.”
“Huh?”
“And if I was to take just one of these tiny flecks, and smash it into
tinier flecks…”
“Why you do that? Too tiny to pick up. What good is rock you can no
pick up?” Da asked.
“But, can I do that forever? If I keep smashing bits of rock smaller
and smaller, will I get to the point where it isn’t rock anymore?”
“Why you want to? What you have against rocks?”
“Nothing, Da. I just want to understand what rocks are.”
“Rocks are rocks.”
Oomla’s eyes grew large. “Maybe the whole world is rock! Maybe we’re
living on a really, really big rock.”
“What? Wait. No. World not just rock. World is dirt. And trees. And
Mastodons.”
“Yes. But think about it. Rock and dirt are very similar.”
“What?”
“Clumps of dirt can be broken down much like rocks can be, only more
easily. Maybe dirt is just a bunch of tiny, tiny rocks that stick
together, but not very well.”
Da said, “How you kill mastodon with dirt?”
“Oh, screw you, and your mastodon,” she said, throwing the spearhead to
the ground and walking away.
THE END
Ken Green
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