An excellent discussion about the “first” writers. 💗
Smoke from the torches stings his eyes, making it difficult to see. The dancing flames bring the animals to life, a magical hunt galloping across the walls of the cavern. It is warm here, sheltered from the icy blast of the wind. Here he will spend the dark time when the sun is weak in the sky. Not for him the warmth of the hearth and the laughter of children, he is alone in the dark womb of earth.
They bring him meat from the home place, the caves that look out onto the grasslands. They bring him water and wood for the flames. And the old one brings him tales of magic to weave on the walls, gratitude for survival and a plea for good hunting and rich life as the seasons turn.
They bring him the clay and stones that make the colour and he turns…
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