Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

Cro-Magnon, P.I by Mike Reiss

Oswald, Plummer, Oxford don of paleontology, was told by his doctor to stop his excessive drinking. So Plummer moved to France, where his drinking was considered moderate; someday he would retire to Finland, where he’d be considered a model of sobriety. Oswald now gave tours of the prehistoric cave paintings of Lascaux, the one town in France where you couldn’t get a decent meal. His days were spent one hundred feet underground in a small, damp cave filled with American tourists. If this wasn’t Hell, Oswald thought, it was just a few yards away. Today’s group consisted of the thick-waisted and — witted Jeter family from someplace called Tuscaloosa.

“Behold the dwellings of Cro-Magnon man,” Oswald began dramatically. “Perhaps fifty cavemen lived here in a complex, tightly knit community. Despite their scruffy appearance, the Cro-Magnon were as intelligent and sophisticated as you or — son, please don’t lick the cave. That can’t be good for either of you.”

Ten-year-old Jason Jeter, about whom few things weren’t piggish, had licked his way through a three week tour of France. He had licked the D-Day Memorial at Normandy, the tomb of Napoleon, the Plexiglas that covered the Mona Lisa. Now he was licking the historic caves of Lascaux. “Why’s it taste so sweet?” Jason oinked.

“Bat droppings. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you a sight once reserved for the gods,” said Oswald, herding them deeper into a tiny chamber in the rock. Above their heads was a breathtaking mural: a thickly muscled bison snorting as he charged, deer skittering in all directions, an explosion of brightly colored spirals and polka dots, and a single handprint, the signature of the long-forgotten artist. “The colors are just as vibrant, the animals just as animated as they were when first painted, over thirty-five thousand years ago. In order to preserve the mural, we ask that you not take any flash—” Oswald saw a sudden burst of bright light. It might have been a flashbulb. It might have been his hangover.

I chewed on a small twig, fashioning it into a fine paintbrush, and softened the shading on the bison’s flanks. Perfect. I dipped my hand into a dish of ground charcoal and pressed it against the cave wall, signing my masterpiece. With proper care, I believed my mural could look good for five, maybe six years.

My name’s Murf, and I’m an artist. I make a living carving decorative tools for cooking and hunting, and sculpting voluptuous “fertility goddesses” for lonely bachelors. This cave mural was my first big commission; upon completion, the shaman of our tribe would pay me enough meat to get me through the winter, plus a big fat bag of cowrie shells. These shells have no intrinsic value, but we’ve begun to trade them for goods and services. It’s a pretty good idea — I just hope it doesn’t get out of control.

The shaman entered to pass judgment on my work. He studied it carefully, pursed his lips, and proclaimed, “It needs... me.”

“What?”

“These animals are all very cute and lively, but I think I belong in the picture. I am the leader and spirit of our tribe — shouldn’t I be here as well?”

Frankly, no. In all modesty, it was a beautiful painting, and there was no place for a human figure in it. Especially not the shaman’s figure — he was shaped like the bladder of a bear and had the equivalent looks, intellect, and aroma.

“Murf — I demand that you put me in this painting.” I sighed and drew a tiny stick figure at the rear of the bison. It could be the shaman although it might easily be mistaken for a bison chip.

The shaman purpled. “If you won’t put me in this painting with the honor I’m due, I will find an artist who will! And you will receive nothing for all your hard work!”

No meat. No bag of shells. And my masterpiece would still be ruined. I thought long and hard before I replied. “Sit on your hat.” This is about the worst thing you can say to a shaman, since his hat consists of a pair of large and very pointy ibex horns.

I called for my assistant Poot to gather all my paints, brushes, and tools. Dear Poot — strong as a horse, loyal as a dog, dumb as an ox — glared at the shaman from his deep-set eyes. “You stinky bad,” he said.

“Well put, Poot,” I said.

Oswald Plummer held up Poot’s fossilized skull, with its bony eyebrow ridge and apelike jaw. “This is the skull of Neanderthal man, an evolutionary dead end. Can you imagine a race straining so hard to be human, and yet falling ever so short?”

The Jeter family stared at him glossily. “Yes, perhaps you could. We found this one skull mixed among the remains of all the Cro-Magnon. How profoundly lonely to be living among strangers, the very last of your race—”

“Is there a gift shop down here?” Mr. Jeter interrupted.

“No, Mr. Jeter, this is a cave.”

It had been a tough day, so Poot and I treated ourselves to a trip to Mog’s Tavern. Mog dispensed the juice of fermented grains from giant vats under the sign IF YOU GO BLIND, YOU DON’T PAY. Mog’s had always attracted the more artistic members of our tribe — already at the bar sat Qaqaq, an aspiring painter whose parents had forced him into the more stable field of toothpulling and exorcism.

“Murf!” came a voice from behind me — Meg’s is a place where everybody knows your name. I turned to see Hax, the least original and hence most successful artist in our village. His bulbous body was stuffed into a doeskin outfit dotted with clumps of bunny fur scented and dyed with mashed lilacs; this gave Hax the look of a flowering shrub that was somehow sweating profusely. “Murf, I just had to tell you. I’ve been asked to do some work on that lovely cave painting you couldn’t finish,” he said.

“It is finished,” I growled.

“Well, I’m just adding a few little touches. I thought I’d paint the shaman in so he’s riding that cute bison you did. And I’m adding another giant portrait of the shaman on the left side, and guess what he’s holding in his outstretched hand!”

“Your peepee?” Poot guessed in all sincerity.

Hax ignored him. “It’s that herd of deer you painted. Oh, and I’m covering some of those spirals and dots you did with trees. People love trees.”

I was speechless. Qaqaq, the young artist, came to my defense. “Hax, how can you do this?”

“They’re offering me a huge bag of shells. I’m sure you’d do the same, Quackquack,” Hax sneered.

Poot giggled. “Quackquack.”

Mog stepped in. “You know, Haxy, since you’re coming into a little cash, maybe you could finally pay off your bar tab.”

Hax took out a swatch of chamois hide and on it drew a quick charcoal sketch of a tree. “Consider this payment in full,” he said and drifted out of the bar like a ball of swamp gas.

Mog looked at the sketch, assessed it, then used it to mop up the bar top. “It does the job,” he said.

Hours later Poot and I staggered out of Mog’s, wittier and more charming than when we had entered. Poot hauled my heavy case of art supplies all the way to my home and heaved it inside. I had lost the biggest commission of my career, and I would have to let Poot go, too. I patted his lumpy head and gave him three shells’ severance pay. He deserved more, but Poot’s brain couldn’t seem to handle any numbers beyond three. For him it goes one, two, three, more than you can ever imagine. Of course, the wise men of our tribe have found that numbers actually go all the way up to sixty before spinning off into uncountability.

I entered my cave to face the toughest challenge of this just awful day: Mother. In her time my mother has been attacked by packs of wolves and had her head gnawed by a bear; she has pried snake fangs out of her breast and a boar’s tusk from her thigh. As a sign of respect each defeated animal seems to have infused her with its own brand of meanness and cunning. Now, at age forty-eight, Mother has earned another title: The Oldest Woman on Earth.

“Mother, I lost my job today,” I told her. I explained how I stood my ground against the shaman, how I put my integrity above mere material objects. It was a terrific speech, and I seemed quite the hero until I stepped forward and tripped over my case of art supplies.

The Oldest Woman on Earth regarded me with her one good eye and asked, “How will we eat?”

She had me there — I had no money, no food, no real prospects. “Mother, tomorrow I will go out and kill us something big.” She snorted in a way that could never be interpreted as “I believe in you, my brave boy” and went to sleep. I spread out some straw for my bed and was out like a torch.

That night I dreamt I was naked and drowning and being eaten by snapping turtles. Even though I was underwater, my hair was on fire, and the first girl I’d ever kissed was laughing at me. What I awoke to see was even more disturbing. The Oldest Woman on Earth was standing astride me, a spear pointed between my eyes. “Yaah!” I remarked.

She tossed me the spear. “Go kill us some lunch.”

“Fine. Just let me get a few more hours—” Before I could finish, T.O.W.O.E. had already swept my straw bed into the flaming cooking pit in the center of the cave. Cruel but tidy — that’s my mom.

I strode off alone into the woods, my spear in hand. The last time I went hunting, I was twelve years old. Deep in the forest I had turned and found myself nose to nose with a woolly rhinoceros. He licked my face, and I fainted dead away. When I came to, I resolved to become an artist. I had never picked up a spear again until this day.

I spotted a reindeer grazing in the distance. With all the strength I could summon, I hurled my spear. It landed so far from its target the reindeer lazily turned to me with a look that said, “You weren’t aiming for me, were you? You couldn’t have been aiming for me.” Then he strolled off, extra slowly as if to mock me.

I turned to my next victim, a not terribly large ibex. I threw my spear, and it lodged squarely in his shoulder. This didn’t kill him or even seem to hurt him — this had offended him. He charged me. I ran. He knocked me down. He kicked me and butted me, and when that got boring, he began whacking me with the spear handle, still stuck in his shoulder. Finally, in a fit of ibexy conscience, he let me go. I was beaten, bruised, and soaked with blood, some his, mostly mine.

As I trudged home that evening, I spotted a squirrel gasping on the ground after a bad fall. I conked him on the head with a rock — at least I wouldn’t have to face T.O.W.O.E. empty-handed. I entered my cave holding my puny trophy by the tail. “Mother, I know that this may not look like much, but if you add a few vegetables—” At this point the squirrel, not dead but merely dazed, sprang to life. It bit my hand, did two quick laps around our home, chirping and peeing on everything in sight, and sprinted out the door.

I wished for anything to break the sticky silence that hung between my mother and myself — and I got it. The shaman entered my cave and proclaimed, “Murf, in the name of our people, I accuse you of murder!”

I was stunned. “For the squirrel?”

“For Hax, the artist.” He explained that earlier that day, as Hax set to work repainting my mural, an unseen assailant had entered the sacred cave. There were signs of a struggle, and Hax had been stabbed in the heart.

“Well, surely you don’t suspect me.” As I gestured at myself, I remembered that I was covered with bruises and my clothes were soaked with blood. I started to explain that I’d been hunting alone all day, but that didn’t even sound believable to me. No one had seen me go hunting for fifteen years.

The shaman produced a bloodstained utility knife the length of a man’s foot; the bone handle was an intricately carved horse in full gallop. “This is the knife that killed Hax — its fine craftsmanship indicates only you could have made it.”

“Well... yes,” I said, flattered. It was a terrible situation, but I take my compliments where I can get them. “But I’ve made these for several customers. I kept one knife for myself, and that’s not it. Mine is right here with my art supplies.” I smugly opened my case and fished around inside: no knife. “Look, I know this looks bad, and I really regret my ‘sit on your hat’ remark—”

“I have judged the evidence and find you guilty of Hax’s murder,” said the shaman. “Tomorrow at dawn you will be stoned to death by the good people of this village.” He clapped his hands, and two of the strongest men in our tribe, Oof and Bubo, grabbed me roughly by the shoulders. As they dragged me away, I saw a look in my mother’s eyes I had never seen before. I think it was pride.

Oswald Plummer and the Jeter family stood above a perfectly round hole in the limestone, four feet wide, fifteen feet deep. “We believe a whirlpool created this hole naturally. However, etchings inscribed in the walls near the bottom indicate it had some ceremonial function — a repository for bones or holy relics, a place to contact the spirits of the earth... But it most certainly was not a urinal!”

“Sorry,” said Jason Jeter, zipping his pants.

I was thrown down into the Hole of the Gods to await execution. The hole was too deep and its sides too slick to climb out. The walls were scratched with the names of other inmates who’d done time in the hole. There were even multiple listings for Zaza the prostitute; Lu the male prostitute; and my dear departed dad, I’m sorry to say.

Who killed Hax, I wondered, and why? Perhaps he was killed to avenge my honor or protect my work. Could Mother have done this? No, it had to be someone who loved me. And that’s when I realized who the killer was. I called up to my captors. “Oof, Bubo, get Poot!” What a strange sentence, I thought as I heard it echo off the walls of the hole.

About an hour later Poot appeared at the edge of my hole. He was red-faced and snot-covered — he’d clearly been sobbing. “Poot, I’m going to be killed tomorrow for something I didn’t do.”

“But you my only friend,” he wailed. “Poot be all alone.” It was true; there had once been a great many of his people, but they were wiped out by — let’s say a lack of common sense. His father tried to mate with a bear. His dear mother got her tongue stuck to a glacier and died of exposure that winter. His uncle used a beehive as a pillow. And so on and so on.

“Poot, you were carrying my art supplies. Did you take my knife? Did you kill Hax?”

“He was bad to you. You are good man,” said Poot, and he walked away. About an hour later a thick vine was lowered into the hole. I grabbed hold as Oof and Bubo hauled me out. “You can go,” the shaman said. “Poot confessed.”

I sat alone in my home, Poot’s execution just hours away. Mother, who rarely left the cave, was already at the village center — she loved a public stoning and had been hoarding ten-pound “head-crackers” for just such an occasion. I poked at the dead embers in the cooking pit, stirring the ash hole, feeling like an ash hole myself. My best friend committed murder to defend my work. And then he confessed — he gave up his own life — just to save me. Most people considered Poot a brute, but there was an awful lot of nobility in that man.

All at once I felt something hard among the ashes — it was one of the pigment dishes from my supply case. Digging farther into the pit I found a charred paintbrush as well as a bent and blackened piece of bone — it was my utility knife! These objects must have spilled out of my supply case after my boozy pratfall over the bag; my dear half-blind mother swept them into the fire the next morning. So Poot hadn’t stolen my knife. And he hadn’t killed Hax.

I ran to the clearing at the heart of our village. My poor friend was tied up in the center surrounded by stone-waving villagers. “Stop the stoning!” I cried. “This man is innoc—” Bonk! A hefty rock hit me in the small of the back. I turned to see who threw it. “Mo-ther,” I said reproachfully.

I asked Poot why he’d confessed. “If you die, I die. If I die, you live,” he said. It was that simple. If I live to be forty, I’ll never see another such selfless act.

I showed the shaman my charred knife. “You’ll need more than that to stop the execution,” the shaman told me. “This is what these people live for. It’s good for morale, and it’s good for business.” Indeed, almost every merchant in the tribe was there peddling his wares — Grop the meatseller, Kuff the potter, Zaza and Lu representing the world’s youngest profession, Qaqaq the dentist-exorcist-artist... that’s when it all became clear to me. “People of the village,” I cried, “in one hour I will produce the true murderer. I ask only your kind forbearance—” Bonk! Another rock hit me. She had a good arm for an old lady.

The shaman and I paid a visit to the one merchant not at the execution. When we arrived at the tavern, we found Mog curled up in the corner, drunk on his own wares. I had realized that Mog would never have missed a stoning; he could sell more ale in an afternoon than he ordinarily would in a month. A search behind the bar turned up a bloody tunic and the big bag of cowrie shells that was to be my pay, and then Hax’s. “I just went to Hax to collect on his bar tab. I mean, it was huge,” Mog confessed. “He was holding this big bag of shells, but he wouldn’t part with any of ’em. We argued, he pushed me... I stabbed him.” The knife Mog used was one I had given him years ago, to pay off my bar tab. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

Justice is swift in my little village. Within twelve hours the shaman had sentenced three different men to death for the same murder. Mog was taken back to the clearing for execution. Poot was set free and even allowed to throw the first stone. The shaman, apologizing for my wrongful conviction, awarded me ownership of Meg’s Tavern. “And you can have this bag of cowrie shells as soon as you finish that cave painting.”

“It’s done,” I said, grabbing the bag.

So now I’m a tavern owner, and Mother couldn’t be prouder. Poot works for me, running the bar. As part of his policy no drink costs more than three shells. And I earn enough so that I can paint whatever I want, whenever I want, and no one can make me change it. My first project was a family portrait for the wall of my cave: inside a border of roses are me and The Oldest Woman on Earth. And I must say, Mother never looked more beautiful.

The Jeter family stared at the rose-framed picture on the cave wall. “What the ding-dong is this supposed to be?” asked Mrs. Jeter.

“Well, most scholars believe that this man is the artist,” said Oswald Plummer pointing to one figure. “And this other one... well, it’s some sort of demon, possibly a dragon.”