23 Nov

Circa 10,000 BC

cave man fire photo: fire roaringfire.jpg
The Medicine Man adjusted his wolverine head-dress and scattered a few weeds onto the fire, amongst the cooler embers away from the fiercest flames where they’d simmer and smoke. They smelled good and made the pink cockatoo on a flaming branch, the one that hadn’t been there moments ago, spit in his eye.Away from the tongues of fire it was cold with a raw wind rattling through the Old Forest. He could tell that when he let his eyes light on the women, too young to be amongst the Wise Women snuggling in the relative warm and too old to be kids. These young women were suffering as young women ought. Their skins were puckered with cold, their teeth chattering and their exposed breasts blue.One of them was Iggle. He liked looking at Iggle, always had, and now with the smoke from the weeds rollicking inside his head he fancied doing something about it.

She’d be all for it. Of course she would, being dragged from the raw winds into his lean-to palace by her greasy hair and shagged as soon as look at her. She’d get a little warmer and he’d probably have a new son before next year was out. A man was measured by the number of his sons and the length of his tackle. A man could be proud of his seed. It did good work. Somehow – the mechanics were unknown – it crafted the future.

He left – with a hint of reluctance – his honorary place in the warm and grabbed hold of the divine Iggle.

She was painfully cold.

“Get orf!” she remonstrated, struggling. But it didn’t mean much. It was the done thing, for the women to protest before being taken. What were women anyway? Besides being a treat for the eyes when the eyes needed a treat they were no more than the rubbish left over when a man’s seed had produced sons. So he slashed her across the face and scowled deep into her eyes.

His palace – a lean-to affair, big enough for two at a pinch and warm like toast what with the piles of furs scattered across its floor –was a relief for a moment, but Iggle didn’t want what was to come. At fifteen she’d already had too many kids. And she guessed that by seventeen she’d be dead. It happened. Why in the name of the weed gods had she been born a woman? Why couldn’t she have been a hirsute man, strong of limb and long of tackle? It wasn’t fair – but then nothing was fair, the cold, the howling winds, the bitter winter, the crafty old Medicine Man who was already showing signs of arousal.

Some bloody party this! Just a crowd of weed-high youths and a self-appointed Medicine Man and a cold, cold night.

She hated it.

So she bit his penis. Hard. With sharp teeth. Right through the damned thing.

She’d done it before to other, lesser men, and knew how much it hurt by the frenzied look in this wretched man’s eyes, the ones she could see through the slits in his wolverine head-dress.

She’d drawn blood. She could taste it, foul on her tongue, the blood of a Medicine Man.

And her subsequent, guaranteed, inevitable death would surely be some kind of relief.

She sighed at the thought, and awaited justice.

Man’s justice.

©Peter Rogerson 23.11.14


2 Responses to “PRELUDE TO JUSTICE”

  1. pambrittain November 23, 2014 at 6:21 pm #

    Wow, Peter. This is very powerful.

    • Peter Rogerson November 23, 2014 at 6:23 pm #

      I find the treatment of women in some cultures so abhorrent as to justify some sort or protesting comment.

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