Mesopotamia, end of the dry season

Approximately 4750 years ago

Around the shrunken water hole, scrawny gazelles jockeyed for position. Two fawns, shoved aside, bleated their distress. The boy stood among them, still as stone, empty water skins hanging from sticks balanced on his shoulders, waiting for the creatures to drink their fill. He kept his sling in one hand and pebbles in the other. Ignoring the sand fleas biting him, he scanned the reeds and rushes edging the water hole for something to contribute to his family’s supper—a fat rat, perhaps.

He wished the water hole had attracted some goats. Gazelles were the ancestors of his clan, and it was forbidden to eat the magic animals. His hungry stomach grumbled. The rainy season had ended early, and everywhere they’d roamed since had been drought-stricken. The band had fed more often from the carcasses of starved animals than from fresh meat and recently had disbanded, each family going its own way for the dry season. Separated, some might survive until the rains began again.

Although he was only ten or eleven summers old—with so many children, his mother could never remember—he was already taller than any man in the band but his father. Fetching water had become his chore when he grew stronger than his older brothers and sisters. He was the strongest child in the band and proud of it, proud also of his ability to move among the skittish gazelles without alarming them.

So, when a gazelle’s ears flicked, he tensed and dropped the sticks of water bags from his shoulders. As one, the animals bounded away in a flash of brown and white. Behind the boy, downwind, a beast snarled its frustration. The boy whirled, his sling ready. He ran his tongue around his dry lips as he looked into the sand-gold eyes of an aged lion.

The lion, its mane ragged, its nose crisscrossed with scars, a spear shaft sticking from its side, and its left front paw dripping blood, limped toward him. Its huge paws padded silently on the sand. The boy fired off three rocks and got three hits: nose, foot, foot. The lion jerked back, shook its still-massive head, and snarled.

The boy brandished his sling at the beast. “Take that, old lion!” he shouted, clambering up a palm. “You won’t get a meal here!” He stuck his tongue out for good measure. Squinting against the glare of late afternoon sun, he scanned the horizon for the lion’s wives. He saw none.

Groaning, the lion eased its hindquarters down onto the sand, then its chest, and finally its front paws. It apparently preferred to wait for him than to search for fatter prey.

The boy lobbed two more stones at the lion. Ribs ridged its back. It hadn’t eaten for a while. That might explain why it hunted for itself instead of leaving the hunt to its wives.

If he waited, someone would search for him. He could stay in the tree and wait for his father to come with his flint-tipped spear. But he’d never hear the end of the jokes. Better to slay the lion and take its tooth as a trophy. He studied the beast, taking its measure. It moaned and bent to lick its bloody paw. Something in the paw caught the light—a knife of obsidian.

Only one person in the family had a knife so fine. His father.

Fear flamed in his belly and climbed up his throat, choking him. His ragged breath and strangled whimpers drowned out every other sound. Was that Ada’s blood on the lion’s claws?

The injured lion rolled onto its side and roared weakly. From beyond a ridge of dunes, where the family had set up camp, came an answering roar. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His family was in danger. He edged down the tree. The lion watched him and struggled to rise, but it seemed unable to put weight on its injured foot. It slumped again to the sand.

The boy dropped and ran. Sweat streamed down his face and body in the summer heat, and his chest burned as he gasped. He pushed himself on, fighting for each breath. He neared the dune in whose shadow the camp lay. Above circled a vulture.

Exhaustion and fear fought to claim him. He refused. He forced his wobbling legs on until he reached camp and collapsed at its edge, vomiting. Sand and sky jerked around him as he lay there, his head throbbing and his now-dry skin reddening.

He had the heat sickness. He needed water, rest, cool shade. Instead, he crawled across the burning sand.

The first body he found was Ada’s.

Next to him sprawled a dead lioness, three spears—his father’s spears—through its throat. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes. His father had fought bravely. He crawled faster, croaking out for Ama and his brothers and sisters. Only the wind answered.

By the fire pit lay the bloodied bodies of his family and another dead lioness, vultures already picking at their flesh. The boy pulled at his hair and shouted his grief and rage, then flailed at the feasting vultures with his fists, shouting until they flew away, their reddened heads mocking him. Once the bodies were safe, he crawled from one to another, putting his ear to the mouth of each, hoping to hear breath. But all had gone Below to join the shadows, leaving only husks.

The two nanny goats were missing. He could guess their fates: Leading away from camp were drag marks in the sand, blood-filled.

He found a water sack, untied the leather strip holding it shut, and gulped. He slung the water sack over his shoulder, then dragged himself to his mother’s body. He clasped her hand and cried, tears running down his face and into his mouth, burning his chapped lips and leaving his mouth tasting of salt.

When his tears ran out, he rubbed his raw eyes dry. He couldn’t stay with his family. The sun would soon set. He needed water and food and a safe place before the animals of the night came out to hunt.

He plodded back to the water hole, following his footsteps, too tired to lift his head. The injured lion still lived. It had dragged itself closer to the water hole, but its glazed eyes revealed it was dying. Some gazelles had already returned. The boy joined them, scooped up some water, and drank, keeping his gaze on the lion. The water did not ease his hunger, but it did slake his thirst. He filled his water sack and walked into the water hole to cool off. When he splashed, the startled gazelles jumped and shifted position, but as always tolerated his presence. The lion slunk forward on its belly, its gaze fixed on a gazelle fawn.

“Not my family’s totem!” the boy shouted. As if a lion himself, he vaulted from the water hole and shoved the fawn away as most of the animals bolted. The lion tried to spring, but its left leg gave way. It howled and landed in a sprawl, its tongue lolling.

The boy didn’t hesitate. He yanked his father’s knife from the beast’s paw and struck it in the lion’s eye, driving it deep and twisting. The lion toppled.

The boy’s chest heaved with exhaustion and delayed terror. He fell trembling onto the burning sand next to the beast. His father’s death was avenged. He had killed a lion and was now a man. But what was a man without a band?

After catching his breath, he hacked at the lion’s lower jaw and cut out a fang. Later he would eat its heart. The boy returned to the water hole. He dashed water on himself with his cupped hands and dunked his head to get rid of the lion’s gore and stench.

The fawn he had saved now suckled vigorously from its mother’s udder. The boy’s stomach clenched. The doe eyed him as if she saw his hunger and knew her fawn would satisfy it. The boy moved toward them as smoothly as a snake, sideways, slowly, his eyes gazing into the distance. When he reached the fawn, he lifted the knife, poised to strike, then paused. What was he doing, thinking of killing his family’s totem?

He slumped to the sand and rested his head on his knees. He could not survive without a band. Who would keep watch while he slept? Who would alert him to the desert’s dangers?

He would join the gazelles. He watched the fawn, his new brother, greedily eating. The boy knelt next to him and suckled.