The First Artist was a Woman with No Name

The Antelope Pelt

"You, woman," a man yelled over to the Woman. She glanced to the sides and over her shoulder, sure that this man was speaking to someone else. There was no one else around.

"Yes, you," he said. The Woman did not know this particular man. All the men in her tribe looked the same. Same shaggy brown hair, same dark skin, same dirt-covered loincloth protecting their more sensitive areas from the sun. Seeing as she wasn't big on conversation, she didn't make a point to learn the men's names as she did to learn the names of the women she worked with.

Regardless, the Woman stopped separating the berries she had gathered earlier in the day from their branches, leaving them on the animal pelt she was working on as she went over to the man. As she got closer, the Woman noticed that one thing differentiating this man from the other in her tribe was the long scar tracing his side from collarbone to hip. Her eyes fixated on it, a lone streak of white marring his skin.

The man slowed his work on the antelope, skinning it a lot slower when she got closer. "Oh this?" he asked, seeing her gaze locked on his side. The Woman gave a small nod and cocked her head to the side, asking the question of how he got it. Despite never interacting before, he appeared to understand the motion because he continued.

"I got this on a hunt a few years back. A few of my brothers and I tracked down a mammoth with enough meat to last us the cold season. We eventually exhausted it, but it still had some fight left in it. Tore me up from middle to top with one of its tusks before we were able to take it down. The sight of all that blood? They thought it was the end for me; I did too. So, my brothers did their best to stop the bleeding and carried me back."

There was a faraway look in the man's eyes as he told this story, as if he were gazing upon a different scene than what was right before him. His hand skinning the antelope had stopped, leaving the dead beast half fur, half bare skin exposed to the high sun. His gaze returned to her, and he shook his head.

"Anyway," he went on, "that wasn't why I called you over here. Hold this antelope down. Stretch its fur tight to make it easier to skin."

The Woman did as she was told. She didn't mind the work; she had helped men in this way before. But none of the others had taken the time to talk to her as he had. They mostly focused on their work, basking in the glory of their kill and their own mighty prowess, as if the women of the tribe didn't provide the majority of the food, in addition to taking care of the small ones and fixing the men when they returned bleeding and broken.

The man continued to talk. He introduced himself as Ngobi. He talked about his many brothers, their successes in hunting, and sometimes their failures. He talked about his father and how he learned how to hunt from him, how to make spears and skin an animal. When he talked next about his mother, he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. Ngobi bragged about her charm and resourcefulness, how she would always manage to gather the most food, teaching the other women her tricks. How she would sometimes return home with a small lizard or frog for her kids to play with, something to pass their days when they were small. His tone was almost reverent as he described his love for his mother; his knife moved more smoothly when he talked about her.

Ngobi didn't seem to mind that he was the only one talking. The Woman nodded along, showing her interest in his stories, and that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed to continue talking. He finished skinning the antelope, slinging it over his shoulder as the Woman gathered her berries and the animal pelt and followed him. She liked the feel of the fur, soft and warm where it brushed against her body.

She wanted to keep it.

Because the Woman spent the majority of her time with the women, this was the first time she saw how the men prepared the meat up close. Normally, someone would pass her a portion of the day's kill after the tribe gathered to eat when the sun got low. It was already cooked and looked nothing like the animal it came from. The tribe would gather around the fire and listen to stories: of the day's activities, of the creation of the world and people, of the spirits and monsters that roamed the earth alongside the men and beasts. The Woman's mother, Wangara, was exceptional when she told stories. The smoke and fire would dance and take shape as she spoke. It was like nothing the Woman had ever seen before. She wanted to be able to tell stories in the way her mother could, to capture the imaginations of her tribe and weave stories out of smoke and night. With no voice to do so, she would have to find another way.

Ngobi finished preparing the meat, covering it with leaves until it was ready to be cooked at tonight's fire. He walked over to the Woman and tried to take the animal pelt from her arms. She resisted, yanking it back and spilling her berries. Rather than yelling and snatching the pelt from her, Ngobi stooped down and picked up her berries.

"Do you want the fur?" he asked her. He cradled the berries in his hand, offering them to her. She nodded. "You can have it. But it needs to be cleaned or the spirit of the antelope will attach to your body. And you will smell like a dead animal." He said that last part with a smile. Despite just meeting him, the Woman found she could trust him. And if he did decide to keep it, she could always steal it in the night.

The Woman nodded once more and held out her hands. Ngobi gently poured the berries from his hands to hers and took the pelt from her arm, the brush of his fingers creating a flurry of tiny sparks against her skin. Again, the Woman watched as he worked. How he laid the pelt over a large round stone. How he slowly scraped his knife along the inside, removing the fat from the back of the fur.

After a minute of watching, she decided she could easily do this task. She tapped him on the shoulder and held out her hand for the knife. Reluctantly, he handed it over and watched as she copied his movements, cleaning the pelt that would be hers.

Unfortunately, she got clumsy in her confidence. On the next swipe of the blade, the tip caught her thumb that was holding the pelt flat. Blood flowed freely from that wound, sharp red against her black skin, and the Woman didn't know what to do.

She had been injured before, but that was when she was younger, and her mother had always been the one to take care of her. As a child, she didn't watch and listen as closely as she did now. She lived a carefree life, as children should, running around and playing with the other kids in the tribe.

One day, when another child challenged her to see who could climb the highest in one of the nearby trees, the Woman fell, leaving her body a canvas of cuts and splinters and bruises. Her mother rushed over to help, removing the splinters and patching up the cuts. Wangara's hands were certain and quick, knowing exactly what to do to fix what had been broken. After that incident, the Woman made a point to watch her mother, to learn the ways she does things so that the Woman can do them too. Listening to the stories she tells so the Woman can pass them on when her mother is gone. The experience also taught her to be more careful so she wouldn't get into situations where she would bleed again.

And yet here she was, bleeding from her hand with no one to help except for Ngobi. To the Woman's surprise, Ngobi took her hand, the same sparks as before flying from the point of contact.

"I know how to help. Come with me," he said.

He led her to the nearby stream, still within view of the soft glow of the emerging night's bonfire. The water in the stream ran so clear the Woman could see the small fish darting in and out between the roots and rocks in the streambed. Small shrubs and trees dotted the bank, creating an opening and gentle slope to the water. Ngobi squatted down, pulling the Woman with him and placing her hand in the water. The cold water was a shock, but not an unwelcome one after a day of gathering and sorting berries and skinning her first animal pelt.

"Red is a warning color," Ngobi said as they watched the water take away the drops of blood that were welling up from the cut. "Sometimes it can mean positive things, like the reds of the fire when the dark comes. But usually, it means pain or death. I don't know what animals see before they die, but I imagine they can only see the red of their lives leaving their bodies."

The Woman took this in. Never before has she heard red as a warning color. Many safe and gentle things were red: the berries they ate, the soft petals of the flowers that grew near their home, the tiny, dotted bugs that hovered between the berry bushes, landing on her fingers before flying away again.

She was still thinking of the color red and all its meanings after Ngobi wrapped up her cut and finished skinning the pelt. He finished it off with a quick brush of fire on the inside before handing it to her, excusing himself to return to his family. The Woman returned to her mother as well, with berries and pelt in hand.That night, they ate the men's antelope, small servings for everyone, and the women's berries and roots, a much more ample meal. Ngobi told the story of his hunt, ensuring that he paid respect to the antelope he killed as he did so. The Woman pulled the pelt tighter around her and could almost see the spirit of the antelope in the smoke and fire, staring straight at her before turning into the shape of a human and walking into the night.