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

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?”