Evolution

He took his digging stick. This was a heavy pole shoved through a hole crudely bored in a small boulder. Despite the tool’s weight, he lifted it easily, and he used the mass of the boulder to ram the digger’s point into the hard ground.

Pebble was a solid slab of muscle built over a tough, robust skeleton. If Far, his long-dead, distant grandmother, had looked like a long-distance runner, Pebble might have been a junior shot-putter. His face was large, massive-featured, dominated by a great ridge of bone over his brow. He had a mountainous nose and large sinuses that gave his face an oddly puffed-out look. His teeth were flat-topped pillars of enamel. His skull, which would become considerably larger than Far’s, housed a large and complex brain — in fact comparable in size to a modern human’s — but it sat much more directly behind his face than a human’s brain would have.

When he had been born, wet from the womb, Pebble’s body had been sleek and round, inspiring an odd image in his mother’s mind, a pebble worn by a stream. Names for people still lay far in the future — with just twelve people in Pebble’s group there was no need for names — but nevertheless this boy’s mother would often look on a glistening rock in a stream, and remember her child as he had been as a baby in her arms.

Pebble, then.

In this age there were many kinds of robust folk like Pebble’s spread through Europe and western Asia. Those who inhabited Europe would one day be called Neandertals. But just as in Far’s time, most of these new kinds of people would never be discovered, let alone understood, classified, linked to a hominid family tree.

His were a strong people, though. Even at eight years old, Pebble performed work essential to his family’s survival. He wasn’t yet up to joining the adults on the hunts, but he could dig out yams with the best of them.

The wind picked up a little, bringing him the delicious scent of wood smoke, of home. He went at his work with a will.

Already his digging had broken up the earth. He plunged his hands into the dry ground and began exposing a fat tuber that looked as if it might go down a long way, perhaps as deep as two meters. He went back to his digging stick. Bits of dust and rock flew up, sticking to his sweat-covered legs. He knew what to do with yams. When he had the tuber he would cut off the edible flesh, but then replace the tuber’s stem and top in the ground so that it would regrow. His digging aided the yam in more subtle ways, too. He was loosening and aerating the soil, further fostering regrowth.

His mother would be pleased if he brought home three or four fat tubers, ready to be thrown onto the fire. And yams were useful in a lot of other ways besides eating. You could use them to poison birds and fish. You could rub their juice into your head to kill the lice that crawled there…

There was a crunching noise.

Startled, Pebble pulled back his digging stick. He leaned forward, shielding his eyes from the sun’s brightness, trying to see what was down there in the hole. It could be some deep-burrowing insect. But he could see nothing but a scrap of rust brown, like a bit of sandstone. He reached down and, his clumsy fingers stretching, grabbed the scrap and pulled it to the surface. It was a ragged-edged dome, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. When he held it up before his face two empty eye sockets peered back at him.

It was a skull. The head of a child.

That was no great horror. Children died all the time. This was a harsh place: There was little pity to spare for the weak and hapless.

But all the children who had died within Pebble’s own short lifetime had been put in the ground close to the huts. Like all the dead, they were buried to keep the scavengers from harassing the living. Perhaps this child was long dead, then. Perhaps its people had buried it here before Pebble was born, where the yam clump grew now.

But the skull was oddly fine, light. Pebble weighed it in his hand. Its brow was a heavy lid of bone, from which a forehead sloped back almost horizontally. Pebble ran a hand over his own scalp and compared the slightly bulbous swelling of his forehead. There were tooth marks in the little cranium, he saw: precise puncture wounds inflicted by the teeth of a cat — but inflicted after the child was already dead, its body abandoned on the plain.

Pebble could not know that he was holding the remains of the Brat, brother of Far, who had lived and died not far from here. The Brat had succumbed to his infant vitaminosis and died while still a child, without issue. It would have been little comfort to the Brat if he could have known that one day, when his brief, forgotten life was already more than a million years gone, his small head would be cradled in the hand of a remote great-nephew.

And the Brat would have recognized little of this landscape, the place where he had once played.