Stone Age

My name is Una, and my home is a cave carved into the side of a great stone cliff. Outside, the world is a wide, cold land of ice and wind that stretches farther than anyone can see. This is my world, many thousands of years ago during the great Ice Age. Giant, hairy mammoths with tusks that curve toward the sky roam the frozen plains, and herds of bison thunder across the valleys. At night, we can sometimes hear the roar of a saber-toothed cat, and we pull our fur blankets a little tighter. Our lives are shaped by the sun and the snow. We follow the herds and the seasons, and this cave is our shelter. It protects our clan from the biting winds and the dangers that hide in the long, dark nights. Inside, with a fire burning, we are a family, safe and warm against the cold.

Our survival depends on everyone working together. Every morning, I watch the hunters of my clan prepare. My father and brother check the points of their spears, which are made from sharpened pieces of flint stone. It is a skill that has been passed down for longer than anyone can remember. They must be brave and clever to hunt the great beasts that give us food to eat, bones for tools, and thick hides for warmth. While they are gone, my mother, the other women, and I have our own important work. We walk the hillsides, searching for things the earth provides. In the short summer, we gather sweet berries that stain our fingers red. We dig for tough, starchy roots and collect nuts to store for the long winter. Our baskets are never full enough. The center of our home, and our lives, is the hearth. It is where our fire crackles day and night. The fire is a gift. It cooks our food, its warmth chases away the deepest chill, and its light keeps the darkness at bay. At night, we all gather around its flickering flames, sharing stories and feeling the comfort of being together. The fire is our heart.

One day, an elder from my clan, a woman with eyes as wise as the oldest stones, beckoned for me to follow her. We left the main part of the cave where everyone lived and journeyed deep into the earth. The passage grew narrow and dark, and the only light we had was from a small lamp made of a hollowed-out stone with burning animal fat inside. It cast dancing shadows on the walls around us. She led me to a secret chamber, a place I had never seen before. The walls were covered in pictures. She handed me a smooth, flat stone with powders of different colors—red and yellow from ground-up rock called ochre, and black from charcoal. She showed me how to mix the powder with a little animal fat to make a thick paint. Then, she pointed to a blank space on the wall. It was my turn to add to our story. Using a brush made of moss and my own fingers, I began to paint. I painted a great bison, with a powerful hump and strong legs, just as I had seen them in the wild. It felt like magic, bringing the spirit of the animal into the heart of our stone home.

As I look at the paintings on the walls, I see the story of my people. I see the deer we have hunted, the horses that run wild and free, and the outlines of our own hands, placed there to say, “We were here.” Our lives are difficult, and the world is often harsh. But it is also filled with the beauty of a sunrise over the ice, the strength of our clan, and the pride of creating something that will last. We leave these paintings in the deepest, most protected parts of our cave home. I wonder if, thousands of years from now, when the ice has melted and the world has changed, someone will find these stone walls. I hope they will see our pictures and understand how we lived, what we dreamed of, and how we survived. These are more than pictures; they are our voices, echoing in the stone for all of time.