West of Eden

day after day, until it was ready. When the shaping began Harl had sat and watched while Nadris methodically scraped it with a stone blade. The ends of the bow were carefully tapered, then nocked to West of Eden - Harry Harrison
    take the bowstring that had been woven from the long, strong hairs of the niastodon's tail. Even with the bowstring in place Nadris had not been satisfied, but had tested the pull, then removed the string and shaped the wood again. But in the end even this was finished. This was to be Harl's bow, so it was his right to shoot the first arrow from it. He had done so, bending the bow as far as he could, then releasing the arrow. It flew straight and true, sinking into the tree trunk with a satisfactory thud.
    This had been the longest and happiest day in Harl's life. He had a bow now, would learn to shoot it well, would be allowed on the hunt soon. This was the first and most important step that put him on the path from childhood, the path that would one day lead him into the world of hunters.
    Although his arm was sore, his fingertips blistered, he would not stop. It was his bow, his day. He wanted to be alone with it and had slipped away from the other boys and gone to the small copse close to the camp. All day he had crept between the trees, stalked bushes, sunk his arrows into innocent tussocks—that were really deer that only he could see.
    When it grew dark he reluctantly put up the bow and turned back towards the tents. He was hungry and looked forward to the meat that would be waiting. One day he would hunt and kill his own meat. Nock arrow, draw, zumm, hit, dead. One day.
    There was a rustle in the tree above him and he stopped, silent and unmoving. There was something there, a dark form outlined against the gray of the sky. It moved and its claws rustled again. A large bird.
    It was too tempting a target to resist. He might lose the arrow in the darkness, but he had made it himself and could make more. But if he hit the bird it would be his first kill. The first day of the bow, the first kill that same day. The other boys would look at him very differently when he walked between the tents with his trophy.
    Slowly and silently he put an arrow to the string, bent the bow, sighted along the arrow at the dark shape above. Then let fly.
    There was a squawk of pain—then the bird was tumbling down from the branch. It landed in the bough above Harl's head, hung there, unmoving, caught by the thin branches. He stood on tiptoe and could just reach it with the end of his bow, prodding and pushing until it fell to the ground at his feet. His arrow stuck out from the bird's body and the creature's round, sightless eyes looked up at him. Harl stepped back, gasping with fright.
    An owl. He had killed an owl.
    Why hadn't he stopped to think? He moaned aloud at the terror within him. He should have known, no other bird would be about in the dark. A forbidden bird and he had killed it. Just the night before old Fraken had unrolled the ball of fur disgorged by an owl, had poked his fingers through the tiny bones inside, had seen the future and the success of the hunting from the manner in which the bones were West of Eden - Harry Harrison
    tangled. And while Fraken had done this he had talked about the owls, the only birds that flew by night, the birds that waited to guide the tharms of dead hunters through the darkness towards the sky.
    An owl must never be killed.
    And Harl had killed one.
    Maybe if he buried it, no one would know. He began to dig wildly at the ground with his hands, then stopped. It was no good. The owl knew, and the other owls would know. They would remember. And one day his own tharm would have no owl for a guide because animals never forgot. Never. There were tears in his eyes when he bent over the dead bird, pulled his arrow free. He bent and looked more closely at it in the gathering darkness.
    Armun was sitting by the fire when the boy came running up. He stood waiting for her to notice him, but she was in no hurry to do that and poked a bit at the fire first. She was Kerrick's woman now and she felt the warm contentment suffuse her once again. Kerrick's woman. The boys did not dare to laugh at her or point any more and she did not have to cover her face.
    "What is it?" she asked, trying to be stern but smiling in spite of herself, too filled with happiness to pretend otherwise.
    "This is the tent of the margalus," Harl said, and his voice trembled when he spoke. "Will he