Freedom 25000 BC
FREEDOM, 250,000 BC
OUT FROM THE SHADOW OF POPOCATÉPETL
BONNYE MATTHEWS
Award Winning Writer
of Prehistoric Fiction
PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974
books@publicationconsultants.com—www.publicationconsultants.com
ISBN 978-1-59433-633-1
eBook ISBN Number: 978-1-59433-669-0
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2016954277
Copyright 2016 Bonnye Matthews
—First Edition—
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Cover Image of Mountain: Tlazotlalizti CCA-SA 4
Manufactured in the United States of America.
Acknowledgments
Without the assistance of several people Freedom, 250,000 BC would not be. These people are my brother, Randy Matthews, and then Sally Sutherland, Patricia Gilmore, Robert Arthur, and Pat Meiwes. Each contributed far in excess of what could be expected or hoped for based on family, friendship, or love of reading. I also thank my publisher, Evan Swensen, who had the courage to take on this project.
Bonnye’s Award Winning Books
Exordium
I received an invitation from the storyteller, Muz. At the campfire I sit, prepared to listen to his new Place History. His voice is deep, resonant, each word pronounced carefully and completely. He holds my attention magnetically, so I never wander from the story. Time stops for me. Tiny little cinders fly skywards above the campfire in a timeless world. Tonight Muz tells the story of a young man, Wing. Occasionally he looks off to the side, as if he relives a bit of the story.
Muz is bent over, an exceedingly wrinkled old man, bow-legged from old age. He wears a simple animal skin skirt, as worn as is he. The skirt dangles raggedly to his knees and sports a partial deboned tail on the side. He carries the scent of old dust sometimes, roses or the scent of evergreens at other times. His snarl-free, waist-length hair is white and flows freely in the breeze. He sees through its wisps with black eyes riveting forward as if nothing could possibly impede his vision at this moment or any other. His black obsidian eyes peer out from tired lids and miss nothing.
I watch the images he creates between his gnarled outstretched hands the backs of which show huge blue veins snaking across his thin skin. Muz shows the living earth at Mexico. Traveling through time he shows two tectonic plates: a huge North American Plate and under the curved part of Mexico out in the Pacific Ocean, the relatively tiny Cocos Plate. Pressure forms from the subduction of the Cocos Plate as it dives north under the North American Plate. Twenty million years ago when subduction began, that pressure began to cause a string of volcanoes to form in the lower part of Mexico to release magma to balance the pressure. The resulting volcanoes align from west to east across the entire country, forming the Sierra Nevada Range. Popocatépetl and La Malinque, mountains in the story, are part of this range. The Mexican Sierra Nevada is not the same as the Sierra Nevada in the United States. Sierra Nevada means snow-covered mountain range. The specific Place History Muz imparted is an area named Valsequillo, just south of the mountains. Muz tells the story so that I feel as if I’m there as it occurs.
The campfire is white crusted ashes. Time resumes for me. Muz smiles, tired after his night of storytelling, he stands. He walks past me and stops, momentarily placing his hand on my head, sealing the story to my memory. Then, Muz walks into a golden mist and disappears, taking the mist with him. The story remains behind waiting to be written. I’ve known it from the past in the present. Now is the time for the present story to be prepared for the future to know.
Dedication
Archaeological Site at Valsequillo
Freedom, 250,000 BC is dedicated to the archaeological site south of Puebla, Mexico at the Valsequillo Reservoir. What the site shows is an amazingly rich prehistoric view of human life in the Americas, specifically Mexico, in 250,000 BC. That date is the glory and infamy of the Valsequillo site.
Two mountains are involved in this story. The title, Freedom, 250,000 BC: Out From the Shadow of Popocatépetl, refers to the volcanic mountain, Popocatépetl, to the northwest of the Valsequillo site. Popocatépetl is pronounced po-po-ca-te-petal, the last part like flower petal. The other mountain, La Malinque, erupted and its ash preserved the amazing finds at the site.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Introduction
There is no longer an archaeological site south of Puebla, Mexico at Valsequillo. It’s been buried and hidden. Why? The answer is as old as man. It’s a power war over dogmatic belief. I chose this site for the first novella in the series because of the controversy—not despite it.
In 1959 Juan Armenta Comacho, an accountant in Mexico who was fascinated by prehistoric finds in the Valsequillo area, chanced to discover a mammoth pelvis bone. He pried it from the soil. It was not an unusual find, until, when cleaning it later, he found animal carvings on the mammoth bone. Surprisingly one of the animals was an extinct gomphothere (Ryncotherium), a four-tusked elephant-like animal; another, a speared feline. There were others. The find immediately generated great interest. The Smithsonian Institution featured it, and LIFE Magazine did a brief article showing the carving (Illustration 1). The bone had been carved when green. In other words, it was carved when the bone was fresh. What’s remarkable, and unknown at the time of the article, is that the bone scientifically dated to 250,000 years ago. That simple scientific test would set off an explosive archaeological battle over the past that continues today. There was a carver 250,000 years ago in the Americas! That was heresy in the world of evolutionary belief; totally plausible scientifically.
Illustration 1: LIFE Magazine, Volume 49, No. 7, page 86 (8/15/1960).
In addition to the engraved mammoth pelvis bone two skulls have been found that relate to man in the Americas at a very early time. Skull 1: Associated with the Valsequillo site, the Dorenberg skull, found at the Valsequillo site in the late 1800s ended up in a museum in Leipzig, Germany, where it was destroyed by bombing during WWII. It’s gone. Inside that skull there was encrustation from diatoms. Diatoms are minute photosynthesizing algae with silica cell walls, intricate in form. Hugo Reichelt in Leipzig scraped diatoms from the skull to get a sense of its date. The date of the diatoms scraping was established as “antediluvian,” not a very helpful term. Essentially, it meant before the Biblical flood. Some of the diatoms were extinct 80,000 years ago. A few decades ago, Sam L. VanLandingham, a diatom paleontologist, dated a reference slide of diatoms at the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco. The diatoms on the slide came from the Doremberg skull scraping. He dated the skull diatoms from between 80,000 to 220,000 years ago. Sam VanLandingham also dated diatoms at the site where the skull and artifacts had been found. The diatoms at the site dated to between 80,000 to 220,000 years before the present. The same forms of diatoms found in the soil at the site at Valsequillo and the skull scrapings are consistent in species and age. Skull 2: The Ostrander skull was found in California. With the brow ridges, it’s either Homo erectus or Homo neanderthalensis. Very ancient people were in the southwest part of what’s now the USA and Mexico a long, long time ago. Neither skull remains available today. The first was destroyed in WWII and the second may have been given a Native American burial.
Illustration 2: Ostrander skull (on right). Used with permission from Austin Whittall.
So what h
appened at Valsequillo? The wonderful bone art found by Comacho, spotlighted by the Smithsonian, and photographed in LIFE Magazine was dated. C-14 wouldn’t go back far enough. Testing was performed using the Uranium series. The date? 250,000 years ago. Then things went haywire. The lead scientist on the site, Cynthia Irwin-Williams, refused to accept the date. Rather than face ridicule, which she knew would follow, she essentially dropped the project. Ridicule came anyway. Other problems arose. Finds were removed from the scientists and hidden or destroyed. Scientists were accused of planting finds to discredit the work. How it never occurred to anyone that no self-respecting scientist would knowingly plant finds that would cause himself to be ridiculed, I don’t know.
What has been buried at the Valsequillo site is precious. Skulls, engravings, tools all once showed a site at 250,000 years ago just south of Puebla, Mexico. It’s part of a potentially rich and amazing heritage in this land of ours. Nonsense brought it to the current conclusion. Maybe in time there will be an environment in which the site can be revisited to learn what lies beneath the surface. More skulls, more carvings, more tools? Maybe humans can gain understanding that will help explain this world in which we live. As it is, it’s the single most intriguing archaeological site in the Americas from my point of view.
Bibliography Page 101
Chapter 1
The four men walked rapidly downhill through the valley toward the big lake. As he walked the tall old man, Itz, shouted out venomously again, “I curse you!” His extraordinarily deep voice alerted a short faced bear a good distance away. Grazing animals looked up scanning the area unsure how to react. Burrowers retreated to their tunnels. Birds in the forest prepared to take flight. Monkey shrieks cut the air with objection. The bear hastily left the area heading north.
“You must do good on first try this time!” Itz shouted to Wing, his sixteen year old son. “You must do good! Everyone tires of your lousy spear throws. Even your practice is lousy. Last time! Last time on hunt you missed on first throw. Amor and me, we no let people go hungry. We good hunters. Good spear throwers. You lousy. Why you so lousy?” Itz didn’t expect an answer. Nearby animals sought refuge at a distance.
Wing walked ahead of his father on the trail to the hunting ground, the words piercing his gut as the beak of a terror bird pierced the belly of its arrested prey. He imagined blood dripping from his father’s mouth as it would drip from a terror bird’s beak. He could imagine the frenzy of the clacking beak as it delighted in tossing food down its throat. He compared it to the way his father would shake his head. Wing’s father seemed to delight in taunting him. He couldn’t understand why. Wing thought it might help if he knew why his father did that. He was glad he couldn’t see the man. Hearing him was enough. Wing had pulled forward his shoulders, elevating them as if for protection against the words. He was unaware of his defensive posture.
“You have nothing to say?” his father sneered. “You no good hunter. You no good tool maker. You make no children!” With great force Itz stamped his foot on the ground.
Amor, a husky twenty-four year old, and Zik, a tall, lanky twenty-six year old walked behind Itz. They hardly saw the beauty of the blue sky day. No rain cleaned the air now that the dry time had come. The earth greened and wildlife was abundant. They had to hunt but hated the way Itz spoiled what could have been great fellowship. Amor and Zik preferred to hunt with the elder, Mig. They found it difficult to respect Itz when he mistreated Wing. They were required to respect their elders. Mostly they respected Itz, but when he treated Wing badly, they tried to say to themselves that they respected the man but didn’t like him. That’s what they were taught. It was awkward. At those times Amor argued with himself. Respect a man you don’t like? He thought that was impossible and reasoned that he could not separate himself from himself and live. Amor admitted he sometimes hated his father for the way he treated this brother. Fortunately, Itz only did that when they went hunting. Otherwise Itz hardly recognized Wing’s presence.
Itz knew Wing was sixteen years old. He also knew Wing was significantly short for his age. In addition Wing looked frail. Itz thought of him as female, but he would never say that, for it could reflect on him for producing a male that looked female.
“No good! You nothing but no good!” Itz spat the words at Wing. The old man’s deep voice resonated through the forest. Itz moved forward and sharply hatcheted a blow to Wing’s right arm.
Wing shuddered but uttered no sound nor put forth any effort to retaliate.
“You have nothing to say?” his father sneered. “You no good hunter. You no good tool maker. You make no children! You no even fight back!” Itz repeatedly stamped his feet on the ground—hard.
The ground shook violently beneath their feet. It lasted for a long time. Clearly it frightened Itz. Despite his pain, Wing smiled for the first time that day. Even the earth didn’t like being stamped on. It shook back. Hard. Wing wondered how he might shake back.
As soon as he entered the shadow of the forest, Itz became silent. On the branches of an oak tree large parrots, having returned from their flight, quietly gazed down on the men as they moved silently on the path. Monkeys, making high pitched chattering noises, scampered to the far side of the enormous tree.
A few camels stood in a small glen off to the left, their heads swiveled owl-like from time to time. Wing moved his spear from his left hand to the right. His upper right arm hurt. He’d felt and heard the bone crack. It hadn’t broken all the way through, just cracked. It hurt to hold the spear. Wing moved stealthily while Amor and Zik moved up behind him. He reached a point within spear throwing distance. He raised his arm, creating shooting pain spears throughout his upper arm. He cast the spear and it fell short of the target. Amor and Zik hit the target and the camel went down.
“Well, your brother and cousin assure we eat tonight—again,” Itz said dripping condemnation with each word.
Wing stood there holding his upper arm, teeth clenched from the pain. His father’s words were like the terror bird’s kick at their prey after there was no longer anything left to devour. Rather than back up and walk around their devoured prey, terror birds would kick the prey to the side to unblock their own forward passage. Wing had seen it more than once. The throw had done additional damage to his arm. Wing felt tear darts leaving his eyes from the pain. He walked to the kill site, willing to help in any way he could, but the pain was almost unbearable.
Zik noticed Wing’s pain. He quickly went to the forest and found two pieces of curved bark. He returned, and silently he felt Wing’s upper arm bone, realizing it was a fracture not a break. Then he wrapped the arm with a piece of leather, wrapped the curved bark over the leather, and tied it well to provide support and reduce movement. Zik used cordage from the little bag on his side. It was his special cordage, but he didn’t regret using it for this purpose. Toa, their grandmother had made it when she could still see. Neither man spoke. Each knew it was best that way. When the splint was in place, each found their spears and placed them to the side while the men quietly butchered the camel. Afterwards they regathered their spears and carried the meat home.
After they ate that evening, Wing walked to the overlook where they had a great view of the whole valley. He pressed his fingertips against the center of his brow ridges. In the distance he could see a lion crossing the farthest point in the valley. It was alone.
Wing placed his left hand on his splinted arm. He thought of the male lion out in the world on its own. Lions did that. When they reached maturity, it was fight the old male lion or leave. And the idea struck. He felt the spirits had given him a sign. He turned and went to the little cave where his family lived. He lay awake in the dark until his father was snoring. Then Wing gathered his spears and few things, rolled up his sleeping skins, and carefully left the only home he’d ever known. Wing would follow the valley past the place where they killed the camel and keep going. He’d go further southeast than ever before. He’d leave the land that trembled and sh
ook hard, the land where smoke came from mountains. He’d find a new home. Somewhere there was a home not filled with pain. Wing determined to find it—or he’d lose his life trying to find it. Like the male lion.
The moon was full and the night had a little crispness to it. Wing left the valley behind. He ached to leave his mother, brothers, and sister, but Wing was convinced he had to make this move. He wondered what life would be the next day and the days after. A crack off to the right alerted him. Wing stood completely still. His eyes scanned the area off to the right. Then he saw it. There was a jaguar moving through the brush. It was dragging something. He assumed correctly it was its nightly prey. Wing continued on more alert and more intent on walking silently.
When the sun reached its highest point of the day, Wing was in need of sleep. Some extremely shallow caves lined the hill on the left. He knew nothing about them, never having come this way on hunting trips. He climbed down the hillside and checked the caves. The largest one had no scent of animals and it offered shade from the sun, so he chose that one. He built a tiny hearth fire at the entryway. He laid out his skins and by the time he pulled the skin over his shoulder, he was asleep. When he awakened, he walked to the stream he’d been following and drank. Wing noticed he’d been careless. He hadn’t swept the cave. He now had a line of itchy spider bites across his abdomen. Wing had taken some camel pieces when he left home, and he ate part of his supply hungrily. He realized that splinted arm and all, he had to plan to gather enough food to hold him until he could hunt well. His injured arm was his spear throwing arm. He grimaced at the complication.