“Agh; I know it now—my ax, my father’s ax made by a man of the River Terraces.” Pic clasped the weapon to his breast while the Giant looked curiously on. In a moment he turned to his companion with a puzzled look upon his face.
“Hand-stone; hand-stone?” he repeated several times. “I do not understand. Does the flint please you—as it pleases me? You spoke of Terrace Men. What do you know of them?”
“I know of a race long dead,” the Giant replied in a voice so deep and hollow, it seemed to arise from the earth. “A race of mighty men who roamed along the river banks; who fought and hunted in the warm sunlight and slept beneath the blue sky and twinkling stars. They vied with the Mammoth, the Rhinoceros——”
“Agh! I am listening,” Pic muttered hoarsely. “Go on.”
“And other beasts,” the Giant continued. “Then”—his voice sank almost to a whisper—“the Storm Wind descended upon them from the north. They were mighty men—the People of the Terraces—but even their strength could not match that of the Storm Wind. One by one they died of cold, hunger and disease. Wild beasts set upon them in their weakness. Those who survived, fled to the shelter of caves—gloomy holes where many sickened and died. The others lost all remembrance of things. They sat still and stared and snapped like wolves—and they died too. All were gone—all but one who yet lives; here alone in a cave high above the gorge——”
“You—a Terrace Man?” cried Pic as he gazed up awe-stricken into the Giant’s face. “Arrah, I have found you now: big, strong Man of the Terraces, maker of wonderful flints. I have searched the world for you and now I will learn the secret of how flints like this were made.”
The Ape Boy was now soaring in the clouds. His eyes shone with the zeal of a fanatic, as every moment he took in more inspiration from the ax of Ach Eul which he held closely to his breast. The Giant was speechless with amazement. He could only listen as Pic rambled on:
“You see how large and shapely it is; the same on both edges—on both surfaces. Such work was not done entirely with the hammer-stone. Some other tool was used after the blank was hewn. See where the tiny chips were removed to form the point and edges. Soon I will know how they were struck off and the flint thinned down, when a blow however slight might break and spoil it.”
The Giant shook his head vigorously. “You mistake,” he said. “I know nothing of flint-working nor did any others of my tribe. We carried hand-stones—the ones our fathers’ fathers made long before my time. They were poignards—axes without handles. They and clubs were our weapons; but the blades were lost or broken one by one and none knew how to replace them. The hand-stone has long passed away. Those are dead who can tell of its making. I never knew. I do not know now.”
Pic’s heart sank. His head fell forward upon his breast. “And so I will never know. What is left, worth living for—to the miserable Ape Boy hiding in a man’s skin? Nothing; not even the friends you spoke of.”