ALMA FELT HER way in the darkness toward the back of the cave. The reed in her mouth felt dry and woody, and the pouch of ochre around her neck swung from side to side as she crawled.
The tunnel opened into a bright room, lit by an opening in the ceiling. She was in a part of the cave that her band called their worship room. Here, Alma’s people prayed to the spirits of the earth and the sky, the waters and the wind.
Alma stood, adjusted her fur leggings, then walked to the far end of the chamber, which was littered with stones. Stained, empty seashells and sharpened bones lay at her feet. There, on the wall, were Oman’s paintings: hunters with spears, bulls and deer, boars, and even a woolly mammoth. The mural was red and black, made from ochre and ash. It felt like magic, animals born of thin air!
With his art, the chieftain Oman thanked the spirits for the band’s successes. Alma did not expect to draw as well as Oman, but she did have an idea. An unpainted surface of the cave would make the perfect canvas. She unknotted her pouch, cupped the bottom of the reed, and poured in some ochre. After that, she spat several times into the top of the reed, covered it, and
