Peter Dickinson - Eva

The people rose.

“I’ll give your message to Lil,” said Gudrun. “And your love.”

“Well, good-bye, Eva,” said Denny. “It’s been a privilege to have known you. Good-bye, Hruffa.”

They shook hands and moved away, became tramping pillars, columns of mist, nothing. The flivver hummed and the downdraft buffeted across the dry earth. The noises dwindled into the sky.

Now Eva’s own group came out of the trees, carrying the litter Whahhu and Graa had made. Eva’s third daughter, Hawa, brought a half gourd of water. Eva drank a little and let Hawa bathe her face while Hruffa handed around the rest of the grapes. There was a spat between Graa and Arrwa about the divvying-up but almost before Hruffa and Whahhu had barked at them they remembered where they were, and why. Eva let herself be lifted on to the litter and carried back toward the trees.

The others came out to meet them. She could feel their solemnity. They knew. Of course, they had not asked themselves if the humans would stop coming once Eva was no longer there to talk for them. There was no way Eva could explain something like that, not even to Hruffa. All she could do was let them understand that a change was coming—not by telling them but by feeling the approaching change inside herself, by sharing the feeling and her own acceptance of it. They joined the process, sharing and understanding. They knew.

There would be other changes that Eva herself had long foreseen but which there was no way of sharing. The structure of the groups would alter—they would become more separate without Eva’s prestige to bind them. The dominance of the males would become more marked, and would shift slightly in other ways. Eva had always understood that she had to work within the grain of nature, her own and the others’. It had been no use, for instance, supporting Sniff indefinitely once Abel had grown into a big strong male and almost as intelligent. Poor Sniff had become morose and withdrawn, but it couldn’t be helped. On the other hand she herself had always refused to mate with males she thought stupid or unsociable, and sometimes by guile and distraction had interfered in the same kind of way when the other females were in season. That wouldn’t happen anymore.

The names, she thought, would probably go too, though not long ago Hawa had brought her new baby to her and told her his name, unprompted. Names were only slightly useful. If you were in someone’s presence you didn’t need them; the other chimp was already an individual in your mind, a shape and smell and touch, a bunch of memories. Occasionally you might want to ask where someone was by saying the name as a question, and there were a few other uses like that—possibly just enough for names to persist, and the easy use of them to become enough of an advantage for chimps with vocal tracts slightly more adapted to naming to be the ones who had more children . . . hard to see how.

Fire-making, though. Knots. Making and using a bone needle so that leathery palm leaves could be sewed into a shelter and your baby stay dry from summer downpours . . . The litter on which Eva lay was of special importance to her. It wasn’t the first—Eva had made that, years ago, to carry Beth from place to place when her legs became paralyzed. Later she’d shown the others how and supervised. Their main use was for carrying food and things like bedding materials up into the caves. This one had been made by Whahhu and Graa. Eva herself had taught Whahhu, and Whahhu had taught Graa. Graa, moreover, was a male. Eva had found him when he was still only half grown, high up in the mountains on a clear winter day, staring at the distant blue loom of Madagascar. Graa was Sniff’s grandson. If you could make a litter, perhaps one day you would experiment with a raft.

No. It was far too soon. Generations beyond generations would have to pass before that, or before you could say that the skills had become enough of an advantage to be passed down in the genes, slightly nimbler fingers to make the knots, slightly subtler minds to think of uses for them, let alone for the new race of chimps to begin to move outward. Quite likely it would never happen at all—quite likely people would change their minds and come back and wipe out the chimps—but if it did those far-distant adventurers would not be Eva’s descendants. They would be Hruffa’s, and Graa’s, and Arrwa’s, and Urff’s—and Kelly’s. Not one human gene would be there. Only, faintly, but in all of them, changed by them and changing them, the threads of human knowledge.

Our gift to the future, thought Eva. It crossed her mind to wonder what had happened to Dad. Denny hadn’t said anything about Dad.

At the edge of the trees but still in the sunlight her bearers put the litter on the ground and stood back. Eva lay on her side in the useless warmth. If they’d propped her up she would have fallen. All she could see was a dark band between the glare of the sky and the glare of the bleached earth, but she could feel the presence of the others, hear their breathing and their mutters of doubt and concern. One by one, in no order, they came forward and crouched in front of her, panting lightly, putting their faces close enough for her to smell their breath and see the glint in the dark brown eyes. They reached out and touched her thigh or forearm or the back of her hand. The mothers helped their children to perform the impromptu ritual. The ones with small babies held them for a moment against her side.

When they had all taken their turns they drew back. Their voices changed to grunts of uncertainty. Eva was by no means the first to die—Beth had gone long ago, and since then there had been illnesses and accidents Eva could do nothing about. She had taught them to scoop a hollow, lay the body in it, and pile rocks over the place. But from now on, their voices said, everything was new. They would have to continue without her and survive.

In the end they left her alone to die. All of them, even Hruffa. She could not see them but felt them go, splitting into groups and families and then, like something happening in a dream, moving slowly away into the trees.

Also by Peter Dickinson

THE ROPEMAKER

A Michael L. Printz Honor Book

Tilja’s grandmother understands the whispering of the cedars. Tahl’s grand-father understands the chatter of the streams. From them comes disturbing news: The magic that keeps the valley safe is dying.

Along with their grandparents, Tilja and Tahl set out into the fearsome Empire to find the one man who can renew that ancient power. But he has not been seen for centuries, and to utter his name means death.

On their journey, Tilja discovers her own extraordinary power, as great as that of any magicians but utterly different. It connects her to a mysterious stranger who appears in many disguises—and who may be the only sorceror who can unweave the rope of time itself.

“A thoroughly compelling tale that delves into the nature of both magic and time.”— Booklist , Starred

“A challenging magical adventure for the thinking reader.”— Publishers Weekly , Starred

“The suspense does not let up until the very last pages . . . a wonderful coming-of-age story . . . fascinating.” — School Library Journal , Starred

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