Tag Archives | shaman

Thag not like mornings!

By Mark A. Rayner on July 16, 2009 in Hinky History, Odd Science, Thag

image of morning sunlight streaming through trees When he awoke, his mate Onga was less than a hand away from his face, smiling her most dazzling smile.

Somewhere, out in the forest, birds were chirping; bright light streamed through the canopy, illuminating the mossy forest floor with dappled patterns. Steam rose from the stream nearby.

“It’s morning!” Onga sang.

“Unh.” Thag said.

“Time to get ups sleepy-head!” Onga chirped.

“Mwarghh,” Thag mumbled, and buried his face in his sleeping furs.

“Let’s get this day going,” Onga burbled, her voice dripping with joy and happiness.

“Let me sleep woman,” Thag mumbled. “Had late watch last night.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s time to get up and go hunt something.”

“Ahhhhh,” Thag groaned. It didn’t help that she was right. If he didn’t get up with the morning sun, he would feel off all day. But did she have to be so chipper about it?

“Grumpy,” Onga said as he sat up. She kissed him on his massive brow ridge, sashaying down towards the stream, where the shaman Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother was chatting with some other early risers.

Thag caught the meaningful glance between the shaman and Onga, and he groaned, pulling his covers over his head. Some mornings it just didn’t seem worth getting out of the furs.

The rhythm and blues of Monday. More moody bloggers here. Thanks to geinkin for the photo.

Thag not like f#&*ing shaman!

By Mark A. Rayner on July 14, 2009 in Odd Science, Skwibby fiction, Thag

Image of Thag's brain in profile His mate Onga had finally pushing him too far, and now, Thag was hip-deep in mammoth dung, as they said in the Thunka Grunka clan.

He’d returned from the latest hunting expedition flush with success. His new regime of taking risks — but not crazy risks like trying to kill a cave lion with a deadfall, using yourself as bait, as the demented (and now late) Fungo had tried to do — was working well.

He was becoming much more respected in the tribe and word was even spreading within the clan. This new prestige made it even more difficult to find Onga receiving special “medicine” from the shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother on the day of their homecoming.

Ever since the Great Storm, Thag was convinced that Weasel was only out for his own power — and in the case of Onga and the other fertile women of the tribe — pleasure. So, he’d naturally, lost his temper.

He had managed to not actually physically assault the medicine man; but his self-restraint only went so far, and Thag had called Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother a “festering carbuncle” and used some phrases that in the Thunka Grunka clan were definitely taboo, especially when applied to a holy man.

Thag wished it were only mammoth dung he was hip deep in — as a punishment for his disrespect and “potty mouth”, the elders had told Thag to expand the tribe’s latrine.

It would take a week for his sense of smell to recover, and in the meanwhile, Fungo’s idiot brother, Jungo, was leading the next hunting party. Thag just hoped they all didn’t get killed.

He poked at the earth with his digging stick, dislodging a large stone, which landed in the sewage beneath him, splashing him copiously.

“Great, now Thag covered with shaman,” Thag muttered to himself, and despite the stench, grinned.

Other potty-mouths continue the tradition today.

Here’s the science: Cursing is a human universal.

Originally published in 2005.

Thag not want get tattoo!

By Mark A. Rayner on July 13, 2009 in Odd Science, Skwibby fiction, Thag

image of thag shouting at pain of tattoo Thag was the leader of the main hunting party, of that there was no doubt.

This wasn’t entirely due to his acumen as a hunter. Part of it was because his predecessors had been idiots and extreme risk takers. Under Thag’s leadership, the hunters of the Thunka Grunka clan would have continuing success, but there was a problem.

For once, it wasn’t because of the f*&king shaman –Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother– and his continuing quest to bed Thag’s mate, Onga. No, it was a more invidious problem, to whit, the tattoo craze sweeping through the clan.

All the youngsters had picked up the habit at the yearly Great Gathering, held just a moon ago. At first, Thag had hoped it would die off, but it was becoming a thing. All the young hunters were painting pictures of the animals they had killed — not on the cave walls, as Thag was fond of doing — but on their own bodies, using bone needles to put the ink beneath their skin.

It was painful, but popular.

And if Thag didn’t get one soon, he was going to lose the respect of the younger hunters, who all had at least one by now.

So he’d decided on a cave bear. Just a little one, on the left bicep. It still hurt almost as much the time he got kicked by the giant deer. (He hadn’t been able to sit for weeks.)

The only consolation? Onga thought the tat was kind of sexy. And Weasel Brother absolutely refused to have anyone touch his skin with the tattoo needle. He said it was blasphemy, but Thag knew the truth — he was just too old to try new things.

Inspired by:
Monkeyluv: And other lessons on our lives as animals, by Robert Sapolsky. Photo by loufi. Originally published 2005.

Other tattooed hominids exist today.

Thag not like cut his toenails!

By Mark A. Rayner on July 10, 2009 in But is it art?, Hinky History, Skwibby fiction, Thag

auroch Onga was always asking him to cut his toenails, and it made Thag crazy.

If he cut them too close, then he had nothing to protect the end of his toes. Good nails were especially important when you jumped on the back of an auroch during a hunt. If you didn’t have long enough nails, you might not be able to hold on.

Then again, he had to admit it was not auroch hunting season.

She could get really insistent, making veiled references to how well-groomed Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother’s toenails were. (The shaman was always trying to one-up Thag in any way he could.)

In fact, it was the shaman’s adroitness with cave art that got Thag started on it.

He couldn’t help it that all he could draw well were aurochs — which were an important religious symbol, of course, and the representation of which got under Weasel’s skin — and toenails.

Actually, it had taken him a while to perfect the representation of toenails, but eventually he got it down, and filled an entire cave with them (and aurochs).

“What?” he asked Onga. “I cut them off; I can’t paint them either?”

Modern long-nailed auroch-lovers exist too.

More about the discovery of Lascaux cave paintings. Originally published in 2005.

Thag want be millionaire!

By Mark A. Rayner on July 9, 2009 in Odd Science, Skwibby fiction, Thag

Grunk's career had been cut short by the business end of a woolly rhino It had been an unlucky hunting season.

First of all, their big man, Grunk, got himself gored by a woolly rhinoceros in the first week of the expedition.

Grunk — always the big swinging dick that Grunk — had tried to stab it in the eye instead of dodging to the side. Still, if he’d been successful, that would have been sweet. They could have ended the trip right there. The jackpot. Instead they had to chase the rhino until Grunk’s massive bulk finally fell off the horn.

After Grunk’s wipe out, morale was low. Their youngest and cockiest hunter, Mrog, made the somewhat risky decision to prove to the others that the Thunka Grunka clan still had the moxy to take down any prey they wanted. Including cave lions.

Yep, Mrog had been an idiot. It was probably best that he hadn’t had a chance to mate before he became cat food.

That just left Thag as the only other hunter with an ounce of creativity or ambition. After all, if they came back to the Grunka village without a shitload of meat, his mate Onga would be sharing slappies with that bastard shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother the next time he went out hunting for sure. Especially since their last fight and the total failure of the shalli whacker.

So when they saw it, Thag knew they just had to take it down. It was the fabled unicorn — basically a tall woolly rhino with twice the speed, and twice the horn.

Remembering Grunk, the other hunters were keen to just let it go on its way, but Thag said no, they should risk it, but no hot-dogging. They would work as a team.

Later, Thag would remember that as the defining moment of his life, and always told the youngsters to take risks, but calculated risks.

It didn’t solve the problem with Onga though.

Inspired by:
Elasmotherium | Too scared to be a millionaire?. Originally published in 2005.

Now all our horny creatures are on the web.

Thag brain not hear, honey

By Mark A. Rayner on July 7, 2009 in Odd Science, Skwibby fiction, Thag

Sideview of Thag's brain, on task “Thag, don’t forget to bring home that chunk of mammoth meat you left to hang in the forest.”

No response from Thag, who is knapping flint with his whacker. He is making more flint arrowheads to replace all of those he lost on the last hunt.

“Thag?”

Thag is absorbed by his work, and does not respond to his fetching mate, Onga, despite her proximity, and his deep love for her. He is not ignoring her, his brain is simply not hearing her.

“Thag!”

The whacker slips and several hours of work are wasted as Onga’s frustrated shout breaks through his concentration.

“What?”

“The meat.”

Thag gives Onga a blank look. “I was reminding you not to forget the mammoth meat you left in the forest. We need it for tonight.”

Thag grunted.

“You know, Weasel-Scratch-Face Brother listens to me.”

“Weasel-Face is a woman,” Thag rumbles. The Shaman was always sniffing after Onga.

“And you are a jerk!”

Onga storms off, and once again, Thag is in trouble. (Though his brain cannot tell him exactly why. It might have something to do with meat.)

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