Ever since he’d started making the cave paintings, Thag had noticed that the women in the Thunka Grunka clan had been looking at him differently.
Perhaps it was his position as the leader of the hunting party, but he thought it had more to do with his artwork.
Whatever the case, he was gettin’ some on a regular basis.
Nominally, he was still mated to Onga, but she had all but deserted him for that scrotum-with-eyes shaman, Weasel-Scratch-Face-Brother. In fact, it had been Onga’s desertion, and his ensuing depression, which had spurred Thag into creating more artwork for the cave.
The younger unmated women of the clan seemed to like his deft representations of the animals they hunted, particularly Vunga, the half-daughter of the Shaman.
“It looks so spiritual,” Vunga would say whenever he completed a painting.
“Thag suffer for art,” he confided, looking pained, unsure, filled with angst.
“Oh, poor Thag,” Vunga would say, and then take him by the hand so that they could go for a “walk” in the forest.
On such occasions, Thag could swear he could hear the sound of Weasel’s teeth grinding from his shaman’s perch outside the cave.
“Thag do art for Vunga tomorrow,” he would promise as they walked into the shaded trees, her hips swaying like the boughs in the breeze.
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