irrational perhaps but nevertheless valid, told her that Gribardsun was not a felon or a maniac. She knew he was a decent human being, just as a moth knows that certain flying objects are not bats. But her antennae were invisible.
Drummond had laughed at that and asked her how in the world she had ever gotten her doctorate in zoology. Angrily, she had replied that perhaps he was right about her intuitions. They had told her that Drummond was a strong man, a good husband, and that he was in love with her. But she had been mistaken. So perhaps her intuitions about Gribardsun were also wrong.
Drummond had then become angry in turn, and they had quarreled again.
----
FOUR
The summer passed swiftly, the short autumn of the glacial age was upon them. Gribardsun had by then apparently given up the idea, at least temporarily, of traveling to the south. There was so much to be done in this little area that it would have seemed shirking their duties to travel elsewhere.
Gribardsun’s study of the Wota’shaimg language had so far revealed a vocabulary of more ‘words’ than he would have expected. He was convinced that there were at least that many more. Although it was a poor language for communicating intellectual ideas, it was surprisingly versatile in words for emotions, sensations, and impressions. And, it had a highly technical language for those things most important to the Wota’shaimg: hunting, fishing, various types of animals and stones, shades of light, kinds of snow and ice.
Their numeral system went up to twenty, and past that they used the word for ‘many.’ But they could describe exactly each member of a group exceeding the number of twenty, some of them being able to list with all necessary distinguishing features each bison of a herd of forty.
They all had a phenomenal ability for reciting long tales and certain common magical formulae. Wazwim, the singer, could chant four thousand lines of a poem without prompting. He did this three times over a period of two months for Gribardsun, and his lines seldom varied. However, whenever he thought of an improvement, he would promptly make it then and there.
The chant was only roughly a poem. The feet were based on quantity, though far removed from the classical Latin or Greek quantity. The line was roughly composed of a sort of trochaic hexameter. There was no rhyme but much alliteration. Nor could the poem be called an epic in the true sense of the word. It was a loose collection of narratives of heroes and totem animals and evil spirits intermixed with magical formulae and folk wisdom. The closest parallel to the ‘epics’ that modern man knew was the Finnish Kalevala. Everything had taken place long long ago, starting, in fact, before the creation of the universe and continuing up until a dozen generations ago, when the last of the heroes had died. Men today were only ordinary men, according to the song, weaklings and poor-spirited. They didn’t make men like they did in the old days.
Gribardsun was surprised that such a small, technologically retarded society could have produced such a relatively sophisticated poem; and with, for all its serviceable flexibility, a nonetheless essentially primitive vocabulary. Its existence in such a society went against all, that he knew and had been taught. He said as much.
‘That’s the frustrating thing about the limitations of time travel,’ Drummond said. ‘We can’t go even farther back to check out the origin and the development of the so-called epic. Or of anything.’
Gribardsun nodded, but he did not seem too unhappy about it. It was obvious that he was, in fact, very happy. He went out hunting with the others, or sometimes alone, and he always came back with meat. He seldom used his modern weapons but confined himself to using the tribal ones. He broke his own rule only when a big animal charged and made it necessary to use a rifle. Or when he went bird hunting. There were enormous flocks of ducks and
Drummond had laughed at that and asked her how in the world she had ever gotten her doctorate in zoology. Angrily, she had replied that perhaps he was right about her intuitions. They had told her that Drummond was a strong man, a good husband, and that he was in love with her. But she had been mistaken. So perhaps her intuitions about Gribardsun were also wrong.
Drummond had then become angry in turn, and they had quarreled again.
----
FOUR
The summer passed swiftly, the short autumn of the glacial age was upon them. Gribardsun had by then apparently given up the idea, at least temporarily, of traveling to the south. There was so much to be done in this little area that it would have seemed shirking their duties to travel elsewhere.
Gribardsun’s study of the Wota’shaimg language had so far revealed a vocabulary of more ‘words’ than he would have expected. He was convinced that there were at least that many more. Although it was a poor language for communicating intellectual ideas, it was surprisingly versatile in words for emotions, sensations, and impressions. And, it had a highly technical language for those things most important to the Wota’shaimg: hunting, fishing, various types of animals and stones, shades of light, kinds of snow and ice.
Their numeral system went up to twenty, and past that they used the word for ‘many.’ But they could describe exactly each member of a group exceeding the number of twenty, some of them being able to list with all necessary distinguishing features each bison of a herd of forty.
They all had a phenomenal ability for reciting long tales and certain common magical formulae. Wazwim, the singer, could chant four thousand lines of a poem without prompting. He did this three times over a period of two months for Gribardsun, and his lines seldom varied. However, whenever he thought of an improvement, he would promptly make it then and there.
The chant was only roughly a poem. The feet were based on quantity, though far removed from the classical Latin or Greek quantity. The line was roughly composed of a sort of trochaic hexameter. There was no rhyme but much alliteration. Nor could the poem be called an epic in the true sense of the word. It was a loose collection of narratives of heroes and totem animals and evil spirits intermixed with magical formulae and folk wisdom. The closest parallel to the ‘epics’ that modern man knew was the Finnish Kalevala. Everything had taken place long long ago, starting, in fact, before the creation of the universe and continuing up until a dozen generations ago, when the last of the heroes had died. Men today were only ordinary men, according to the song, weaklings and poor-spirited. They didn’t make men like they did in the old days.
Gribardsun was surprised that such a small, technologically retarded society could have produced such a relatively sophisticated poem; and with, for all its serviceable flexibility, a nonetheless essentially primitive vocabulary. Its existence in such a society went against all, that he knew and had been taught. He said as much.
‘That’s the frustrating thing about the limitations of time travel,’ Drummond said. ‘We can’t go even farther back to check out the origin and the development of the so-called epic. Or of anything.’
Gribardsun nodded, but he did not seem too unhappy about it. It was obvious that he was, in fact, very happy. He went out hunting with the others, or sometimes alone, and he always came back with meat. He seldom used his modern weapons but confined himself to using the tribal ones. He broke his own rule only when a big animal charged and made it necessary to use a rifle. Or when he went bird hunting. There were enormous flocks of ducks and
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