The Price of Seed

I became very interested in history before recorded history a couple of years ago and the impact of farming on human society and the planet (beginning c.10,000 BC). Here is a short piece set in the Mesolithic (Middle Stone Age), perhaps in France or Spain at the dawn of the Neolithic (New Stone Age). Here is Eve's Apple:

'Sit,' said Samphire’s aunt as they neared the entrance of the cave.

From the buzz of excitement she could tell that a party of strangers waited within. Rush mats were being bought up from the lower chamber and the floor by the hearth swept clean with brushwood brooms.

Six tall men waited beneath the mighty limestone overhang. They were all travel worn, their hair greying and their hide clothes sewn with bright coloured thread. The smiles were broad and the atmosphere more than convivial as the people crowded in to be seated with them.

'Who are they?' Samphire said in a low tone, watching as the elders exchanged warm greetings with the newcomers; squeezing shoulders and shaking hands, eager for news of life beyond the gorge.

'Traders from the south,' her younger sister replied in a loud whisper, ‘Wood-sorrel says they've travelled from the turquoise sea...'

The ritual gift-giving began, the newcomers and the villagers exchanging trinkets and blessings as they were seated on the mats around the fire. Food was produced, baskets of nuts and dried fish being shared liberally as the southerners were subjected to a barrage of eager questions. Samphire looked on intrigued, struggling to make out their news as she watched the traveler’s exotic gifts being passed from hand to hand.

There were flint nodules and lumps of iron pyrite laid out on the mat, fine sea shells and a pouch of large grains like none she had ever seen.

'Magic seed!' Dogrose whispered and she laughed in disbelief, ‘they say it waits to be harvested!' Their aunt shot her a reproving look. ‘Wood-sorrel heard it has changed the Eastern lands,' her sister continued in a whisper, ‘that men are willing to give anything for it.’ Anything. They both fell silent.

A comment was made and the men turned as one to glance to where they sat. The fire crackled as Samphire felt a myriad of eyes bore into her. 'Talking marriages,' Dogrose whispered. Samphire felt hollow.

It was something of a joke that none of Crooked-hand’s daughters had been given to a man, despite their reasonable age, and it was often said that the old man was to discerning – or else to scheming. Samphire felt her heart sink. She knew her father’s intentions even if Dogrose did not.

The men returned to their talk and she scanned their animated features. The old and the young mingling in their eagerness for news and gossip, their faces close together as they laughed and bartered. Her father, she noticed sat near the center, his hand brushing the pouch of seed. He wore a smile as stately as his ochre-painted face. She knew she should be proud to be his daughter, but she was not. He glanced at her and she looked away. Her value would be measured by a purse of wheat.

'Samphire?' said their aunt expectantly, but before she could continue Dogrose had grabbed her arm and without thinking they sprang away like hares.