Mists of Dawn by Chad Oliver

knife.
    There might be Neanderthals lurking near, but Mark reasoned that if his shots had not drawn their attention then, nothing else would. Hungry as he was, he did not intend to eat his meat raw. A flat rock by the pool would serve as a fireplace, and the shrubs should kindle up into a good enough fire. Mark found enough shrubs within twenty yards to more than satisfy his needs, and he hacked branches from them with his pocketknife. He trimmed them of foliage and then carefully split several of them down into sections. These he shaved into fine slivers for kindling. He arranged the wood with meticulous care on the flat rock, building it up from tiny shavings to fair-sized branches. He trimmed one stout branch to a sharp, twin-forked point and he was ready.
    Mark fished out his matches and struck one on the box. It failed to light, and he saw that the matches were damp. He felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach and began to realize what primitive man was up against. Suppose he had to make his own knife, where would he start? Suppose he had to kindle a fire from a chunk of wood and an improvised drill? Sure, it looked simple enough in the diagrams—but could he do it?
    Mark wasted six matches before one hissed and caught. He cupped the priceless light in his hands and applied it to the wood shavings. The wood was damp from the night mists, the flame flickered very feebly and almost died. Mark realized he had never appreciated a fire before. Fires were always something you just took for granted, but not now. He concentrated every atom of his being upon that scanty blaze. He blew gently on it, but it would not catch. He frantically lit another match from the tiny flame and tried again with the same results. He knew that if he could once get a reasonably hot blaze going, however small, the fire would catch. But how? He needed paper, and there just wasn’t any paper.
    Or was there?
    With sudden inspiration, Mark dug out his billfold from his pocket, all the while fighting to keep some sort of flickering flame alive. The billfold was damp, but not wet. He fumbled it open. It was dry on the inside. Hastily, he slipped out five dollar bills. He tore one to shreds and sprinkled them gently on the tiny spark. They hesitated and then caught with little puffs of flame. Mark built the other four bills around them like a tent, and slipped slivers of shaved wood in on top of them. He held his breath. The flame wavered—and then caught with a crackle.
    Mark watched the little fire heat the wood and move on, spreading to the larger kindling and then to the branches themselves. He watched the fire as though he had never seen a fire before, as though it was the most beautiful sight in the world. He watched it in utter fascination, until the heat drove him back.
    Mark slipped the matches into his billfold and returned the billfold to his pocket. Gratefully, he speared a reindeer steak with his twin-forked stick and held it just above the blue point of the crackling flames. The red meat contracted and juices fell hissing into the fire. The smell of roasting venison filled the air, and Mark sniffed it with complete pleasure. He had never been so hungry in his life, and nothing had ever smelled so good to him.
    After the venison had been thoroughly cooked, Mark took the steak from the forked stick and placed it on a flat rock. He used the knife and a small stick to cut the meat up into thick sections, and then he ate. The venison had the zestful tang of game meat cooked over an open fire, and Mark would have declared without a moment’s hesitation that it was by all odds the most delicious meal he had ever eaten. When he finished, he swallowed more cool water from the pool and put another steak on the coals to cook.
    Comfortable at last, Mark lay back in the afternoon sun and just enjoyed feeling human again. Now that he had the chance, he determined to skin the reindeer before evening. He was not going to get caught out another