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Live Cowry in rockpool Australia taken with my iPhone 5 and Olloclip macro Cowryy Cowry Shelll Shelll SHELLFISH
Live Cowry in rockpool Australia taken with my iPhone 5 and Olloclip macro Cowryy Cowry Shelll Shelll SHELLFISH
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The Hunt The five men made their way deliberately across the rolling hills in this, the third day of their pursuit of a herd of caribou. Although it was the season that passes as summer, a heavy frost had occurred the night before. All day, the sky spit intermittent snowflakes enveloped within a heavy cold drizzle that had fallen since noon. As the sun slowly dropped slowly below the northwestern horizon, the beleaguered group crested a hill beyond which lay a broad river. Its waters roiled, singing a angry, discordant lament as the river swiftly dispatched ice, silt, and other debris to the southwest. In less than a month, the river would again fall silent before the advancing cold. At present, it was as dangerous an adversary as the short-faced bears, sabertooth cats and dire wolves which were not averse to snacking on humans between meals. From the hilltop, the group could see that the tracks led straight to the river, and this presented a problem. Accirding to tribal custom, river spirits were particularly capricious and unpredictable during their brief parole from the icy winter prison. Before approaching further, the oldest of the five would recite the proper prayers as the remaining hunters made the customary obeisance due any spirit. These tasks completed, they advanced upon a ledge rising some twenty feet above the icy churn. The caribou tracks led right up to the precipice and then simply disappeared. All five understood immediately. The herd had approached the river for water and the entire bank had given way. The ebb and flow of the great river was particularly treacherous in the later part of summer. Violent discharges followed by rapid flooding often occurred as ice dams or some other obstruction gave way. It was impossible to tell whether the caribou had been drowned or had escaped, though it didn't much matter to the group as there were no tracks or other signs left to follow. The discouragement they felt, but which they had refused to voice for fear of appearing ungrateful before their gods, quickly devolved into despair. Oh yes, the river spirits had been particularly spiteful. As the pale remnants of sunlight bled out of the unwelcoming evening sky, the five men decided to make camp for the night. With no prospects, the hunters decided to visit a nearby salt lick the following day. Salt licks were busy places even when game was otherwise scarce, and so were attractive spots to hungry predators. Hunting around a salt lick was extraordinarily dangerous, and awas therefore something the tribe attempted only as a last resort. They selected a site for evening camp in the shelter of a large hill that could afford them only meager protection from the frigid northwest winds. The fire-keeper then began to gather old mastodon dung to fuel the evening fire; no wood or other combustibles could be found on the tundra. Just as the fire took, the last rays of almost set sun briefly broke through the mists. Cream colored sunlight momentarily returned color to the sodden, grayscale landscape. The insistent crepuscular rays glinted painfully from a thousand points in myriad directions - off the ice flows in the river; the oblique, half frozen surfaces of numerous ponds and lakes; and the straggled remnants of the previous winter's snowpack sheltering in shaded depressions between the low hills. Far off to the north, the painfully intense light touched harshly upon something far more massive and, to the uncomprehending eyes of the tribe, far more terrifying. Along the northern horizon stretched a serrated but unbroken wall of white rising thousands of feet, a seemingly impossible height in the personal experience of the tribe. The spires of white menaced like so many jagged jawbone teeth of a polar bear. Although no one in the group had ever seen the great ice sheet, not even the eldest who in his 38th summer had lived longer than anyone in the tribe's memory, all knew from their creation songs that this was the physical incarnation of the God they feared the most. Here stood the Great Spirit, the entity that weighed the worth of men's souls after death and had the power, through its unrelenting, inexorable advance, to rout the sun and wipe out the very fabric of their existence. Instantly the despair of a failed hunt was transfigured into a religious experience of the highest order, an encounter unique in the collective consciousness of the race. Only those judged worthy could hope to survive. After all, one does not look upon the face of God and then casually walk away. No, this would require a great sacrifice. The hunters assembled their most precious items: the conch shell, which was the elder's badge of office, used to call special assemblies of the tribe; a small iron meteorite that the First Father and the First Mother had seen falling from the sky, which the tribe had preserved as their evidence for being God's chosen; each hunter's bracelet of beaded cowries which afforded protection from the angry spirits of ancestors who had lost their way in the afterlife; and finally the entire collection of spear points that the group had labored months to manufacture for the summer hunt. All were carefully assembled, blessed, ritually placed within in the finest arctic fox skin the group possessed, then sanctified with the tribe's most sacred possession, remnants of the Great Spirit's life force: the embers the group carried on hunts for making fires. They would have to make their way home in the cold and without the protection of their spears. Over several hours, the elder led the group in reciting secret prayers passed down from elder to elder for this very occasion. As the leader recited the complex liturgy in the archaic Language of the Ancestors, his four companions repeated his words while the elder played the Creation Song on his bone flute. As the service progressed, each member of the group took turns digging the sacred pit. Tradition required that the pit be dug unto the bone of the Great Spirit and so it was that soil was removed down to the level of permafrost. With great pomp and ceremony, the elder placed the offering within the pit, after which each hunter carefully returned a layer of the soil they had just dug until the sacrifice was securely sealed within the ground. Now the ancillary spirits of the Earth and Wind would secure the site with heath and heather so that its location would remain hidden to all subsequent comers. And so it was that 20,000 years later, downpours from a particularly violent Thanksgiving Day thunderstorm exposed a cache of Clovis points, an assortment of mother-of-pearl beads, a deposit of rust, and a partially fossilized conch shell in the freshly harvested corn field of a farm along the Ohio River just south of Cincinnati, Ohio. Studio Shot No People White Background Day Collage Prehistoric Cowry Clovis Points Creativity This Week On Eyeem Eyeemphoto Art And Craft Malephotographerofthemonth Shortstory
Live Cowry in rockpool Australia taken with my iPhone 5 and Olloclip macro Cowry Cowry Shell Shell SHELLFISH
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