Three people sat on a hill, legs dangling, the back-and-forth swing of their calves showing bone idleness and deep, deep boredom in a contemplative mingling. Two of them were gods.
“This is dull,” said one, at length.
They examined the rolling-out spread of the world around and above and beneath them.
“Very,” agreed the other, eventually.
“Let’s fix that,” said the first. “Perhaps we should make something.”
“That sounds pretty good,” said the second. “Who should we make?”
“How about some humans? Let’s make some humans.”
“You did that already,” said the third person, who was a human.
“Hmm,” said the first god, stretching lazily. “That’s right. I forgot that part. Let’s make someone else this time. There’s no sense doing what you’ve already done.”
So they got up, all three of them, and they walked over to earth from heaven. It’s a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there.
“Well, I’m bushed,” said the human.
“But we just started,” said the first god.
“Maybe you’ve just started but I’m just about through,” said the human. “That’s a long walk, from all the way over there to all the way over here. I’m going to take a bit of a nap, if you don’t mind too much. I’ll catch up when I’m done with my rest.” The human curled up under a tree, to keep the sun away, and wouldn’t move, argue as the other two might.
“I’m sleeping,” said the human. “Go away. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
“But we have to worry about you,” said the first god. “If we don’t, who will?”
“And besides,” added the second, “you’re going to miss out. We’re going to make all sorts of good things.”
“I’ll see it when I’m done my nap,” said the human, and fell asleep.
The gods gave up. There was just no arguing with humans when they decided like that.
“So, what shall we make?” asked the first god, as they wandered through the trees. Those were some good trees, and they felt pretty fine, knowing they’d made those on their last trip.
“Let’s make some things for the humans,” said the second god. “If they like it, it’s good. If they don’t like it, it’ll teach them to not laze about while we’re trying to help them, and that’s good too. There’s no bad about it.”
“That’s smart,” said the first god. “Let’s give them a way to build homes.”
“They’re a bit naked with all that skin,” agreed the second god. “And they’re too big to fit in most burrows. Not that they’re any hands at digging. That’s a good idea.”
“It is,” said the first god. “What should they make them out of?”
“How about bits of trees?” said the second. “There’s lots of trees. I’ll bet we could just take some bits off them and mash them together in a new shape.”
“Let’s do that,” said the first god. So they took a whole lot of the bits of the trees and mashed them up, but they couldn’t get them to stick.
“This isn’t working,” said the second god. “Your idea isn’t that good.”
“You wanted trees,” said the first god. “We need something to hold this together. Maybe something sticky.” The first god’s eye alit on a bug buzzing through the shrubs, something they’d made at the end of the last trip. “Hey, wasp, you want to help here?”
“Sure,” said the wasp. “What do you need?”
“Something sticky,” said the second god.
“I’ve got that,” said the wasp, and it spewed its spit all over the tree bits and spread them real thin and tidy, all chewed up and gummed into paste. They stuck together like anything, and the wasp turned that gunk into a good little hut.
“That’s good,” said the first god. “Really good.”
“That’s small,” pointed out the second god. “Really small.”
“It’s just right,” said the wasp. “Look, see how well it fits!”
“Fits you, maybe,” said the first god. “But not a human.”
“If you wanted a human house, you should’ve asked for one,” said the wasp. “This one’s for me.”
The second god shrugged. “I guess so. Thanks anyways, wasp. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
So the gods left the wasp and its little house, and walked down to the river to splash their feet and think on new things.
“That wasn’t too good,” said the first god. “Let’s try again. What else do humans need?”
“Some weapons,” said the second god. “Their teeth and claws are awfully small. Let’s give them some strong teeth and jaws, at least.”
“I think that’s a fine plan,” said the first god. So they made themselves some nice strong teeth, big and smooth and sharp as anything, and some fine jaw muscles to go with them.
“How do we put them in?” asked the first god.
“I thought you’d know,” said the second.
They argued for a while.
“Look, let’s get someone to try them on,” said the second, at length.
“Fine,” said the first. “Hey, beaver, try these teeth on, will you?”
The beaver eyed the teeth with wary caution. “They look awfully big. You sure this is a good idea?”
“It’ll be fine,” said the first god, with confidence. “Here, take them.”
“All right,” said the beaver. So it put the teeth in and champed them around a bit, to get the feel of them. “What do I test them on?”
“Try this rock,” suggested the second god.
The beaver bit the rock, and chipped a tooth. “Well, that wasn’t very smart,” it said.
“I guess not,” admitted the second god. “How about that tree?”
The beaver bit the tree, then gnawed the tree, then chewed the tree, and it fell over right into the water, ker-splosh.
“That worked a lot better,” said the beaver. “Can I try that again?”
“Sure,” said the first god.
So the beaver bit and gnashed and chewed ten fine young trees, one after another, each falling ker-splosh into the water.
“These are good teeth,” said the beaver. “I like these teeth.”
“That’s great,” said the second god. “Mind if we take them back now.”
“I guess not,” said the beaver. “I’ll miss them.”
So the gods grabbed ahold of one tooth each, but yank and tug as they might, not a single incisor would budge.
“Oops,” said the second god.
“That isn’t good,” said the first god.
“I don’t mind keeping them,” said the beaver hopefully.
“I guess you’d better,” said the second god. “We’d have to pull out most of your head to get them out too. And you’ll need that. Well, thanks anyways, beaver.”
“Thank you,” said the beaver. It had an idea of what it wanted to do with those trees. Muddy burrows in the riverbed were all well and good, but all that loose lumber was giving it plans.
The gods walked away from the beaver and its river, thoughts working hard. Their wandering feet roved them up into the rocky highlands, up against a big cliff. They climbed up to its very tip and sat down, legs swinging again.
“So, no homes,” said the first god.
“Seems not,” said the second.
“And no weapons,” continued the first.
“Not this way, no,” agreed the second.
“We should at least make sure they have something nice. Something no one else can do.”
“How about talking?” said the second.
“Birds call. Wolves howl. Whales sing. Crickets chirrup. Cats purr –”
“All right, not like that then,” said the second. “How about a way to talk without talking?”
“Everybody does that,” said the first. “Shrugging. Flapping. Strutting. Posturing. ”
“Then what about a way to talk without being there at all?”
“That’s crazy,” said the first.
“I’ll show you.” So the second god broke off a sharp piece of flint from the cliff and scratched and scraped some little markings on the dirt.
“All right. See that little picture of a bear I drew?”
“Yes.”
“That means a bear. See? All we have to do is leave a picture like this, and anyone who looks at it knows what we meant. Humans can do it too. That takes some good brains, and they’ve got pretty good brains.”
“That’s a good idea,” said the first god. “And they can even do it on other rocks?”
“Probably,” said the second god, and gave it a shot. The flint drawing tool snapped on the cliff face, spilling splinters onto the dirt beneath.
“Maybe not,” admitted the second god.
“Oops,” said the first god. “Well, I’m just about out of ideas. This is harder than I thought.”
“Let’s take a break,” proposed the second god. So they walked back to heaven and fell asleep.
Down below in the forest, the human woke up and took a good stretch, refreshed right as rain. A wasp buzzed by, and then another.
“What’re you up to?” asked the human.
“Building!” said the wasp. “Busy, busy, busy building! So much to work on! I made just one little home, and now all my friends and relations want one. We’re building a home for all of us!”
“That sounds pretty impressive,” said the human. “Mind if I look?”
“Sure,” said the wasp. So the human came and looked. The wasp nest was a nice big papery ball wedged in the fork of a big old oak. The older, smaller nest hung from a branch under it.
“Hmm,” said the human. “It looks a bit dirty.”
“They forgot to wipe their feet,” complained the wasp. “They always forget to wipe their feet. They left footprints all over my nice clean home, all the while complaining it was too small, and now they want me to make a big one for us all. If they weren’t my friends and relations I’d say they were my worst enemies.”
“Hmm,” said the human. “Can I have the old home?”
“I don’t see why not,” said the wasp. So the human took the old home, and looked at all the tiny dark marks on the thin, papery shell.
“What’d you make this from?” asked the human.
“Bits of tree. And spit. Quite a lot of spit.”
“I don’t think I’ll try spit,” said the human. But an idea was stewing in there. So the human took a big bit of tree, and made marks on it. Lots of little ones, all like wasp feet. Some of them were drawings, some of them were drawings of drawings, and some of them were drawings of drawings of drawings that didn’t look like drawings at all any more, but symbols.
“This could be interesting,” said the human. “I’d better remember it.” So the human did, and packed up that bit of tree for later study. And the wasp nest.
“I’m thirsty,” said the human. “Know a good spot?”
“There’s a river a few thousand wingbeats thataways,” said the wasp. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, and thanks.”
The human walked down to the river and took a long, cool drink, all the while wondering what was that big pile of branches and tree trunks sitting in the middle of the stream. The water was starting to act funny near it. A beaver waddled by, towing a fallen sapling.
“What are you doing?” asked the human.
“I’m taking trees and building a home,” said the beaver, between its teeth and a little over its tongue. “Could you move a little to one side?”
The human moved politely, and watched the beaver tow the trunk into place. And it thought a little.
“Could I borrow some of those trees?” asked the human.
“The ones that are too big for me,” said the beaver. “I chewed down some of them by mistake.”
“Thank you,” said the human, and started work immediately. Before long all the trees were dragged into a pile in a little clearing, where they were shoved into a sort of frame. The human covered the gaps with branches, and felt like that was pretty good. It’d keep out rain, at the very least.
“Now where,” asked the human aloud, “did those gods go? I’d better go someplace high and look for them.”
Up and up the trail led, up to the mountain, and on to the cliff. There the god-tracks ended, in a little splash and spray of shattered flint.
The human picked up a piece, and cut a finger.
“Hmm,” said the human, and picked up the piece again, this time more carefully, and drew it across lunch, a big dried tuber. It cut it through cleanly.
“Hmmmmmmmmm,” said the human, the sound of a thought wrestling for room against the inside of a skull. “I will remember this. I will remember this very, very carefully.” The human walked away full of thought, and looked for the gods all night, calling their names in the forest. Finally the human gave up, and went home to its friends and relations.
“I think I lost the gods,” the human said, “but I’ve found some interesting things. Now, let me tell you about them for a little while.”
The gods woke up late, even for gods. Their backs were stiff and their heads were sore, from sleeping all out of sorts.
“How long was that?” asked the first.
“I’m not too sure,” replied the second. “But we’d better go check on that human.”
So they went back to earth. It’s not a long walk, for a god.
“What,” said the first god, “are all those things in the forest?”
“Why,” asked the second god, “are all those trees stumps?”
“Where,” puzzled the first god, “did all the rocks up on that cliff go?”
“And what are those humans doing?” asked the second god.
“The things in the forest are huts,” said the human. “We made them out of those trees. And we took the rocks to make these spears. Which we’re using to hunt that deer, which you just chased away with your talking.”
“Sorry,” said the first god.
“It’s all right,” said the human. “You left us all these things anyways, while my ancestor on my mother’s side was sleeping.”
“Sure we did,” said the second god.
“Sure,” agreed the first god. “You’re welcome.”
“How did you know about us?” asked the second god, who’d only just realized that this human probably wasn’t the same one they’d left.
“We wrote it down,” said the human, who pulled a big scroll of flat stomped papery stuff out of a backpack. The gods looked at it again, and there it was, all written down. They were mightily impressed.
“Want anything more?” asked the second god. “You could come back to heaven, give us some ideas. Three heads are better than two.”
The human looked around. “No, I think this is pretty good. We’ll manage. Thanks.”
“Good luck,” said the gods.
“Good luck,” said the human. They all went home.
“Should we make something else?” asked the first god. “It looks like that turned out real nice.”
The second god stretched out. “No, I don’t think so. They can have a turn at doing that sort of thing for a while. I feel like another rest.”
“Sounds fine to me,” said the first god. “Let’s get comfortable.”
So the gods tucked themselves in and took a nap. But they got a little too comfy, and when they woke up next, things had changed a bit more.
But that’s not this story.