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The night sky stretched out over the river and above the rocky desert beyond the valley.

Its inky blackness broken only by the stars.

The people camped on the hillside above the bank pointed up at the pinpricks of light, picking

out shapes from the rough alignments, elephants, lions, giraffes, all the creatures of the

savannas to the south that they had left behind to follow the river north.

One poked at the dying fire with a stick, storing the embers into a semblance of life.

A second began to snore, softly grunting into the night.

Another stood up and walked away from the camp, looking for a place to relieve herself.

As she picked her way through the darkness, she slammed her foot into a stone and hissed

in pain.

Sitting down to rub a throbbing toe, her hand brushed the offending rock and she picked it

up, carrying it back to the fire where she returned.

She couldn't say why she had done so, something had compelled her.

As she examined it in the flickering flame, she saw that it was a hefty chunk of stone,

sharp on one end and blunt on the other.

Long flakes had been struck off to make the cutting edge, but not by any technique she

or anyone she knew employed.

Her people used tiny pieces of stone and triangular and crescent moon shapes for their tools.

But she was holding had been made intentionally and it was surely effective, but crude.

She wondered who had made it and how long ago.

...