The Toolmakers
ITEM: Jane Goodall, during her many years in Africa, observed Chimpanzees using tools made from twigs to collect ants and other insects for food. These were the first recorded instances of tool use in animals other than Man.
“Have you been out here long?” asked Cyrus from a distance. He wanted to announce his presence so as not to startle the young woman. She had been observing for some time and focused on the activities in the brush, not behind her.
“I don’t know. Three hours maybe. What time is it?”
“Almost six. Why don’t you knock off and get something to eat. You probably have enough data for today anyway.”
She stood up a bit more stiffly than she would have liked for her twenty-three years. Hours spent sitting still in the summer sunshine tended to age a person. It was impossible, however, to gather much data on wildlife by moving around and scaring them off.
“God,” she muttered. “Nothing personal, but I’ll be so glad when I get this Doctorate so I can heal up. I feel like I’m sixty years old from all this heat and the damned flies.”
“Well, I am almost sixty years old, and I feel like that every day.” Cyrus enjoyed joking with his graduate assistants when they got the least bit discouraged. It made them appreciate the work a little more, he felt. “Maybe we should have encouraged you to do your dissertation on the mating habits of the Common Housefly. At least then you wouldn’t have to sit so still to study your subjects.”
“Smart ass.”
The pair entered the shade of the tree under which the research group had set up camp for the week. The woman exhaled in relief at the coolness of the camp. “Anyone got anything cold to drink?”
“Coming at ‘ya, Cindy,” said a tall, sunburned young man as he pitched her a cold can of beer. She held it against the back of her neck for a moment, then tore open the tab.
“How are the birds today?” another student inquired. “Anything interesting going on?”
“Nope,” Cindy responded. “Just the same old stuff. The young ones started flying about two days after we got here, but other than that, it’s just been hour after hour of eating and chirping.”
“So I gather you haven’t observed anything resembling tool use,” Cyrus said. It was more of a conclusion than a question.
Cindy gulped some beer and sighed. “Nope. I guess the birds on New Caledonia are a lot further advanced, or a hell of a lot smarter, than these critters. They still pick up insects and whatever else they eat with their beaks.”
“But these are smaller birds, finches and the like,” Cyrus added. “The species observed using the twigs were crows. What about the indigenous crows?”
“I haven’t really seen that many of them, to tell you the truth. Those few I have observed were not active. They just kind of stood on top of the outgrowths. It was almost as thought they were observing me while I was observing them.”
“Phil and I noticed the same thing,” interrupted another student. “We were over in Sector Seven, near the lake, trying to get some data on the waterfowl. There were about half a dozen Crows in the area, just standing on the rocks or in the trees, and they were watching us. It was creepy.”
“Crows are not normally aggressive,” Cyrus stated. “It wouldn’t be abnormal for them to remain a little aloof when a large group of humans, or any other predator for that matter, invaded their turf. I wouldn’t expect them to attack us. It would be more likely that they would act just as you have described.”
“Maybe,” replied Cindy. “But these birds weren’t just staying out of our way. It looked to me almost as though they were tracking me. I know it sounds absurd, but whenever I’d move to a different site, they’d move also, and not away from me, but in such a way that they could keep me in their sight. The whole thing is a little unnerving if you ask me.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the camp. “Come to think of it,” said the young man who had given Cindy the beer. “I noticed that too. I even saw a couple of them while I was here in the camp earlier. I had to get more film and when I came out of the tent, I saw two crows over there near that stump.” He pointed in the direction of a large tree stump at the camp entrance. “They didn’t appear to fear me. In fact, I got the impression they were sizing me up. Almost made me wish I’d brought my .22.”
Cyrus stood up. “Well, it’s been a long, hot day and we’ve been out here for almost a week. It sounds to me like we’re starting to see phantoms in the soup. I think we need to eat a good meal and then get a good night’s sleep so we can wrap this thing up tomorrow and head back to school. I don’t know about you people, but right now I could eat my weight in crows.”
The group laughed as the mood lightened. During dinner, the conversation turned to other topicsobservations made during the day and plans for summer break. The crows were forgotten.
He had no name, as names were not within their realm. He was The Leader because he was the strongest, dominant within the flock. His posturings and movements told the others that it was again time to gather.
They had hunted since time began, at least time as they comprehended it. Their prey was mostly smaller and weaker than they, or culled from the sick and injured if larger. This new prey, however, presented a new challenge. This creature exhibited awareness.
The campfire smoldered. Only a few embers still glowed in the pitch of the night. Doctor Cyrus Abramson and his Advanced Zoology students slept soundly in the fresh, mountain air. Their research project for this term was nearing completion. By the end of the next day, they would be home.
A little more than one hundred yards from the camp, rustling noises filtered out of the cave’s entrance. The opening was well hidden behind the underbrush and hadn’t been discovered by the meddling humans. Inside the small cavern, the covey gathered. In turn, each one grasped a twig in their beaks. Every twig, cut from trees the same day the humans came, had been honed to a deadly point.
The crows, armed and ready, turned to face the altar. Each one, again in turn, touched the point of their spears to the drawing on the wall of the cave. The drawing, crude as it was, would bring them luck. The birds touched the various parts of the drawing as they passed in single file. One touched the legs, another the torso and still another the head, tainted red to resemble the coloring their prey had assumed since arriving in their land.
The last crow touched the drawing, in the midsection. The covey moved out of the cave and took wing toward the camp. Now the hunt would be completed.