Runes of Magic

The cave was cold, as caves always were, but Ugg felt a warmth in his bones that did not come from the fire. The embers glowed dimly at the mouth of the hollow, casting faint shadows that danced like spirits on the jagged walls. His clan slept around him—Thra with her babe curled against her chest, Gronk snoring like a wounded mammoth, and little Kwee, who clutched a flint shard even in dreams. Ugg’s eyes were heavy, his body sore from the day’s hunt, but sleep had brought something strange, something vast. Now, as the first gray light of dawn crept into the cave, he awoke with a start, his breath sharp and his mind ablaze.

He sat up, blinking at the world he knew—the stone, the ash, the hides draped over his shoulders—and yet it felt small, diminished by what he had seen. The dream clung to him like damp moss, vivid and alive, a vision of a place that could not be, yet was. Ugg grunted softly, rubbing his calloused hands over his face, his beard matted with sweat. He had to speak it, to let it spill out before it faded like mist under the sun. He shuffled closer to the fire, poking it with a stick until the flames licked higher, and then he turned to the others.

“Thra,” he rasped, his voice low but urgent. “Gronk. Kwee. Wake. I see… I see things.”

Thra stirred, her eyes bleary but sharp, the way a mother’s eyes always were. Gronk groaned, rolling onto his side, but Kwee sat up at once, clutching her flint, her small face alight with curiosity. Ugg waited until they were all looking at him, their breaths puffing into the chill air, and then he began.

“I sleep,” he said, tapping his temple with a thick finger. “And in sleep, I go. Not here. Not the valley, not the river, not the hills where mammoth walk. I go… far. To a place of wonders. A place of captured suns and caves that touch the sky.”

Thra tilted her head, frowning. “Dreams lie, Ugg. Dreams show hares with teeth, rivers of blood. No truth.”

“No,” Ugg said firmly, his voice rising. “This no lie. This real. I see it. I touch it in my head. Listen.”

He leaned forward, the firelight painting his face in flickers of gold and shadow, and his words came faster, tumbling like stones down a slope. “The place is bright, bright like sun, but not sun. They catch suns, little ones, and hold them in… in things. Round things, like gourds, but hard, clear like ice that shines. These suns hang on sticks, on walls, everywhere. No dark, no night, no cold. You walk, and the suns follow, lighting all. No fire, no smoke, just light. Magic light.”

Kwee’s eyes widened, her flint forgotten in her lap. “Captured suns?” she whispered. “How they catch them?”

Ugg shook his head, his brow furrowing. “I not know. They do it. The people there—they know secrets, big secrets. They command the suns, and the suns obey.”

Gronk snorted, sitting up now, his broad shoulders hunched. “People? What people? Our clan? The river folk?”

“No,” Ugg said. “Not us. Not river folk. Many people, more than stars, more than grass in the valley. They live in caves, but not caves like this.” He gestured at the rough stone above them, the low ceiling stained with soot. “Their caves are tall, tall as trees, tall as cliffs, all in rows, all together. Straight, smooth, like ice but hard, harder than flint. They pile them up, one on one, higher than eagle flies. And inside—warm, dry, no wind. They make caves like that, all in a line, and live there.”

Thra’s frown deepened. “Caves in rows? How they climb? How they hunt?”

“They not climb,” Ugg said, his voice dropping to a hush, as if the mystery awed even him. “They walk in. Holes in the caves, like mouths, and they go inside. And hunt…” He paused, his hands clenching into fists as he tried to grasp the strangeness of it. “They not hunt. Not like us. They have meat, berries, roots—all there, all ready. No spear, no trap. They take it, eat it, like it waits for them.”

Gronk laughed, a harsh bark that echoed in the cave. “Meat waits? Ugg, you eat bad root. Dreams rot your head.”

Ugg glared at him, baring his teeth. “I see it, Gronk. I see them. And their furs—oh, their furs.” His voice softened, almost reverent. “Not bear, not wolf, not deer. Furs smooth, thin, bright like flowers. Red, blue, yellow—colors we not know. They wrap them tight, all over, legs and arms and chest, like skin but not skin. Soft, shining furs, better than any we scrape. Every one wears them, old and young, and they walk proud, like chiefs.”

Kwee reached out, touching the rough bear hide draped over Ugg’s shoulder. “Furs like flowers?” she asked. “How they kill a beast like that?”

“Not beasts,” Ugg said, shaking his head again. “I not know what. Not hunt, not skin. They make them, maybe. Like they make the caves, the suns. They have power, big power.”

Thra crossed her arms, her lips pursed. “Power? Spirits? The wind spirits? The fire spirits?”

“No spirits,” Ugg said, though he hesitated, uncertain. “Not like we know. They… they do it. The people. They have magic, not from sky or earth, but from their hands.” He held up his own hands, rough and scarred, staring at them as if they might hold the same secrets. “And the magic—the best magic—I see it clear.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch, the crackle of the fire the only sound. The others leaned closer, even Gronk, their skepticism fading into something like wonder. Ugg’s eyes gleamed, reflecting the flames, and he spoke again, his voice low and trembling with awe.

“They have runes,” he said. “Runes that speak. Runes that give understanding.”

“Runes?” Thra asked, her voice sharp. “Like marks we make? The tally for kills?”

“No,” Ugg said, shaking his head fiercely. “Not tally. More. Much more. They scratch runes—little lines, curves, twists—on flat things, thin like bark but white, smooth. And these runes… they hold thoughts. You look at them, and you know. You see them, and the thoughts of another come to you, clear as if they speak. No voice, no sound—just the runes, and you understand.”

Kwee gasped, clutching her flint tighter. “Runes that talk? How?”

“I not know,” Ugg admitted, his shoulders slumping slightly. “But I see it. One man makes runes, gives them to another, far away, and that one knows. They all do it—old, young, all of them. They share everything—hunts they not see, places they not go, all in the runes. Like… like trapping a spirit in the marks, but not spirit. Mind. Their minds fly, from one to another, in the runes.”

Gronk scratched his head, his thick brows knitting together. “Runes that trap minds? That big magic, Ugg. Bigger than fire.”

“Yes,” Ugg said, nodding slowly. “Bigger than fire. Bigger than mammoth. Bigger than sky. I see them sit, look at these runes, and they smile, they cry, they know. All without speaking. All without moving. The runes do it.”

The cave fell silent again, the weight of Ugg’s words settling over them like a heavy hide. Thra stared into the fire, her fingers tracing the edge of her babe’s blanket. Gronk muttered under his breath, shaking his head, but his eyes were distant, thoughtful. Kwee hugged her knees, her small voice breaking the stillness.

“What else, Ugg?” she asked. “What else you see?”

He pointed upward, his hand trembling. “They fly. Like birds, but not birds. Great things, bigger than caves, with wings that not flap. They soar, high, high, and people inside them, looking down at earth.”

“Fly?” Thra said, her voice sharp with disbelief. “People fly?”

“Yes,” Ugg said, his eyes wide. “I see it. And water—they trap it, make it run where they want, through little rivers they build. And noise—noise everywhere, but not thunder, not wind. Voices, sounds, all trapped in little boxes they hold. They listen, they laugh, they speak to the boxes, and the boxes speak back.”

Gronk threw up his hands. “Ugg, you mad. Boxes that speak? Suns in gourds? Caves in rows? This dream rot your skull.”

“No,” Ugg snapped, rising to his feet, his shadow looming on the wall. “Not mad. True. I feel it. I see it. This place—it lives. It waits. Somewhere, sometime, it is.” He clenched his fists, his breath ragged. “And the runes… the runes most of all. They make it all. They hold it all. If we have runes like that, we know. We do. We be like them.”

Thra stood too, stepping closer, her eyes searching his face. “Ugg,” she said softly, “this dream… it change you. Why?”

Ugg looked at her, then at Gronk, at Kwee, at the cave that had cradled them since birth. “Because,” he said, “it bigger than us. Bigger than hunt, than fire, than clan. It what we could be. What we not know yet.” He turned, staring at the wall, at the rough stone where they sometimes scratched tallies or drew the shapes of beasts they’d felled. His hand twitched, as if reaching for something unseen.

Kwee crept closer, her voice a whisper. “Ugg, you think we make runes? Like them?”

Ugg didn’t answer at once. He knelt by the fire, his fingers brushing the ashes until they found what he sought—a chunk of charcoal, blackened and brittle, still warm from the flames. He held it up, turning it in the faint light, and a slow smile spread across his face, a smile that held both wonder and resolve.

“Yes,” he said at last, his voice steady. “We make runes. Not like theirs, not yet. But we start.”

He shuffled to the wall, the others watching in silence, their breaths held. The charcoal scraped against the stone, leaving a dark, uneven line—a mark, a beginning. Ugg drew another, then another, his hand moving with purpose, though he knew not what shape it would take. A curve here, a slash there, a rough outline of something—perhaps a sun, perhaps a cave, perhaps a man with furs like flowers. It was crude, simple, nothing like the runes of his dream, but it was his. It was theirs.

Thra stepped beside him, her babe stirring in her arms. “What it mean, Ugg?” she asked.

Ugg paused, the charcoal hovering over the stone. “It mean… we remember. We try. We reach.” He looked at them, his clan, his world, and then back at the wall. “Someday, maybe, our runes speak too.”

Outside, the dawn broke fully, spilling light into the cave, illuminating the first faint scratches of a story yet to be told. Ugg pressed the charcoal harder, his hand steady, his mind still echoing with the wonders of captured suns and flying men. And in that moment, in the flicker of fire and the scrape of ash on stone, the seed of something vast took root—small, fragile, but alive.