They approach me in Lascaux caves on their hands and knees, one carrying a stave atop which tarred plant debris has been wound, set alight from the campfire, which itself was lit from a spark glowing in kindling held inside a hollowed out hoof. Another carries a lamp made from sandstone with a carved hollow at one end, in which tallow burns, the wick made from moss. Lamps and staves are all the illumination they have, and through their eyes it makes shadows shiver, cave walls ripple, roofs and floors disappear into depthless darkness. The caves are cold, but they wear fur garments stitched using needles made from bones, nettle cords their thread. They know these caves because they and
