[New World Calendar: Early Cycle of Clearing Skies, Months 7-8, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The last of the First Rains finally receded, washing the world clean and leaving behind a vibrant, steaming jungle. The Cycle of Clearing Skies commenced, bringing with it longer stretches of brilliant sunshine, a burgeoning of new growth, and a palpable lift in the spirits of the K'aru. The air, though still humid, felt lighter, and the swollen rivers began to slowly subside, revealing newly shaped banks and fresh fishing spots.
My new dwelling, the small lean-to near the village center, was a significant improvement. It was drier, and its proximity to the communal hearth – the largest fire pit where much of the village congregated in the evenings – meant I was no longer on the absolute fringe. I could hear the daily ebb and flow of K'aru life more intimately: the murmur of conversations, the squabbles and laughter of children, the rhythmic sounds of work.
The K'aru knife Tekum had given me, its stone blade surprisingly sharp, became an extension of my hand. I used it for everything from preparing the occasional piece of fruit Iktan might bring me, to whittling small wooden practice tools, to helping Mara shave bark from medicinal branches. The shomi, the woven bag, was equally indispensable for gathering firewood or carrying my share of nuts and roots when I accompanied the women on short foraging trips just beyond the village perimeter – another small expansion of my permitted activities. Using these K'aru-made tools, being seen with them, subtly shifted perceptions. I was less the complete outsider, more a resident equipped, at least minimally, for life among them.
My storytelling sessions became a fixture of many evenings. The circle of listeners had grown. It wasn't just children anymore; younger warriors, women finishing their day's tasks, even a few older men would often gather, drawn by the novelty and, I hoped, the resonance of the tales. I learned to weave in K'aru words and concepts more fluently, sometimes even asking my audience for the right term if I faltered. This collaborative aspect seemed to please them, making the stories feel less like a lecture and more like a shared creation. Liara, her initial shyness almost entirely gone in these familiar settings, would often correct my grammar with a teasing smile or add a K'aru proverb that echoed the story's theme.
Ankor, in particular, started to use these storytelling moments as opportunities for deeper exchange. After the children had dispersed, he would sometimes linger by the fire with me. "Aris, kanta… 'nima-teki'… sima," he said one night, referring to a story I'd told about estranged brothers reconciling. (Aris, story… 'brother-return'… good.) "K'aru… kanta… nima-teki ao." (K'aru… story… brother-return yes/have that too.) He then proceeded to tell a K'aru legend, far more complex and nuanced than the fables Liara or the children shared. It was a tale of ancestral spirits, of clan migrations, of betrayals and loyalties that shaped the very land they lived on. My K'aru was stretched to its limit, but I grasped the essence: their history was alive, embodied in the landscape, in their lineage, in their wiruma (spirits). Understanding this was key to understanding them.
Mara, too, opened up further. Seeing my careful handling of the plants she entrusted to me and my genuine respect for her knowledge, she began to teach me more systematically. Not just the names and uses, but the right time to harvest, the specific ways to prepare them, the chants or prayers she murmured over them – which she didn't translate, but which I understood to be part of the arau, the skill and spiritual power of her healing. She allowed me to help grind ingredients, to tend the small fire under her simmering concoctions, even to clean her tools. I became, in a very informal sense, her apprentice in the most rudimentary tasks. It was an honor, and I knew it.
This growing integration, however, did not sit well with everyone. Kael's distrust remained a cold, hard knot in the fabric of village life. He made no overt moves against me, not while Tekum's favor seemed to rest upon me, but his disapproval was a constant, silent counterpoint to my acceptance by others. He would watch my interactions with the children with a frown, his gaze lingering on Liara if she spoke with me for more than a few moments. His warriors, the younger men who looked up to him, often mirrored his coolness. I was a disruption to Kael, a foreign element that didn't fit his understanding of K'aru strength and tradition.
One afternoon, a practical challenge arose. The recent rains had made the ground particularly soft, and a section of the sharpened log palisade that offered some protection on the village's most exposed side had begun to lean precariously. It wasn't a major breach, but it was a weakness. Tekum, Ankor, Kael, and several other senior men were discussing it. Their usual method would be to try and pull it upright and reinforce it with more logs, a difficult task in the soft earth.
I listened from a respectful distance, now more attuned to their debates. I thought of counterweights, of buttresses, concepts from my past. This time, I hesitated. The bridge had been one thing; suggesting how to fortify their defenses felt like a greater presumption. But Ankor, perhaps sensing my attention, caught my eye. "Aris? Anka sima… mata-koro?" (Aris? Good idea… wall-strong/defense?) All eyes turned to me. Kael's expression was particularly forbidding. I chose my words with extreme care. "Mata-koro… teka," I agreed, acknowledging the problem. "Uma… nani-ma sima." (Defense… bad. Water… not good [for the ground].) I then, using sticks and stones on the ground, tried to illustrate a simple idea: instead of just pulling, perhaps angling supportive posts driven deeper into more stable ground further back, then lashing them to the leaning palisade sections to create a triangular, more stable support – a basic buttress. "Hia… mata-nima… sima-kai," I explained, pointing to my drawing. (Here… smaller wood… very strong.) Kael scoffed. "K'aru arau… sima! Aris… nani-ma K'aru!" (K'aru way… good! Aris… not K'aru!) This was his core argument: my ways were not their ways. Tekum, however, studied my crude diagram. He walked over to the leaning palisade, Ankor beside him. They discussed it in low tones. Finally, Tekum addressed Kael. "Kael. Anka Aris… pita nani-ma? K'aru arau… ima sima. Ima nani-ma… anka nima." (Kael. Aris's idea… why not? K'aru way… when ground is good. Ground not good… try different/another idea.) Tekum's pragmatism, his willingness to consider a new solution even from an outsider, was a remarkable trait. He was a leader concerned with results, not just tradition for tradition's sake, at least in practical matters. The repair, using my suggested method, was implemented. It worked. The palisade was noticeably more secure. Kael offered no comment, but his silence felt heavier than usual. He had been overruled again, his adherence to tradition set aside for an outsider's counsel. The rift between us, I sensed, had deepened.
A few evenings later, as I was sharing a story with the usual group, Kael approached the fire. He didn't sit, but stood at the edge of the light, his arms crossed, his presence immediately casting a chill over the gathering. The children fell silent. Liara looked uneasy. When my story finished, Kael spoke, his voice hard. "Aris kanta… nani-ma K'aru kanta." (Aris's stories… not K'aru stories.) He then looked at the children. "Pia K'aru… K'aru kanta sima! Nani-ma Aris kanta!" (K'aru children… K'aru stories good! Not Aris's stories!) It was a direct challenge to my influence, a public rebuke. Before I could formulate a careful response, Iktan, ever bold, piped up. "Aris kanta… sima! K'aru kanta… sima! Sima nima!" (Aris's stories… good! K'aru stories… good! Both good!) Several other children murmured their agreement. Liara then spoke, her voice quiet but firm. "Kael. Aris kanta… nima pia. Pia… anka sima." (Kael. Aris's stories… good for children. Children… learn well/good thoughts.) Kael's jaw tightened. He looked from Liara to the children, then to me. His eyes were like chips of obsidian. He was outnumbered, at least in this small forum, by the very people he sought to protect from my influence. Without another word, he turned and stalked into the darkness. The tension slowly eased, but the incident left a mark. Kael's opposition was not just passive disapproval anymore; it was becoming active. He saw my growing integration, my stories, my small successes, as a threat to the K'aru identity he cherished.
Later that week, Ankor sought me out. He carried two K'aru hunting spears – light, balanced, with wickedly sharp itzi points. "Aris," he said, holding one out to me, butt first. "Mata-koro. Pira-uma. K'aru… sima." (The defense wall. The bridge. K'aru… good/thank you.) He then tapped the spear. "Aris… arau K'aru. Anka." (Aris… K'aru skill/way. Try/learn.) I was stunned. A spear. The primary tool and weapon of a K'aru man. It was an invitation to learn something fundamental to their existence, their survival. It was also, I suspected, Ankor's way of trying to bridge the gap Kael was determined to widen, to integrate me further into the practical, physical life of the tribe, beyond just ideas and repairs. "Ankor…" I was speechless. This was a level of trust I hadn't anticipated so soon. "Anka," he repeated, a rare smile touching his lips. "Kael… heh. Pia K'aru… nima Aris." (Try. Kael… well [that's Kael]. K'aru children… like Aris.) He seemed to be saying that Kael's opinion, while noted, was not the only one that mattered, and that the children's affection for me held some weight. I took the spear. It felt heavy, alien, yet potent in my hand. Learning to use it would be another mountain to climb. But as I stood there, the K'aru spear in my grasp, under the clearing skies of this new cycle, I felt a deeper sense of belonging than ever before. I was still a man between worlds, but one of those worlds was slowly, cautiously, beginning to claim me. The shadow of Kael's doubt was long, but the light of the K'aru hearth was, for now, stronger.