[New World Calendar: Mid-Cycle of Clearing Skies, Months 8-9, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The K'aru hunting spear Ankor had entrusted to me was a beautifully brutal piece of craftsmanship. Its shaft, fashioned from a dark, resilient wood I now knew as turi-mata (strong-wood), was taller than I was, perfectly straightened and smoothed. The itzi point, a hand's-length of razor-sharp, flaked stone, was bound with sinew and sealed with a dark, hardened resin. It was surprisingly heavy, the balance point unfamiliar in my grasp. My K'aru knife felt like a toy by comparison.
Ankor began my instruction the very next morning, leading me to a relatively open, flat area just beyond the main cluster of huts, where the jungle had been pushed back slightly. Several large, soft-barked trees at the edge of this clearing served as impromptu targets, already scarred from the practice of younger K'aru boys. His teaching method was one of pure imitation. There were no lengthy explanations, no theoretical discourses on trajectory or force – concepts my historian's mind might have grasped intellectually but which were useless to my untrained limbs. He simply demonstrated. "Aris. Hia. Anka." (Aris. Here. Watch/Try.)
He stood, feet planted firmly, his body a study in relaxed power. With a fluid, almost effortless motion that began in his legs, flowed through his core, and culminated in a whip-like extension of his arm, he sent his own spear whistling through the air. It struck a distant tree with a solid thunk, burying its stone point deep into the wood, quivering slightly from the impact. It was a display of casual mastery that left me breathless.
Then, he gestured to me. "Aris. Anka." (Aris. Try.)
My first attempts were pathetic. The spear felt like an unwieldy log. My grip was wrong, my stance awkward. My throws, when I managed to release the spear at all without tripping over my own feet, wobbled erratically and fell embarrassingly short, often clattering harmlessly to the ground dozens of paces from any intended target. The itzi point, thankfully, remained undamaged by these ignominious landings in the soft earth.
The younger K'aru boys, who often practiced in the same area before their own daily chores or lessons began, would sometimes pause their activities to watch me, their expressions a mixture of suppressed giggles and genuine bewilderment. I, a grown man, fumbling with a skill they had been absorbing since they could walk. It was humbling, to say the least. My carefully cultivated image as Aris-who-tells-stories, Aris-who-thinks-good, was taking a battering. Now I was also Aris-who-cannot-throw.
Ankor remained impassive, patiently correcting my stance with a touch to my shoulder, adjusting my grip on the spear shaft, demonstrating the throwing motion again and again. His K'aru was sparse: "Mita nani-ma." (Legs no/wrong.) "Koro… sima." (Body/core… good/use it.) "Ayu!" (Faster/quicker release!) Each word was a precise chisel, chipping away at my ineptitude.
The physical toll was immediate. Muscles I hadn't known I possessed screamed in protest. My shoulders ached, my back groaned, and my hands grew raw despite the smoothness of the spear shaft. My new, younger body was resilient, but it was not the body of a K'aru warrior, honed from childhood by the demands of the hunt and the rhythms of the jungle.
Kael, predictably, found my efforts a source of grim satisfaction. He would often make a point of passing by during my practice sessions, a smirk playing on his lips. Sometimes he would address Ankor, his voice carrying clearly. "Ankor. Aris… pia K'aru? Turi-mata… teka." (Ankor. Is Aris a K'aru child? The strong-wood… is wasted/bad in his hands.) Ankor would usually ignore him, his focus entirely on my instruction. But Kael's words, and the quiet laughter they sometimes elicited from his warrior companions, were like tiny barbs. I learned to block them out, to focus on Ankor's quiet corrections, on the feel of the spear, on the burning in my muscles. My pride, the academic pride of Dr. Aris Thorne, had long since been ground into the dust of this new world. What remained was a stubborn determination. I would learn this. Not to become a great hunter – that was an absurd notion – but to understand, to participate, to honor the trust Ankor had placed in me.
Iktan, bless his childish heart, was my staunchest supporter. He would often retrieve my errant spear, his small legs carrying him tirelessly back and forth. "Aris, sima anka!" (Aris, good try!) he'd encourage, even when the spear had barely cleared my own shadow. He'd offer unsolicited advice, mimicking Ankor's stance with comical gravity. "Mita… hia! Koro… ayu!" His unwavering belief was a small, warm coal in the often-chilly landscape of my efforts.
Liara, too, offered quiet encouragement. When she brought my aypa in the evenings, she would sometimes ask, "Turi-mata… sima?" (Spear… good/going well?) "Nani-ma sima," I'd often reply with a weary smile, rubbing a sore shoulder. "Teka-kai." (Not good. Very bad.) She would offer a sympathetic nod. "Anka… anka. Aris… sima arau." (Try… try. Aris… good skill/will learn.) Her quiet faith was a balm.
Days bled into weeks. The Cycle of Clearing Skies brought hotter, drier days. My spear practice became a fixture of my mornings, before the sun reached its zenith. Slowly, agonizingly, progress came. My throws became less wobbly, flew a little straighter, a little further. One momentous morning, after countless failures, I managed to strike the target tree. Not with the force of Ankor's throws, not even with the satisfying thunk of the younger boys' hits, but the spear stuck, its point biting into the bark. A cheer went up from Iktan, who was, as usual, my attendant. Even Ankor allowed a rare, brief smile. "Ao. Aris… sima." (Yes. Aris… good.) It was a small victory, but it felt enormous.
The training wasn't just about throwing. Ankor also taught me how to carry the spear properly through dense undergrowth, how to use it as a walking aid, how to test the ground before me. He showed me how to retrieve it from a tree without damaging the shaft or the point, how to check the bindings, how to lightly hone the itzi edge with a specific type of smooth river stone if it became dulled – though my throws were hardly forceful enough to dull anything yet.
These lessons often took us a short way into the jungle fringe. Under Ankor's watchful eye, I began to see the forest not just as a collection of plants, but as a hunter's domain, full of signs – a broken twig, a faint track in the mud, the distant alarm call of a bird. Ankor would point these out. "Paku… hia ayu." (Peccary… here recently.) "Shua… koro." (Dog/Jaguar… dangerous area.) His knowledge was encyclopedic, instinctive.
One afternoon, as we were practicing, Kael approached, not just to mock, but with a purpose. He carried his own heavy war spear, distinct from the lighter hunting spears. "Ankor," Kael said, his voice challenging. "Aris… anka turi-mata. Nani-ma pia arau." (Ankor. Aris… tries the spear. It is not a child's skill/game.) He then looked at me, his eyes narrowed. "Aris. K'aru wiru… nani-ma sima Aris arau." (Aris. The K'aru spirits… do not like/approve of Aris's skill/way.) He was invoking the spirits, a serious accusation. Ankor stepped between us slightly. "Kael. Wiru… nani-ma Tekum kanta." (Kael. The spirits… that is not Tekum's story/decision.) It was a firm rebuke, reminding Kael that Tekum had sanctioned my presence and my learning. He then addressed me. "Aris. Nani-ma koro." (Aris. No fear/don't worry.) But Kael wasn't finished. He hefted his war spear. "Aris. Hia. Anka." (Aris. Here. Watch.) With a powerful grunt, he launched his spear at a different, thicker tree further away than my usual targets. The spear flew like a missile, striking the tree with such force that the sound was like a breaking branch. It buried itself almost to the bindings. It was a terrifying display of raw power and skill, clearly meant to intimidate and emphasize my own pathetic efforts. He then turned and walked away without another word.
The air was thick with unspoken tension. I looked at Ankor. His face was grim. "Kael… koro K'aru," Ankor said quietly. (Kael… is protective/fearful for the K'aru.) "Nani-ma Aris koro. Aris… anka." (Not Aris fear. Aris… keep trying.) His words, though meant to reassure, highlighted the precariousness of my path. Kael's opposition was deep-rooted, tied to his warrior identity and his fear of foreign influence diluting K'aru strength and tradition. My attempts to learn, to integrate, were, in his eyes, a potential contamination.
Despite Kael's hostility, I continued my practice. His display had, in a way, strengthened my resolve. I would never match his power, nor Ankor's effortless grace. But I could learn. I could try. I could show that my intent was not to usurp, but to understand, to belong in some small measure. By the end of that month, I could consistently hit the closer targets. My throws were still weak compared to a K'aru's, but the spear flew true more often than not. I had even begun to instinctively adjust for wind or distance, a rudimentary hunter's sense beginning to awaken. One evening, Tekum himself paused to watch my practice for a few moments. He made no comment, his expression unreadable as always, but his mere presence was significant. He was observing my commitment. The spear was more than just wood and stone. It was a symbol. And learning its weight, its balance, its song through the air, was another way of learning the language of the K'aru, a language spoken not just with words, but with sinew, with instinct, with the shared experience of survival in this beautiful, demanding world. The sting of the stone point, when I occasionally fumbled and scraped myself, was a sharp reminder of its reality, and of the long journey still ahead.