[New World Calendar: High Cycle of Clearing Skies, Months 10-11, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The Cycle of Clearing Skies brought with it long, sun-drenched days and cool, star-brilliant nights. The jungle, though always vibrant, seemed to hold its breath under the intense clarity of the light. For the K'aru, this was a prime hunting season. The undergrowth was drier, game was more predictable in its movements towards remaining water sources, and the clear nights, especially under the full moon – Kashiwa Nima, the Great Moon, as they called it – were ideal for certain types of hunts or for travel.
My spear practice with Ankor had continued, and while I would never possess the instinctive grace or lethal accuracy of a true K'aru hunter, I was no longer a complete novice. I could handle the spear with a degree of competence, strike a stationary target consistently, and my throws had gained a measure of strength and distance. Ankor, satisfied with my progress, or perhaps simply having fulfilled Tekum's directive, had lessened the formal instruction, though he still offered a corrective word or a nod of approval if he saw me practicing on my own. The spear he had given me now leaned inside my shelter, alongside my K'aru knife and shomi bag – tools of my new life, symbols of a fragile belonging.
I was not invited on the main hunts, of course. Those were the domain of seasoned K'aru warriors and trackers, men like Ankor and Kael, whose lives were a testament to their skill and endurance. My role, when these hunting parties departed with quiet ceremony and whispered appeals to the forest spirits, was more peripheral, yet increasingly defined.
My storytelling had become an established evening ritual, especially when the men were away and the village felt quieter, more introspective. The children, Iktan always front and center, were my most devoted audience, but more adults now listened openly – Liara, her shyness replaced by a warm attentiveness; Mara, who would sometimes add a herbalist's footnote to a story involving a plant or animal; even some of the older men, their faces unreadable in the firelight, but their presence a tacit acceptance. I learned to gauge their reactions, to tailor my tales, to weave in more of their own burgeoning vocabulary and worldview, making the stories a bridge between my past and their present.
Mara had also taken to utilizing my assistance more regularly. My hands, though not as nimble as hers, were steady, and my memory, honed by years of academic discipline, proved reliable for recalling the specific plants she needed or the precise way she wanted them prepared. I would accompany her on short gathering trips into the nearby jungle, my K'aru spear now carried with a degree of familiarity, more for navigating rough terrain and warding off snakes than for any pretense of hunting. She taught me to see the forest not just as a collection of species, but as a complex web of interconnected life, of wiruma in every leaf and stone. "Aris, hia… Kashi-wiru isha," she might whisper, indicating a particularly ancient, gnarled tree. (Aris, here… Moon-spirit dwells.) "Nani-ma teka mata." (Do not harm tree.) Her reverence was infectious, and I found myself treating the jungle with a caution and respect that went beyond mere physical safety.
One evening, as the Kashiwa Nima approached, casting its silvery light over the village, Tekum summoned me. Ankor was with him, as were several other senior K'aru, including a stern-faced elder I knew only as Haru, who was said to be the tribe's foremost expert on tracking and hunting lore. "Aris," Tekum began, his gaze steady. "Kashiwa Nima ayu. K'aru… paku-kai." (Great Moon soon. K'aru… big hunt.) He explained that a large party would be leaving for several days, venturing further than usual, seeking the larger game that thrived in the deeper forest during this bountiful season. My heart quickened. Was I finally to be included in some capacity? Tekum continued, "Pia K'aru, weza K'aru… isha hia." (Children K'aru, women K'aru… stay here.) This was standard. "Ankor… ayu. Haru… ayu. Kael… ayu." The main hunters were going. He then looked directly at me. "Aris. Nani-ma paku-kai." (Aris. Not big hunt.) My hopes deflated slightly, though I hadn't truly expected otherwise. "Aris… isha K'aru. Mara… sima. Kanta… sima." (Aris… stay with K'aru [in the village]. Mara… help/good. Stories… good.) He was assigning me my role: assist Mara, continue storytelling, be a responsible presence in the village while the main protective force was away. It was a position of trust, if not of warrior valor. But then Ankor spoke. "Aris. K'aru… kanta-mata sima." (Aris. K'aru… story-wood good.) He was referring to the crude way I sometimes scratched K'aru words or symbols onto scraps of bark or smooth stones to aid my memory, a habit the children had noticed. "Paku-kai… mata nima. Kanta-mata… nima." (Big hunt… many trees/locations. Story-wood… good/useful.) Tekum nodded. "Haru… kanta. Aris… anka kanta-mata." (Haru… tells/knows the way. Aris… try story-wood/make record.) It took me a moment to comprehend. They wanted me to create a… map? Or at least a record of the route and key locations Haru would describe for the hunt? My historian's heart, the archivist within me, leaped. This was something unique I could offer, something that drew upon my old skills, reframed for this new world. The K'aru relied entirely on oral tradition and phenomenal memory. The idea of a visual, external record was alien to them, yet Ankor, having seen my "story-wood," had seen a potential application. "Aris… anka!" I said, trying to keep the excitement from my voice. (Aris… try!)
For the next hour, Haru, with Ankor facilitating and translating Haru's more archaic or specialized terms, described the intended route: landmarks like "Split Rock," "Sleeping Serpent River," "Three Ancient Kapoks." He used hand gestures, relative distances, the position of the sun and moon. It was a complex mental map he held with perfect clarity. I listened intently, my K'aru knife and a prepared piece of smooth, pale bark in hand. I didn't attempt a cartographically accurate map in the style of my old world – that would be meaningless here. Instead, I tried to create a symbolic representation, a series of linked K'aru-style pictograms and the K'aru names of the locations, showing their sequence and rough spatial relationship as Haru described them. It was a hybrid, a bridge between their oral tradition and my concept of a written record.
Kael, who was also present for the briefing, watched this process with unconcealed skepticism, occasionally muttering to another warrior. He clearly saw no value in my scratches on bark. But Tekum and Ankor observed with keen interest. When Haru finished, I showed them my "kanta-mata." Ankor studied it, then traced the route with his finger, nodding slowly as he recognized the sequence. "Sima, Aris. Sima anka." (Good, Aris. Good try/work.) Tekum also examined it, his expression thoughtful. "K'aru… nani-ma hia." (K'aru… no have this.) He then looked at me. "Aris arau… nima." (Aris's skill/way… is useful/good.) It was a profound acknowledgment. I was not just performing tasks they could do; I was offering something new, something only I could bring from my unique background.
The hunting party left the next morning before dawn, a line of shadows disappearing into the mist-laden jungle. The village felt quieter, the responsibility heavier on those who remained. I assisted Mara, tended to my small duties, and in the evenings, my stories perhaps held a little more significance, a way to bind the community together in the absence of its protectors. During the day, I worked on refining the "kanta-mata," adding more detail as I recalled Haru's descriptions, making it clearer, more an intuitive guide than a precise map. I also began, for my own future reference, to create similar symbolic records of Mara's plants – their names, appearances, and uses – a rudimentary pharmacopoeia. This, I did in secret, unsure how Mara would react to her sacred knowledge being transcribed, even in my crude way.
One afternoon, Kael's eldest son, a youth named Taru, not yet a full warrior but already mirroring his father's stern demeanor, approached me as I was working on one of these bark records. He had Kael's eyes, sharp and suspicious. "Aris. Kama hia?" (Aris. What is this?) he demanded, gesturing to my markings. "Kanta-mata," I replied calmly. "Haru kanta… paku-kai." (Story-wood. Haru's story… for the big hunt.) Taru sneered, a perfect imitation of his father. "Mata teka! K'aru nima… hia!" (Bad wood/markings! K'aru memory… here!) He tapped his head. "Nani-ma Aris arau!" (Not Aris's way!) His challenge was direct, echoing Kael's sentiments. Before I could respond, Iktan, who had been watching from a distance, ran up. "Taru! Aris kanta-mata… sima! Ankor… ao! Tekum… ao!" (Taru! Aris's story-wood… good! Ankor… says yes! Tekum… says yes!) Iktan, for all his youth, possessed a fierce loyalty. Taru looked momentarily taken aback by Iktan's defense and the invocation of Ankor and Tekum's approval. He scowled at me one last time, then turned and left. The incident was minor, but it was clear that Kael's distrust was being passed down. This opposition would not simply fade away.
When the hunting party returned five days later, weary but triumphant, their shomi bags heavy with smoked meat, the village erupted in celebration. The "kanta-mata" was largely forgotten in the excitement, though Ankor did retrieve it from me and spent some time looking it over with Haru, the two of them murmuring in agreement over certain points. It had served its purpose as a novel experiment, a demonstration of a potential new tool.
That night, under the full splendor of the Kashiwa Nima, the K'aru feasted. I was no longer on the absolute periphery. I sat with some of the older men and women, sharing their food, listening to the exaggerated tales of the hunt. Tekum himself, his face relaxed in the firelight, caught my eye and raised a piece of roasted meat in a gesture of inclusion. Later, as the drumming and dancing began, Liara brought me a special portion of honey-roasted grubs, a K'aru delicacy. "Aris. K'aru nima, ao?" she asked, her smile open and warm in the flickering light. (Aris. K'aru friend, yes?) "Ao, Liara," I said, my heart full. "Aris… nima K'aru. Sima-kai." (Yes, Liara. Aris… friend of the K'aru. Very much so.) The path was still long, the shadow of Kael's doubt still present. But tonight, under the Hunter's Moon, surrounded by the warmth of the K'aru hearth, I felt, for the first time, not just like Aris-who-stays, but Aris-who-belongs. My old life as a historian felt like a distant dream; this vibrant, precarious existence was now my reality, and these people, with their strengths and their vulnerabilities, were becoming my people. The thought of the future, of the ships that were even now, perhaps, being built across the vast ocean, sent a familiar chill through me, but tonight, that fear was tempered by a fragile, growing hope.