[New World Calendar: Day 2, Cycle of the Ripening Sun, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The first light of dawn filtered through the cracks in the hut's woven walls, painting stripes across the earthen floor. I awoke stiffly from a fitful sleep, my body still protesting the previous day's ordeal, though the profound exhaustion had somewhat abated. The reed mats, while a vast improvement over the bare ground, offered little in the way of true comfort. Yet, as I lay there, listening to the nascent sounds of the village stirring to life – a distant dog's bark, the soft murmur of voices, the crow of some jungle fowl – a fragile sense of purpose began to solidify within me.
Today, I would begin. Not with grand pronouncements or attempts at revolutionizing their society – such thoughts were ludicrous in my current state – but with the most fundamental of tasks: observation and the desperate pursuit of language.
Two new guards, younger men I hadn't specifically noted the day before, stood impassively outside my hut. They carried simple wooden spears and watched me with the same cautious neutrality as their predecessors. They made no move to interact, merely observing as I rose, stretched my aching limbs, and took a long drink from the gourd of water, which, I noted with a flicker of gratitude, had been refilled sometime during the night.
The platter of food was also new: a piece of grilled fish, surprisingly tasty, and a small mound of what looked like cooked cassava. As I ate, I positioned myself near the doorway, not daring to step outside without invitation, but angling for the best possible view of the village's central clearing.
The K'aru, as Ankor had called his people, started their day early. Women were already tending to fires, their movements economical and practiced. The rhythmic thud I'd heard faintly yesterday was clearer now: several women pounding grain or roots in hollowed-out log mortars, their bodies swaying in unison. Children, seemingly unconcerned by my presence now that the initial shock had worn off, darted about, their laughter and shouts a universal language I could at least appreciate, if not understand.
The men gathered in small groups, some inspecting their spears and bows, others conversing in low tones. Ankor was among them, his authoritative presence noticeable even from a distance. He occasionally glanced towards my hut, his expression unreadable. Kael was also there, his suspicious gaze sweeping over me more than once. I made sure to meet his look with what I hoped was respectful neutrality, then quickly averted my eyes. Antagonizing him was the last thing I needed.
My immediate goal was to attach sounds to actions and objects. It was like being an infant again, but with the analytical mind of a seasoned historian. I listened intently, trying to isolate repeated phonemes, to discern patterns. When one of the guards gestured for me to place my empty platter outside the hut, he grunted a word: "Turi." He then pointed to the platter.
Turi. Platter? Or perhaps "finished"? Or "outside"? I filed the sound away. Later, when a young boy, bolder than the others, crept close to my hut and pointed at a foraging jungle fowl that had strayed near, he whispered excitedly to his companion, "Kashi! Kashi!" He pointed directly at the bird.
Kashi. Bird. Or perhaps "chicken," given its appearance. Progress. Excruciatingly slow, but progress nonetheless.
I spent hours just watching, listening. The women, when they called to their children, often used a word that sounded like "Nara! Nara!" – come here? Or perhaps it was a generic term for child? A woman handing a piece of fruit to a child said something that ended with what sounded like "Maku." Fruit? Eat?
The old woman who had examined me yesterday, the one Tekum had consulted – I decided to internally name her Mara, for ease of reference – emerged from one of the larger huts near the center. She moved with a slow, deliberate grace, and people seemed to treat her with a quiet deference. She didn't look my way, busying herself with sorting herbs or roots spread on a mat in the sun. Her role, I suspected, was vital. Shaman, healer, repository of tribal lore – these were often intertwined.
The sun climbed higher, the heat intensifying. The guards changed again. No one spoke to me directly, beyond the occasional grunt or gesture. I was a fixture now, a silent, observant piece of the village landscape, like a peculiar stone or an oddly shaped tree. The isolation was profound, yet my mind was a hive of activity, recording, cross-referencing, trying to build a rudimentary lexicon.
Around midday, a young woman, perhaps sixteen or seventeen summers old, approached my hut. She was slender, with long, dark hair tied back with a simple vine, and her movements were quick and efficient. She carried a steaming clay bowl. Unlike the guards, her eyes, when they met mine, held a flicker of something less guarded – curiosity, perhaps, or even a hint of shy apprehension. She avoided direct, prolonged eye contact, which I'd read was a sign of respect or deference in some cultures.
She knelt and placed the bowl just inside the doorway, then murmured a single word, soft and hesitant: "Aypa." She gestured towards the bowl.
Aypa. Food? Or perhaps this specific stew? It smelled of fish and something savory, with a hint of unfamiliar spices. I looked at her, then at the bowl, and then offered a small, tentative smile. "Aris," I said, tapping my chest, then pointed to her. She blinked, then a ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Liara," she whispered, tapping her own chest lightly before quickly rising and retreating, as if she had been too bold.
Liara. Another name. And Aypa. Two more precious fragments. "Aypa," I repeated softly to myself, then tasted the stew. It was delicious, far more complex in flavor than the previous offerings. As I ate, I committed the sounds to memory: Turi, Kashi, Nara, Maku, Aypa, Liara. It was a pitifully small vocabulary, but it was a start.
Later in the afternoon, I witnessed a small drama. A group of boys were playing a boisterous game involving a woven ball and sticks. One of the younger ones tripped and fell, letting out a loud wail. His older brother rushed over, helped him up, and spoke to him in soothing tones. I couldn't catch all the words, but the cadence of comfort, the gentle admonishment, the eventual coaxing back to play – these were universal.
The incident drew the attention of Kael, who was passing by. He watched the boys for a moment, then barked a sharp command. The older boy immediately straightened up, his expression becoming more serious. Kael then spoke to him for a moment, gesturing with his chin towards the forest. The boy nodded and, after a brief word to his younger sibling, trotted off in the direction Kael had indicated, perhaps on some errand. It was a clear demonstration of the warrior's authority and the ingrained discipline within the tribe.
My confinement, though not overtly harsh, was absolute. If I moved too close to the doorway for too long, one of the guards would grunt and subtly shift his spear, a clear warning to remain inside or just at the threshold. I didn't test them. My strategy was one of patience and unobtrusiveness. I needed to become a familiar, non-threatening presence before I could hope for any greater freedom or interaction.
As dusk began to settle, casting long shadows across the clearing, the rhythm of the village changed. The men who had presumably been out hunting or patrolling began to return, some carrying game – a pair of large rodents, several plump birds. There were quiet greetings, the murmur of shared news. The scent of cooking fires intensified.
Ankor appeared at my hut just as the light was fading. He didn't enter, but stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the dying light. He looked at me, then at the empty food bowl. "Aypa?" he asked, his intonation clearly questioning if it had been good, or if I had eaten. I nodded. "Aypa," I confirmed, then, taking a chance, I added, "Liara." I gestured vaguely in the direction she had come from, hoping to associate the name with the food bringer.
Ankor's expression didn't change much, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes – surprise? Or perhaps just acknowledgement that I was attempting to learn. He grunted, a sound that might have been approval, or simply an ending to the brief exchange. He then pointed to the sleeping mats. "Isha." Sleep. Or rest.
"Isha," I repeated. I then tapped my chest. "Aris. Isha." I pointed to him. "Ankor." He stared at me for a long moment, then gave a single, curt nod before turning and disappearing into the twilight.
It was a small exchange, almost comically basic, yet it felt like a monumental victory. I had initiated a tiny piece of communication, linked a new word to an action, and he had understood, or at least acknowledged the attempt.
Lying on the mats in the darkness, listening to the nocturnal sounds of the jungle pressing in around the village, I felt a sliver of hope. The path ahead was incredibly long and fraught with uncertainty. My knowledge of future cataclysms felt like a distant, almost irrelevant burden when faced with the immediate challenge of understanding the word for "water" or "yes."
But today, I had not been just a passive recipient of fate. I had been an active observer, a nascent student. I had stolen a few precious words from the air around me. It was a foundation, however fragile, upon which, perhaps, something more could be built. The K'aru were not my enemy. They were, for now, my reluctant hosts, my unknowing teachers, and potentially, the first people of this old/new world whose future I might, if I could somehow bridge the vastness between us, try to protect. The weight of that thought was immense, but for the first time since my arrival, it didn't feel entirely impossible. Just terrifyingly difficult.