[New World Calendar: Days 3-5, Cycle of the Ripening Sun, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The next few days settled into a fragile, repetitive rhythm, a stark contrast to the chaotic upheaval that had catapulted me into this ancient world. Each dawn brought the same chorus of village sounds, the same impassive guards outside my hut, the same gnawing hunger for understanding that went far beyond the physical need for food. My small, earthen dwelling became both a prison and a sanctuary, a classroom where the curriculum was written in the fleeting sounds and sights of K'aru life.
My primary focus, my obsession, was their language. I was like a cryptographer attempting to decipher an unknown code, each overheard conversation, each brief interaction, a precious source of raw data. I learned to listen with an intensity I hadn't known I possessed, straining to catch the subtle inflections, the repeated phrases, the cadences that might betray meaning.
Liara, the young woman who brought my aypa, became an unwitting, and I sensed, somewhat apprehensive tutor. Her visits were brief, her demeanor still shy. She would place the bowl down, murmur "Aypa, Aris," and make to leave. But I began to push, gently. "Liara," I'd say, holding up the bowl. "Aypa." Then I'd point to the water gourd. "Maku?" I was using a word I'd heard women say to children when offering fruit, guessing it meant "drink" or "water."
The first time I tried this, she paused, her dark eyes wide with surprise. A faint blush crept up her neck. She looked around quickly, as if to ensure no one was observing this unusual exchange too closely. Then, she nodded slowly and tapped the gourd. "Uma," she corrected softly. "Uma." "Uma," I repeated carefully, tasting the new word. Water. Another vital piece. I smiled my thanks, a gesture I hoped transcended language. She offered a fleeting, almost imperceptible smile in return before hurrying away.
These tiny victories were monumental. I began to keep a mental lexicon, associating sounds with objects, actions, and eventually, simple concepts. Kashi was indeed 'bird,' specifically the jungle fowl. Turi meant 'take' or 'remove,' as the guards used it when gesturing for my empty food platter. Isha was 'sleep' or 'rest.' I learned that a sharp, upwardly inflected "Heh?" was a common interrogative, like "What?" or "Hmm?" A downward, more forceful "Ao!" seemed to mean "Yes!" or "It is so!" while a softer, side-to-side shake of the head accompanied by "Nani-ma" meant "No."
Inside my hut, when I was sure I wasn't observed, I would find a sharp pebble and trace these nascent words in the packed earth of the floor, trying to create some visual association, however crude, to aid my memory. It was a far cry from the sophisticated data retrieval systems of Neo-Alexandria – or even the simple pen and paper of my 2018 study – but it was something.
My continued quiet presence and visible attempts to learn seemed to subtly shift the atmosphere around me, at least with some. The guards, while still vigilant, appeared a fraction less tense. Sometimes, if I was carefully repeating a word I'd overheard, I'd catch one of them listening, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes – amusement? Contempt? Or perhaps just neutral observation.
The village children were, as expected, the boldest. Small groups would occasionally gather at a safe distance from my hut, whispering and giggling, daring each other to get closer. One morning, I found a small, perfectly round river stone, polished smooth and grey, placed just outside my doorway. There was no sign of who left it. A child's offering? A test? I left it where it lay, unsure of the protocol. Later, I saw a young boy, no more than five summers, peeking at me from behind a nearby hut, then quickly ducking away when I glanced in his direction. I suspected he was the donor.
Kael remained a formidable, mistrustful presence. His dark eyes often swept over my hut, his expression hard. He never attempted to communicate, and I made sure to avoid his gaze, sensing an innate antagonism that would not be easily overcome. He represented the warrior caste's inherent suspicion of outsiders, a healthy survival instinct in this wild land.
Ankor, however, continued his brief, almost perfunctory checks. Once a day, usually in the evening, he would appear at my doorway. "Aris?" he would begin. "Ankor," I'd reply, rising respectfully if I was seated. He might ask, "Aypa ao?" (Food yes/good?) or "Uma ao?" (Water yes/good?). I would respond with "Ao," and then, increasingly, I would try to offer a new word I thought I'd learned, pointing to an object. "Mata?" (Tree?), I asked one evening, pointing towards the jungle fringe visible from my hut. Ankor followed my gesture, then nodded slowly. "Mata. Ao." He then pointed to the sky, a brilliant tapestry of stars now that night had fallen. "Siru." "Siru," I repeated. Stars. Another gift. These brief exchanges were lifelines.
My observations of K'aru daily life intensified. I saw the women depart in groups in the morning, presumably to gather firewood, roots, and other edible plants from the jungle, their laughter and chatter fading as they disappeared into the trees. I watched Mara, the old woman, meticulously sorting leaves and roots, sometimes grinding them with a stone pestle, her movements precise and economical. She was clearly their apothecary, their herbalist.
The men's activities were harder to discern from my confined position. I saw them mending nets made of woven vine, sharpening spears with stone tools, and sometimes departing in small, armed groups, only to return hours later, occasionally with game, sometimes empty-handed. The hunt was clearly a vital, and often uncertain, endeavor. I saw no evidence of agriculture beyond perhaps some tended plants within the immediate village periphery; they seemed to be primarily hunter-gatherers. This was a crucial detail. Hunter-gatherer societies had different social structures, different carrying capacities, different vulnerabilities than settled agriculturalists.
One afternoon, a sudden, violent thunderstorm swept through the valley. The sky turned a bruised purple-black, lightning split the heavens, and rain lashed down with incredible force. The villagers reacted with a mixture of stoicism and what seemed like a quiet reverence. Fires were quickly shielded, children were called indoors, and the men stood watching the storm from the shelter of their eaves, their expressions serious. I heard Ankor utter a word during a particularly loud clap of thunder, a word that sounded like "Kanapa," his gaze directed skyward with a respect that bordered on awe. Was Kanapa a spirit of the storm? A deity? My historian's mind, trained to look for the echoes of belief systems, filed it away.
During these days of quiet observation, my own internal state was a turbulent mix. The sheer scale of what I hoped to achieve – averting a continental catastrophe – often felt crushingly absurd when juxtaposed with my daily struggle to learn the K'aru word for "fish" or "fire." Yet, the historian in me, the part that understood the power of incremental change, the significance of cultural understanding, kept me going. Every new word, every observed custom, was a small step forward.
My 2018 knowledge, while vast in its own context, often felt unwieldy here. What use was knowing the intricacies of the European feudal system or the causes of World War I when I couldn't explain that boiling water made it safer to drink, or that certain sanitation practices could prevent disease? These people had survived for generations, for millennia, with their own knowledge systems, perfectly adapted to this world. My first task was not to impose, but to understand. And to do that, I needed their language, their trust.
On the fifth evening, as Liara brought my aypa, something slightly different happened. After placing the bowl, she hesitated. Then, pointing to a small, intricately woven band around her wrist, made of brightly colored fibers, she said, "Sima." "Sima," I repeated, looking at the band. It was beautiful. "Sima… ao." A genuine, open smile briefly lit her face. "Ao!" she confirmed, then, almost as if surprised by her own boldness, she hurried away.
It was the first time anyone other than Ankor had initiated a word exchange beyond the absolute necessities. It was a small thing, a tiny crack in the wall of suspicion. Later that night, as Ankor made his usual appearance, his appraisal seemed to last a moment longer. "Aris," he said, his tone neutral. He then gestured towards the entrance of my hut, then to the open space just outside it, an area perhaps five paces square, still well within sight of the guards. He then made a gesture of sitting. "Isha… mata-va." Sleep… under (or near) the tree? No, that wasn't quite right. Va seemed to be a locative suffix. He was indicating I could sit outside the hut.
My heart leaped. A small expansion of my prison. A minor concession, but symbolically huge. "Ao?" I asked, seeking confirmation, pointing outside. Ankor nodded. "Ao. Kael… heh." He made a gesture that seemed to indicate Kael would still be watching, or that Kael's opinion was being… managed. I understood. Kael was the hawk. But Tekum, or perhaps Ankor himself, had decided to grant this small measure of freedom.
"Ankor," I said, my voice thick with an emotion I hoped he wouldn't misinterpret. I touched my chest in gratitude. "Sima." I used Liara's word for the pretty band, hoping its meaning might be broader, perhaps 'good,' or 'thank you.' Ankor's eyebrows raised slightly. He looked at me, a long, considering look. Then, he grunted, a sound that was perhaps less gruff than usual, and turned away.
Tomorrow, I would sit in the sun. Tomorrow, the world would be a few paces wider.