Arc 1: Earthfall
Chapter 6: The Edge of the Sunlit Clearing
[New World Calendar: Days 6-12, Cycle of the Ripening Sun, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The permission to sit outside my hut, a patch of sun-dappled earth no larger than a generous cloak-spread, felt like an immense expansion of my world. For the first few days of this new privilege, I moved with deliberate slowness, ensuring my actions were predictable and unalarming to the K'aru. I would wait until the village was fully awake and the sun had climbed above the towering canopy of the eastern jungle before venturing out, settling myself with my back against the woven wall of my dwelling.
From this new vantage point, the village unfolded before me with greater clarity. I could see the subtle interplay of daily life: the easy camaraderie among the women as they worked at their communal tasks, the more reserved interactions of the men, the boisterous, unrestrained energy of the children. The guards, usually two, still maintained their positions a respectful distance away, their presence a constant reminder of my tenuous status, but their vigilance seemed a shade less overt now that I was in plain sight.
My language acquisition, while still painstakingly slow, benefited immensely from this wider perspective. I could now more easily connect the words I overheard with the actions and objects they described. When a woman called out "Nari, ayu!" and a child scampered towards her, I could deduce ayu might mean "quickly" or "now." When a man mending a fishing net (pira, I learned it was called, after Ankor used the word while inspecting one) grunted "Teka!" in frustration as a strand broke, I added 'bad' or 'broken' to my growing mental lexicon.
Liara's daily delivery of aypa and uma continued. She remained shy, her words few, but the terror that had initially been in her eyes when she looked at me had softened into a cautious curiosity. One morning, emboldened by a night spent mentally rehearsing, I pointed to the sun. "Karu?" I asked her, recalling the name Ankor had used for his people – the K'aru – and a word Mara, the old wise woman, had uttered while looking skyward one bright morning. Liara's eyes widened slightly. She nodded, a genuine smile gracing her lips this time. "Ao! Karu!" She then pointed to the moon, a pale sliver still visible in the morning sky. "Kashiwa." "Kashiwa," I repeated, a thrill coursing through me. Sun and Moon. Fundamental concepts. "Sima, Liara. Sima." Thank you. Or good. The word seemed to fit. She ducked her head, pleased, and hurried away.
The children were the first to truly test the boundaries of my expanded confinement. Initially, they would fall silent if I looked directly at them, their games halting momentarily. But children are inherently curious, and my static, observant presence eventually became less an object of alarm and more one of intrigue. The small boy who had left the river stone – his name, I later learned from overhearing his mother, was Iktan – grew bolder. He would sometimes roll a smooth, dark nut towards my seated spot, then watch, half-hidden, to see my reaction. I would simply look at it, then meet his gaze with a neutral expression. Eventually, he started leaving them closer, his courage growing. I never touched them while he watched, not wanting to misinterpret the gesture.
Mara, the old woman, also seemed to take more notice of me now that I was outside. I would often see her observing me from the doorway of her hut or as she worked with her herbs. Her gaze was penetrating, thoughtful, but not unkind. Once, when I was attempting to mimic the K'aru pronunciation of "mata-va" (near the tree), she paused in her work and listened, her head cocked. She then repeated the phrase slowly, her diction clearer than many of the others, as if offering a subtle correction. I immediately tried to emulate her pronunciation, and she gave a single, almost imperceptible nod before returning to her task. It was the most direct instruction I had yet received.
Kael remained the immovable object. His suspicion was a palpable force. If his patrol route brought him past my hut, his eyes would narrow, his hand often straying to the heavy club at his belt. I made it a point to be utterly still and avoid eye contact whenever he was near. He was a reminder that my welcome, if it could even be called that, was conditional and fragile.
My historical knowledge began to find more purchase as I observed the K'aru's technology and skills. Their pottery was simple, unglazed earthenware, fired in open pits. Their tools were of stone, bone, and wood – spears, bows (arau), arrows tipped with fire-hardened wood or painstakingly knapped stone points (itzi), fishing hooks carved from bone, and nets woven with incredible skill from jungle vines. I saw women using rudimentary drop spindles to create thread from plant fibers, which they then wove into rough fabric or sturdy carrying bags on simple backstrap looms.
It was a Neolithic toolkit, finely honed for this specific environment. There was no metalwork, which was consistent with many pre-Columbian cultures in this part of the continent before wider trade networks or conquests introduced it. Their understanding of the jungle's resources, however, was profound. They knew which plants were edible, which were medicinal, which could provide strong fibers or deadly poisons for their arrow tips. This was a knowledge accumulated over countless generations, a library written not in books but in the collective memory of the tribe.
One afternoon, a commotion erupted near the edge of the village. Shouts, the barking of dogs. I saw men, Ankor among them, running towards the jungle fringe, spears ready. My guards tensed, their attention fixed on the disturbance. My first instinct was to shrink back, to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. For several tense minutes, there were more shouts, the crashing of undergrowth, then a triumphant cry. Soon, the men returned, dragging the carcass of a large peccary, a wild pig-like creature. Its tusks were formidable, and there were dark smears of blood on the ground where it had been subdued. The mood in the village lifted instantly. There would be a feast.
The successful hunt provided a new set of observations. I saw how the animal was butchered with swift efficiency using stone knives, how every part seemed to be allocated a purpose. The children watched with avid interest, learning. Later, as the meat roasted over several fires, the air filled with its rich scent, and a more relaxed, communal atmosphere settled over the K'aru. Music, of a sort, began – the rhythmic thumping of a log drum, the reedy piping of a simple flute. Some of the younger men and women began a shuffling, stamping dance.
From my spot, I watched, a silent ethnographer at the feast of a people whose future I desperately wanted to protect. Their joy was infectious, yet tinged with my own somber knowledge. How many such feasts would there be before the sails appeared on the horizon?
As the festivities continued into the evening, Liara, her shyness lessened by the communal excitement, brought my share of the roasted peccary. It was succulent and rich. This time, she lingered for a moment longer. "Aypa… sima?" she asked, her voice soft amidst the drumming. (Food good?) "Ao! Aypa sima-kai!" I replied, adding the suffix -kai which I'd heard used as an intensifier, hoping it meant "very good." Her eyes lit up. "Sima-kai!" she repeated, clearly pleased I was learning, then gestured towards the drumming. "Kanta." "Kanta," I echoed. Music? Or perhaps dance? Or celebration?
Later, as the fires died down and the village settled, Ankor approached my hut. The scent of roasted meat and woodsmoke clung to him. He looked at me, then at the remnants of my meal. "Paku sima?" he asked. Paku was their word for the peccary. "Ao, Paku sima-kai," I confirmed. I then gestured towards my ears, then towards where the drumming had been. "Kanta… sima." Ankor nodded. He seemed more relaxed than I'd ever seen him. He then surprised me by pointing to the nearly full moon, Kashiwa, hanging brightly above. "Kashiwa… nima K'aru." I parsed it slowly. Moon… friend K'aru? Friend of the K'aru? "Nima?" I questioned. Ankor tapped his chest, then mine. "Nima." Friend. Or perhaps ally. Or simply 'good with.' It was a significant word. He was testing me, seeing if I understood the implication. He wasn't calling me nima, not yet, but he was using the word in my presence, associating it with something positive.
Before he left, he said, "Aris… isha. Karu… sima." Sleep. The sun… is good/will be good (tomorrow). It was the most complex string of reassurance he'd offered. As I lay down on my mats that night, the sounds of the jungle a familiar lullaby, I felt a subtle shift. I was still an outsider, a curiosity, perhaps even a lingering suspicion to some like Kael. But to others, like Ankor, and perhaps even Liara and Mara, I was becoming something more: a learner, a listener. A person. The sunlit edge of the clearing was still a boundary, but it no longer felt quite like the edge of my world. It felt like the beginning of a path, however narrow and uncertain.