[New World Calendar: Weeks 3-4, Cycle of the Ripening Sun, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The Cycle of the Ripening Sun advanced, each day a near-perfect echo of the last, yet subtly different as the sun's arc shifted and the symphony of the jungle subtly changed its tune. My small patch of earth outside the hut had become my entire world, a stage upon which the daily drama of K'aru life played out. My vocabulary, painstakingly assembled word by precious word, was growing. I could now understand simple commands, identify common objects, and even string together two or three words into a comprehensible, if clumsy, phrase.
The smooth, dark nut Iktan, the curious boy, had rolled towards me days ago still lay where it had stopped. I hadn't touched it, unsure of the etiquette. But his tentative overtures continued. Sometimes he would simply stand at a distance, watching me with his solemn child's eyes. Other times, he'd mimic the calls of birds, then look to see if I'd noticed. He was a tiny, brave explorer charting the unknown territory that was Aris.
One morning, as Liara delivered my aypa, I saw Iktan hovering nearby, pretending to be engrossed in drawing patterns in the dust with a stick. An idea, simple and perhaps foolish, sparked. After Liara had departed, I waited until Iktan was looking, then picked up a pliable twig that had fallen from the thatch of my hut. Slowly, deliberately, I began to weave it into a crude, tiny circle, mimicking the way I'd seen the women start their baskets, though my clumsy fingers were no match for their practiced skill. It was a pathetic little thing, misshapen and loose.
When I was done, I placed it on the ground, a respectful distance from Iktan's nut. I then looked at him and offered a small, open-handed gesture towards my creation. Iktan's eyes widened. He looked from the woven circle to me, then back again. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, with the sudden darting speed of a forest creature, he scurried forward, snatched up the twig circle, examined it with intense seriousness, and then, to my utter surprise, he grinned – a wide, unabashed flash of white teeth. He then pointed to my woven offering and said, clearly, "Tuma!" He pointed to the nut he had given me. "Soko." Tuma. Woven thing? Gift? Soko. Nut. He then tapped his chest. "Iktan." And then, astonishingly, he pointed at me. "Aris?" "Ao! Aris!" I confirmed, a warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with the morning sun. He had remembered my name, used it. He then picked up his soko, placed it beside my tuma, and with another quick grin, scampered off to rejoin his playmates, proudly displaying his woven prize.
This small exchange felt like a significant breakthrough. Later that day, I saw Iktan showing the tuma to Mara, the old wise woman. She examined it, then looked thoughtfully in my direction. There was no discernible expression on her face, but she didn't confiscate it.
My days continued to be a tapestry of intense observation and cautious interaction. From my sunlit spot, I watched the K'aru craftsmen. I saw men patiently chipping away at blocks of itzi (obsidian or a similar volcanic stone) to create arrowheads and knife blades, their skill remarkable. They used deer antlers for pressure flaking, detaching small, razor-sharp flakes with controlled force. Others worked with arau (bows), carefully selecting staves of a resilient dark wood, shaping them with stone scrapers, and testing their flex. The bowstrings were made of twisted animal sinew or plant fibers, strong and taut.
The women's domain was equally skilled. Their fingers flew as they wove intricate patterns into baskets (shomi) of varying sizes, some so tightly made they could hold water. They spun thread from the fibers of a broad-leafed plant, rolling it against their thighs, then used simple backstrap looms tied to a hut post or a tree to create panels of coarse but durable fabric for loincloths (weza) and shoulder bags. Liara, I noticed, was particularly adept at this, her movements fluid and sure.
My linguistic progress was steady, if slow. I learned that K'aru grammar seemed to rely heavily on context and word order, with suffixes indicating possession, location, or intent. I began to understand simple questions directed at me by Ankor. "Aris, uma teka?" (Aris, water bad/no water?), he might ask if my gourd was empty. "Nani-ma. Uma sima," I could now reply. (No. Water good.) He would nod, a flicker of something – perhaps approval at my improving comprehension – in his eyes. He even started correcting me more overtly. Once, pointing to a dog, I said, "Asha?" Ankor shook his head. "Asha nani-ma. Shua." He then pointed to an ash pile from a fire. "Asha." Dog was shua. Ash was asha. The subtlety was crucial. I felt like a fool, but a grateful one.
Kael, however, remained a pillar of suspicion. His patrols often seemed to deliberately take him closer to my hut than necessary. He would stand for long moments, his arms crossed, simply staring, his expression a mixture of contempt and distrust. I never engaged, never met his eye for more than a fleeting, respectful acknowledgement. He was the embodiment of the tribe's defensive perimeter, and I was still firmly on the outside of it.
One day, I witnessed him roughly disciplining a youth who had been careless with a borrowed spear, leaving it leaning against a hut where it could have been knocked over and damaged. Kael's voice was harsh, his gestures sharp. The youth cowered, accepting the rebuke without argument. It was a clear display of Kael's authority among the younger warriors and the importance placed on their tools and weapons.
Mara, the wise woman, began to unbend, ever so slightly. Sometimes, when she was working with her plants near my hut, I would see her glance at me. One afternoon, she was sorting a pile of vivid green leaves. I knew from my own botanical knowledge that some leaves, if not processed correctly, could be toxic. She held one up, looked at me, and said its K'aru name – "Veka." Then she made a face, sticking out her tongue slightly and shaking her head. Veka was bad to eat directly, I inferred. She then took a handful, crushed them with a stone, and mixed them with a little clay from a pot, her expression one of intense concentration. This paste, she applied to a cut on a child's leg later that day. Veka, then, was a medicinal leaf when prepared correctly. The lesson was invaluable.
My thoughts often drifted to the monumental task I had set myself. How could I warn these people? How could I prepare them? My current existence was so circumscribed, my influence nonexistent. Yet, these small moments of connection, these shared words, the growing familiarity – they were the first threads. Before I could speak of empires or invaders, I had to be able to speak of rain (ima), of hunger (somi), of fear (koro).
As the fourth week of my stay drew to a close, Tekum, the village chief, who had largely been a distant, observing presence, finally approached me directly. Ankor was with him. The usual guards stood back a little further. My heart hammered. This felt different from Ankor's daily checks. Tekum stood before me, his expression unreadable as ever, his gaze piercing. He looked me up and down, as if reassessing me. Then, he spoke, his voice deep and resonant. "Aris." "Tekum," I replied, inclining my head respectfully. He pointed to me, then to the village around us, then to the K'aru people going about their tasks. "K'aru… nima?" he asked. The K'aru… friend/ally/good with? The same word Ankor had used in relation to the moon. But this time, it felt directed at my potential disposition. It was a test. A critical one. I met his gaze directly, trying to project sincerity. "Ao," I said, firmly. "K'aru… nima. Aris… nima K'aru." (Yes. K'aru good with. Aris good with K'aru.) It was the most complex and significant statement I had yet dared to make. Tekum held my gaze for a long moment. Ankor watched, impassive. The silence stretched. Then, Tekum gave a slow, deliberate nod. He didn't smile, but the iron mask of his features seemed to soften, just a fraction. He spoke a few words to Ankor, too rapid for me to fully grasp, but I caught the word isha (sleep/stay) and mata-va (near the tree/my hut area). Ankor then said to me, "Aris. Tekum… ao. Isha K'aru." (Aris. Tekum… yes/agrees. Stay [with the] K'aru.) It wasn't an invitation to join the tribe as an equal, not by any means. But it sounded like my probation was, if not over, then at least entering a new phase. I was no longer just the strange flotsam washed ashore. I was, perhaps, becoming Aris-who-stays-with-the-K'aru. It was a fragile status, hard-won through silence, observation, and the careful gleaning of words. But it was a beginning. Tekum turned and walked away, Ankor following. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The sun felt a little warmer on my skin.