[New World Calendar: End of the Cycle of Ripening Sun, entering the Cycle of First Rains, Months 2-3, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
Tekum's pronouncement, "Isha K'aru" – Stay with the K'aru – did not magically transform me into a member of the tribe, but it subtly altered the currents of my existence within the village. The invisible tether that had kept me confined to the immediate vicinity of my hut seemed to lengthen. No one explicitly told me I could wander further, but the guards at my hut became less of a constant fixture and more of a general village watch. I understood, implicitly, that certain areas remained off-limits: the interiors of private dwellings, the larger hut of Tekum himself, and a small, shadowed grove at the edge of the village that the K'aru seemed to avoid, which I suspected held some spiritual significance.
The Cycle of the Ripening Sun, with its relentless heat and bright skies, gradually gave way to the Cycle of First Rains. The air grew heavier, the afternoons often culminating in brief, torrential downpours that washed the village clean and brought forth a fresh, earthy scent from the jungle. This shift in seasons brought a change in the village's rhythm. There was a greater urgency in food gathering and preservation. The men spent more time checking and repairing the thatched roofs of their huts, and the women worked to smoke larger quantities of fish and meat, or to prepare roots for long-term storage.
My language skills, nurtured by daily interactions and relentless mental effort, were blossoming. I could now follow the gist of simple conversations, especially if they pertained to concrete activities. I could ask basic questions: "Ani itzi?" (Where is the stone?) or "Kama ayu?" (What now?/What next?). My pronunciation was still heavily accented, often a source of gentle amusement, especially to the children, but it was functional.
Liara, when she brought my meals, would sometimes linger an extra moment, naming objects for me or correcting a word I'd misused. "Nani-ma 'mata'. Pira-mata," she'd explained one day when I'd pointed to the wooden frame of a fishing net and called it simply 'tree/wood.' (Not 'wood.' Net-wood/frame.) Her shyness was still evident, but a quiet rapport was building between us, a student-teacher dynamic built on single words and shared observations.
Iktan, the boy, became my most enthusiastic, if informal, tutor. Emboldened by Tekum's apparent acceptance of me, he would often approach, chattering away, pointing out everything from a particularly colorful beetle (sika) to the way the smoke (puyu) curled from the cooking fires. He spoke too quickly for me to catch much of it, but his willingness to engage was invaluable. Sometimes, other children would join him, a small, curious entourage, firing questions at me I couldn't possibly understand, then dissolving into giggles at my bewildered expressions.
With my slightly increased freedom, I began to offer help in the most menial, unobtrusive ways possible. Seeing women struggle to carry large gourds of uma from the stream, I started to position myself along their path. Eventually, one older woman, her face kind but weary, paused and looked at me, then at her heavy gourd. She gestured. "Aris… uma… teka?" (Aris… water… carry/take?) The last word was an invitation, a question. "Ao!" I said, perhaps too eagerly. "Aris uma teka!" She showed me how to balance the gourd on my shoulder, much as they did. It was heavy and awkward, but I managed. From then on, carrying water became one of my small, accepted contributions. It earned me nods from the women and a few less hostile glances from some of the men. It was labor, but it was also inclusion.
On another occasion, I was observing several men trying to move a heavy, newly felled log intended for a hut repair. They were struggling, their leverage poor. My mind flashed back to basic physics, to images from historical texts of ancient construction methods. Without a word, I picked up a smaller, sturdy branch, and through gestures, indicated how it could be used as a better lever, and where to apply pressure. There was a moment of silence. Kael, who was part of the group, scowled, clearly about to voice an objection. But Ankor, also present, looked at the log, at my suggested placement, then grunted. "Hmm. Aris… sima?" (Aris… good idea?) He motioned for the men to try it my way. The log moved with considerably less effort. Ankor looked at me, a flicker of surprise and respect in his eyes. "Sima, Aris. Sima." Kael said nothing, but his scowl deepened. He clearly disliked an outsider demonstrating a better way, however small. But the log was moved, and the incident was noted. I had offered a piece of knowledge, however simple, that proved useful. It was a dangerous path, I knew. I couldn't appear to be a know-it-all, or to criticize their established ways. This small success had been a gamble.
Mara, the old wise woman, also began to interact with me more directly. Seeing my genuine interest when she worked with her plants, she started occasionally naming them for me as she gathered them. "Hita," she'd say, holding up a feathery fern. "Sima… paku teka." (Good… peccary take/attracts peccary). A plant used for hunting, perhaps as bait or a lure. Another, a dark, gnarled root: "Roka. Sumi teka." (Fever take/good for fever). Her knowledge was a vast, unwritten pharmacopoeia. I listened, absorbed, never offering any of my own world's botanical or medical knowledge, keenly aware of how sacred and protected her role likely was. I was a student, nothing more.
Tekum himself would sometimes observe me from the entrance of his hut as I went about my self-appointed or communally accepted tasks. Once, he called me over. "Aris," he said, his voice carrying its usual authority. He held out a poorly mended fishing net, a section where the pira-mata (wooden frame) had splintered. "Teka. K'aru… arau nani-ma." (Bad. K'aru… bow/skill no have). He was saying his people lacked the specific skill to fix this particular damage well. Or perhaps that their tools weren't suited for a fine repair of this nature. It was a test, far more complex than our previous exchange. He wasn't just assessing my disposition; he was probing my utility. I looked at the splintered wood. In my past life, I'd had a brief hobby of woodworking. I knew about joinery, about how to reinforce stressed points. I looked at the stone tools available. It would be difficult, but perhaps not impossible. "Aris… anka?" I asked, meaning "try" or "attempt," a word I'd learned from watching children dare each other. Tekum nodded slowly. "Anka."
It took me the better part of the afternoon, working carefully with a sharp itzi flake and some fresh vine for binding. My hands, though younger now, were unaccustomed to such manual labor. I managed to carefully shave down the splintered sections, then, using a technique I vaguely remembered for reinforcing a cracked spar, I bound it tightly with the vine, creating a more secure, if ugly, mend than the previous attempt. When I presented it to Tekum, he examined it minutely, testing the strength of the repair. Ankor and even Kael had gathered to watch. Tekum grunted, a sound that was hard to interpret. He then handed the net to Kael. "Kael… pira… anka." (Kael… net… try/test it). Kael took the net, his expression skeptical, and gave the mended section a hard tug. It held. He tugged again, harder. The vine creaked, but the wood did not give. He looked surprised, then scowled, and handed it back to Tekum without a word. Tekum looked at me. "Aris… sima arau." (Aris… good skill/work). He then, to my astonishment, gestured for me to sit. Not in my hut, but there, near his own dwelling, under the shade of its eaves. Ankor sat too. Even Kael lingered, though he remained standing, arms crossed. This was unprecedented. "Aris," Tekum began, his gaze thoughtful. "Ani… K'aru nima?" (Where/How… K'aru friend?). He was asking not if I was friendly, but the origin or nature of my connection, my knowledge. How did I, a stranger, possess these odd skills, this different way of thinking? The question was a chasm I couldn't yet bridge. My true origins were beyond his comprehension, and perhaps beyond his belief. I chose my words carefully. "Aris… isha K'aru sima." (Aris… staying with K'aru is good). I then tapped my head. "Aris… anka sima K'aru." (Aris… thinks good for K'aru). It was the best I could do, an attempt to convey that my intentions were to be helpful, that my thoughts were aligned with their well-being. Tekum considered this. "Sima anka," he finally said. (Good thoughts). He then rose, signaling the audience was over.
As I walked back towards my own hut, the sun now casting long shadows, I felt a profound shift. I had passed another test, a more significant one. I had demonstrated a tangible skill, however minor. Kael's suspicion was still a barrier, a mountain of distrust, but Tekum's guarded approval, and Ankor's growing acceptance, were paths being cleared. I was still Aris the outsider, Aris the strange one. But perhaps, just perhaps, I was also becoming Aris-who-thinks-good-for-the-K'aru. And in that subtle distinction, lay the first glimmer of a future I had barely dared to imagine. The Cycle of First Rains continued, washing the world, and perhaps, washing away some of the strangeness that clung to me.