[New World Calendar: Mid-Cycle of First Rains, Months 3-4, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The Cycle of First Rains settled upon the K'aru village with the steady, percussive rhythm of a giant drum. Days were often punctuated by sudden, furious downpours that transformed the dusty central clearing into a slick, reddish-brown expanse, sending villagers scurrying for the shelter of their thatched eaves. The jungle, already a formidable presence, seemed to press closer, its greens deeper, its scents more pungent, its hidden life more vocal in the damp air.
My own rhythm had found a tentative cadence within that of the K'aru. Tekum's pronouncement, "Isha K'aru," had been less a decree of full acceptance and more a loosening of the tightest bonds of suspicion. I was no longer solely confined to my hut and its immediate periphery. The task of carrying uma from the stream, once a novel occurrence, became a regular morning duty, one I shared with some of the younger women and older children. No one commented on my participation anymore; it was simply part of the village's work. Sometimes, I was also tasked with gathering fallen branches for firewood from the jungle's edge, never venturing too far, always within sight or earshot of other K'aru.
These simple, shared labors were invaluable. They provided context for language and custom that mere observation could never offer. When an older woman, her back bent with years, thanked me with a quiet "Sima, Aris" for helping her lift a heavy bundle of wood, the words resonated more deeply than any formal lesson. I was contributing, however humbly, to the collective well-being.
My K'aru was improving daily. I could now construct simple, grammatically flawed but understandable sentences. I learned to ask not just "What is this?" ("Ani kama?") but also "Why like this?" ("Pita kama ao?") – a question that often earned me curious looks, sometimes patient explanations from Ankor or one of the other more tolerant men, and occasionally, a dismissive grunt if the question was deemed inappropriate or too complex for an outsider.
Liara remained a consistent, if still reserved, point of contact. Our mealtime exchanges were no longer just about naming the food. "Aris, ima ayu," she might say, glancing at the darkening sky. (Aris, rain soon/quickly.) "Ao. Ima… pira teka," I might reply, indicating that rain was bad for drying the fishing nets. She would nod, sometimes adding a detail about how the rain affected the hunt or the gathering of certain roots. Her shyness was slowly being replaced by a quiet confidence when speaking with me, as if my fumbling attempts at her language made her feel more like a teacher than just a deliverer of food.
The children, led by the ever-curious Iktan, were less inhibited. They would often follow me as I carried water or wood, peppering me with questions I only half-understood, and then dissolving into laughter at my attempts to answer. Iktan appointed himself my primary instructor in the names of insects, plants, and animal tracks, his small finger jabbing emphatically at each new discovery. "Sika nani-ma! Atu!" (Not beetle! Spider!) he'd correct with grave seriousness if I misidentified a creature. Through them, I learned the K'aru words for things the adults might have deemed too trivial to teach me.
Kael, however, remained a shadow of distrust. His dark eyes missed nothing. If I spent too long speaking with Liara, or if the children's interactions with me became too boisterous, I would often find Kael's gaze fixed on me, a silent, cold warning. He never spoke to me directly beyond a necessary grunt, but his disapproval was a constant pressure. He was the guardian of K'aru tradition, the unyielding shield against the unknown, and I was still, in his eyes, a significant unknown.
One afternoon, as the rain held off, I saw Tekum presiding over a dispute between two men. It concerned the ownership of a particularly well-made itzi spearhead one had found, which the other claimed to have lost. There was no formal courtroom, just the shade of the largest hut's eaves. Tekum listened patiently to both sides, Ankor standing beside him. Other villagers gathered, listening quietly. After hearing them out, Tekum asked a few pointed questions, then delivered his judgment swiftly and decisively. The spearhead was awarded to one, the other was instructed to assist him on the next hunt as a form of compensation for the claimant's time lost. There was no argument; his word was law, accepted with a stoic nod. It was a glimpse into their system of justice – direct, personal, and focused on restoring communal balance.
Mara, the wise woman, began to occasionally allow me to accompany her short distances from the village when she went to gather specific plants, usually when the area was already deemed safe by the warriors. She never invited me explicitly, but if I happened to be nearby and showed interest, she would sometimes grunt an affirmative if I gestured a question about following. These were silent expeditions for the most part. She would point to a plant, say its name, and perhaps indicate its use with a gesture – rubbing a leaf on her skin for an insect bite, or sniffing a flower that aided sleep. "Aris… puyu sima?" she asked me once, holding out a bundle of dried leaves. (Aris… smoke good?) I had seen her burn these leaves before, the fragrant smoke used to keep insects away. "Ao, Mara. Puyu sima." She nodded, then unexpectedly handed me a small portion. "Aris… isha." (Aris… keep/for your sleep.) It was a significant gesture, an offering of practical K'aru knowledge for my own comfort. I thanked her profusely, using the most respectful terms I knew.
The longer I stayed, the more I realized the depth of their connection to this forest world. It was not just a resource to be exploited; it was a living entity, filled with spirits and powers they respected and sometimes feared. Ankor, in one of our evening exchanges, pointed to the shadowed grove I'd noted. "K'aru… nani-ma ayu," he said, his voice low. (K'aru… no go there.) "Pita?" I asked. (Why?) He looked at me for a long moment. "Wiru… isha." (Spirit… sleeps/dwells there.) He made a gesture of respect, then caution. "Wiru… koro." (Spirit… fear/is to be feared.) It was a crucial insight. Their worldview was imbued with an animistic spirituality. Any future attempts I might make to introduce new ideas would have to navigate this complex spiritual landscape with extreme care. My 2018 understanding of scientific rationalism had no place here, not yet.
One evening, as the rain drummed softly on the thatch of my hut, Liara brought my meal. She was accompanied by Iktan, who clutched a small, crudely carved wooden figure of a jungle cat. "Aris, kanta K'aru?" Iktan asked excitedly, holding up the figure. (Aris, K'aru story/song?) Before I could respond, Liara shushed him gently. "Iktan! Aris… nani-ma kanta." (Iktan! Aris… no know story.) But the boy persisted. "Aris… anka kanta!" (Aris… try story!) Liara looked at me, an apology in her eyes, but also a hint of curiosity. This was new territory. I knew no K'aru stories. But I knew stories from my own world. Could I adapt one? Simplify it? "Aris… kanta… anka," I said slowly. I then began, in the simplest K'aru I could manage, to tell a highly abridged and modified version of a fable – the story of the clever rabbit who outwits a larger predator, not through strength, but through cunning. I replaced the rabbit with a small, quick jungle creature they knew, and the predator with a jaguar. I used gestures, exaggerated expressions, and the limited vocabulary I possessed. Iktan listened with rapt attention, his eyes wide. Liara, too, seemed captivated, a rare smile playing on her lips. When I finished, Iktan clapped his hands. "Sima kanta, Aris! Sima!" Liara nodded. "Sima kanta."
It was a small thing, sharing a story. But in that moment, sitting in the dim light of my hut, with the rain falling outside, sharing laughter with a K'aru woman and a child, I felt a profound sense of connection, a fragile bridge being built across the vast gulf of time and culture. I was still a stranger, a man out of time, burdened with a terrible knowledge. But tonight, for a little while, I was also Aris-who-tells-stories. Kael might still watch me with suspicion, and Tekum's acceptance was conditional, but these small moments, these shared words and smiles, were the currency of trust. And trust, I knew, was the only foundation upon which any future could be built. The Cycle of First Rains was a time of growth, not just for the jungle, but perhaps, for my place among the K'aru.