[New World Calendar: Late Cycle of First Rains, Months 5-6, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The Cycle of First Rains wore on, transforming the jungle into a myriad of vivid greens and the K'aru stream into a rushing, silt-laden torrent. The constant dampness brought its own challenges: firewood was harder to keep dry, thatched roofs required diligent patching, and a persistent cough began to spread among some of the younger children and older adults. Mara, the wise woman, was busier than ever, her small hut exuding the pungent aromas of boiled herbs and smoky poultices.
My own place within the village had solidified, though it remained unique and undefined by traditional K'aru roles. I was Aris-who-stays, Aris-who-carries-water, Aris-who-mended-the-net. And increasingly, I was becoming Aris-who-tells-stories. My simple fable, first shared with Iktan and Liara, had, through the relentless grapevine of childish chatter, gained a small audience. In the evenings, when the rain wasn't too heavy and the day's work was done, a cluster of children, sometimes accompanied by a few curious younger women or older men with time on their hands, would gather near my hut.
I never sought them out, but if they came, I would share what I could. My K'aru was now functional enough for simple narratives. I drew upon the vast reservoir of fables and myths from my own world's myriad cultures, carefully stripping them of overt anachronisms and adapting them to the K'aru's environment. Stories of clever animals, of foolish pride, of courage in the face of adversity – these themes were universal. I learned to use my voice, my gestures, the very rhythm of the K'aru tongue to paint pictures in their minds. Their laughter, their wide-eyed attention, their occasional gasps of surprise – these were my rewards.
Liara often sat with the listeners, her initial shyness now replaced by a comfortable familiarity. Sometimes, after a story, she would offer a K'aru equivalent, a tale of the clever monkey outwitting the jaguar, or the origin of a particular star formation. Through these exchanges, I began to glimpse the rich tapestry of their own oral traditions, the way they encoded their history, their morality, and their understanding of the cosmos into narrative.
Ankor, too, would sometimes pause by the edge of the firelight during these sessions, listening with an unreadable expression. He never commented on the stories themselves, but once, after I'd told a tale emphasizing the importance of cooperation, he met my eye and gave a slow, deliberate nod. It was his way of acknowledging the underlying message, perhaps even approving of its utility.
My practical contributions also continued. Tekum, seeing that my mended net frame had held, began to occasionally direct other minor repair tasks my way – a cracked pottery bowl that needed careful binding, a loose haft on a digging stick. These were not warrior's tasks, nor those of a skilled K'aru craftsman, but they were useful, and my different way of looking at a problem sometimes yielded a durable, if unorthodox, solution. My 2018 knowledge of basic mechanics or material properties, filtered through the lens of what was achievable with stone, bone, and vine, sometimes offered a fresh perspective.
One day, the small log bridge that spanned a gully on the main path to the stream, swollen by the constant rains, finally gave way with a sickening crack as a young woman was crossing. She was fortunate, escaping with only a twisted ankle and a fright, but the loss of the bridge was a significant inconvenience, forcing a longer, more treacherous detour. The K'aru men, Ankor and Kael among them, gathered to assess the damage. Their solution was straightforward: find another suitable log and drag it into place. A monumental effort. I observed, listening to their discussions. I understood enough now to grasp the difficulties. The banks were muddy and unstable. Later, I approached Ankor. "Ankor, pira-uma… teka," I said, using their word for bridge (literally 'net-over-water' or 'crossing-structure'). "Aris… anka sima?" (Bridge… bad. Aris… think good/have an idea?) Ankor looked at me, then at the broken bridge. Kael, nearby, scoffed audibly. "Aris… nani-ma arau K'aru!" (Aris… no have K'aru skill/way!) It was a direct challenge, his first openly voiced dismissal of my potential utility in front of Ankor. Ankor ignored him, his gaze fixed on me. "Aris… anka kama?" (Aris… what idea?) Drawing on memories of simple cantilever and truss designs I'd seen in historical engineering texts, I tried to explain, using gestures, sticks to represent logs, and my improving K'aru. Instead of one massive log, perhaps two smaller, lighter logs, anchored on each bank, with cross-members creating a more stable platform? It would require more shaping, more joining, but perhaps less brute force. Kael snorted again. "K'aru… nani-ma ita!" (K'aru… no do that!) But Ankor was intrigued. He understood the principle. "Mata… nima?" (Wood… smaller/less?) "Ao. Mata nima. Teka… sima-kai." (Yes. Wood smaller. But… very good/strong.) Ankor considered it for a long time. To my surprise, he then turned to Kael. "Kael. Aris… anka. Pita nani-ma?" (Kael. Aris… has idea. Why not?) It was a subtle assertion of his own judgment over Kael's immediate dismissal. Kael glared at me, then at Ankor, but finally grunted a reluctant assent, clearly unhappy.
The construction of the new pira-uma took two days. Under Ankor's direction, with Tekum observing from a distance at times, the K'aru men worked, and I, to my own surprise, was allowed to assist in directing the placement and shaping of the key supports, my suggestions filtered through Ankor. There were mistakes, frustrations, moments when Kael's skepticism seemed justified. But in the end, the new bridge stood – wider, more stable, and achieved with less back-breaking labor than their previous method might have entailed. When it was done, Ankor himself was the first to walk across it. He stamped on it, testing its strength. Then he turned to me, and for the first time, I saw something akin to a genuine, unguarded smile on his lips. "Aris. Pira-uma… sima-kai! K'aru… sima." (Aris. Bridge… very good! K'aru… good/thank you.) Even Kael, though he offered no praise, used the bridge without comment, which in itself was a victory. The success of the bridge project seemed to subtly elevate my standing. I wasn't just a mender of small things anymore; I had contributed to a significant piece of communal infrastructure.
Mara also began to entrust me with more. Sometimes, she would have me grind specific roots or leaves for her preparations, showing me exactly how fine the powder needed to be, or how long certain barks needed to soak. "Aris, roka-mata… koro," she warned one day, pointing to a particular vine I was helping her scrape. (Aris, fever-wood… strong/dangerous.) "Nima… teka-kai." (A little… very bad.) She was teaching me not just the uses, but the dangers, the respect these potent plant medicines required. I listened with utmost attention, never daring to interject with my own world's knowledge of alkaloids or dosages, but filing away the K'aru understanding.
The persistent cough that had afflicted some of the children was one such instance. Mara prepared a brew from a specific dark bark (shimu-mata), which seemed to offer some relief. I observed that the children who were kept warmer and encouraged to drink more uma alongside Mara's brew seemed to recover faster. It was a simple observation, common sense in my old world. One evening, when talking with Liara about her younger sibling who had the cough, I mentioned, "Iktan… isha puyu sima? Uma… sima?" (Iktan… sleep warm good? Water… good?). Liara looked thoughtful. "Ao. Mara… shimu-mata. Isha puyu… uma… sima." She saw the connection. The next day, I saw her tucking an extra hide around her sleeping brother. It was a tiny thing, but perhaps a seed of an idea – that care, alongside medicine, was important.
As the Cycle of First Rains began to wane, giving way to less frequent but still heavy showers, Tekum called for me again. This time, it was not for a repair. He was seated outside his hut, Ankor beside him. Several other village elders were present. "Aris," Tekum began, his tone serious. "K'aru… kanta sima." (K'aru… stories good.) He gestured towards the children. "Pia K'aru… Aris nima." (Children K'aru… Aris friend.) He then pointed towards a small, unused shelter, little more than a lean-to, not far from the main communal area. It was dry and relatively spacious. "Aris… isha hia." (Aris… sleep/stay here.) He then presented me with a K'aru-made woven shoulder bag – a shomi – and a small, decently crafted stone knife in a simple wooden sheath. "K'aru… Aris." (For K'aru… for Aris / From the K'aru… to Aris.)
It was more than just a change of lodging. The bag, the knife – these were tools, symbols of belonging, however provisional. The new shelter was closer to the heart of the village. I was being drawn, slowly, from the absolute periphery towards something resembling community. "Tekum… Ankor… K'aru…" I struggled for words, deeply moved. "Aris… sima-kai." (Aris… very good/thank you profoundly.) I touched the knife, then the bag. These were not just objects; they were acceptance. Kael watched from the edge of the gathering, his face an unreadable mask. His silence was more unnerving than his usual scowl. But as I moved my few meager belongings – my tattered original clothes now carefully preserved, the gifted river stone from Iktan, the insect-repelling leaves from Mara – to the new shelter, I felt a profound shift. The rains had washed away much, and in their wake, something new was taking root. My journey among the K'aru was entering a new season.