[New World Calendar: Late Cycle of Long Sun, transitioning to Cycle of Gathering Clouds, Months 18-19, ~1 Year, 6 Months Post-Arrival, 1478 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The Aka'to ceremony, and my carefully navigated non-participation in its warrior rites, left an indelible mark on my standing within the K'aru village. Kael's attempt to expose me as an ill-fitting outsider had, paradoxically, served to highlight my respect for their sacred traditions and the pragmatic wisdom of Tekum, Ankor, and Mara in recognizing my distinct, non-warrior path. The whispers of doubt Kael had fanned did not vanish entirely, but they became more muted, less bold.
In the weeks that followed, as the relentless heat of the Long Sun began to soften and the first hints of the Cycle of Gathering Clouds appeared as towering, bruised formations on the distant horizon, I felt the threads of my connection to the K'aru being woven more tightly, more intricately. The spear Ankor had given me still leaned in my shelter, a symbol of an offered path I respected but could not fully walk. My path, it was becoming clearer to all, was different.
My assistance to Mara became more formalized. She was, in her own taciturn way, an exacting teacher. I learned the subtle variations in leaf shape that distinguished a healing plant from its poisonous cousin, the precise time of day to gather certain roots for maximum potency, the almost ritualistic way she dried and stored her precious ingredients. She never explained the why in terms that would satisfy my 2018 scientific mind – her knowledge was an ancient tapestry woven from generations of observation, intuition, and spiritual understanding. "This root sleeps under Kashiwa Nima," she might say, "so it holds Kashiwa's cool strength against the hot sickness." I accepted her explanations within their own framework, understanding that the efficacy of her treatments was undeniable, whatever the underlying mechanism. My role was to be her hands, her memory for lesser details, freeing her to focus on the deeper arts of her healing. This service, supporting the village's primary healer, was a contribution few could fault.
Ankor, too, began to treat me less as a student of basic K'aru ways and more as… something else. An intelligent sounding board, perhaps. During lulls in village activity, or when we worked together on a communal task like re-thatching a section of the communal longhouse roof before the new rains, he would sometimes speak of K'aru concerns. "The paku are ranging further this cycle, Aris," he might observe. "The deep forest calls them. Haru says the signs are… different." He wasn't necessarily seeking my advice, but sharing an observation, a worry, as one might with a trusted kinsman. I would listen, offer what little relevant knowledge I had gleaned from my "kanta-mata" records of past hunt routes or seasonal animal behaviors I'd noted. "The kanta-mata from Kashiwa Nima showed paku near the Sleeping Serpent River then. Perhaps the change in the sun… makes them seek different shade?" My suggestions were always framed as questions, as shared ponderings. Sometimes, Ankor would grunt thoughtfully, considering it. Other times, he would gently correct my understanding based on deeper K'aru lore. These exchanges were precious, building a camaraderie that went beyond mere acceptance.
My storytelling continued, but it too evolved. The children still clamored for tales of clever animals and distant wonders, but now, older K'aru, even some of the more reserved elders, would occasionally ask me to recount a specific "kanta-mata" I had made – the story of a hunt route, a record of medicinal plants Mara used for a particular ailment, or even the sequence of events from Tekum's resolution of a village dispute. My crude pictograms and K'aru notations, initially a novelty, were becoming a recognized form of communal memory, an auxiliary to their rich oral tradition. They called them "Aris-shoma," Aris's markings or writings. Liara, with her quick mind and growing confidence, often helped me refine the symbols, suggesting K'aru visual cues that would make them more intuitive for others. "Aris, the paku symbol… make its tusks like the curve of the new moon. All K'aru know that sign." Her input was invaluable, grounding my attempts at record-keeping firmly in their own cultural aesthetic.
The most significant shift, however, came with an unexpected arrival. One humid afternoon, as the sky rumbled with the promise of distant storms, a K'aru scout from an outlying hunting camp returned, not with game, but with news. He spoke urgently with Tekum and Ankor, and soon a ripple of guarded excitement and apprehension spread through the village. A small trading party from the "Puri" people, a tribe who lived several days' journey downriver, was approaching. The K'aru, I learned, had infrequent, cautious dealings with the Puri. They were not enemies, but neither were they close allies. They traded K'aru jungle products – certain medicinal herbs Mara prepared, rare feathers, finely made itzi points – for Puri river goods: dried fish, salt (a precious commodity), and intricately woven river-reed baskets that were stronger and lighter than the K'aru's own.
This was the first I had heard of another tribe in such concrete terms. My mind buzzed with questions. What were the Puri like? What was their language? Their strength? Their disposition towards outsiders? This was a crucial piece of the larger puzzle of this continent. Tekum decided the K'aru would receive the Puri traders, as was custom, but with caution. He, Ankor, and Kael would lead the K'aru delegation. Other warriors would be present, their weapons visible but not overtly threatening. To my utter astonishment, Ankor approached me as preparations were being made. "Aris," he said. "Puri ayu. K'aru… kanta Puri." (Puri are coming. K'aru… speak with Puri.) He paused, then added, "Aris… anka kanta-mata Puri kanta?" (Aris… try make story-wood of Puri words/agreements?) I was being asked to be a scribe, a record-keeper, for an inter-tribal parley. The implications were enormous. My "Aris-shoma" were to be used not just for internal K'aru matters, but potentially as a record of diplomacy. "Ankor… Aris anka! Sima-kai!" I stammered, overwhelmed. (Ankor… Aris will try! Very good/thank you!) Kael, who overheard, shot me a venomous glare. "Puri nani-ma K'aru! Aris nani-ma K'aru! Teka nima!" (Puri are not K'aru! Aris is not K'aru! A bad mix/combination!) But Ankor stood firm. "Aris-shoma… sima. Puri… nima K'aru sima." (Aris's markings… are good. The Puri… understand K'aru well/there is good understanding.) He was implying my record could help ensure clarity. Tekum, who had approached, gave a curt nod of agreement. Kael was, once again, overruled on a matter concerning my utility.
The Puri trading party arrived the next day: five men and two women, their appearance subtly different from the K'aru. Their skin was a slightly lighter shade, their ornamentation favored shells and polished river stones over feathers, and their bearing was that of people comfortable with water travel, their movements fluid and sure in their shallow dugout canoes. Their language was related to K'aru, a dialect I could grasp the edges of, but distinct enough to require careful attention. I sat slightly behind Tekum and Ankor, a piece of smooth bark and a sharpened marking stick in hand. My role was to listen, to observe, and to create a symbolic record of the items traded and any specific agreements made. It was an intense, draining experience, trying to capture the nuances of their bartering, the quantities, the promises of future exchange. The Puri traders regarded me with open curiosity, clearly having never seen such a practice. The trade was successful, concluded with a shared meal of K'aru forest game and Puri river fish. As the Puri prepared to depart, their leader, a shrewd-looking man named Kito, pointed at my bark records. "K'aru… new arau?" he asked Tekum, his K'aru accented but understandable. (K'aru… new skill/way?) Tekum looked at me. "Aris… nima K'aru. Aris arau." (Aris… friend of K'aru. Aris's skill.) Kito nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Sima arau." (Good skill.)
After the Puri had gone, a sense of quiet satisfaction settled over the village. The trade had been beneficial. My role, however small, had been successfully executed. That evening, Ankor came to my shelter. He held my "kanta-mata" of the Puri trade. "Aris-shoma… sima-kai," he said, genuine respect in his voice. "K'aru… nani-ma koro kanta Puri." (Aris's markings… very good. K'aru… will not forget Puri words/agreements.) He then did something that surprised me deeply. He began to speak of other tribes the K'aru knew – the fierce Tika of the high mountains, with whom they had an ancient feud; the reclusive Wana people of the deep swamps, rarely seen; tales of even more distant groups. He was opening a door for me, sharing knowledge of the wider world as the K'aru understood it. As I listened, a new sense of purpose, and a renewed sense of urgency, settled over me. The K'aru were not an isolated island. They were part of a larger, complex tapestry of peoples. And if I were to ever help them face the future I knew was coming, I would need to understand not just the K'aru, but all the threads of that tapestry. The Cycle of Gathering Clouds was aptly named. Storms were indeed gathering, both in the sky and, I suspected, in the wider world beyond the K'aru's familiar horizons. My own small weavings of trust and understanding felt more critical than ever.