Zan-Gah: A Prehistoric Adventure

by Allan Richard Shickman

  7

  THE WASP

  PEOPLE

  A mountain is always much farther away than it looks. The two boys walked until they were weary, and yet the hills seemed no closer than when they started. Whole days went by and the land gradually rose, gradually changed from red spotted with green to green only occasionally spotted with red. Long uphill travel brought about this transformation, during which time Zan and Rydl had the usual problems of finding food and shelter. Zan was able to bring down another rabbit with his sling, to the wonder of Rydl, who tried the weapon but became bored with it when he was unable to control it. Then, when halfway up one of the hills, Zan saw something on the other hill that made him look again. Standing on a large, naked rock and silhouetted against the sky was a sight that overwhelmed Zan with joy. It was Dael!

  “Dael, it’s me! It’s Zan,” he yelled, and rushed toward the place. Dael did not respond at all, but stood as if he had turned to stone. Zan rushed breathlessly toward him and called again, his young friend lagging well behind. Only the echo responded. For a time Zan lost sight of him. Then he reappeared and Zan called out yet again. After a quarter of an hour Zan suspected the truth, and as he came closer finally accepted that what he had seen was but a tower of stone, the topmost formation resembling Dael’s globe of hair which was always recognizable from a distance. It looked like Dael. It looked like Zan himself. But it was only a bitter disappointment. Yet the incident was fortunate, for as he resumed his upward path he came to a ridge beyond which was a wonderful, unexpected vision.

  What had been completely hidden from view until he had reached the top of the ridge was a lake, crystal, pure and beautiful as any dream. It was surrounded by lush trees, many of which, as in a garden, bloomed rose, snow white, and lilac, so that the air was fragrant with their nectar. Green with sap, a weeping willow bent its luminous branches toward the water to be reflected in its stillness; and a deer drank peacefully in the distance, unaware or unconcerned with Zan’s presence. Halfway across, populated by a cluster of young white birches, was a small island at the shore of which stood a slender and statuesque white egret. Moving with natural elegance, the bird suddenly rose in wonderfully graceful flight, its broad, black-tipped wings low and silent over the water, which gave back the gliding reflection. Rising high over this fair haven was a granite cliff, still sunny. Its stone, pink in the light and violet in the shade, reflected on the fractured surface of the water with gorgeous multiplicity. From the top, a stream of water plunged fifty feet to strike the far side of the lake with thundering commotion—although the sound came softly to Zan’s ears, for it was some distance away. Zan did not so much hear the waterfall as see the sun’s glint upon it, and the glorious arched rainbow generated by the mist—raised when water pummels rock and dashes into spume.

  Zan had never seen a place so lovely. Indeed, it was the first time in his young life that he was even aware that the world he lived in could be lovely. For him nature was harsh and threatening—an enemy to struggle against and survive within. How different it seemed now! He thought he might live happily forever in this beautiful, peaceful refuge. Soon the trees would be heavy with fruit, and in the meantime he could eat the blossoms. He could see fish in the clear water, and still the deer drank and grazed in the distance. “Rydl! Look! Rydl!” he called, and the doe looked up with ears outspread. A bright red bird, startled by his voice, flitted across his vision. “Rydl, where are you?” But Rydl, as Zan soon realized, was gone.

  “He will be back,” Zan thought. “He is probably wandering and exploring.” Rydl was a lad who could not stay still for a moment. Instead of searching for him, Zan decided to take a swim. It had been a hot day, and the clear blue water invited him. How delicious it was to plunge under the surface! Below and clearly visible, green growth rose toward him and the fish gaped in wonder. He could not hope to catch anything while swimming, but he noticed a number of holes on the bottom where the water was shallower and the plants did not obscure his view. There he waded waist deep, and looking carefully at a hole on the muddy floor, submerged his head and thrust his hand into the opening. He was not at all surprised, and was quite ready, when the sizable jaws of a catfish clamped down on his whole hand! No doubt laying eggs under the water, the infuriated fish was defending its haunt with instinctive ferocity. Zan pulled his hand back, fish and all, and held it thrashing between his legs until he could grasp it by the gill with his other hand. Then with some effort he dragged it toward the shore while it beat against the water with all its might. Zan put it on the ground where it helplessly panted and pounded its tail for a while. It was almost as large as Zan’s thigh, an ugly, whiskered creature, with bulging eyes. Zan examined his hand to see how much damage the fish’s jaws had done. A little blood, that was all. Thal had taught Zan to catch fish in this way, and Zan was very good at it, but this was the largest either he or his father had ever landed. At this lake he could catch one every day if he liked! He cleaned it and began to build a fire.

  “Fear the spirits most when they are excessively kind.” Zan never got to taste his fish. As he was bending down to blow on the tinder, his hands and knees on the ground and his face low, he looked up for a moment and saw a number of legs around him. He had been encircled by fierce, spear-bearing warriors! Forgetting his fire and his fish, Zan rose to face them. They were a strong and manly people, not slender like his own, but healthy, tall, and full-fleshed. It was plain that they ate well. Their strong limbs were decorated with swirling designs, but what was most strange was that they had bright red swirls painted around their eyes, which made them appear ferocious and magical. Every man held a spear, and each spear was tipped with a sharp blade on which there was a reddish substance. Zan knew instantly that these were the wasp people with their poisoned spears. He had found his destination—or it had found him!

  “Why are you here?” one of them said in the foreign, grumbling voice that Zan only barely understood. Zan began to reply, but none of the men could tell what he was saying, so they just went on talking without regarding him: “We sold you to the Noi and told you to stay with them. You do not belong here. Why do you return?”

  Were they crazy? They were acting as if they knew him—and suddenly Zan realized that they thought he was Dael! It was Dael they had sold and sent away to the Noi, whoever they were. Never did Zan have to think more quickly! He had first to stay alive, then to find out who and where these Noi were, and finally to make his escape in order to recover Dael—if Dael were still alive. Clever speech would be no good to him now, and in a moment of invention Zan decided to take the opposite course. He would be stupid. He would garble his speech in order to make himself even more difficult to understand. He would look at his feet, shuffle, and scratch. He would mumble to himself. And he would pretend that he could understand nothing at all, let alone their language. Apparently they did not remember much of Dael, and who knew but that they considered Dael a fool too since he could not speak as they did.

  The wasp men took his fish for themselves, tying Zan up and thumping him along with the butt end of their spears. They made no more attempt to communicate with the “idiot,” and brought Zan to their camp. His spear and bag were taken too, as prizes, but luckily he had his sling wrapped around his waist, and no one suspected that it was a weapon. Zan deliberately twitched as he walked, mumbling audibly. Then he saw Rydl lagging behind. It was he who had betrayed him to them, had shown them where he was. Zan thought of telling the wasp men that he had brought Rydl back to them, but he soon saw that they considered him to be Rydl’s kidnapper, and he decided to remain silent according to his plan.

  Zan held one advantage over his captors. He could understand their speech and they did not know it. Moreover, by pretending to be foolish he might cause them to be careless about him. Rydl had not told his people much, nor did they seem inclined to listen to a mere child.

  When they arrived at their camp, Zan observed with wonder the way they lived. Arranged in a circle were some bul
bous shelters shaped of twigs, bark, and mud daubing—just as Aniah had described them. But looking up, Zan realized that most of their round, hollow dwellings were suspended in the trees, high above the ground. These structures looked like, and evidently were inspired by wasps’ nests, especially as each was entered through a round hole just large enough to admit one man. Excellent climbers, the wasp people were as much at home in the trees as on the ground. They could suddenly leap or swing onto any intruder—or they could retreat into their hives for defense. Zan soon grasped how warlike these people were. No man went anywhere without a spear in his hand, and always it was tipped with a poisoned blade.

  In time Zan learned more, for it was his fate to spend many months with them. The men spent a good deal of their time in councils of war or, dressed as wasps, in grotesque rituals to prepare themselves for battle. In these they danced and chanted in unison: Ah ah UH! Ah ah UH! They emitted a loud, warlike buzzing sound and brandished their red-tipped spears, so that in a single line, as in a dance, every man raised his weapon with the same hand, at the same angle, and at the same time. The impression was not so much of many men as of one giant, poisonous, hissing centipede.

  Zan soon understood that there were other waspclans, and that they were constantly at war with each other. Indeed, they were almost at war with themselves! They were a quarrelsome and boastful people, ready to fight over any supposed insult, bent on conquest and preoccupied with revenge. As with his own people, the clans never intermarried, each one considering any such connection with the others to be debasing and dishonorable. Volatile and extreme in their natures, they were one day on their faces in terror of their gods, and the next day blaspheming them, stealing, and even committing murder—overwhelmed with dark and destructive passions. Gradually Zan discovered the nature of these wildmen, and pondered in his heart how he and his own tribesmen might use his newfound knowledge of their old enemies.

  When Zan was first taken captive he was immediately bound, his arms cruelly tied to a pole behind his back. He was put in the charge of a youth named Naz. Zan grew to hate this fellow more than he had ever hated anyone in his life. Naz was tall, muscular, and almost a grown man. He had hair of a strange yellow color like dried grass, which spilled in softer growth down his cheeks. His deeply set blue eyes were his most handsome feature, but they maintained that cruel squint which lets in what it wants to see and keeps out the rest. He looked on Zan with a steely glance. Zan was smaller than him, appeared to be unable to speak, and seemed mentally afflicted too. Right away Naz conceived a supercilious contempt for Zan-Gah. He prodded him with unnecessary roughness, and when he discovered Zan’s scars he could only ask with scorn whether the girls had scratched him. Rather than replying, Zan bent abjectly and rolled his eyes, letting his tongue escape from his mouth as if there were something seriously wrong with him. Words of scorn had hardly come to Naz’s lips when he received from Zan-Gah a swift kick in the groin which left him moaning on the ground. Zan resumed his pretense of foolishness and the other men laughed uproariously, a couple of them giving Naz an additional kick in the backside, while the girls present tittered. Naz was a good-looking young man (as he well knew), and used to female admiration. Ordinarily they would laugh at his every word, and laughed now too. Naz could not forget his humiliation, and in future days never missed an opportunity to afflict the stranger boy in his keeping.

  Zan was put to work within a hut that was used by the women, while Naz kept guard outside. Because Zan made no attempt to escape, and seemed dull of mind, the strictness of his guard soon was relaxed. Naz was bored with his assignment, either taking his displeasure out on Zan or ignoring his duty altogether. Yet Zan postponed flight because he knew that there was much to be learned from his enemies. In the watch of the women if not of Naz, he was considered to be safely in keep, working on their chores. He was made to build and attend fires, to grind and boil seeds or shell nuts, and to otherwise prepare food. He cleaned and roasted game, and softened the skins by chewing them. Any unpleasant task was apt to be given to him.

  As with his own people, there was a distinct line between the work of men and women, and as with his own, there was deep shame in crossing the well-established separation. Zan had always held the labor of women in high respect, necessary and gratefully received by everybody; yet his tribesmen would no sooner do it themselves than seek to bear a child, which was the special gift of women. Among the wasp people too, it was well understood that Zan was humbled as much as one of his feeble intelligence could be. In their eyes he was both weak of mind and deprived of any masculinity, and therefore lacking in the least dignity. Eventually, however, it was recalled that “the idiot” was a good fisherman, so he was permitted to go to the lake sometimes, under Naz’s unpleasant guard. Zan was the one who was made to gut the fish, whoever caught them, using a flint blade which was always taken from him when he was done.

  Zan accepted in silence the humiliation put upon him; he was not as ready to take abuse from Naz. But dull and stupid as Zan pretended to be, he noticed that Naz avoided coming very close to him. Naz had learned that lesson! One time, indeed, Naz had poked him in the thigh with the point of his spear, more for fun than for any reason. The point had barely penetrated his skin, but the wound was as painful and disabling as a serpent’s sting. It both hurt and deadened, so that Zan could hardly move his leg. Naz gleefully watched as Zan groaned and stumbled, thrusting the poisoned spear repeatedly in Zan’s direction as if to wound him yet again. The women came to protect Zan, as often they had before, sharply reproving Naz for taking advantage of a feeble-minded child. The venom hurt terribly for about half an hour, then gradually wore off, leaving its victim as he had been before. Now, for what it was worth, Zan had a pretty good idea of the nature of this weapon. In hunting, the venom itself did not kill the deer, but rather incapacitated it so that it could be taken even if it was only slightly wounded. Zan longed to learn the secret of this potion, and bided his time that he might. The poison was used exclusively by the males of the tribe, but its preparation was in the hands of the women. And soon it was in his hands too, for he was ordered one day to grind the berries from which it was made. Later on he got to accompany the women gatherers. It was a small, inedible red berry which he had often seen in his own region, although no one at home had guessed its value. With this knowledge the clans could stand up to the wasp people or any invader, and could bring down game more easily too.

  After a while Naz was relieved of the duty (which he much resented) of guarding “the idiot.” A woman named Hurnoa, who disliked any disorder or nonsense, spoke out with her characteristic firmness in Zan’s defense. Perhaps she foresaw that he and Naz would end by killing one another if left in each other’s presence for long. Anyway, all but Naz had grown tired of humiliating him. It had been settled for good that Zan was stupid and incapable of doing real harm, so he was largely ignored. Still Zan awaited the right moment, allowing chances of escape to pass. He had a degree of freedom but did not yet use it to get away.

  Zan did make preparations, however. He began hiding things—a blade, a supply of dry food, and a spear which he had taken when no one was watching. Zan’s strategy had been a success. He had put his enemies to sleep by acting dull and harmless, and now he could get away with a good deal. When things were missed, no one suspected him of taking them. He had even spirited away a supply of the wasp men’s poison for future use! He had managed to hide some items outside of the village by a large rock near his fishing site, but the spear and poison he kept at hand under his bedding. Meanwhile he still had his sling wrapped around his waist, and no one noticed or cared. All of this prudent care and stealth did him no good, however.

  Zan stayed with his enemies for over a year. He knew their language thoroughly, although he would not speak more than a word or two lest he lose his reputation for stupidity. He could learn nothing of the Noi, who held Dael, and dared not ask, although it was crucial knowledge if he were to find his brother. Then one day, wh
en he knew he must soon flee without the information he sought, he heard the elders talking excitedly about him. Moving as close as he could, he understood the anger of their words more than the words themselves, which were out of earshot. He sensed a new peril, for he knew that things had not been going well for the wasp people. Food had become scarce, as he could clearly see from his own decreased rations. The rains had stopped and the lake was drying around its margins where he had formerly been able to take fish at will. Worse, a strange sickness was spreading among them and several people had died. The chiefs, unable to account for the series of disasters, conceived the superstitious idea that “the idiot” had brought them bad luck. Thanks to Zan’s fakery, his very glance now seemed baleful and unwholesome. Zan could barely hear what was being said, but he heard enough to realize that he was in danger.

  The next morning, even as Zan was planning his escape, they came for him. With the sort of roughness he had not suffered for some time they prodded him along to a high place on a mountainside. It took most of the day to get there. Zan looked for an opportunity to run, but he was surrounded by several armed men. Remembering what Rydl had told him, that prisoners were hurled to their deaths, Zan wondered with fear whether they intended to slay him in this same terrible way. They were taking him higher and higher for no apparent reason. Then, looking around for any escape at all, he spied Rydl trailing behind. Rydl was avoiding being seen by dodging from one rock or tree to another, peeking out as if he were playing one of his games. What did he want, who had so long ignored his existence—to witness his murder?