‘Spirits abound there, they say,
That haunt both night and day,
But let disbelief be our aide
For these spirits we have never seen,
Not in life nor in a dream.’
They turned up the Stommore
Then up the Bel Ami travelled more.
Into this fair place they came
And built their early village core
Around this sturdy door.
The Scribe gestured toward the heavy-timbered framing around the door of the bunker.
Over the ensuing centuries long,
Our ancestors created a society strong.
A society where all worked and learned
And built social wealth many days long
And even wrote this origins song.
Three times, the drum and the bell were sounded simultaneously, whereupon everyone chanted in unison, “We are Euromamo. We live by Euromamo values. Build social wealth and protect privacy.”
The Leader rose, “Thank you, Scribe, for reciting our ‘Origins Poem.’ It is inspiring, as always, to hear what our ancestors endured to reach this valley.
“As you know, fellow Euromamo, we have a battle scheduled with the Islamamo tomorrow in which we have important interests at stake. We expect that the battle will go according to the Rules of Warfare, but there’s always a chance that things will get out of hand. I remind you of the important role we’ve played in the adoption of the Rules in the rain forest. It’s important that we abide by the Rules tomorrow to reflect our continuing commitment to them. Live by Euromamo values.”
“Live by Euromamo values,” the room repeated in unison.
“Now that we have heard again the story of our origins, and have re-committed ourselves to the Rules of Warfare, let us feast on our traditional dish.”
Rick had been so preoccupied with the ‘Origins Poem’ that he hadn’t even smelled the cooking at the fire pit a short distance away from the bunker. The woman attending the bell rang it one final time to end the ceremony, whereupon the Euromamo began to file out outside. Rick remained in place but soon a young man came over to him.
“You may go get food now. It’s a special ritual dish that we always eat after hearing the ‘Origins Poem.’ Until you’ve finished your meal, you should remain quiet out of respect for our forebears.”
Outside in the twilight, Rick walked to the fire pit behind the others, trying to identify the scent of what was being cooked, and hoping that it was something familiar. The Leader walked by and sensed his curiosity.
“It’s eel stew and quite tasty,” she said. “Our forebears learned to enjoy this dish during their fight up river. They learned from one of the groups that they encountered how to catch them and prepare them, although our forebears skinned them and cut their heads off while most rain forest groups did not. Perhaps it was something from our forebears’ English heritage. In any regard, it was important nourishment for them at that time and has remained a favorite of ours ever since. There’s red and green capsicum in it to give it flavor.”
“Thank you, Leader. I am sure I will enjoy it,” Rick said, trying to be courteous. After a pause, he added, “I learned a lot about the Euromamo during the Ceremony and I appreciate being allowed to attend it. Now, I understand the slight accent I’ve heard in Euromamo speech.”
“Yes, it’s no surprise that we have a bit of England still there.”
“Something puzzles me, though. If your forebears came here in the 1750’s, and you’ve been isolated here since then, why don’t you sound more archaic, like the British did in 1750?”
“You’ll have to be the judge of how modern we sound, but I suspect that our accent has changed naturally with the passage of time. As you just said, the accent of the British has changed, and I am sure that of your country has as well. If our accent hadn’t changed, it would be unusual, I think.”
The stew proved to be tasty, as the Leader had promised. Rick reminded himself to concentrate on that and forget that the meat was from eels. The Euromamo, who had busied themselves in preparation for the Origins Ceremony, became quiet as they ate around the fire pit and calmly mingled around the bunker when they finished their stew. When Rick returned to the bunker, eight Euromamo men were inside and had begun to string their hammocks from the beams. One of them told Rick that it was time to retire for the evening as everyone should be rested for tomorrow’s battle. It was going to be a crowded night of sleeping.
As Rick crawled in his hammock, his thoughts turned to the upcoming battle.
In a few hours, I’m going to be near, or even in, a real battle between two native groups in the depths of the rain forest! What if the Euromamo lose? Will we be slaughtered? I remember professors saying that anthropologists had been killed in the field, although they seemed to mention it only in passing. After all, their goal is to get their students to complete the degree requirements. I can feel my heart beating heavily, but I’ve got to get to sleep.
O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain…. For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!
Mark Twain
CHAPTER 4
The Battle
“The sun is rising. It’s an important day for us and for the Rules,” said one of the Euromamo in the bunker. He was already dressed for the day in a leather loin cloth. Breakfast, or brekkers as one of the guards called it, was a nondescript cake of white starch, manioc Rick guessed, with an unusual, though savory gravy over it. While those in the bunker were eating, the Leader entered, confident and calm, and chatted with each person. Once everyone had finished breakfast, the Leader went to a chest, removed and donned a leather tunic with large blue discs painted on its front and back. She then moved to the head of the room and raised her arms, whereupon twelve of them rose together—ten men and two women.
“Euromamo, don your tunics,” said the Leader in a firm clear voice. “We do battle.”
Rick guessed that the twelve who had risen were the warriors for the battle; not many, it seemed, to protect the whole group. Two Euromamo removed a pile of white leather bibs from a trunk along the wall. Each of the twelve who had risen filed by in an orderly manner, took one of the bibs, put it on, and settled it into place. The bibs were identical, like team uniforms, and had a large blue circle on each front and back panel, just like the Leader’s tunic. The white and blue together reminded Rick of the brightness of European military uniforms before generals realized that they made good targets and changed to olive drab and camouflage. The colors were most unusual to wear into battle if one intended to hide.
Once the bibs were in place, the Leader approached each warrior, patting them on the shoulders. When the Leader finished her round of the room, the Euromamo warriors gathered in the center of the room and began clapping one another on the back, reminiscent of a sports locker room. They were bonding, including with the two female warriors, and were surprisingly upbeat for people about to go into battle. At the Leader’s direction, the warriors filed out of the hut through the crowd of Euromamo just outside. All villagers wore blue armbands. As they proceeded away from the bunker, Rick noticed a tall, slender, young man striding smoothly to his right. He was dressed neatly in clean leather garb and wore a vest similar to the Leader’s with about fifteen metal buttons.
“Hello, Rick,” he said, flashing a bright smile. “Let me introduce myself. I am John Eel Hunter.”
“Good to meet you, John. Interesting name,” commented Rick.
“It used to be just ‘Hunter’ but my great-grandfather was skilled at catching eels so the group added the middle name as an honor to the family. Here, put this band on your arm. You have to wear it through
out the battle to identify you as Euromamo. It’s a rule.”
Rick immediately did so.
“Tell me more about your name. I assume it’s automatically passed down through the family?”
“Not automatically. Every year, a member of the family has to catch an eel and bring it back to the group so we can retain the moniker. You have to work to retain honors in our society. The Leader asked me to accompany you today to answer any questions you might have and also, frankly, to make sure that your conduct is according to the Rules of Warfare and consistent with Euromamo values. Battles are formal affairs with us, thank goodness,” he said in a pleasant, well-modulated voice.
“Good. I don’t want to cause any problems,” Rick assured him.
“Thank you. Any questions on your mind thus far?”
“Do we have a general idea of where the forces are that we are going to fight?”
“We know exactly. We will meet them at one of our battlefields, the one we use for our conflicts with them,” John responded.
“How do you know that the battle will be fought there?”
“That’s where our battles with the Islamamo have been fought for decades.
“So you have prepared battlefields?” asked Rick.
“Yes. Four of them. They are located outside the valley, on the boundaries of our land—north, south, east, and west. Which one we use depends on which one is closest to group we are battling.”
“What if a battle breaks out away from a battlefield, for example, if another group sneaks into your territory and harms you? Don’t you fight them where they are?” asked Rick.
“Certainly, but that happens only rarely. Fighting has changed fundamentally since we and our neighbors adopted the Rules of Warfare in the late nineteenth century.”
“Rules of Warfare. Very orderly battles you have here,” Rick observed, smiling.
“As orderly as we can make them,” said John, seriously.
“I see.”
“To get to today’s battlefield, we’ll climb the walls of the valley over there,” John said, pointing to his left, “and then walk toward the Islamamo. It’ll take us about two hours total to get there.”
The walk to the battlefield took about as long as John had predicted.
“John, it just occurred to me. You start battles at a certain time?” asked Rick. “How do you know the other side won’t jump the gun, as it were?”
“Because we and the Islamamo have agreed when to start.”
“An agreement with your enemy? That is very different from the way we do things where I am from,” said Rick.
“I know.”
“How do you time it without clocks?”
“Although we don’t have clocks, sticks and shadows work well enough.”
The Euromamo fell silent as they stopped in the tree-line just short of a large open field. The Leader walked with great dignity to the middle of the field, folded her arms across her chest, and stared at the tree-line across the way. She stood there only briefly when a sole figure emerged and strode deliberately toward her. He had a brown circular disc on the front of his white tunic. As he approached the Leader, she uncrossed her arms and held her staff upright by her side.
“It’s the Islamamo Chief,” John said to Rick.
The Chief stopped when he was about five feet from the Leader. They glared at one another, tapped the butts of their staffs on the ground three times, then turned and went back to their respective sides. From the ends of the field, four figures wearing black leather suspenders marched in step to the center. Two of them carried ten or fifteen small leather pouches each. Half of the pouches were blue and half were brown.
“Who are they?” Rick asked.
“They are the Rules People,” he replied. “They are from groups not involved in this battle, so they are neither Euromamo nor Islamamo. Uninterested groups provide the Rules People for battles to assure a fair outcome and faithful adherence to the Rules.”
“What’s in the bags?” Rick asked.
“Paint darts,” John replied.
“Are they the famed South American poisoned darts, tipped with curare?”
“No. Not curare or any other harmful substance. A fundamental goal of the Rules is to avoid injuries, and curare darts would obviously cause injuries. The darts we use are blunted and tipped with small thin animal tissue bags filled with dye. The bags burst when they hit someone, leaving a dye mark on them.”
“I see.”
The Rules People lifted their arms, whereupon the warriors from each side emerged from the tree-line. The Islamamo warriors wore brown circles on the fronts and backs of their white tunic tops. Each warrior—Euromamo and Islamamo—carried a blowpipe and each had a leather face mask that had narrow slits for the eyes. The sides filed past the two Rules People who held the leather bags and each warrior took a bag with his side’s color. The bags had straps that the warriors threw over their shoulders, letting the bags hang at their sides. They donned their masks and then quickly dispersed on the battlefield. When the Rules People lowered their arms, the warriors immediately began to move around the battlefield, slowing down only to grab darts from their leather pouches. Without stopping, they stuffed the darts in the mouth-end of their blowguns and blew them toward the enemy. The movement on the field was vigorous and intense, beyond what one would expect in a mere game for glory and trophy. It was serious business. Then, at once, about half of the Euromamo warriors placed their blowguns at their mouths.
“Only some are firing,” said John. “This is a tactic to distract the enemy. Of course, all of our warriors could fire, but each side has only a limited number of paint darts.”
“Limited. Who establishes the limits?” asked Rick. “That would seem to be important in determining the outcome of the battles.”
“It is. The Rules People decide how many paint darts each group gets based on their assessment of what the combatants’ relative strength would be if they fought violently rather than through paint darts. That is why the Rules People controlled the bags containing the paint darts and handed them out before the battle. Without such a system, stronger groups would not agree to resolve differences through paint darts.”
During the next volley of darts, a Euromamo hit one of the Islamamo warriors in the second rank. The stricken warrior looked down, saw the red color on his tunic, and immediately crumpled to the ground where he stood. The nearest Rules Person confirmed that he had been hit. He ordered the battle to cease while a team of Islamamo came onto the battlefield with a litter and carried him away.
“What happened to him?” asked Rick.
“He was wounded.”
“How do you know?”
“The red color tells it all,” replied John.
“He seems fine.”
“He was wounded under the Rules,” John replied calmly. “He was hit with one of these,” he said as he held up a small dart with a liquid-filled bag over the end of it.
Rick took it and squeezed it between his fingers. The small bladder immediately ruptured, coating his fingers with a bright-red dye.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know they broke that easily.”
“That’s the point. If you were on the field, you would be regarded as wounded.”
“So no one gets seriously injured?” Rick asked.
“The darts sting a little, and you can get a small bruise if they hit you straight on, but usually there are no injuries at all. By no means are warriors injured as seriously as getting hit by a poison dart, an arrow, or a spear. The greatest danger is to the eyes which is why all warriors wear masks with slot eye openings.”
“But if he isn’t actually hurt, why is he carried off the field?” asked Rick.
“Pursuant to the Rules, we treat those hit by red darts as if they are actually injured.”
“So it’s a battle in which some warriors get symbolically wounded but not actually wounded?” asked Rick.
“It’s a great advance, we think, in how warf
are is conducted. Others warriors are symbolically killed in our battles, just like those who are hit by red darts are symbolically wounded.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
“Through the color of the die. We use two colors in addition to red: black symbolizes death, and yellow symbolizes light wounds. Each side gets some of each color in their dart bags.”
A few minutes later, a Euromamo warrior was struck by a black dart, and it was confirmed by a Rules Person. A groan went up from the Euromamo who were observing from the side of the battlefield. Immediately, a group of them put black hoods over their heads, proceeded solemnly to the stricken warrior, and carried his prostrate body from the battlefield on a litter. After he was removed from the battlefield, he did not get up, as Rick thought he might, but remained motionless on the ground except for his chest moving as he breathed. Each time someone was hit during the battle, a Rules Person at the far end of the field drove sticks in the ground. They had little flags in the group’s color at the top for all to see.
“What’s the difference between the lightly wounded and the seriously wounded?” asked Rick.
“The lightly wounded can come back into the battle after the next point is scored but the seriously wounded cannot.”
“But the dead cannot come back to battle either, so what’s the difference between the dead and the seriously wounded?” he asked.
“The dead count more. Four sticks are driven into the ground for each dead and only two for each seriously injured. Light wounds count one. The number of sticks tells the story.”
Rick glanced toward the end of the field at the Rules Person who tapped down the scoring sticks. As the wounded and dead were carried from the field, warriors who had been further back on the field rushed forward to fill their positions. There were two charges, one by the Euromamo and one by the Islamamo, across the middle of the field into enemy territory, but both attacks were repelled after fierce fighting. Rick noticed that a section at each end of the battlefield was marked off by a light-colored line, so he asked about that.
The Blue Disc Page 4