Olomaru-mia was studying Picota. Olomaru-mia only knew what she looked like from her image reflected from water. The water image was never very clear. The girl had pale skin like hers, hair like hers, and eyes that weren’t brown. She clearly was attracted to Bul, and he to her. Olomaru-mia’s eyes locked onto Picota’s left hand. Colitoba, Olomaru-mia’s mother, had a knuckle that was frozen. Try as she might it would not bend. Olomaru-mia had the same trait. And, she noticed, so did Picota. Olomaru-mia again felt the icy feel of the waterfall overspray. She had to be looking at her sister. Olomaru-mia felt that the winds of change were swirling around her. It was not a comfortable feeling, and she wondered whether it ever was comfortable when they blew. So much was awkward. While the icy feelings washed over her, little children were choosing to sit in her lap or lean against her shoulder. They distracted her back to her life with the Nola Nola and she responded to them as usual: tickling some, talking to some, hugging some, brushing through the hair of some with her fingers. Adults would ask her a question or say something to her. It was as if two different realities existed briefly, and it disturbed her. She was happy in her life.
The arrival of Bul and Picota came too late in the day to permit them to join that evening. Instead, the joining ceremony would take place the next day. Darkness had begun to descend on the little village. Mechalu came over to Linpint and Zamimolo.
“Would you like to accompany me on a hunt early tomorrow?”
“That sounds wonderful,” Ventumoko replied, assuming he was included, while Zamimolo and Linpint nodded their enthusiasm.
Immediately, Mechalu readjusted his thoughts to include Ventumoko. “Then, at first light we’ll go!” he said, glad to be going on a hunt. He decided to go to the mountains of the west since no one lived there and they only rarely hunted in that place.
Quiet settled on the village one hut at a time. The hut made for Zamimolo, Linpint, Ventumoko, and the two women of the People was large and as well done as the huts the Nola Nola used. After they left, Bul and Picota would use it.
Early, just before first light, Zamimolo had gotten up, unable to sleep. He went outside and climbed a gentle slope a little distance to the northwest behind the gathering place. There was a narrow path that looked to be an animal trail. Certainly it wasn’t one that was well traveled. He heard a noise behind him, and he slipped into the trees hoping to remain undetected. Zamimolo observed Mechalu walking quietly on the path. He had no weapons. He went to the end of the path, a large rock protruded from the land. It overlooked a deep valley. Mechalu stood on the edge of the rock promontory and began to sing. He moved his feet almost imperceptibly. He sang in words that Zamimolo had never heard from anyone. Zamimolo was utterly fascinated. He almost held his breath. Mechalu’s song took a while. He sang with his eyes closed and his arms raised to the sky. His head was elevated so that if his eyes were opened, he’d be looking at the sky. He sang in the spirit language of the Alitukit to their god of the sky. Their god, he was convinced, was the source of his great luck. Master Alikuat had taught him in his fourth year about their great serpent sky god. Students who weren’t Alitukit were not taught of this god. He never understood why Master Alikuat had taught him, but he was pleased with the great luck it brought him. He sang with his whole heart, carefully, so none other could observe. Then, when he finished, he fastened his opened eyes on the view of the sky and smiled. Mechalu finally lowered his arms, turned, and walked back down the path home. Zamimolo waited and then went back down the same path, but instead of turning off where Mechalu did, he walked further south and exited at a very different place.
At first light the hunters shrugged on their backpacks, secured their knives to their waistbands, picked up their spears and assembled at the gathering place. They headed to the mountains of the southwest. It was a bright day with no clouds. Gin and Mur of the Nola Nola decided to accompany them. As they approached the forested slope, the shadows brought a dark contrast to which their eyes had to adjust. There was the usual forest noise that indicated that the inhabitants knew people were entering their place, as alarms went out in warning.
The men were careful to step gently to avoid cracking twigs while they kept alert for snakes, spiders, and any other danger. They used their noses to smell for anything unusual. They looked in places where there were no leaves for tracks. At the top of the first hill, Mechalu gave a hand signal to halt. He pointed to a meadow at the top of the next hill. The men looked, but only Ventumoko could see the colorful creature walking man-like in that meadow. It was yellow and red and had a beak like an eagle, a beak large enough to be seen from a distance. He had never seen anything like it. The men squatted down to observe. Finally, Zamimolo and Linpint saw the object but their eyes were not sharp enough to see the detail. Whatever it was, it was big.
Mechalu was dumbfounded. “You won’t believe what we might kill!”
“What is that?” Ventumoko whispered.
“It’s a terror bird and it has some problem. Notice there are no other terror birds with it. They run in packs. This one keeps moving in circles. We might be able to kill it. No one among the Nola Nola has killed a terror bird in my lifetime. They are out of place to be here. They belong much farther to the south. Let’s go.”
Mechalu didn’t ask whether the others wanted to kill the terror bird, he just took command of the group of hunters. They all quickly stood up and followed him. They descended to the valley and quickly ascended the hillside to the meadow. The bird was still there. At the edge they squatted down and watched the bird carefully. Mechalu used his hand to show them to stay in position and be still. He stood with a slingshot at the ready. He flung some pebbles to the bird’s left. Clearly, the bird heard the sound. By doing this several times to the right and left of the bird, Mechalu and the hunters realized the bird could not see from its left eye. To see what was on the left required the bird to turn its head far to the left and possibly have to move its position as well. Anyone to the left of the bird had a reasonable opportunity to spear the bird. They realized its beak and the claws on its feet were something to be reckoned with.
Seen up close, Zamimolo and Linpint could see why they had been warned about the destructive capacity of these birds. Seeing one was something. Finding ten of them together, a human stood little chance against them—unless, as they’d been told, they could climb a tree. Now, there were six hunters and one terror bird. There was a definite chance of success.
Mechalu cleared the leaves off the dirt at their feet. He showed the position of the bird with a pebble. He showed a position to the right side of the bird. He pointed to himself. The men of the People were impressed that he put himself in the greatest way of harm. Then with pebbles, he showed each individual his position. Ventumoko, the least experienced hunter was placed on the bird’s left side between the legs and tail. Using hand signals, Mechalu showed how each would creep around the border of the meadow and then at his waving signal, they’d all begin a slow approach to the terror bird. Once he whistled, all were to shout and approach the bird for the kill. His request for questions yielded no response. He gave the signal to circle the border of the meadow.
As they began to circle the forest, the bird appeared somewhat anxious. It began to look around to see whether it could identify the environmental difference it detected. It lowered its head and swung it from side to side. It shook. Then, it began to rattle its beak by clamping the upper and lower parts of the beak together. The sound ran shivers down the backs of the men. The bird was preparing to defend itself or take the initiative to fight. So far they didn’t think the bird had seen them.
Linpint was in position and while crouched down he marveled at the bird. Its red and yellow plumage was extraordinary. The brownish red on its back was good camouflage. The red plumage of its chest and under wings, if those little appendages could be called wings, was a brilliant contrast. The bird could raise red and yellow feathers into a huge crown on its head or leave the feathers flattened, horizontal to
the ground. He knew the Kapotonoks stood in awe of these birds, and faced with just one, he did too.
Finally, all saw Mechalu waving. They began their approach. The bird spotted Mur. His position was just to the left of the front of the bird. The bird sprang into a run, clicking its beak loudly. Mur had never seen a terror bird, let alone had one charge him. He froze. His mind could not process fast enough the information needed to respond. While the bird charged, the men began to shout and follow, spears raised and ready. They raced to the bird and while the bird literally bit Mur in half ripping apart his midsection, every one of the men buried their spears deeply into the bird. They killed a terror bird at the loss of a man. There was no celebratory afterkill. The men went to Mur and determined he was in fact dead. Since, Ventumoko and Gin were the youngest of the men, they were given the grim task of carrying Mur’s body to the village for burial and calling the aid of other hunters to come butcher and carry home the meat for eating.
With great respect, Ventumoko and Gin carefully gathered the halves of Mur’s body and traveled as quickly as they could to comply with Mechalu’s orders. They both felt a strange combination of sadness at the loss of Mur mixed with amazement tinged with joy that they’d participated in a terror bird kill. They moved very quickly back to the village.
When they arrived back at the village, grieving began and a burial group was formed to dig a grave. The young men managed to get four other young men to bring their hunting gear to go with them to bring the meat to the village. It was early enough that the women hadn’t begun to cook meat for the evening meal, so they decided to wait for the bird meat. They spent the morning gathering greens and fruit to accompany the meat.
As Mechalu, Zamimolo, and Linpint stood by the terror bird, Zamimolo said, “I don’t know whether the Nola Nola collect trophies, but I would very much like for each of the People to have a claw from this bird. There are enough claws for each hunter to have one. It would make a good ornament to tie on a piece of leather around the neck.”
“I agree,” Mechalu said. “Let’s begin to cut them out now. I’ll gather for my people and you gather for yours.”
The men set about cutting claws from the bird.
Hunters returned with arms loaded with strong grass bags into which the meat could be put to make it easier to carry. By the time they arrived at the kill site, the bird had been bled and its gut removed. Carrion-eating birds were arriving drawn by the scent. Far in the distance, a long-tooth cat let out a horrible growling, screeching noise. The men knew they had limited time before there would be war for the remains of the bird. The hunters quickly carved off as much meat as would fit into the bags. Hunters would begin the trek home as soon as a bag was filled. They did not try to take all the meat from the bird—only what could be consumed by the Nola Nola and guests before it spoiled. The rest would feed wildlife in the forest. This went against what Zamimolo and Linpint had been taught, but this was a different land. Meat spoiled easier than back where it was colder and their caves made it possible to dry and keep meat well.
The hunters finally loaded meat into the last bag and they headed off as a group, leaving behind the great bird who lost his life because he lost his eye. As Zamimolo walked with the burden down the trail, he thought again that he was among the fortunate to see such a creature and participate in a kill. He in no way wanted to have the opportunity again. Zamimolo had seen what it did to Mur in the blink of an eye. The bird was truly well named.
Back in the village, Mur had been put to rest in the place of burial. The driftwood was his valor prize. He found it on an island in the western sea to which he’d swum to explore. It was shaped incredibly like the head of a seabird. The Chief placed it in Mur’s hand. The Chief spoke briefly about the man Mur was, and then the grave was covered and they returned to the village. When the hunters were all back, people gathered to hear the men tell of the hunt. Women took the meat, cleaned it, and put it on skewers to roast. There would be a feast that night despite the grieving. Picota had gone to be painted with dots by the women of the village.
Zamimolo noticed that Mechalu left for the little densely wooded hill that was part of the slope down to the sea. It was the place where Zamimolo had observed Mechalu singing before the light appeared on the day of the hunt. He decided to follow to see what he could see. He noticed that Mechalu walked up to the stone promontory. He watched as Mechalu raised his arms to the sky, shut his eyes, moved his feet slightly, and began to sing. He was fascinated. What Mechalu did was exactly what he’d done the last time he observed him. Zamimolo found the fire that had been kept an ember in his belly was expanding to flames. Here was this man who had stolen Olomaru-mia from him and her People. He brought her to this place where she had to adjust to a different life. Mechalu definitely had Olomaru-mia’s love now. However, despite her current happiness, Mechalu had hurt him, her, and the People by his selfish act of the past. Hatred rose from his gut and made a bitter taste in his mouth. He wondered how this man dared to exhibit such happiness, confidence, power, after having done what he did. Zamimolo hid carefully until Mechalu had returned home. Then, he turned and went back to the village trying to stifle the rage that was rising. Later when he saw Mechalu back in the village, Zamimolo walked back to the place he’d seen Mechalu singing. He stood on the same spot where Mechalu sang. Mechalu had stood at a dropoff that was far deeper than Zamimolo expected. Zamimolo realized that the drop was from their level almost to the level of the sea, as if a great shock had split off part of the land and changed a slope to a sheer drop. It unnerved him. He wondered why Mechalu chose that place to sing whatever song he sang. He wondered to whom the song was addressed and what it said.
The village gathered for the feast of terror bird. It had been cooking ever since the meat arrived and the people were eager to try this new meat. Only a few women were hidden away in the women’s hut, while Picota was being prepared for the joining ceremony. Ahma and Tuna carried food to those in the hut. All of the people enjoyed the meat, whether it was because of what it was or the way it was seasoned and the flavor of the meat itself, no one could say. It was just delicious. Of course, the starchy roots and the greens along with ripe fruit served with it added just the right mix. Nobody was doing much talking during the evening meal. They spent their time eating and returning for more.
Finally the joining ceremony began. Picota came out led by the women. She was wrapped in a beautiful, brightly colored feathered cape. Zamimolo and the other People were fascinated by the dots painted all over her face and legs, which was all they could see. The two had a brief joining ceremony conducted by Chief Uvela, where they agreed to remain together for life, and they left for their temporary hut. Despite the earlier burial, musicians brought their instruments and soon began to play and there was much music and dancing to celebrate the joining.
“Let’s try it,” Ventumoko said to Ahah, pulling her up by her hand.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she demurred to no avail.
Somehow the beat of the music pulled them in and they danced. There was no preplanned step to the dance of the Nola Nola. They did what the music led them to do. They could feel it leading, directing the movement of their bodies, arms, legs, and feet. The two dancers from the People fit well among the Nola Nola dancers. To the fascination of Linpint and Zamimolo, they danced unto each other as well as part of the group. There was light laughter as people who didn’t dance chatted among themselves. Off to the side, Olomaru-mia told stories to the children. Occasionally a child would drift off to dance and then return. Mechalu danced for a while and then he went to sit by Olomaru-mia. Zamimolo observed her stroking him, and his hands on her. Were it any other people on the world, he’d have smiled a knowing smile. For these two people, he could not smile.
Zamimolo intentionally began to drink more water than normal. As the Nola Nola began to head for their huts, he downed more water and headed for his hut. Linpint observed the behavior. At first Linpint thought he drank to be
sure to arise at first light, so they could get on the trek home. They knew how to find the village of the Southern Kapotonok by following the seashore, so the earlier they got up the better. The trek would take them days. But Linpint was troubled by something he could not fully grasp, so he also drank more water than normal.
A good while before first light, Zamimolo and Linpint awakened. Zamimolo took his spear and left the hut. He went to the place he exited the hill beyond where Mechalu would enter it. Zamimolo climbed the hill up the path he could just barely see. Linpint, without Zamimolo’s knowledge, followed him. Zamimolo hid off the path just before the promontory. He hardly breathed. Linpint saw him, having moved quickly not to lose sight of him. He hid lower down the path. In a short time Mechalu came up the path. He made noise that no hunter would make, not interested in game or feeling a need to conceal himself. He reached the promontory and began his song and dance. In extreme silence with sweat beading his forehead, Zamimolo swiftly crept up behind Mechalu, lifted his spear with both hands, and rammed him at the base of his skull, sending Mechalu flying over the dropoff. He went without a sound. Linpint was horrified. He watched Zamimolo, whose eyes were bulging, walk back down the path, spear in hand. He walked fast back to the hut. Linpint, who had come without a weapon, followed at some distance. He had learned what he came to learn, but not anything at all that he wanted to know. He stopped at the privy. He was sickened. Part of him understood the rage Zamimolo had carried for so long. Part of him could not fathom his carrying it for so long. He couldn’t grasp how Zamimolo could have acted on his rage. Had it, yes. But for so long? Acted on it after all that time? It was all wrong. Somewhere, he was convinced, there came a time for forgiveness. Something had gone terribly wrong. Zamimolo should have forgiven Mechalu long ago. Soon, they would arise to go home. Linpint longed for home. He had to adjust to what he’d seen. He struggled. His mind web wasn’t designed to work problems like this one.
Zamimolo’s Story, 50,000 BC: Book Three of Winds of Change, a Prehistoric Fiction Series on the Peopling of the Americas (Winds of Change series 3) Page 27