When the People re-gathered, Ki’ti began.
“This is a very, very old story. It is the story of Kukuk-na and Timkut-na. Timkut-na and Kukuk-na were hunters. They had trekked far looking for meat to feed the People. It was a time of drought and meat was not easy to find.”
“The men went to places where they had known deer to gather. There were none. They went to places where trees grew in groves providing shade from the sun for animals. There were no animals there. They went to the highlands where they’d found grazers. There were none. They went to the lowlands and found nothing. Hunger was everywhere, but they were determined that they would not let their People starve, if they could help it.”
“Kukuk-na and Timkut-na were exhausted. They looked for a place to sleep. Wisdom was sucking color from the land fast. Below them was a grove of trees and they stumbled towards it. Timkut-na was the first to arrive. He noticed a spring that had not dried up. He kneeled and began to drink, for his thirst was great. Suddenly he felt a hit on his hand. A serpent had been harboring in the grass beside him, and it bit his hand. He noticed it was a cobra. He cursed himself for being so careless. Kukuk-na arrived. He saw what had happened, and Timkut-na showed him the direction the cobra had gone. Kukuk-na found the snake and killed it. He looked for others and found none. There was no cure for the bite. Either Timkut-na would live or die.”
“Kukuk-na tried to make a lean-to from what was available. He helped Timkut-na put out his sleeping skins so he could lie down. He made a fire. He handed Timkut-na a piece of jerky, but the hunter declined. He wasn’t hungry. Kukuk-na ate it. Timkut-na’s hand was beginning to hurt severely. He became nauseated and vomited, but there was nothing in his stomach to get rid of but a little water. His eyelids were drooping and his hand and arm were swelling. He was in obvious pain. Kukuk-na was agonizing over his friend. He kept the fire going and watched over Timkut-na carefully. Timkut-na slept fitfully. When Wisdom restored color to the land, Kukuk-na saw that Timkut-na was struggling to breathe. He saw him breathe his last.”
“Kukuk-na took the digging tool Timkut-na carried in his backpack and dug the best he could to bury his friend. When he had him in the hole and covered by dirt, he still needed to find more dirt to cover him. He did not want any animal to dig the man up. Slowly he brought more dirt and covered the body. Then he found rocks and covered the mound. In the distance he heard what sounded like voices. He thought it was just his being alone and starving that caused him to hear things that weren’t there.”
“Kukuk-na sat by the lean-to and wept. He wept because his People hungered. He wept because there were no animals to feed his People. He wept because he and Timkut-na were starving. He wept because Timkut-na died. He wept because he was alone.”
“The voices came closer. Kukuk-na didn’t notice. It was two hunters from his People. They had found meat. They came to call the hunters home.”
“This story is the reason we always check thoroughly for snakes and spiders when we look at a place to camp or live. Even if you are terribly tired, you must look to be certain that the place you are planning to stay is free of harmful living things. Timkut-na died because his thirst was more important than his safety.”
The cave was totally quiet except for the cracking of the fire. People got up slowly and headed for their sleeping skins and covers.
When Wisdom returned color to the land, Gumokut, Flinee, Lolmeg, and Maylue were at the entryway evaluating for the last time the things they carried with them. They had season-of-cold-days garments, including head and hand coverings. They had good sleeping skins and covers. They had a good supply of dried meat and some boar intestines filled with rendered fat, tiny bits of seasoned meat, and some dried blueberries—all of which had been well mixed. Tongip-na and Untuk-na were up, saying their farewells and asking to have messages delivered to certain people back there. Ki’ti stood at the entryway. As they moved towards the outside, she put her hands on their shoulders and said, “Go with Wisdom.”
Flinee hugged Ki’ti tight and said, “Always stay with Wisdom.”
Ki’ti smiled. “I shall,” she replied. Ki’ti watched them until they disappeared from sight in the valley. She had sorrowful feelings. She was troubled that not all or any might make it home.
The men who would gather to plan a better use of numbers had decided to put on their warm garments to go to the stone structure up the hill to avoid the noise of the cave. There they would build a small fire to stay warm. Untuk-na had asked Nanichak-na and Arkan-na to watch over Ki’ti while he was gone. They agreed.
The men went up the hill as they got ready, not all at once. Tongip-na and Untuk-na were the first up there, and they gathered what wood they could find on the way up to avoid depleting the pile of wood they gathered for the home cave. They knocked off as much white rain as possible to reduce the smoke it would make. Untuk-na had brought the ember and some mosses to get the fire started.
When all had assembled, Manak-na began by summarizing the three different approaches to counting they had. Most of the People were curious, eager to learn more about Hahami-na’s approach.
Hahami-na marked on the wall with a piece of charcoal:
He put his left little finger on the top horizontal line. “This is zero,” he said. Then, he put his left finger next to the little finger on the vertical line next to it and said, “This is the count for this one.” Then he put his middle finger on the next vertical line and said, “This is the count for this finger.” He then showed that he had a finger and thumb to represent all the marks on the first line, including zero.
“For the second and following lines, you have a vertical line and a horizontal line for the little finger. You would need names for all the lines but a single name for each of the vertical and horizontal lines when they are used together.” Hahami-na looked around to see whether the People understood.
Tongip-na said, “Then, if we use the numbers in my language it would be zero, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and the number Manak-na gave yesterday, nine.”
Hahami-na nodded, glad that someone understood.
“This is confusing me,” Sum-na said.
“What’s confusing?” Tongip-na asked.
“I just don’t understand why this is better than what we do now.”
“Have any of you who use fingers for numbers ever had to lay a burden down to show the number? Naming the numbers frees your hands,” Tongip-na tried to explain.
Slamika-na said, “To me it’s confusing because the numbers on the side seem to grow as you go down.
“They don’t seem to, they do get larger, because the numbers get larger.” Tongip-na could see it all so clearly. He couldn’t understand why anyone had difficulty.
Patiently, Hahami-na went through the numbers again.
“So, if I understand,” Untuk-na said, “The bottom line, where it shows three vertical lines and a horizontal line, is what we would show as three full hands?”
“That’s exactly right!” Hahami-na exclaimed with relief. Some were getting the idea.
“Why wouldn’t it be the whole of the bottom line?” Slamika-na asked.
“It’s because of the zero,” Hahami-na explained.
“Oh, now I understand,” Sum-na said. “What was the name of the number on the far right of the top line?”
Manak-na said, “Nine.”
“I can say the first line,” Sum-na said. “Tell me if I’m right. Zero, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.”
“That’s right.”
Sum-na continued, “What name will we give the number that is a single vertical line and a horizontal line?”
Hahami-na said, “Ten.” He remembered the numbers Manak-na used when he explained his approach to counting mixed with Tongip-na’s.
“You’ve already named these, haven’t you?” Tongip-na asked Hahami-na.
Hahami-na lowered his head. “I’ve been thinking about this for a very long time. Ever since I learned t
he names for the Mol numbers. Yes, I have names for the numbers.”
“Will you tell us your names and point to the number on the wall?” Slamika-na asked. He really wanted to hear the names of all of them.
Hahami-na started with the first line, “Zero, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.” Then he pointed to the next line, “Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.” Then he went to the next line, “Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine.” Then he went to the next line, “Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine.”
“After the second line, it’s easy,” Slamika-na said. Why did you give all the second line numbers different names?
“I don’t know. That’s just what I did.” Hahami-na looked confused. “I didn’t really mean to share this, just use it because it was easier for me.”
“Hahami-na,” Untuk-na asked, “If you wanted to show ten tens, what would the number be?”
Hahami-na pointed to one-zero. “Ten,” he said and then pointed to the next line, “twenty, thirty,” then he pointed to space under the lines he’d drawn, “forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred. Ten tens is one hundred.”
“You left out the first line, Hahami-na,” Tongip-na said.
“That is because I was counting by ten numbers to reach ten tens.”
“Oh, I understand!” Tongip-na exclaimed. “Why did you keep this to yourself? This is wonderful.”
“It is very useful. I agree with Tongip-na,” Manak-na said. “I propose that we use this as a means for counting by all of us. I suggest that Tongip-na or Hahami-na propose it at the men’s council.”
Hahami-na spoke quickly, “Let Tongip-na do it. He can speak better at meetings than I can.”
“I’ll do it, but first I want to stay here long enough to learn the names of the numbers to one hundred.”
“Wait,” Sum-na said. “Is it difficult to count to one hundred tens?”
Hahami-na looked up. “No, it’s not hard. You simply say, one hundred and one and then go throught the numbers saying one hundred in front of each number. Then, two hundred and one and two hundred and two, and so on. Then three hundred and one, four hundred and one, five hundred and one, and six hundred and one, seven hundred and one, eight hundred and one, nine-hundred and one. One hundred tens is one thousand.”
“I, too, want to stay to learn all the numbers to one thousand!” Slamika-na said enthusiastically.
“I’ll stay here as long as it takes,” Hahami-na offered.
The men stayed there until they could all count in words to one hundred, and by hundreds to one thousand. After using the numbers to learn, it became familiar to them. They liked it. It was a combination of counting from the People and the former Mol with the zero from Hahami-na. It was something new made by the new People. They could see uses for it. They could count by tens! They could envision doubles and triples. Two hundred compared to eight hundred gave them a good sense of number comparison. Eleven enemy warriors gave them a good sense of the relationship to their twenty. Three coconuts were heavier than one. Hahami-na’s spoken approach to counting made sense. It was orderly. It gave them a convenience for comparison.
Just before the men left, Untuk-na said, “I would like to say something to Wisdom before we leave. I think what we have just done is awesome.”
All the men nodded assent.
“Wisdom,” Untuk-na said, “Thank you for being with Hahami-na and making it possible for him to develop the numbers in a way we can use them for our benefit. Thank you for encouraging him to share. This should make a big difference in our lives to use this new way of looking at numbers. Help us to use it well.”
Hahami-na blushed at the thought of being used by Wisdom to bring something so special to his People. He lowered his head. The men extinguished the fire and returned to the home cave.
Tiriku came rushing into the home cave. He was twirling in circles and pawing his muzzle. Ki’ti was alarmed and picked up the dog and carried him to Likichi.
“Something is wrong!” she called to Likichi the moment she found her.
Likichi took Tiriku and put him on the ground so she could observe.
“Pick him up and open his mouth, so I can see inside,” Likichi told Ki’ti.
Ki’ti picked up her dog, put him on one of the rocks in the home cave, and opened his mouth.
Likichi looked inside. She reached her fingers into the dog’s throat, making him gag, but she continued until she had a good grasp on the bone she’d seen in Tiriku’s throat. She pulled it out. A little blood was on one end of the bone.
“There you are, Wise One. He had a bone stuck in his throat.”
Ki’ti impulsively hugged Likichi. “Thank you so much. I had no idea what was wrong with him.”
“You’re welcome,” Likichi said with a smile. “He’ll be fine now.”
Still outside, Manak-na struggled. He had seen Domur as his anchor, one who kept him from being blown about by life’s winds. The idea that his adventuring might cause her to renounce their joining and enable her to join with another was an idea that had never crossed his mind web. She could, he reasoned, even choose to do that if he were not adventuring. He climbed to the top of the hill. It was slippery. As he crested the hill, he had a magnificent view, but he hardly saw it. He went down the other side of the hill and, when he thought he had gone far enough, he let out a scream of agony meant only for his ears.
He lay there in the white rain. How could he attend a meeting to plan rationally the People’s new approach to numbers just a while ago and be so emotionally ripped and torn at another moment. Is my rational mind web split from my emotional belly? he asked himself. How can I be two separate beings, one who functions well and the other who is like the jelly fish we saw in the salt water. How can this be? Am I no longer whole?
As he lay there he realized he had to choose in the future between Domur and adventuring. Both made him feel wonderful—a real man. Both had rewards, but different ones. Unless Domur joined him in adventuring, the only choice was Domur or adventuring. He realized by her words that he had hurt Domur terribly. He wondered whether she would get over that hurt as he healed from the bear swipe. But then he’d had curing herbs and liquid for the bear swipe. What curing herb was there for someone hurt by desertion. It galled him to realize that his adventure was a desertion of his wife. What had he done?
Manak-na sat up. He realized he was getting his garments damp and that would stiffen them. He rose to his feet. Suddenly, he realized that he might not need to choose between Domur and adventuring. She might choose another just because of the hurt he caused her. His situation might be more life critical than he guessed. It hit him for the first time. He was thinking of himself only. For so many years he had thought of others first. When he was free from raising children and the trek was in progress, he’d seen himself free from all encumbrance and free to adventure. Free of the People. But had he thought of Domur and her needs and feelings? He had not! He had hardened his belly to her needs and feelings. He had thought only of his own. What a wretch he had become. No wonder Domur thought of another who would stay by her. Someone who could see beyond himself! Manak-na threw himself to the ground and screamed again, this time at himself.
A raven flew to a tree just above Manak-na, and it screamed at him and hopped around on the branch. It twisted its head and made strange sounds. More ravens arrived and made odd sounds that he felt were meant for him. It made him uneasy somehow that birds seemed to be chiding him. After all, wasn’t he made a little better than birds? A raven flew down and landed near him but beyond his reach. It blasted him with a scream that sounded much like his own.
Manak-na looked straight up. “Wisdom, I have wronged my wife and you. Please forgive me. I must ask Domur to forgive me. But how can I do that if I
ever plan to adventure again?”
He was silent for a long time. He spoke aloud, “I see what you have shown me, Wisdom. Truly an adventurer should not join with anyone. It is not for me to wait to see what I choose sometime in the future. I already chose Domur. Once I did that, I should not have given myself permission to adventure and hurt her by desertion. Either I should have remained with her or taken her with me. What was I thinking? I made a commitment to her when we joined. I have become truly a wretch. Yet adventure draws me almost irresistably.”
Again he was silent. His reason and his emotions engaged in war within him. He lay on the ground forgetting about the white rain, his garments, and the raven that kept hopping around nearby. Somehow he had reasoned that his putting others first for so long earned him a time of freedom from the People—as if he had acquired a time to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. That was not a teaching of Wisdom, he realized. Not only had he deserted Domur, but also he had deserted his People, as if they were a burden he had put up with. He really didn’t feel that way. He loved his People. How had he split himself so sharply? And finally, he remembered Wamumur so often saying to others, “You have permitted yourself to believe a lie.” He reasoned that he had done just that. Now, in the woods where no one could hear him, he had to make a decision. Did he want Domur or adventure? One choice was appropriate, right, consistent with Wisdom. The other choice was selfish, wrong, and not consistent with Wisdom. He knew what he should choose. Could he? His contact with the white rain had made the ochre on his face streak, but he didn’t know.
Manak-na was no longer willing to lie to himself. He was unwilling to return to the home cave until he had made a decision he could live with. He raised himself from the ground and began to walk through the woods. The ravens followed quietly, watching. He saw a deer and his hunter instinct urged him to take the deer, but he was too tuned to himself to bother though he carried his spear as all hunters did when out of the dwelling place.
Manak-na's Story, 75,000 BC Page 27