“Is this something you’re forced to do, or want to do?”
“My father sent me to the river valley ahead of my people because my talent is being able to assess the yield of grain in a given area,” Qen replied. “I’ve spent the last week identifying the best sections of wild grass for my band to harvest. Meru hasn’t the ability, and no one else in my band takes an interest in growing things.”
“Short–sighted,” Aya interjected.
“I agree. As I studied the land around the lake for this purpose I discovered that several types of grasses in your band’s fields are unlike any I’ve ever encountered. I estimate it will take all twenty–five of the men and boys in my band, working from sunup to sundown for a little over two months, to pull up by the roots less than half as many stalks of grain as your band will in a month. It’s clearly superior to what we’re harvesting. So, yes, I want to learn about it.”
Kakhent smiled, slightly nodded to Aya. “Take Qen to the field with you. Teach him.”
Aya almost protested. As far as she was concerned, farming was a secret that shouldn’t be fully shared with the barbarians until their long–term intentions regarding the lake country became clear. On the other hand, farming was the gift that set her people apart from them. Meru’s people were here – there really wasn’t any way to keep farming hidden from them. And it was, in her mind, the reason Meru’s band should settle permanently at the lake. So, she might as well try to make Qen into an advocate to advance her cause. Convince Qen that farming was beneficial, and he might convince Meru, and that might keep Ahaneith and Takhat and her at the lake. Their futures outweighed other considerations. Plus, she might as well use Qen the same way he’d used her to get his band invited to Ta–she in the first place. That was only fair. “Of course,” she said with false sweetness.
Wordlessly, Aya turned and made her way towards the section of the field where Iuput had already resumed cutting after his meal. She moved slowly enough that Qen could keep up, swinging his leg awkwardly in rhythm with his staff. “Tell me the truth, Qen,” she asked as they walked. “Does Meru truly care about our grain?”
“My half–brother takes no interest in anything he can’t shoot,” Qen replied scathingly.
That made her long–term task more daunting.
“What brings you here, Qen?” Iuput asked when they at last halted beside him. He paused, wiped sweat from his brow.
“Kakhent says I’m to explain our grain to Qen,” Aya said. She addressed Qen mincingly. “I suppose you’re an expert on the wild grasses your band harvests?”
“I’ve made it my business to be,” he replied evenly.
“Prove it,” she challenged. “Tell me what you know.”
“A test?” Qen laughed mirthlessly.
“Consider it a way of finding a starting point, so as to not waste your time,” Aya rejoined. She reminded herself that alienating Qen would only make her task harder. It wasn’t going to be easy, but from this point forward she was going to have to be pleasant to him.
“Very well. Down in the valley, the highest land is along the riverbanks and the lowest is at the base of the eastern and western plateaus. The two of us have talked about that before. In a good year, the inundation fills the valley floor completely, from plateau to plateau. Soil carried by the water drops once the water stops flowing, and covers and replenishes the plains lining both banks. After the river recedes back into its channel three months later some of the water remains trapped on the plains and nourishes the wild grasses that poke up through the new soil left behind. The naturally–growing grain is arranged in rows at the top of the grasses’ stalks. Some stalks shatter after they mature, and their grains drop to the ground. New stalks sprout from those grains the following season after they’re covered once more by the waters of the inundation and the soil it leaves behind. The grains that don’t drop – the ones that remain on the stalk – are the ones my people harvest. I’ve noticed that if those grains are dropped on the ground as we harvest they don’t produce new stalks, ever. I admit I don’t know why.”
“Who taught you this?” Aya queried.
“No one. I’ve observed it for myself.”
“I see,” Aya said, skeptical. She picked up a handful of stalks that Iuput had already cut and handed them to Qen. “You’ll notice there are more grains on every one of these stalks than on the wild grasses you harvest, and that each grain is larger.”
“Yes. That’s what I discovered a week ago. That’s what brought me here today.”
Aya swept her arm over the unharvested section of the field. “Notice too that nearly all the grains have remained on the stalk. Very few grains of emmer fall to the ground before the stalks are cut.”
“Emmer? That’s what you call your grain?”
“Yes. We use it to make bread. Our other crop is barley.”
“In the field to the west?”
“Yes. We use it mostly to brew beer.” Aya pulled off a few grains of emmer and rolled them between her thumb and forefinger. “As you can see, the husks are softer and easier to separate from the grains than those of wild grasses. The emmer is correspondingly easier to grind into flour to make bread and porridge.”
“Where did this emmer come from?” Qen asked. “Why is it only growing in the fields closest to your camp? I didn’t see emmer anywhere else around the lake. I’ve never encountered it in the valley.”
“We planted it here, Qen,” Iuput said.
“What does that mean – planted?”
Qen’s ignorance was comforting to Aya. It reinforced his inferiority.
“As you’ve observed, wild grasses sprout from the grains that fall from the stalks,” Aya explained. “Since grains of emmer don’t fall we have to propagate the next year’s plants ourselves. We save a portion of the emmer we harvest each year, and barley. After the waters of the inundation recede, but while the mud left behind is still moist, we scatter grains on these fields. Then we trample the grains into the mud, either with our feet or by driving our cattle over them. That keeps the birds from eating the seed. As the grain begins to grow we care for it, pulling weeds from between the rows, keeping away hippos and other animals that might feed on it. After three months or so the emmer and barley have grown tall and ripened and we conduct our harvest.”
“Seems to me there’s more than enough grain in these fields to support your band for an entire year,” Qen said.
“We harvest a surplus annually, even when the inundation is bad,” Iuput told him proudly. “We feed ourselves, especially in the months when there are no plants to glean, and still have enough left over to feed our animals during the summer when the savannah isn’t fit to graze, plus enough to plant the following year, and enough for those who visit the river to take with them.”
“Where do you store your excess?” Qen asked.
“We’ve constructed large clay bins and set them into the ground atop the ridge east of our camp,” Aya replied. “We fill reed baskets with our processed grain after the harvest and place them inside the bins and then seal the bins with lids of clay and salt.”
“The stored emmer lasts up to three years,” Iuput volunteered.
“Impressive.”
“Aya doles out measures of grain to each family every morning,” Iuput added. “That’s how we control its use.”
“How do you process it?” Qen asked.
“How do you process wild grasses?” Aya queried.
“We thresh our grasses with sticks. We pound the harder seeds with hammer stones to split them open.”
“Emmer husks are much easier to remove,” Iuput replied. “We thresh the grain by walking our cattle over it. Then the women winnow it in flat reed baskets.”
Qen swept his eyes across the field. “So this bounty is because of you?”
“We control our world, Qen,” Aya said pointedly. “We plant and grow our grain where we will. We domesticate and herd our animals and use them as we will. We aren’t at the mercy of the w
orld as you are, endlessly chasing animals across the savannah, endlessly seeking and gathering what you can from wherever you find yourselves, moving on when you exhaust the local resources.”
“And so, to you, my people are inferior – barbarians,” Qen concluded.
“Yes,” Aya replied.
“You’re very sure of yourself and your opinions.”
“I keep my eyes open. I use my head.” Aya paused. “Two qualities the men in your band don’t seem to prize in women.” She couldn’t help herself. “Or themselves.”
Qen pondered a moment. “There do seem to be advantages to how you live,” he admitted. “But I’m not convinced you’re superior to my people.”
“Then you’re not as smart as Iuput claims you are,” Aya replied haughtily.
A boy appeared with a container of water. Both Aya and Iuput drank deeply.
Qen indicated the sickle in Iuput’s hand. “My people pull the stalks of grain up by the roots. But you cut them. Why?”
Iuput stepped to the closest stand of grain, then swept his sickle in a long arc, leaving the ground littered with dozens of stalks. “How long would it take you to pull all those up by the roots?” he asked.
“I see,” Qen said. “Ingenious.”
“I made all the sickles everyone is using today,” Iuput said. “But Aya designed them.”
“Is there no end to your talents?” Qen asked, his eyes meeting Aya’s. Then he tossed aside his staff and took Iuput’s sickle from him. “I came to learn by helping, not just watching,” he said.
“You’re sure?” Aya asked. Her eyes strayed to his mangled leg.
“I’m fairly certain none of your grain will outrun me.”
Iuput laughed.
Aya couldn’t help smiling.
Qen moved to the edge of the unharvested emmer and began swinging his sickle in a wide arc. After a few pointers from Iuput, he got the hang of it. Iuput procured another sickle and fell to work beside him. Aya followed behind them, binding up what they cut. The three of them worked together the rest of the day, Aya answering Qen’s questions whenever a water carrier approached and they took a break. Qen wanted to know everything about the emmer and its planting and growing and processing and subsequent use and how Aya decided how much seed to set aside to plant and how many acres to plant and how much to store to feed her people and animals. That Aya made those decisions, not Kakhent, seemed to astound him. Qen asked a number of questions even she couldn’t answer. Aya had to admit that Iuput had been right – Qen was more intelligent and inquisitive than anyone she had so far encountered in Meru’s band – including its patriarch. She believed she could have explained emmer to Meru and he wouldn’t have made sense of half of it – if he’d even paid attention to her.
At the end of the day, in the gathering dusk, Qen and Aya and Iuput joined Kakhent beneath his tree as everyone else straggled tiredly back to camp.
“Your questions were all answered?” Kakhent asked Qen.
“Yes. Aya and Iuput were gracious enough to teach me about emmer and barley.”
Kakhent laughed. “Aya? Gracious?” He looked at her bemusedly.
“In this case, yes, Patriarch. Though she wasn’t afraid to state an opinion or challenge me, either.”
“Aya is strong–willed, Qen, as you’ve likely noticed,” Kakhent said. “When she gets her mind set on something nothing can change it. I’m afraid she’s developed certain opinions about your people that might be clouding her judgment.”
“Not all of Aya’s opinions are wrong,” Qen said enigmatically.
Kakhent looked at him in surprise.
Is this Qen’s clumsy attempt to get in my good graces? Aya thought. Or is he being sincere?
“Aya says your band planted the first emmer and barley at this lake,” Qen said.
Kakhent nodded. “I grew up in a band much like yours, Qen. We lived by gathering grains from wild grasses and hunting the animals that roamed the savannah far to the north of this lake. That’s how our ancestors had existed from a time beyond memory. I’m sure Aya told you the story of how we encountered the band that had been farming and herding on that savannah?”
“She did.”
“My father, Didia, and then my oldest brother, Bek, tried their best to make a go of farming and herding there. But the conditions were against us. It was only after the falcon god guided Aya to this lake country that we finally began to prosper.”
“Aya calls my people barbarians,” Qen reported. “She insists you’re better than us.”
“We are,” Kakhent said.
Aya smiled triumphantly at Qen.
Qen shook his head, as if he supposed Kakhent simply incapable of contradicting his woman.
Kakhent chuckled. “You told me Aya’s opinions are right, Qen. I assure you they are – at least in this case.” He became serious. “You who hunt and gather react to the world around you. You’re part of the natural processes you exploit – you follow herds where they go, gather what you can from your surroundings until you exhaust them, then move on. We, on the other hand, live in the same place most of the year. We follow a set pattern of activities, a pattern that for part of the year doesn’t provide for our daily diet. In fact, without the crops we plant, the wild grasses around this lake could not support more than a few hundred people. So we have to plan, maintain a certain distance from our immediate environment, be objective. We’ve transformed our world.”
“We have a different conception of the world than you do,” Aya interjected fervently, seizing the opportunity to try to convert Qen. “We’ve adopted a new vision of the world and our place in it that no one anywhere else has.”
“That’s because our lifestyle is unique, Qen,” Kakhent said.
“We’re not the only people in the world who cultivate crops,” Aya interjected. “But, according to my mother and her father, the people we learned farming and herding from, everywhere else people must with some difficulty plow furrows in their soil and place their seeds in the furrows and cover them. Then they depend on rain falling from the sky to water their crops and bring their seed to life. Either that, or they dig great ditches to bring water from distant rivers to their fields. If the rains fail, they starve. If the rivers dry up, they starve. Even if the water is plentiful, after a few years the soil wears out and becomes encrusted with salt, and grain will not grow anymore. They have to clear new fields with great effort, cutting brush, plowing up grass, turning the soil, digging new ditches to carry water. But here at the lake the inundation renews our fields at the same time every year, covering them with water, leaving behind fresh rich soil in which our emmer and barley grow. We don’t plow, we don’t water. Because of the inundation we’re able to impose order on our world, just as the river and lake, in their turn, impose an order on us.”
“I live as my ancestors have for thousands of years,” Qen argued. “They survived just fine. So will my descendants – or my half–brothers’ descendants, at least. I still don’t see that your way is superior.”
“The same argument my brothers Bebi and Amenemope made when they sundered our band thirteen years ago. I guarantee you, our lives are better here at the lake than theirs are, wherever they may be,” Kakhent replied. “What you’ve learned this day is a lot to take in all at once, Qen. It took me years to fully understand the implications, or, should I say, for Aya to make me see the implications, and I spent much of my life living this way.”
Aya leaned forward, earnest. “Closely observe every aspect of my people’s lives in the months to come, Qen, and think about what you observe – truly think – and you’ll come to realize the advantages farming brings. With the surplus we generate not everyone in our band has to hunt and gather from sunup to sundown every day of their lives. We don’t have to constantly uproot ourselves to follow herds of wild animals as they seek new pastures. We have free time – we spend it making pottery or working flint or weaving baskets or drilling beads of stone and ostrich shell or crafting fishhook
s of bone and flint.” She glanced at Iuput. “Or making sickles. That’s the difference between our two peoples, Qen – we have time to do more than just feed ourselves.”
“That’s why Aya calls you a barbarian,” Kakhent said.
“But you won’t be anymore, once you and your people begin to live as we do. And you could do it here – in this lake country,” Aya added.
Qen swept his eyes around the lake, the vast empty spaces that stretched to the savannah and the rocky plateaus beyond. “Even if I decide I agree with you at some point – and I’m not saying I will – it’s not my decision to make, whether we continue to live as we live or instead live as you do, if we stay at the lake or if we go,” he said thoughtfully. “Meru must be persuaded.”
Aya leaned forward again. “Then do so, Qen. Do so.”
“You’re better off relying on yourselves to persuade Meru,” Qen replied. “Frankly, as you can attest, Aya, Meru has no respect for me or my opinions. If I recommend staying at the lake in front of any of my people he’s likely to immediately take his band back to the East, merely out of spite. And as for farming… You and Aya can discuss such matters with Meru publicly, Patriarch, but I don’t have that luxury. Whatever counsel I give him I must give in private. Otherwise, he’ll feel I’m drawing a line in the sand, and he’ll never cross that line.”
“Will you help us or not?” Aya asked pointedly.
Qen shrugged. “Even before today I was convinced my people should settle at this lake permanently. Everything we could possibly want is here. There’s no point to wandering about the river valley and eastern wadis anymore. As to whether we should take up farming – once I’ve made up my mind I’ll let you know. Assuming we both want the same thing, I’ll do my best behind the scenes to sway Meru – though you’ll never see any evidence I’m trying, for the reasons I’ve already given. In any case, I promise that I won’t work against you.”
“I can’t ask for more than that,” Kakhent said.
***
Aya set the basket brimming with emmer next to the others clustered before Kakhent’s hut. “That’s the last of the grain offerings,” she informed him. “I took it from the oldest storage bin.”
Daughter of the Falcon God Page 17