[New World Calendar: Approximately Mid-Year, Cycle of the Ripening Sun, 1477 A.D. – Unknown Jungle, Northern Coast of the Southern Continent]
The guttural words of the man with the jaguar-tooth necklace hung in the humid air, each syllable alien and heavy with unspoken meaning. My mind, a frantic engine of linguistic analysis, found no purchase, no familiar root or cadence. It was a stark reminder: I was a child here, linguistically naked.
Fear, cold and sharp, was a knot in my belly, but my years of lecturing, of facing rooms full of expectant or critical students, had taught me a degree of composure, even when internally I was anything but. Panicking now would achieve nothing but hasten a potentially violent outcome.
I kept my hands open, held slightly away from my body, palms forward – a gesture I hoped was universal enough to signal non-aggression. I met the leader's gaze, trying to convey sincerity and a lack of threat, then slowly shook my head, a slight frown of incomprehension on my face. "I… I don't understand," I said, my voice raspy, the English words feeling foreign and useless even to my own ears. Of course, they wouldn't understand me either.
The leader's dark eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He exchanged a quick, low murmur with the man to his right, the one wielding the obsidian-studded club. This man grunted, shifting his weapon slightly. The third, younger and positioned slightly behind the others, remained still, his spear held ready, his gaze fixed on me with an unwavering intensity that was deeply unsettling.
My historian's brain was working overtime, trying to place them. The body paint, the ornamentation, the weaponry – it was all consistent with various indigenous groups of the northern parts of this continent, but nothing specific enough for a definitive identification from my 2018 knowledge base. They were clearly warriors, or at least seasoned hunters, comfortable in this environment, their bodies honed by lives of physical exertion.
The leader spoke again, his tone more insistent this time, gesturing vaguely with his chin towards the ocean behind me, then sweeping his hand towards the dense jungle. Where did you come from? What are you doing here? The questions were clear enough, even without the words.
I pointed to myself, then to the turbulent surf crashing on the beach a short distance away, making a small, helpless gesture with my hands. I then tapped my head, feigning a slight daze, hoping to convey that my arrival had been accidental, perhaps a shipwreck. It wasn't far from the truth of my disorientation. I had nothing to offer, no trade goods, no gifts. My only currency was my apparent harmlessness and the faint air of bewildered misfortune I hoped I was projecting.
The man with the club let out a short, sharp sound, almost a scoff. He didn't seem convinced. The leader, however, studied me with a prolonged, unnervingly astute gaze. His eyes roamed over my tattered, bizarre clothing, my lighter skin, my different facial features. I was an anomaly, an unknown variable in his world.
He took another step closer, and I had to fight the instinct to recoil. He was close enough now that I could smell the faint, earthy scent of him, mixed with woodsmoke and something else, something subtly floral, perhaps from a plant crushed into his paint. His eyes, dark and intelligent, searched mine. There was no malice there, not yet, but a deep-seated wariness, the caution of a man responsible for the safety of his people.
He then did something unexpected. He pointed to himself and said a single, clear word, tapping his chest. "Ankor."
My mind seized on it. A name. An attempt at communication. This was a pivotal moment. I quickly pointed to myself, my heart thudding. What name should I use? Aris Thorne? Too complicated, too foreign. I needed something simple, something they might be able to pronounce, if it even came to that. In this new body, in this new world, Aris Thorne was a ghost.
I hesitated for only a fraction of a second. A new life, a new designation. For now, I was simply… the arrived one. But they needed a sound. I tapped my own chest. "Aris," I said, enunciating as clearly as I could, offering a simplified version of my old name. It felt strange on my tongue, a link to a life that now seemed like a distant dream.
Ankor frowned slightly, attempting the sound. "Ah-rees?" It was heavily accented, the 'r' rolled differently, the 's' softened, but it was recognizable. He repeated it once more, then gestured to his companions. The one with the club grunted, "Kael," and the younger spearman said, more softly, "Mani."
Names. The first fragile thread of connection across a vast cultural and linguistic chasm. It wasn't understanding, not yet, but it was a start.
Ankor then made a decision. He spoke to Kael and Mani in their own tongue, a short, decisive series of commands. Kael, despite a lingering look of suspicion towards me, nodded. Mani simply adjusted his grip on his spear. Ankor then turned back to me and gestured with his spear – not threateningly, but as a clear indication – towards the dense jungle path from which they had emerged. He was taking me with them.
Relief, potent and immediate, warred with a fresh wave of apprehension. I was being spared immediate violence, but I was now effectively their prisoner, or at best, their… curiosity. Where were they taking me? What awaited me there?
There was no real choice. To resist would be folly. I nodded slowly, indicating my willingness to comply, and took a tentative step in the indicated direction. Ankor fell in beside me, while Kael took up a position a few paces behind, his presence a constant reminder of my precarious situation. Mani moved to the front, taking the lead, his passage through the undergrowth as silent and fluid as a jungle cat.
The journey was an ordeal. The path was narrow, uneven, and wound its way through a suffocatingly dense rainforest. Enormous trees blotted out much of the sky, their massive roots creating treacherous obstacles. Vines snaked across the trail, and the air was thick with the buzzing of unseen insects and the constant chorus of exotic birds and other creatures. The humidity was cloying, and sweat soon plastered my tattered clothes to my skin.
My new body, though younger and stronger than my old one, was still recovering from the shock of my arrival and whatever ordeal had preceded my waking on the beach. My muscles ached, my lungs burned, and my head still throbbed dully. But Ankor and Kael moved with an effortless grace, their bare feet seeming to find purchase where I stumbled. They were products of this environment, perfectly adapted to its rigors.
Despite my discomfort and fear, the historian in me was wide awake, observing, cataloging. The types of trees, the calls of the birds, the material of their loincloths, the way Mani tested the wind or paused to examine a broken twig – every detail was precious, a piece of the puzzle of this new world. I saw plants I vaguely recognized from botanical texts, others completely new. I noted the sharpness of their stone-tipped spears, the practical design of Kael's club. These were not "primitive" people in the derogatory sense; they were highly skilled survivors, masters of their domain.
Several times, Mani paused, holding up a hand, and the small procession would freeze. He would listen intently, his head cocked, before signaling it was safe to proceed. They were cautious, alert to dangers I couldn't even perceive.
After what felt like hours, but was probably closer to one, the dense undergrowth began to thin slightly. I could hear new sounds – the distant barking of dogs, the faint, rhythmic thud of wood on wood, and, unmistakably, the murmur of multiple human voices. My heart rate quickened. We were approaching their settlement.
Mani emerged from the treeline first, and then Ankor guided me out into a surprisingly large clearing. My first impression was of organized life nestled within the wild. Perhaps two dozen structures, circular or oval in shape, with conical thatched roofs and walls made of woven branches and mud, were arranged around a central open space. Smoke curled lazily from several cooking fires, and the air carried the scent of roasting meat, woodsmoke, and damp earth.
Children, naked and chattering, stopped their play and stared, their eyes wide with surprise at the sight of me. Women, some tending fires, others weaving baskets or grinding something in stone mortars, paused in their work, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and alarm. Several lean, short-haired dogs, unlike any breed I knew, began to bark, a chorus of sharp, agitated yelps, until a sharp word from one of the women silenced them.
Other men, similar in appearance to my escorts, some carrying spears, others with bows and arrows slung over their shoulders, began to gather, their expressions mirroring the initial caution I had seen in Ankor, Kael, and Mani. There was no immediate hostility, but a palpable sense of collective assessment. I was an outsider, an unknown, and their reaction would be critical.
Ankor led me towards the center of the clearing, towards the largest hut, which stood slightly apart from the others. Kael remained close behind. The villagers parted respectfully to let Ankor pass, their gazes following me, a silent, unnerving scrutiny.
This was it. The next test. My mind raced. How should I act? Submissive? Dignified? I was an unknown quantity, a potential threat or a source of new knowledge, or perhaps just a lost soul. My future, and perhaps the very genesis of the monumental task I was contemplating, hinged on these next few moments, on the judgment of people whose language, customs, and worldview were a complete mystery to me.
Ankor stopped before the entrance of the large hut, a simple opening covered by a hide flap. He spoke something in a low voice towards the entrance. A moment later, the flap was pushed aside, and a figure emerged, stooping slightly to clear the doorway.
This newcomer was older than Ankor, his dark skin more weathered, etched with fine lines that spoke of many seasons lived under the jungle sun. His hair, though streaked with grey, was still thick and tied back with a band of intricately woven fibers, adorned with the iridescent blue-green feathers of a quetzal, or a bird very much like it. He wore a simple loincloth, but around his neck hung a more elaborate necklace of polished stones, shells, and what looked like carved bone. His eyes, though aged, were sharp and incredibly perceptive, holding a depth of wisdom and authority that was immediately apparent. They swept over me, taking in every detail, from my strange garments to my unfamiliar features, with an intensity that made me feel utterly transparent.
This was, I surmised, the village leader, the chieftain, the elder. The one whose judgment would likely decide my fate.