[New World Calendar: Approximately Mid-Year, Cycle of the Ripening Sun, 1477 A.D. – Village of the K'aru Tribe]
The man who emerged from the large hut – Tekum, as I would later learn his name – carried the quiet weight of authority as comfortably as the intricate necklace adorning his chest. His eyes, dark and deeply set under a brow that bespoke years of contemplation and decision, subjected me to a scrutiny so intense it felt almost physical. It was not the hostile glare of an enemy, but the profound, measuring gaze of a leader responsible for the well-being of his community, faced with an utter unknown.
Ankor stepped forward and began to speak in their low, flowing tongue. His words were directed at Tekum, but his gestures encompassed me, the beach where I was found, and the vast ocean beyond. I couldn't understand the specifics, of course, but the narrative was clear: the discovery of a strange man, washed ashore, disoriented and alone. Kael, standing a little behind me, occasionally interjected with a gruff word or two, perhaps adding his own observations or suspicions.
Throughout Ankor's report, Tekum's eyes rarely left me. I stood as still as possible, my hands kept visible and unthreatening. I focused on maintaining an expression of weary but respectful attention, hoping to convey that I understood the gravity of the situation and intended no harm. My academic training had involved presenting theses to stern-faced panels; this felt like that, magnified a thousandfold, with my very life potentially on the line.
The gathered villagers remained largely silent, a ring of watchful faces. Children peeked from behind their mothers' legs, their initial surprise giving way to wide-eyed curiosity. The men stood with folded arms or hands resting near the simple weapons at their belts – a quiet readiness. I was the focal point of their collective attention, an unwelcome stone dropped into the placid waters of their daily lives.
When Ankor finished, Tekum remained silent for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. Then, he spoke, his voice deeper than Ankor's, carrying a resonance that commanded attention. He addressed Ankor first, asking what sounded like a series of short questions. Ankor responded, and there was a brief, low-toned exchange between them and a few other older men who had drawn nearer.
I caught fragments of repeated sounds, trying to sear them into my memory, hoping to find patterns later. The language was agglutinative, it seemed, with complex consonant clusters and vowel sounds that had no direct equivalent in English. It was a daunting prospect, this wall of incomprehension.
Finally, Tekum turned his full attention back to me. He took a slow, deliberate step closer, much as Ankor had done by the stream. He was shorter than Ankor but possessed a more formidable presence, an aura of accumulated wisdom and power. He gestured towards my tattered clothing, then to my skin, then to my eyes, his expression one of deep contemplation rather than revulsion. He was cataloging my differences.
He then pointed to the sky, then swept his arm in a wide arc, as if to encompass the world, and then pointed at me with a questioning look. From where do you truly come? Are you of this world?
It was a profound question, one I couldn't possibly answer truthfully. I opted for a simpler, more immediate truth. I pointed again to the ocean, mimed being tossed by waves, and then gestured to myself with an expression of exhaustion and perhaps a touch of lingering confusion. I was trying to reinforce the "shipwrecked survivor" narrative. It felt like the safest, most understandable explanation for my presence.
Tekum grunted, a noncommittal sound. He then did something that surprised me. He reached out a weathered hand, not to touch me, but to gently finger the sleeve of my tattered shirt – what was left of my 21st-century attire. The fabric, though ruined, was clearly of a much finer, more complex weave than anything I had seen here. His touch was brief, his expression unreadable.
He spoke again, this time a single word, repeated twice, with a rising, questioning inflection. It sounded something like, "Anya-kai?"
I could only shake my head slowly, indicating my lack of understanding. "Aris," I repeated my offered name, tapping my chest, hoping to reinforce that small, fragile point of contact.
Tekum's lips thinned. He was clearly frustrated by the inability to communicate directly. He looked around at the assembled villagers, then his gaze settled on a woman standing near one of the cooking fires. She was older, her face a network of fine wrinkles, her hair grey and plaited, but her eyes were bright and alert. Tekum beckoned her forward with a slight inclination of his head.
She approached with a quiet dignity, her gaze on me curious but not unkind. Tekum spoke to her at length, and she listened intently, occasionally glancing at me. Was she a shaman, a wise woman, someone skilled in interpreting omens or dealing with outsiders? My historian's mind cataloged the possibilities. In many pre-literate societies, elder women held significant spiritual or social power.
When Tekum finished, the woman stepped closer to me. She peered at me, then circled me slowly, her eyes taking in every detail. She made soft, clucking sounds, then spoke, her voice surprisingly gentle. Her words were as incomprehensible as the others', but her tone lacked the sternness of the men. She pointed to my eyes, then to the sky, then made a soft, cooing sound. Was she asking if I came from the stars? The idea was both outlandish and, in a metaphorical sense, not entirely inaccurate.
I offered a small, tentative smile, hoping it conveyed a lack of aggression.
After her examination, she spoke to Tekum again, a lengthy explanation accompanied by expressive hand gestures. Tekum listened, nodding slowly, his expression thoughtful. The other villagers murmured amongst themselves, the tension in the air shifting subtly, becoming less charged with immediate suspicion, more tinged with… uncertainty, perhaps even a touch of awe or fear of the unknown.
Finally, Tekum seemed to reach a decision. He issued a series of commands. Two younger men, not Ankor or his companions, detached themselves from the crowd and approached me. They didn't carry weapons openly, but their demeanor was firm.
My heart sank a little. Was this it? Was I to be imprisoned, or worse?
But Tekum then gestured towards one of the smaller huts on the periphery of the village, a structure that looked unoccupied. He said something to me, his tone now more declarative than questioning. Ankor, noticing my continued incomprehension, stepped forward. He pointed to me, then to the hut, then mimed sleeping – resting his head on his clasped hands.
Shelter. They were offering me shelter.
A wave of profound relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. It wasn't acceptance, not friendship, but it wasn't immediate rejection or violence either. It was a reprieve, a chance.
I nodded vigorously, trying to convey my gratitude. "Thank you," I said in English, knowing the words were meaningless to them, but hoping the sincerity in my tone would translate. I then touched my chest and bowed my head slightly towards Tekum, a gesture of respect I hoped would be understood.
Tekum watched me, his expression still reserved, but he gave a curt nod in return.
The two young men gestured for me to follow. As I walked towards the designated hut, the villagers parted, their eyes still on me, but the initial hostility seemed to have lessened, replaced by a pervasive, watchful curiosity. I was acutely aware of Kael still lingering nearby, his gaze a weight on my back. I was not a guest, not yet. I was an unknown entity, granted temporary, supervised quarter.
The hut was small, circular, and sparsely furnished. The floor was packed earth, surprisingly cool underfoot. There was a raised platform that might serve as a bed, covered with woven reed mats, and a few clay pots in a corner. It was dim inside, the only light filtering through the low doorway and small gaps in the thatch. It smelled of dry grass, old woodsmoke, and earth. Compared to the sterile, climate-controlled environments of my past life, it was incredibly rustic, yet it represented safety, a sanctuary, however temporary.
One of the young men placed a gourd of water and a small, woven platter with a few pieces of dried meat and some kind of roasted root vegetable just inside the doorway. He grunted, pointed at the food, then at me, then backed away, rejoining his companion who stood watch outside.
I was alone, at least for the moment, within the confines of the hut. Exhaustion, held at bay for hours by adrenaline and fear, crashed down on me. I sank onto the reed mats, my limbs trembling. The water in the gourd was cool and slightly smoky-tasting. I drank deeply, then hesitantly tried the food. The meat was tough and stringy, heavily smoked, and the root vegetable was starchy and bland, but to my famished body, it was a feast.
As I ate, my mind raced. This tribe – the K'aru, I would later learn the name Ankor used for his people – they were cautious, organized, and clearly capable. Tekum was an intelligent and discerning leader. Ankor, Kael, Mani – they were competent warriors. The old woman… she held some influence. These were not simplistic savages; they were a people with a complex social structure, surviving and thriving in a challenging environment.
My grandiose, half-formed plans of "uniting" and "preparing" them for the European arrival seemed laughably naive in the face of my current reality. I couldn't even ask for more water. How could I possibly impart complex historical warnings or suggest radical societal changes?
The first step, the absolute, undeniable first step, was language. Without it, I was nothing more than a strange, mute creature they had taken in, a curiosity that could easily become a burden or a perceived threat. I had to learn. I had to find a way to communicate.
My gaze fell upon the clay pots in the corner. Simple, functional, but clearly handmade. I thought of the obsidian on Kael's club, the stone tips of their spears. They had a working knowledge of local resources, of basic tool manufacture. What else did they know? What were their beliefs, their fears, their aspirations?
The weight of the task ahead felt immense, almost crushing. But beneath it, a stubborn ember of resolve still glowed. I had been given a second chance, a new body, and an impossible placement in time. I was a historian who had lamented being unable to change the past. Now, the past was my present, and the future, at least for this small corner of the world, was not yet written in stone.
The sounds of the village filtered into my hut – the chatter of voices, the laughter of children, the rhythmic pounding. It was the sound of a living, breathing community. A community teetering on the brink of a catastrophe they could not imagine.
For now, I was safe. Fed. Sheltered. But I was also under intense scrutiny. My every move would be watched. Tomorrow, I decided, I would try to learn. I would watch, listen, and try to bridge the gulf of understanding. It was a monumental task, starting with a single, unspoken word. But it had to begin.