Climate of Change (28 page)

The development of what we call civilization proceeded at a different pace in the New World. When the hunter/gatherers got past the ice barrier and colonized North and South America, perhaps twelve thousand years ago, they continued this lifestyle in most of the continents until historic times. Where they did change, it occurred only gradually, without any abrupt shift to the settled life.

The first domesticated plant seems to have been squash, dating back to ten thousand years ago. This did not lead to settling. Maybe they cultivated it in selected fields paralleling their migratory routes, and let the fields lie fallow when too distant to attend. Maybe they planted the seeds, then visited the fields at harvest time. There might have been considerable losses to the weather and animals, but enough might have survived to feed them when they arrived.

Beans were cultivated in the South American Andes, and potatoes, but these did not move to central America for some time. Teosinte would later be adapted into maize (corn) and became a major crop staple. But in Central America in early times it was squash, and maguey—otherwise known as agave, or the century plant—whose thick leaves were roasted slowly, then chewed. It was harvested at the time it went to seed, so that human use did not interfere with its reproductive cycle or diminish its numbers. Acorns were leeched to remove the tannic acid, making them less bitter, so that they could be ground into flour.
But by 5,000 years ago, there seem to have been no regular settlements.

The setting is the mountains of Central America, southwest of the Yucatan peninsula, about a hundred miles north of the narrow waist of southern Mexico. The time is 5,000 years ago, or about 3,000 before the Christian era.

The three of them set out on foot, as no river went the way they were going. Brownback, the most adventurous dog, was well satisfied to be along to guide and protect them. Keeper was ill at ease, and so was Haven; neither of them liked the mission they were on. But neither seemed to have much of a choice.

They made their way down the mountain path, headed for the distant sea. The journey would take them five days, and be wearing on their bare feet. They carried some supplies in their packs, but would forage along the way for most of their food.

The first day they concentrated on conserving their strength and making good progress down the sometimes steep slopes. When they crossed a stream, they drank deeply, so as to conserve their waterskins. It was a nuisance carrying water they did not drink, but if they got caught away from a stream or lake, that would make a difference. Close to home the terrain was familiar, but that would change.

As evening came, Keeper guided them to a protected copse he knew of, where a spring flowed from a small cave. The cave had been the lair of a panther, but recently the big cat had died. The smell of it remained in the cave, keeping most other creatures away, so the hole was empty. That made it safe for savvy visitors to use.

Haven settled in, foraging for wood while Keeper and Brownback went to check a nearby slope where maguey grew. He was in luck; the largest was sprouting, sending up its seed stalk. “This one we can harvest,” he said to the dog. “After they go to seed, they die anyway, so we are not taking anything away from this natural garden.”

Brownback wagged his tail in agreement, though he didn't much like maguey.

Keeper drew his knife and used it to cut off two of the large tentacular leaves. Brownback's ears perked, and he sniffed.

“I hear it too,” he said. “A good-sized rat. If you can catch it, you can have it. Go!”

The dog was off immediately, pursuing the rat. There was a scurrying sound in the brush, then a crashing, followed by a squeak. Soon Brownback returned, carrying the rat in his mouth. He had his supper.

Keeper carried the maguey leaves back to the cave. Haven had a little fire going. The dog settled down by it, satisfied to consume his rat and then snooze. They cut the leaves into segments, poked sharp sticks through them, and roasted them over the fire. This took time, as it had to be done slowly, cooking without burning.

“Are you satisfied?” Keeper inquired of Haven as they sat there holding and turning their segments.

“You know I'm not.”

He nodded. “Is there something else to do?”

“I don't think you would care for it.”

He knew what she meant, but preferred to have her tell him. “What would that be?”

She shook her head. “That's not for me to say.”

“Can you say why she wants this?”

“I know, but can't say.”

He had an idea. “Tell me a story.”

“A story?”

“Of. . . of Brownback, and his sister Whitepaw, and his wife, whose name I don't know.”

Haven smiled. “I don't know either, so I will simply call her the bitch.”

Keeper hoped his wince didn't show in the darkness. “Yes.”

His sister was contrite. “I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry.”

“No, sometimes I agree with you.”

“I'll call her Fairtail.”

He shrugged. They both knew that the name did not change the reality.

“Many years ago, when the spirits were new and the world was
fresh,” Haven began, in the standard manner for a story, “there was a dog named Brownback. He was one of a litter of three males and two females. They all got along reasonably well, until they met two other dogs, Blackeye and Fairtail. Brownback's sister Whitepaw got raped by Blackeye, and lost her litter, so left him. Then Brownback mated with Fairtail, and she had a female pup. But maybe she liked his brother Toughtail better.”

There was the ugly suspicion. Keeper had married Crenelle, and their daughter Allele was two years old. That much was fine. But his wife seemed to be too interested in both his brothers, with whom she had had affairs before marrying Keeper. He remained very glad to have gotten her for his wife, but that continuing flirtation bothered him. He had never spoken of it, but if Haven has seen the same thing, that was confirmation.

“And what of Whitepaw?” he asked her. Whitepaw was Haven, in this story, though in real life the dog preferred Crenelle.

“She came to like Blackeye well enough, and would have stayed with him, had their puppy survived. But the spirits showed the curse of the commencement of their union by destroying the baby, and Whitepaw had to go. Blackeye then married her sister, Leanbelly.”

Keeper choked. What a name! For Rebel had never gotten herself with child, and remained lean in the belly.

“Blackeye thought they might adopt a pup, but they didn't find any they liked well enough. He began to look at Whitepaw again, knowing that her belly would not remain lean. However, she would neither risk another cursed baby nor make mischief for her sister. Still, Fairtail noticed, and concluded that her brother would be better off if Whitepaw were gone. Since the wife of a married dog has authority over the husband's unmarried sisters, she told Brownback to take her to a far place and leave her there.”

“And he could not tell her no,” Keeper concluded. “Because he loved her, and because it was her right. But he did not relish it.”

“She knew that.”

The maguey was done. They took their hot pieces and began chewing on them. They were quite fibrous, but there was nourishment
between the fibers, and patient chewing worked it out. It wasn't the most delightful meal, but it would do.

They had covered the territory. Except for one thing. “What else could they do?”

Haven considered. “There might be a larger consideration. Black-eye might in time give up on Leanbelly and seek another bitch anyway. Perhaps one outside the family group. Then Whitepaw would be exonerated, and not need to be elsewhere.”

“So it would be all right not to take her away,” he said.

“Or so it might seem, later,” she said. “Though it would perhaps annoy Fairtail at the time, and make things more difficult.”

This led into the other ugly aspect. “Yet if Fairtail had interest in one of Brownback's brothers—”

“It might merely make her stray sooner rather than later.”

Surely so. But where would that leave him? He did love Crenelle, and couldn't stand to lose her any sooner than he could avoid.

Haven understood. “It is only a story,” she said. “What do dogs have to do with people?”

All too much. But he let it go gratefully, not wanting to pursue the painful alternatives further.

They finished chewing their maguey, drank some water, banked the fire, and retired to the cave to sleep.

Next day they resumed travel, descending into a winding valley, pacing a stream for a time. But the stream meandered in the wrong direction, and they had to leave it and the valley and climb over another mountain.

On the fifth day they reached the village that was said to be looking for wives. The first thing Keeper noticed was the smell. The whole village stank. Even Brownback seemed to wrinkle his nose. The second thing was the barbaric accent of the people here; it was hard to understand their speech.

But they made their way to the head matriarch, the woman who had the authority to put women with men. She gazed intently at Haven, saw the fullness of her breasts and thighs, and nodded. At age twenty-four she was no young bride, but she would do. “I will bring three men
to feel her,” she told Keeper. “You may turn down one, or two, or three, but I will not bring more.” Haven, of course, was not consulted; she was an unmarried woman, without rights.

“I will consider them,” Keeper agreed.

“In a quarter day,” she said, making a signal with her arms to indicate the portion of the day that would pass as she located the men.

Keeper nodded. It was noon now; that would put it in the afternoon.

“Go to the shore,” the matriarch suggested. “They will give you fish there.”

Keeper thanked her, and they departed her presence. They made their way to the harbor area. The smell intensified, but the natives seemed not to notice it. Then they spied piles of rotting fish heads all along the shore. That was the source of the smell.

“Do you like this village?” he inquired, knowing the answer.

“No. But I would not like any village away from my family.”

“These men she will bring—give me a signal how you feel about them, and I will honor it.”

“Thank you. I will blink my eyes once for satisfactory, and twice for unsatisfactory.”

That would help. But he remained disturbed. “You know I don't want to do this.”

“I know.” She could have said much more.

A man was cooking gutted fish on a stone grate over a fire. He glanced up, recognized them as strangers, and knew their business. He gestured, offering them baked fish. They accepted, and talked with him as they ate.

His name was Baker, because of his employment, and he was garrulous. That was fine with them, as they wanted to learn as much as they could about this village and its prospects for a woman marrying into it. Haven flashed him an encouraging smile every so often, and that was enough. They got used to his accent, just as they got used to the oppressive fish smell. Keeper guided the dialogue to topics of interest to them, and they learned about the ways of the village.

One routine question brought a surprising response. “Do you have many foreign visitors?” For if there were fairly regular contact with
neighboring peoples, it might be easier for Haven to stay somewhat in touch with her family. Visitors could carry news.

“Sometimes,” Baker said as he piled roasted fish on a wooden tray and put new ones over the fire to roast. “Mostly like you, bringing wives, or with things to trade. But there was one we hardly know what to make of. He washed up in a boat, half starved and mad with thirst. He spoke an unintelligible language. We got him back to health, and he learned to speak a few of our words. He said he was from the south, far away, and had been blown north by storm and current. But we knew he was mad.”

“From the south?” Keeper asked, interested. He had never traveled far in that direction; in fact this was his farthest extent. “There is land beyond the sea?”

“Oh, yes. The shore curves down and around and goes on endlessly; our fishermen have never seen the end of it. They say it has no conclusion. There are surely people there, beyond our ken. Mad ones.”

“Why do you say he was mad?” Haven asked.

“Because of what he said. He said there was a desert, and behind it steep tall mountains, greater than the ones here. That they grew something they called potatoes, and had long-necked animals as beasts of burden. I'm no expert on tubers or animals, but I know there are no such things as he described.”

Now Keeper was fascinated. “I
am
conversant with plants and animals. Perhaps I have seen these. Can you describe them in more detail?”

Baker did, and soon Keeper had to admit that he knew of no such things. Baker took that as confirmation of the stranger's madness, but Keeper suspected that the man had been telling the truth about the strange things of his land.