Part 1

Caress of Uwama

The tranquility of the stars no longer soothed his rage.

The old alpha lay on his back, on a bed of grass and leaves, one hand supporting his head while the other fingered the fang resting on his chest that he wore as a necklace.

Gazing upward at infinite points of light in a clear, moonless sky, stroking a tooth that was the length of his hand, slightly curved, pried from the jaws of the beast he slew when much younger; stronger.

The clan slept all around, nestled within a pocket of tall grass between a rocky outcropping and trees.

The air was warm, a good night for rest.

For most, anyway.

To remain in the same position for too long was excruciating; thus, the old alpha lay awake while others slept, suffering in silence the aftershocks of countless hunts and rituals of combat.

He did not bother to lay with a female.

His body hurt too much for sex.

Or even pleasurable company.

Despite throbbing joints and aching bones, the old alpha was still capable of hunting worthy adversaries, such as the sabertooth; though, those mighty predators, like so many other beasts, had not been seen in some time.

Many things were different since the earth shook violently.

Rivers altered course; hippo, elephant and buffalo migrated elsewhere.

Forced to make an agonizing decision, he led the clan away from the land of their forebears.

Move or die.

There was a difficult journey through dying wetlands that seemed to go on forever, the clan surviving on the rotting corpses of beasts unable to make it out, when at last they arrived at a vast lake with salted water.

Land of the flat faces.

Similar to his own kind, but with disgusting little mouths and oddly shaped heads.

Their incessant chattering bothered his ears, worse than monkeys.

Flat faces appeared vulnerable, at first, scattered in small groups on the shores of the lake, but turned stunningly fierce in battle, uniting with astonishing speed and using superior clubs and spears to drive his clan away from the fertile hunting grounds that surrounded the salted water.

The old alpha stroked the tooth that lay on his chest, as if his rage might flow out of him and into the world.

Chapter 1

Eku

When clouds were mountains.

That was the last memory Eku had of his homeland.

Standing with his tribe atop a coastal plateau, surveying the mysteries of Umawa to one side, the majesty of Uwama to the other.

Peering inland, Eku thought at first storm clouds interrupted an otherwise perfectly flat horizon, hazy and purple above forested ravines zig-zagging for the coast, but it was a mountain range, so vast he mistook it for clouds.

That was also when the world began to shift.

The elders say that Uwama caresses.

She coaxes Umawa—land of rock and earth—to eventually turn, one way or the other.

The elders were smart all right.

For once the tribe left behind the clouds that were mountains, Eku saw that each morning, Ulanga rose from the water of Uwama before journeying overhead, into the heart of the Umawa.

The world had shifted indeed.

Eku grew up along a fertile, south facing coast where Ulanga always followed a set path: rising and setting with a trajectory over Umawa.

Winters were dry and mild.

Summers were long and warm and moist.

Since the pilgrimage began, too many days to count were spent hiking along a coastline that, for the most part, appeared the same.

Eku began to wonder what the big deal was all about.

When the tribe did stop to make camp, the people did as always: harvested from rich beds of mussels and clams; dug corms and tubers from the hearty soils along rivers and streams; ventured inland to gather fruit from trees so bounteous that the elephants, baboons and bats could take only a fraction.

When hunters disappeared into the bush, they always returned with the beasts the tribe required.

And beyond the next bluff there would be seals or giant turtles, crabs and fish and octopus hiding in tidal pools.

Walking was easy with a full belly and Eku’s was always full.

***

Eku kaleni-yana was born into the Abantu-Uwama: people of the ocean.

His extended family was part of a new tribe, hand-picked by the elders to be the first Abantu to venture beyond where the people had lived for all known generations.

Journeying to a land that until recently, existed only in song.

Eku’s father, Kaleni, was part of a team of scouts that disappeared for over an entire yaka-yaka—the full seasonal cycle.

All of the hunters were feared dead.

Even Krele, Eku’s mother, began to prepare him and his sister Yatyambo for the possibility that father would not return.

Many long nights Eku lay awake, using his mind to evoke scenarios in which father came back.

Soon, he dismissed such fanciful conjuring and yearned only for the real thing, fearing his father would become just another name in a song.

And one day, on the top of a bluff, from the direction from which Ulanga rose, Kaleni and the other hunters appeared with a story so incredible the elders required three straight nights of long discussion to get through it all.

Kaleni’s scouting party ventured further than anyone in memory, following the coast as previous parties had done, but then continuing inland along the path of a great river.

When the hunters came upon a conjoining river, they followed it to a magnificent lake of clear and drinkable fresh water, surrounded by mountains.

A freshwater lake so vast that it seemed to expand forever.

Teeming with fish of every color of the rainbow.

A paradise, for sure.

The elders said that Kaleni and the other scouts had found the land of legend, known only from the verses of an ancient song.

A song of the old world and the terrible times:

the sky turned black

Ulayo’s breath became smoke

ash fell from the sky

Umawa called Ulanga home

beyond shatsheli-lambo

beyond the lake of colored fish

into the land of legend

leaving darkness

death

***

A full yaka-yaka into the pilgrimage, Eku’s morning ritual remained intact, waking a bit before everyone else, as though he could feel Umawa stir and Ulanga begin to rise.

Vision adjusted to the darkness within the enclosure of poles and skins, he checked Yathi, his cousin and ikabane since birth, laying next to him, sound asleep.

Yathi never wanted to get up early.

Eku pulled himself into a sitting position on a bed mat that was thin, strong and flexible, woven of sinew and pelt; hard when rolled up for carrying, but turning soft when unrolled and spread over a cushion of grass and warmed by his body.

Rubbed sleep from his eyes with the back of a hand, then ran the palm over a closely cropped head.

Leaned to peer at Yat, on her side, facing away from the light, so that all he could see were her slim, scissored legs.

Mother and father, aunt Shona and the bulk of uncle Lume were dark mounds, the soft sounds of their sleep lost in the splash-thump of the surf, soothing background noise familiar to every Abantu since birth.

Eku rubbed his face again to be rid of the lingerings of sleep.

He was a good looking young male—at least that’s what other people told him, with the long, narrow nose of his mother and the solid chin of his father.

His eyes were round and downturned and always bright, always inquisitive.

A constant, restless energy thrummed within Eku, never allowing him to sleep in.

Proudly, he inspected his ula-konto, balanced on two, flat rocks beside him, running a finger down smooth, hard wood followed by heat-hardened wrappings, joining the haft to a killing barb of shaped bone.

Next to his ula-konto was a sack of sealskin from which Eku pulled his beloved keri stick.

Rose to a bent-over crouch, wearing only a loincloth and shuffled to the shelter’s open side.

Settled cross-legged where Ulanga touched yellow on sandy soil.

Bent his head and ran fingers across the keri stick’s rounded end, inspecting the knob he could still rub to a glow, despite waka-waka practice throws.

This keri stick had once been underground—and alive! But now, had achieved a second, greater life by becoming Eku’s keri stick.

The length of his forearm, slightly curved with a heavy knobbed end, chopped from the main nodule of an ultra-dense, scrub bush root while still green, scraped and smoothed by the expert blade of uncle Lume, who was izik-kosa, master of sinew, rock, bone and wood.

Once dry, a keri stick was nearly indestructible, the dense wood grain hard as an elephant tusk.

Eku dug in his heels and pulled with his legs to cinch his butt further along the ground outside the shelter, moving into a bar of amber, allowing Ulanga to warm him.

Other, similar shelters of skin and poles were all around on trampled grass.

Still cool at night, the poles, ropes and skins that made up the travois during the day were converted to shelters in the evening.

The transition to sika-yaka—the dry and cool cycle—was almost complete, Ulanga floating lower across the sky.

Eku stuck his keri stick into the band of his loincloth and stood.

***

A gust from Ulayo and the cry of seagulls greeted Eku as he cleared the top of a grass-strewn hillock.

Uwama, with curling white caps and bands of turquoise to gray, expanded endlessly to merge with a hazy sky, where Ulanga floated yellow and glowing.

Eku breathed moist air thick with the scent of salt.

Observed a shoreline cluttered with pockmarked coral rock and boulders of limestone, tan sand offering a glimpse of orange after each lick of a foamy swell.

The bluff was a series of gently rolling hills that stretched endlessly in either direction, the beachside edge worn ragged by the relentless battering of ocean against land.

Uwama, Umawa.

Eku gripped sandy soil with his toes and cast a well-trained eye along the bluff, looking for inconsistencies among the grasses, the scrub brush, parsing the landscape into individual objects, separating one pattern from another, a habit drilled into all Abantu youth: constant vigilance; though, he was confident venturing solo, knowing that with waka-waka people bedded behind him, there were no large beasts nearby.

Even elephants ranged clear of the Abantu in such numbers.

The vantage of the hillock allowed Eku to spot Tiuti down the beach, performing his customary, early morning wandering.

Tiuti was not only an esteemed elder, he was izik-ikiz—a master of masters!

Most Abantu youth were terrified of Tiuti.

Eku and Yathi joked—with no adults nearby, of course—that Tiuti had skin like an old seal, deeply wrinkled from countless days basking under Ulanga’s fire.

He rarely bothered to cut his hair, now threaded with coils of white and sticking awkwardly in all directions.

But everyone held Tiuti in reverence, despite occasional, erratic behavior.

Eku paced down the beach into ankle deep water, hitched up his loincloth and relieved himself.

Continued down the sand, bounding over or around boulders, splashing through tidal pools, padding along Tiuti’s tracks.

Once caught up, Eku found a nice round rock to sit upon and angled himself to best receive Ulanga’s first fire, watching the elder shuffle along an arc of broken shells at the edge of the tide.

Tall and lean and barefoot, Tiuti wore a well-worn loincloth shorn of hair with a knife holster tied to his thigh, a sleeveless, sealskin vest with ostrich shell beads and turaco feathers sewn into the shoulders, and an elaborate necklace of his favorite, small and oddly shaped bones.

When preparation for the pilgrimage began, the old master made clear his intent to go along.

At first, the other elders balked, but as always, Tiuti got his way.

Eku had asked his mother, “Is it because he is so wise?”

Krele told him, “Tiuti has given to the tribe all that he knows. He earned the honor of choosing where his life goes from here.”

***

“Umawa give me your blood!” Tiuti suddenly cried.

Bent over to pick up a pebble.

Straightened to look at it.

Shook his head and cast the rock back to the sand.

Eku felt brave and called, “Izik-ikiz Tiuti, why do you say those words?”

The old Abantu glanced over, but dismissed him with a curt wave of the hand.

But then, as though reconsidering, Tiuti whirled to approach.

Shocked, Eku didn’t dare budge from his seat on the boulder.

Bone necklace bouncing, feathers on the vest fluttering, beach wind whipping the wild hair, Tiuti stomped over.

Wide-eyed, Eku watched Tiuti wave a hand inland, long fingers spread like the primary feathers of an eagle in a hard turn.

His voice was high-pitched for a male, especially for one so tall, and his dark eyes were intense and seemed to seize and make immobile whoever he was speaking to.

“The blood of Umawa appears rarely,” he told Eku.

“A scratch in the ground and then you have to hurry to find it before Umawa covers such a petty wound with a scab of stone and dirt.”

Nervous, but above all curious, Eku asked, “But what do you mean, Umawa’s blood?”

Tiuti pulled from the holster tied his thigh a long knife and knelt before Eku, whose involuntary intake of breath was swift.

Eye level with the young male, Tiuti raised the blade between them, the cutting edge catching the angle of Ulanga’s first fire to become a gradient of gray to honey.

Gravely, Tiuti said, “This Eku, isipo-igazi, is Umawa’s blood.”

The old master deftly spun the knife and respectfully offered the weapon, handle first, as a hunter would.

Eku hesitated.

Smiled.

Swallowed nervously and reached to grasp the handle with both hands, hoping by some miracle Yathi had roused from sleep and snuck away to watch this.

Lifted the knife, surprised at how heavy it was, but when held correctly, became lighter, perfectly balanced.

Cast admiring eyes up and down the handle, carved from the foreleg of a water buffalo while still wet, to form a shape that perfectly conjoined with a blade of stone that only formed in exact circumstance, requiring a precise blend of minerals, pressure and deep time.

“That is not a blade of ordinary rock,” Tiuti said.

Eku’s curiosity shoved aside all remaining nervousness and he said, “It looks like tree sap.”

Peered at the old master’s wrinkled face up close and saw the wonder that still fueled his mind as powerfully as Uwama moved the tides, adding, “When left under the gaze of Ulanga to harden.”

“Yes, Eku. Very good. Umawa’s blood only comes from deep in the ground.”

Tiuti leaned close so Eku could smell his breath and pointed with a finger covered with callouses, the roughened edge of his fingernail tracing a blade strong enough to chop wood, yet sharp enough to shear whiskers from soft skin.

“You do not see the grain of an ordinary rock or the structure of a bone. Nor do you see the growth layers of a shell or the rings of once living wood. Umawa’s blood only comes from a source of fire, deep in his belly.”

Eku’s voice betrayed his awe, “Did you find the isipo-igazi to make this blade?”

Tiuti leaned back and clicked with satisfaction.

“Long ago. With my father. Our last scouting together.

“We found a piece of isipo-igazi big as a buffalo, piercing our world from below.

“Unusually colored. Patchy. Like a hyena with light and dark spots.”

He waved his long fingers away from the water, somewhere beyond the bluff and savannah, wistfully adding, “But that was the other side of Umawa, at the base of great mountains. As great as the ones recently passed.”

Knowing the songs the people sang to recount the heroic forays to the land where the irreplaceable isipo-gazi could be found, Eku said, “That was a long journey. Like my father was on, when he found the land of legend.”

Tiuti clicked yes and said, “But we go in different directions. To travel to where isipo-igazi can be found in abundance requires a journey that takes you to where Uwama’s caress turns Umawa the other way, so that Ulanga sinks into her water at night.”

He winked, adding, “Or so we like to explain in song.”

Thinking of the limited supply of core rock spread amongst the travois the tribe pulled each day, Eku asked, “Do you think we will find more?”

Tiuti clicked to indicate satisfaction.

“Your father brought back a stone from the land of legend.

“Told me he found the stone at the base of another mountain.

“Stone as black as the darkest, starless night, but shiny and hard and knappable, like isipo-igazi.”

Eku blurted, “Maybe Umawa’s old blood?”

Tiuti tilted his head back and laughed, an event so rare that Eku almost fell off his perch.

Still chuckling, Tiuti said, “You are clever, young one.”

Beaming from the compliment, but not understanding, Eku handed the magnificent weapon back, asking, “Will you be able to make blades such as this from the black isipo-igazi?”

Tiuti looked serious again.

“I believe so. I believe the land of legend will provide riches to fill our dreams.”

Eku smiled. “Me too.”

Tiuti stood tall and sheathed the knife.

Waved a calloused finger in front of Eku, whose eyes widened once more.

“Remember this, Eku kaleni-yana. With great riches will come great danger.”

***

Tiuti resumed his beachside wandering and Eku was lost in thought, basking in the attention of the old master and letting his mind run free with adventures and conquests when a shrill cry from Yat yanked him out of his daydreaming.

“Eku come eat. Now, before harvest.”

Spun on his butt to see her standing at the top of the bluff, hands planted on her hips, wearing only a loincloth, Ulayo pushing her hair out like a plume of feathers.

Yat was fast becoming an adult and would soon cut her hair.

She had always been a serious child, but now,  having reached a time where she could be paired off with a potential mate, Yat took her responsibilities seriously.

Unlike other sisters stuck tracking down wayward little brothers, she waited for him to clamber up.

Eku didn’t mind.

Not that much.

Yat could boss him around once in a while; after all, when a stingray stabbed his leg and he had bled into a feverish sleep, it was Yat at Eku’s bed mat every time he woke, applying bee honey to the wound and providing water and fruit throughout his recovery.

And of course it was Yat who teased him into a rage so that he chased her across camp, even though his leg hurt; mother, laughing at his frustration, telling him that his sister was only helping him to get better.

Eku reached the top of the bluff and remembered what he should have been doing as Yat clicked scoldingly and said, “You skipped melons.”

“I forgot,” Eku said, a truthful answer, though Yat clicked again in a way that expressed skepticism.

“I like to watch Tiuti.”

“Especially in the morning when you should be gathering melons,” she said, turning to head back to camp.

“Did Yathi go?”

“Of course not,” Yat said, calling over a shoulder. “Yathi is a lazy bushpig! He sleeps and you go scampering off.

“Come now, eat. You will need it. You and him get to pull the travois for skipping melons!”

***

The bluff where the Abantu set up camp had gritty top soil with an orange-ish hue, scattered with circular patches of knee-high grass and needle-branched bushes with tiny yellow flowers.

Spider-webbing everywhere were the gnarled and spiny vines with dull round leaves that somehow produced the sweetest melon.

Beyond the bluff, Umawa expanded endlessly as savannah: gentle, grass-covered hills variegating from green to yellow to brown; the occasional cluster of trees defined by flat tops and bulging trunks.

Yathi joked how the strange trees looked like they were upside down, the roots sticking into the air where the canopy should have been.

The camp site was chosen because of the melon patch.

Undiscovered by elephants and with no baboons or monkeys nearby, the fruit was untouched, plump and ripe.

Sweet melon was nice, but the marula patch discovered a short distance away caused considerably more excitement.

The previous evening, after the travois were disassembled into shelters and camp established, adults explored the area to find a wonderful surprise: marula trees, the ultra-dependable staple of the Abantu diet found in abundance across their homeland, but not seen since hiking north of the clouds that were mountains.

Eku sprinted through waist-high grass to pass Yat, realizing how much time passed as he daydreamed on the beach.

Camp was in full preparation.

Remnants of skin and pole shelters scattered across trampled tall grass.

Smoke rose from fires.

Circles of adults distributed food and young Abantu were clustered in familial groups.

Hunters wearing loincloths and seal skin vests were gathered along the outskirts of camp, no doubt discussing the logistics of the day’s trek.

As Eku ran by, he caught his father’s eye and grinned guiltily; though, Kaleni only smiled.

His father had a soft spot when it came to Eku spending time with Tiuti.

Krele, his mother, was who Eku was concerned about.

While on the beach with Tiuti, other early risers gathered waka-waka melons; cutting holes to first drain the sweet nectar to store in bladders, then using a scooper to toss the remaining pulp into a communal dish; the nuts separated to dry for later meals.

The harvest that would come later was different.

Like all children, once weaned, Eku was obligated to participate.

He dashed through the bustle of camp to where his family shelter had been, his mother and aunt Shona having already dismantled the skin and poles into a pair of travois.

Krele smiled at the appearance of Eku, wearing his loincloth of soft springhare, as always, keri stick bouncing from the strap of cordage she sewed into the waist.

Seeing Krele’s reaction, Eku was relieved.

Yat could scold him all she wanted, but a single harsh word from mother would ruin his day.

Melon gathering was the easiest of chores and really, only waka people were needed to quickly gather enough fruit.

Food preparation was the real labor and Eku was not required to participate in that; nevertheless, by skipping melons, which would have taken just a few moments out of his early morning, once harvest was done, he was stuck hauling a travois with Yathi.

Krele winked at Eku and pointed to his sealskin satchel sitting on a flat rock, ula-konto resting against it.

Eku bellowed heartfelt thanks and dug out a hollowed and hardened old melon shell and a scooper, then sped off to fill his belly with a mix of fresh fruit, shellfish and nuts.