by Joe Zeigler
They stopped early, for Danijel didn’t want to come up on the Cliff Dwellers too late in the day. They would feel they should provide food and shelter to the travelers, and they might be resentful. Danijel knew they were working hard to bring in the last harvest of the year and get it stored. They would have pickets out, know where Danijel’s party had stopped, and appreciate the consideration.
In the morning, the People were up with the Sun, and they arrived at the edge of the canyon just after noon. They set down their loads and moved directly into the fields on the brink of the canyon to help with the harvest…another consideration the Cliff Dwellers would appreciate.
“Danijel, my friend.” Aitor, a short, bald man, leader of the Midland Cliff Dwellers, was deformed by scars from terrible burns and stooped from old age. Aitor had witnessed the day the mountains exploded, and part of them had landed on him.
He came toward Danijel with arms stretched. “There is no need for your people to work in our fields.” He smiled. “But I am grateful, and we will feast tonight to celebrate the last harvest.”
Ohad Scouts for Product
As the others labored to bring in the harvest, Ohad slipped away, seeking opportunity ahead of the others, and made his way down the cliff face and into the vertical village. The first step was the hardest, as it was an almost vertical wall with steps cut into the face. It was the only way into the village from this side of the canyon, and it was meant to be difficult, thus easily defended. Ohad slowly traversed the steps, testing each carefully before committing his full weight.
Finally, after creating a long delay for the line of people carrying the harvest down on their backs, he was on the main road, or path, depending on your perspective. It was about halfway down the cliff, still considerably high above the tops of the trees growing beside the river below. On one side of the pathway was a sheer drop of thirty feet to the next level. The path was bordered on the other side by the cliff, dwellings, meeting places, and storehouses created from modified natural caves and stone walls. When looking across the canyon, Ohad could see that the sides consisted of layers of different materials—basalt, limestone, relatively soft sandstone, and even loose gravel. Many of the caves were entirely man-made, dug out of the softer layers. The main path Ohad was on was at a greenish-brown sandstone level, topped with a layer of a harder white sandstone. Much of the trail had been created by digging out the soft layer above the harder white sandstone and below the layer of limestone above. This resulted in an overhang covering much of the path. On this level, the caves had been extended by walls of carefully stacked stone to form buildings with numerous rooms. Some were modifications of the traditional pit-house, half-underground with the entryway also serving as the exit for the smoke from the fire burning in the center during the cold time.
Ohad moved slowly along the path, peering into each building as he passed but glancing, often nervously, at the edge. Fears of tripping and falling over the edge flitted through his mind. He came to a wide spot and found women working on food preparations—one forming maize cakes and frying them on a flat stone over a fire, another chopping vegetables and dropping them into a large clay pot simmering over the same fire, and at the far end, a potter was forming a bowl. Made more conscious of baskets by his conversation with Gedeon, he noticed that many of the baskets containing the foodstuffs were Micaela’s products. Now that he was paying attention, he noted her telltale patterns. He would have to give this basket business further thought.
Through the uncovered door of a rather large home, he saw a middle-aged woman standing behind a seated younger version of herself. The girl’s large, perfectly formed, uncovered breasts, unknowingly displayed for Ohad’s pleasure, attracted his attention. Then he noticed the older woman rubbing the girl’s hair…No, she had something in her hand as she dragged it across the girl’s head and down the length of her long hair.
“What are you doing?” Ohad asked, sticking his head into the room.
“Lice.” The woman’s answer was strange, for it was common for one person to pick lice out of the hair of a relative or friend, but she wasn’t picking—she was rubbing.
“What is that board you are stroking her hair with?” Ohad asked, moving into the room.
“A comb.” The woman handed the object to Ohad for his inspection. Its design and purpose were immediately apparent, though he had never seen such a thing before. Opportunity!
“Where did you get that ‘comb’?” he asked.
“Itzli, the carver, made it. He made one for himself, and when I saw him using it to remove the lice from his woman’s hair, I asked him to make one for me.”
“What did you pay him?”
“Oh, nothing…we are all good friends. He just made me this one and gave it to me.”
“Where is this Itzli, the carver?”
Making a mental note to revisit this dwelling when the mother was away, Ohad carefully made his way down two levels, the first about thirty feet below, the last about sixty feet from the bottom of the canyon. This low, he could hear the sound of the water running through the floor of the canyon, slowly cutting it deeper—about the thickness of a sheet of paper every year. Walking the narrow path—much narrower than the main path above—he soon identified the home of Itzli by the wood chips trod into the surface of the path in front.
He found Itzli in an interior room that was piled high with raw wood on one side and finished product on the other. It was dark, a fact that did not appear to deter the grizzled old man of indeterminate years, hunched over a foot-powered lathe, turning a bowl and cutting it with a flint chisel.
“Are you Itzli?”
Itzli grunted.
Taking this for a yes, Ohad made his proposition. In short order, he negotiated an exclusive deal for all the combs Itzli could produce, at the price of one arrowhead per twenty combs. Itzli was beside himself and found it hard to maintain a calm countenance. This deal meant newfound wealth, at almost no cost. He made the combs out of shavings left from producing plows, handles, and many other things. Previously, he had just burned them in his fire. Now, with a few cuts of a sharp flint, he would be a rich man.
Itzli agreed to start production immediately, and Ohad would take the entire amount when he left. Then, Ohad would come or send a representative on every new moon to purchase the combs produced. Itzli further agreed to produce no combs for anyone else outside his family and friends.
All of this had taken most of the day, and Ohad, very pleased, slowly climbed out of the canyon. He didn’t want to be late for the feast.
Feast of the Farmers
The women prepared the meat below and brought the food up the steep, almost vertical path. It was amazingly sweet and succulent to Danijel’s people, who rarely had the opportunity to eat domestic animals. The beef was marbled, the thin lines of fat adding significantly to the flavor. Compared to the tough, dry meat of the wild game, this was ambrosia.
The vegetables were served raw or steamed on the spot—one stop between the field and the plate. And the vegetables captured the evening. Domestic vegetables that the hunter-gatherers had seldom experienced—corn, maize cakes, beans, squash—all in fresh, consistent quantities. The People gorged themselves and lubricated the process with wine and mind-altering tea.
The maize cakes were the favorite item, available only twice a year when the People traveled through the land and visited the Cliff Dwellers. Or if they were willing to pay the high price, ground maize was offered by the Traders, who brought it up from the skinny strip of land between two oceans in the far south.
Micaela brought plate after plate to Ohad. They were actual plates, made from clay and heated in a fire until they were strong, hard, and waterproof. The Cliff Dwellers were artists, producing their clay pots in multiple sizes, shapes, and designs, challenging Micaela’s baskets for functional beauty. Micaela admired their work immensely, but producing pottery was out of the question for her or her people—much too cumbersome and fragile for a migrating p
eople to carry.
There were no clay deposits in the canyon where the Cliff Dwellers lived. However, they had long ago discovered a thin layer, about four feet deep, at the lower level of a narrow canyon two miles to the south. The supply of clay had been abundant for generations—even before they abandoned the foothills for the cliffs.
They had developed the potter’s wheel and used it to good avail. This discovery, however, had not been evolved for any other use, such as transportation or even the arch. As elaborate as the cliff dwellings were, the arch was not part of their design. Nor was anything approaching an arch used. Post and lintel construction was the apex of bridging technology with cantilevered stones, hinting at a corbel arch achieved by accident and only used when an adequate length of stone was not available.
They have mastered the potter’s wheel, and eventually that technology might bleed over to other applications. Danijel continued the thought. But progress is not always linear, and these people might not be the ones to turn the potter’s wheel on end. Civilization, though, will eventually acquire the technology, via an entirely different and unrelated path, for progress is inevitable.
When Micaela finished her chores and Ohad was finally satiated, she filled a plate for herself, poured a cup of tea, and sat down beside a flat stone that served her as a table. This meal is superb, she realized.
Maxtla, carrying a plate and cup of his own, sat down beside her, commenting, “This food is very good.”
“I was just thinking that,” Micaela replied. She was surprised by Maxtla’s arrival, after all that had happened…not that it was unwelcome. It seemed people had been avoiding her recently. She felt lonely and just a little afraid. And she was angry, though all of her conflicting feelings were far from resolved. She sipped her tea.
“These plates are so lovely,” she said to Maxtla. “It is too bad we cannot have such ourselves.”
“And why not?” Maxtla questioned as he dug into his meal.
“They are too heavy to carry on our travels.”
“Then have two sets: one in the High Country for use when the People are there in the summer and one in the Low Country for the winter.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Micaela cried after a moment’s thought. “You are wonderful!” She leaned over the span between them and kissed him on the cheek. Maxtla is very smart, she considered as she sipped some more tea, realizing the intended effect. A pattern was taking form in her mind. A pattern of interlocking leaves…no, overlapping leaves with their stems joined in the center of the plate.
Maxtla again breached her space and refilled her teacup. This is great tea, she thought. She felt very safe and happy for the first time in a long time. The ground was soft and warm, and it welcomed her as she lay down, dreams of pottery patterns in her head. Then she passed out.
Maxtla continued to sit beside her and look down at her for a long time before rising and returning to his shelter to sleep. He had drunk a lot of wine himself, though the tea was more potent. Just as well, he thought. Maxtla was torn. At this juncture, he didn’t know what he wanted. He had wanted Micaela pretty badly. Not exactly desperately, but pretty badly. And he still wanted her, though a union would no longer work to his advantage. The child she is carrying is not mine, through no fault of my own, he thought bitterly. And Micaela cannot even pretend to be a virgin. She did it in front of everyone…Everyone saw…There is no putting that wine back in the skin.
Perhaps it was better that he had underestimated the potency of the tea tonight. He needed to think before taking action, not let his desires take over his life.
Micaela woke the next morning to find herself lying next to the table stone and having no idea why she was still there. A fur had been thrown over her, yet she was chilled through to the bone. No time to dally, though, she concluded. Ohad is calling.
“Micaela, Micaela! Bring me the headache herbs…and the stomach herbs…and that white, chalky liquid. That worked well last time. Hurry, child!”
Micaela tore through the wrappings still tied to the carrying harness, as she had not completely unpacked the day before. After putting down her load yesterday, she had gone straight to the fields to help with the harvest. Then, with barely enough time between to set up the shelters, on to the feast. Arriving late at such an event was unseemly.
Finally, she found everything and hurried over to where Ohad was suffering in his makeshift shelter.
“Give it to me,” he groaned, “quickly. My head is about to burst, and my stomach has forsaken me.”
Micaela prepared the doses, helped him to get them ingested, and then sat with him until he fell back into a deep sleep. It had been a full twenty-four hours. Micaela considered the events of the night before and wondered what had happened to Maxtla. She felt her face flush as she imagined what Maxtla thought of her overeating and falling asleep in the middle of the feast and, worse, in the middle—perhaps midsentence—of a conversation with him. It was no wonder that he had just left her there, not attempting to wake her and get her to her shelter. I am so embarrassed.
Not one to dwell on things, she started to unpack the items they would need for an extended stay in this encampment. She knew Danijel intended to visit and do business with the Cliff Dwellers for two or more days.
Corn Trade
Indeed, Danijel had business in mind. He hoped to change his people’s utter dependence on hunting and gathering by introducing some small agriculture production. He believed it could be done in the Highland during the summer. Change was hard, he knew. The People had been living the same way for thousands of years and had trouble imagining a different way. Of course, they knew other ways were possible. They were familiar with the agriculture of the Midland Cliff Dwellers, the Lowlanders, and others who stayed in place the year around. It just hadn’t occurred to them that this was something they might do themselves.
Later that day, Danijel was sitting with Aitor outside his dwelling on the upper level. Aitor was saying, “If I sell you the cow, you will no longer buy milk from me,” straining the analogy. Danijel clearly understood what he was saying. Aitor did not want to sell Danijel’s people seed for the maize and lose their custom or, worse, create a competitor.
“I understand,” Danijel replied, “and do not find fault in your argument. I could easily promise to purchase the same amount of maize from your people each time we passed through your land, twice a year.”
“Why would you do that? You would be growing your own maize and no longer need to purchase from us.”
“All that you say is true; however, it is a hardship for us to transport material on our biannual migration. If we purchased from you during our travels, we would not have to carry the maize. If it turns out that it is a little more costly to do it this way, I will consider it a portion of the cost of the seed.”
“I will need to think on this,” Aitor replied.
“Yes,” Danijel agreed, “think on it, and we will reconsider together. Meanwhile, be aware that with our guaranteed purchase agreement, you must not raise the price.”
“Of course,” Aitor said with a pained expression, having been mildly insulted.
After wishing a good night to Aitor and climbing out of the gorge of the Cliff Dwellers, Danijel passed Ohad’s encampment on his way to his own and saw Micaela sitting on a log, rubbing her hair with something. He approached and stopped. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“This is Ohad’s discovery. He calls it a comb. It collects the lice and all other varmints from your hair”—she smiled—“as you pass its teeth through.” She stretched her arm out toward him, handing him the comb.
“Ah, a comb,” he said, recognizing its purpose. “Is Ohad going to sell combs? If so, I would like to purchase one for Liùsaidh. She would enjoy it very much.”
“Yes, he is. He says that everyone will have to have a comb. He is very excited. Keep that one—a present from me to Liùsaidh.”
“Well, thank you. Will it be all right with Ohad?” Dan
ijel said, worried. “He may not allow you to have another.”
“It’s all right.” She smiled. “He will be happy if Liùsaidh uses and appreciates his comb. Free advertising, you understand. I will make sure he sees it that way.”
Danijel smiled. “Yes, yes…Well, thank you, Micaela.” He continued up the hill to the second-floor ruin, where Liùsaidh had set up the campsite. From there he could overlook the camp and the surrounding area, as had the previous occupants and builders many years ago. He knew Liùsaidh would love the comb once she understood its purpose. Then, later, as it became apparent that combing made the hair more beautiful and sleek, she would be ecstatic. He had seen the change in Micaela’s hair.
“Hello, Danijel,” Liùsaidh greeted him as he topped the ancient stair to the second level. “How did the trading go? Did you get the seeds?”
Danijel glanced down at Liùsaidh’s slightly swollen belly and smiled. She was excited about the prospect of farming—almost as much as she was excited about becoming a mother. He knew she had mixed feelings about the latter. She had denied herself for so long, as she helped him to quietly guide their people to an improved life, that she now worried that being a mother, having a child, would somehow infringe on her prestige and influence with the People. Perhaps she was even worried about her prestige and influence with him. And perhaps most importantly to her, she knew the damage it would do to her body. I must soon find a way to reassure her.
