Our days often split into three. The mornings, which started quite early for an idle aristocrat like myself--I would say around six o'clock--entailed much of the physical work of this self-sufficient community. This was when pairs of hunters stalked the plains for venison and antelope, using only long wooden spears, the common weapon of Apterona. I never fully trusted anyone who bore a spear, and with good reason, it seems to me. The identities of those assassins were never disclosed. Rodrigo told me how their bodies had been carried away by a dispatch of palace guards, without explanation or investigation.
Hunting parties often spent the best part of a day gathering food stock. On occasion, I was allowed to assist in the sorting of these dead animals for food preparation. But I never developed a taste, as it were, for either chore. What fascinated me, however, was the sheer diversity of birds and beasts these errant gatherers brought home. As well as the more regular red antelope--a nimble creature, very easily spooked--there was a veritable prime menu of quadruped steaks on order. Tastiest of all were the spotted cattle, exceedingly clumsy, large, grey beasts with two spiraling horns. The beef cut from these beasts alone was worth the price of a time travel ticket.
Only the most adroit hunters tried to capture the two swiftest species on the west of the island. These were zebras and white deer. Once they kicked into full flight, they could never be caught. I was given opportunities to taste both, but rarely. The zebra meat was a little too stringy for my palette, while the white venison was exceptional by any standards. Rodrigo, became quite the gourmet and proclaimed the white deer meat fit for a king.
An essential animal for the community was the wanaku, or giant alpaca, whose gluttony was legendary on Apterona, and whose long, silken wool was sheared and then fashioned into the cloth used to garb this ancient people. I grew quite fond of these poor beasts. Relatives of the llama, they often reached seven feet tall, and, unlike the other nearby quadrupeds, were obedient. Granted, they weren't slaughtered for their flesh--the hyena creatures of the forest had whittled their great herds to an all-time low--but I found their cooperation unusual and pitiable. Indeed, they had gotten so used to humans, they were now practically domesticated.
I often thought back to that night at Dumitrescu's, to the mystery man and his woolen clothing. The disparity of nine thousand years was no longer the enigma. The time machine had unraveled that question. What intrigued me now was the identity of that doomed time-traveler, whose fateful escape to our own time had kick-started this adventure.
One morning, Rodrigo, while trying on a white chiton made for him by K'achita, a very tall local woman whose weaving skills amazed us, expressed his own views on the matter. "It seems pretty obvious to me, Baz, that we've hit the jackpot insofar as likely candidates for our unfortunate time traveler. Wanakus provide the clothes, the natives wear the clothes. The body they found in the sea was dressed in exactly the same fashion. We're probably living next door to the poor sonofabitch right now. And since there's no way we can identify him, we'll just have to wait and see what happens. The only thing that concerns me is the state he was in when the fishermen plucked him from the sea."
"That's right, those burns on the body were horrific!" I replied.
"So, let's pretend for a minute that we're in 1979," he continued. "Things occurring as they would have before we became involved, one of these natives has to first encounter the time machine, replace the original occupant, and then barely escape a fiery end. And seeing as there doesn't appear to be a way of piloting the time machine, except through time, we can conclude that this fellow knew the location of the vessel before the fire."
"Why's that?"
"Well, if he didn't move it in any way, three-dimensionally, then it would have to have been where it is now--twenty or so feet beneath the sea, a hundred feet from shore. For him to miraculously happen upon it, in so unlikely a spot, at such a crucial time, strains the bounds of coincidence, don't you think?"
He was correct. The time machine's occupant was the riddle. How long before his fiery escape had we arrived? When and where would the original time machine show up, if it wasn't here already? What kind of fire would prompt an Apteronian to flee his sacred island? These questions troubled me the more I thought.
One afternoon, as Pacal and I ate with Rodrigo and K'achita on my veranda--of the apartment with maroon drapes--we felt a slight ground tremor. It lasted only a dozen seconds or so, but was sufficient to relocate our wooden plates four inches across the floor.
"That's the third time this season," said Rodrigo, translating Pacal's enthusiastic words. "It's a sign that The Land is content, according to the Kamachej."
Hogwash! I thought. There's nothing contented about an earthquake.
The four of us spent many afternoons together, resting from our morning exertions and addressing our biggest hurdle, language. Among us, we had six from which to choose: Pacal and K'achita were the resident Apteronians; Rodrigo was fluent in English and Spanish, added to which he could lump Quechua and now this native tongue on his resume; my list of English, Russian and French was inarguably the least useful.
As well as being a superb teacher, Rodrigo had the time of his life listening to us fumble our way through his classes. The lessons took the form of role-plays. He would give us a series of lines, along with the translations, for a scene that we would enact, once in English, once in Apteronian, after we had learned them.
One time, the Cuban even adapted a scene from his favorite movie, The Godfather. K'achita found it particularly hilarious when he insisted Pacal deliver his English lines with two hunks of steak lodged inside his cheeks.
After four months of these afternoon linguistics, I was able to converse quite well in the native tongue. Apteronian, like Quechua, is built around one's inflection of the language. For instance, the verb for 'to know', yachay, is the same in almost all contexts, and the only way to distinguish between them is in the delivery; to say "I know" requires no change in tone. "He knows" requires a stress on the first syllable to make it masculine, or "she knows" a stress on the second to make it feminine. If there is only one syllable to a verb, then simple hand gestures separate its usages. For the past tense, a speaker lightens his voice at the end of the verb, in much the same way as many languages turn a statement into a question. And those were only the basics.
As a completely different challenge to anything I had attempted before, this new dialect sparked a deep appreciation for this ancient culture. Without our twentieth century absurdities--money, taxes, advertisements, traffic, pollution, corporate ambition--I truly felt like an offspring of time travel, with a new identity. Here, I realized, a man could be whatever he wanted to be and still maintain his vital link within the community. In 1979, the larger a town or city, the more disconnected its inhabitants feel from one another. In Yaku, quite simply, everyone felt essential.
"The stars of a galaxy are held together, and look at the beauty of that communion," observed Pacal late one evening as he, Puma and I sat on his veranda, sharing philosophies.
"I should have guessed that would be your explanation," replied Puma mockingly. "If my father ever heard you comparing us to the heavens, those sweet concoctions of yours... Well, let us just say you would soon be drinking bitter fruits, Pacal."
"I know that all too well," came the retort.
Puma fell silent, aware that his words had trodden on sensitive ground.
"What do you both mean?" I asked.
"We mean always to remain loyal to one another, in spite of our fathers," said Pacal.
This cryptic answer intrigued me, and that each now avoided eye contact with the other.
It seems we each have our secrets, I thought.
"Lord," said Puma, "tell me, if you will, all that you have learned of us since your arrival, insofar as your understanding of our beliefs. Please answer honestly. I promise we shall not be offended."
Wary though I was in the presence of the Kamachej's son, I saw this as an excellent opport
unity to gain his confidence. He stroked his grimy, copper-colored hair against the base of his skull, flared his nostrils in anticipation. His features were youthful but stern, while his pomp receded in the shadow across his moonlit face.
"My understanding is that The Land governs your beliefs, and everything here owes itself to natural balance. Much like with certain peoples on other parts of the earth, there is a mutual respect here between man and the patterns of nature. You seem content to remain as you are, and to not travel beyond your land." I spoke with enthusiasm. "On my first day here, Pacal told me that some among you have a deep distrust of foreign lands and peoples. I also perceived this in the eyes of those who gathered to observe my arrival with the bear.
"Yet your father, Puma, asked me some puzzling questions. And I have to admit that you, Pacal, strike me as anything but provincial. Between your interest of the stars and Vichama Supay's questions along similar lines, I am not convinced that everyone here shares a singular, common belief. There seems to be a great deal left unsaid; at least, that is what I have perceived."
"Then how perceptive you are," said Puma, leaning toward me. "Pacal tells me that neither you or your companion have sought to leave Yaku, even to hunt. I am glad. For what it is worth, I told my father that he need not have any further suspicions of you."
"What cause has he to suspect me at all?"
"You came from the horizon," replied Pacal.
"So does the sun, if you want to get technical," I quipped, forgetting that my friend was not your average gullible yokel.
"Right you are," he agreed, to my astonishment, "as does the wind and the moon and the all the stars of the sky. Why you are in exalted company, Lord."
If he had not smirked as he spoke my name, I might have taken him for the worst astronomer of all time. That sly sarcasm, though, reminded me why I liked him so much. In his own way, Pacal Votan was every bit the rogue Rodrigo was. However, the cause of the friction between him and Puma remained undisclosed.
"Were you not about to tell me of your two fathers?"
Puma answered in a soft, almost apologetic voice, "I would be grateful if you could tell the story, Pacal. Yours is the version with the fewest distortions."
"There really is not much to tell, Lord, other than of the bitter extremes that arise among us from time to time. You have already deduced the rift in our beliefs; let me now explain the animus that boils beneath the harmony on Apterona."
"Apterona? Why do you insist on using that meaningless name?" interrupted Puma, rather rudely.
"Because I have that right. And in any case, there is nothing more meaningless than calling it The Land! I can only imagine how primitive we must sound to Lord and Rodrigo when we say that. Now, if you will permit me, I have a tale to tell."
Puma receded into the shadows once again as he leant back.
"Without telling the history," Pacal began, "the respective beliefs of our two fathers are difficult to address, Lord. Long ago, the poor wretches we call our ancestors began to learn beyond their instincts. Weapons and tools replaced cunning, and a dominance arose in humankind. But this did not occur over generations, as you might expect. Rather, the change was a sudden one, a spark that sired a hundred generations of ingenuity. No one really knows how or why. Fantastical claims have been made ever since, evolving, as all ideas of origin eventually do, into a powerful religion. That religion attributes our great progress to the guidance of the gods themselves, whose arrival on The Land precipitated our human enlightenment. It is said that the ground where the gods landed lies many miles to the east, and is both sacred and forbidden for man to tread.
"Therein lies the crux of our ancient divide on Apterona. A river of belief diverging, if you will, to answer the question of why the gods would impart to us this great intelligence. Many believe that we were chosen, above all other men and beasts of the world, to create a mortal paradise in honor of their immortal place in the sky. In other words, we are a blessed people, not meant to suffer the contaminants of foreign lands. Hence, the distrust you met on you arrival."
"But you welcomed me with open arms."
"I did, which leads me to the second interpretation of our history, my friend. There are those of us with a great desire to explore. We see those religious beliefs, and indeed Apterona itself, as extensions of our own ancient fears. It is time to overcome them. As you have sailed the ocean to find us, I too desire to search for other lands and peoples. Such a yearning stretches back to the ancients, but the power to stifle progress has always resided with religious chiefs. The line of the Kamachej has ensured our obedience, for none has ever sailed from these shores and lived.
"My father was the last to try. The vessel he carved in secret never made it beyond a stone's throw from land. A dozen of Vichama Supay's guards were seen on the western beach shortly before his boat drifted back to shore, empty. My father was never found. Puma Pawq'ar swears his father never gave such an order but, in my mind, the murder is consistent with the legacies of all the Kamachej gone before.
"The unwritten edict is simple: none are permitted to leave, whatever the cost. So as you can see, my foreign friend, a miscreant such as yourself is allowed to live only for one reason: curiosity about your foreign ways. Vichama Supay's questions in the palace were carefully chosen for this end. Puma reports regularly to his father, especially in regards you and your conduct. This way, if there are more of your kind to come, he will at least be prepared in some way."
He stopped there, deep in thought. Shadow drew out like a blade on the veranda. Clouds massed overhead, swallowing the eerie swab of moonlight about us. I was sure of only two things: fell weather was approaching, and Pacal Votan had just spoken a great treason.
Puma rose to his feet and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. They were closer than I had realized. Indeed, the prince's conciliatory gesture was a riddle to me. Was he, the only son of the Kamachej, sympathetic to these non-believers? Was this rebellious element more widespread than I had perceived? If so, would there be more attempts to leave Apterona?
The fate of Pacal's father preyed on my mind, also. His mysterious disappearance appeared to tally with the puzzle of the time machine. Might he have escaped his pursuers by diving underwater, to find the vessel cloaked on the sea bed? But the time-traveler had come to a fiery end, and we had arrived after his disappearance, not before it.
"We had better get inside," said Puma, holding out his hands to test the night air.
We felt the first drops of warm rain, and quickly made our way indoors. Within a few minutes, Yaku was under siege from a ferocious downpour.
I barely slept that night. Thoughts of this ancient culture splitting itself in two echoed the thunderous monsoon outside. The stone apartment was watertight, however. Built to stand above the flooding, its raised veranda now made perfect sense.
I did not see the effects of the storm until the next morning.
I opened my door to a grim, grey dawn. A shoal of muddy water covered the great ellipse in the centre of the village. From what I could see, the whole of Yaku was awash: the gradual drift of this new lagoon carried boxes, benches, wooden casks, and even a few skinned animals downstream. This flooding overflowed the river channel to a dangerous level. Neighboring families gathered at their doors, regaling one another in surprisingly high spirits as they watched the waters recede. Indeed, all we could do was wait.
Pacal crossed the promenade between our homes with a spring in his step. He joked with his neighbors as he passed them, and when he reached me, the first thing he said was, "A new season, Lord, and a new time."
He then glanced around to make sure we were alone, and dipped his voice to a whisper. "Care for a boat ride tonight?"
Equal parts bemused and intrigued, I replied, "Of course."
"Good then! Puma will accompany us, as soon as he returns after nightfall. I promise your curiosity will not go unsatisfied."
Across the ellipse, I spied Rodrigo and K'achita opening their door
to the new season. As they reached the water's edge, they waved to us. The next thing I saw was Rodrigo tumble headlong into the flood; K'achita twirled and strutted away, victorious.
Pacal laughed. "That's one way to celebrate!"
"Here's another," I replied, launching him from his feet into the muddy flow, and laughing as he struggled to his feet. "As you can see, the tide waits for no man!"
Chapter 13
Pacal Votan's astronomical devices distracted me as I waited in his home for Puma to arrive. The duo's mysterious expedition was to be under cover of darkness, and no one else was invited, not even Rodrigo. But where were they headed? For what purpose? Was this official business on behalf of the Kamachej, or was it somehow seditious? Neither would have surprised me after our conversation the previous day. For my part, I couldn't help thinking this had something to do with the time machine. Paranoia perhaps--after all, I was hiding that incredible secret--but Rodrigo and I had deduced that someone from Apterona would find and use the machine, fatally. Who would it be? How could they possibly find an invisible object underwater? And intriguingly, who had brought the time machine to Apterona in the first place? Too many questions were still unanswered. Instead of fretting, I decided to wait and see what transpired.
No matter how well he explained, his mathematics of the stars was beyond me, mainly due to the fact that his calculations involved advanced astrophysics, and were not annotated at all. Many of the metal instruments he used were for drawing diagrams. These, it seemed to me, more closely resembled the tools of a cartographer than a scientist. I recalled using a set of compasses to draw circles at school, but Pacal had devised ways to map elliptical orbits, intersecting orbits and even concyclic anomalies. I understood nothing of the rest. Just before we left, he retrieved a miniature telescope from a bundle of cloths.
"Many of these were my father's," he said. "This eye to the sky was his most prized possession. He left it with me the night before he disappeared, and I had it with me the night you appeared. I am more and more certain our fates have been intertwined for a reason."
The Basingstoke Chronicles Page 9
