Orphan of Creation

by Roger MacBride Allen

  “I’ve managed to blank out most of my sociology requirements. What’s cultural relativism?”

  “It’s sort of a soppy liberal thing, the idea that you can’t view one culture as superior to another, because all cultures judge themselves by different criteria. A member of a purely agricultural society like this, living in mud huts, might view Manhattan as hopelessly backwards because there was no place to grow food, and by their sights, they’d be right. Einstein’s theory of relativity told us there were no privileged points of reference in physics, that all frames of reference are equally valid, and no one point in the universe is better for observation than another. The cultural relativists sort of work from an analogy with that, saying that there is no culture that is better than another, since there is no objective measure for comparing one group against another. There are no absolutes.”

  “But these people are living in filth! And they must die young—I haven’t seen anyone much older than 45 or so.”

  “Ah, but what you call filth is part of their cultural matrix, living closer to nature. And no doubt they are accustomed to dying young, and if their life expectancy was extended, it would unbalance all the social structures geared to the chief dying young, for example. And maniac terrorists who kidnap innocent people and blow up airplanes full of people who have nothing to do with their fight are by their lights engaging in honorable, even holy war by the only means possible. We are not so oppressed, how would we act if we were? Who are we to judge?”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t remember anything about Martin Luther King taking any hostages,” Livingston said testily. “Killing innocent people is wrong. There’s an absolute for you.”

  “How can you be so dogmatic?” Barbara asked playfully. “You’re just not a good liberal. Suppose the innocent wants to die, and the death is a sacrifice that plays a vital role in the life of the community? Or to get back to our hijackers, how innocent are the people in that airplane, really? Aren’t they all growing fat and rich off the system of oppression that denies the hijackers a homeland? Aren’t they going to spend their paychecks, pumping money into the global war economy that is denying our poor, misunderstood hijackers their rights?”

  “Wait a minute,” Livingston protested, “you’re halfway to saying that no one can ever do anything wrong, that nothing can ever be someone’s fault—”

  “And since Hitler sincerely thought the Jews were subhuman, by his lights, killing them was no more murder than slaughtering cattle,” Barbara said, her voice tight and angry, no longer playful. “The further logic is that it’s always our fault—poor old Western mainstream culture’s fault—for not being understanding enough. Beyond that, there is no right, no wrong, no moral dimension, because no one—not Hitler, not the hijackers, not the bastards who bought our ancestors for slaves—ever thinks of himself as bad. They always find a reasonable argument to explain what they did as good and proper from their point of view.”

  “So no act can be evil, because the only one who committed the act can judge the act, and no one ever thinks of himself as evil,” said Livingston. “Jeez, that’s real sharp thinking.”

  “The relativists have a point, in that we can’t judge everything by one standard,” Barbara said thoughtfully. “Monsieur Ovono wouldn’t fit in our world any better than we fit in his, but he’s a happy, useful person. But even if this is a tribal culture off in a tiny clearing in the jungle, there’s no reason we have to stand around in human waste in the middle of the village! Ovono himself said he had never seen a place like this. There are such things as right and wrong, and this place proves it. This is no way for people to live.”

  Livingston nodded. “I know. I get the same feeling. Right down deep in the gut. It’s as if they don’t give a damn about anything.”

  Rupert turned to Barbara. “If you two are finished being catty, Ovono has just gotten done telling the locals how much we love the place, and then asked the chief if we might talk of what the other white men traded for. The locals are debating that point now.”

  The chief and his cronies were talking energetically, and finally seemed to reach a conclusion. Ovono listen and relayed their agreement. “Okay, they say fine, let’s make a deal, and want to know what we offer,” Rupert reported. “Now what?”

  Clark spoke up. “My goof, I’m afraid. It should have occurred to me that we might need to barter for information. I should have thought of things to bring along to trade. Now we’ll have to cough up from the gear we brought along for ourselves.” He shifted to French. “What sort of things would they be interested in, of the things we have with us? Don’t ask it of them, just give me an opinion before we start to bargain.”

  Ovono shrugged. “Tools, I think. You have some handsome knives they might like. Rupert’s machete, perhaps. And your watches—not that these savages keep time, of course, but they might think them elegant jewelry. Perhaps some of your clothes if you can spare them. Nothing too unusual. But I suggest you leave the bargaining to me. I know the traditions for bartering things in these parts. These fellows are brutes, but they seem to follow much the same rules. And I suggest we leave it until tomorrow. They are in a mood to eat and drink, not to bargain. They will become irritable if we try to press a deal now.”

  Clark nodded. “That sounds sensible. Tell the chief we wish to rest first, and ask where we might set our mosquito nets and sleep tonight.”

  Ovono translated and listened to the answer. He grinned humorlessly as he relayed it. “There is no need to bother. We are the guests of the chief, and have the honor of sleeping here, under his leaky, termite-infested roof, tonight, on the very same mats you are sitting on now. I would suggest we check each other very carefully for lice in the morning.”

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  Barbara woke from a fitful sleep to find a pair of leering eyes staring at her. It was the chief, God damn it, and judging from the way he had his breech clout off—and what his condition was underneath it—he clearly had but one thing on his mind. He saw that she was awake, grinned, and reached out to touch her, but she jerked back out of range without thinking. Superb situation, she thought. The chief wants to rape me. I can’t afford to annoy him, and I’m sure as hell not going to let him touch me. Livingston was curled up next to her, and that was some comfort. Liv would tear this yahoo limb from limb if he tried anything—but on the other hand, that wouldn’t exactly help them achieve their goals—or even survive. “Monsieur Ovono!” she called out in as calm a voice as she could, struggling to recall some shred of French to save her. “Savez moi! Monsieur!”

  Ovono snapped into wakefulness with the speed of someone who spent time in the jungle. He sat up and took in the situation in a moment. The chief seemed not at all abashed, but instead looked at Ovono and laughed, as if Ovono should think it all funny. “Merde,” Ovono said, quite distinctly. “Apa,” he said, switching to Utaani. It was one of the few words of the dialect Barbara had picked up—the word for no.

  “Apa,” Barbara echoed, drawing as far away from the chief as she could. She backed into Livingston, who stirred sleepily and opened his eyes. Clark, Rupert, and some of the locals were waking up too. Barbara felt her heart pounding in her chest, as frightened as she had ever been in her life. How many kinds of danger were they in now?

  Speaking in a low, calm voice, Ovono began talking to the chief in his own language. The chief answered back, joined by some of his friends, but Ovono ignored them and spoke only to the chief.

  The chief was all smiles at first, as if he were trying to pass it off as a joke. But at last the smiles died and the grimy breech clout went back on. The chief’s manner turned apologetic, but he ignored Barbara, speaking only to Ovono, and then, briefly, to Livingston before hurrying out of the hut, followed by the rest of local men, leaving the travelers alone.

  Ovono spoke rapidly to Clark in French, and then Clark translated to Barbara. “Chief Neeri apologizes to you, Livingston, for his having tried to take your wife without your permission. Ovono told him Liv
was your husband, Barbara. It was the only thing he could think of that fast. The slimy bastard thought he could just whip off his pants and have you right here in front of everyone, that you were brought here as some sort of gift for him. Charming people, aren’t they? What Ovono said last night is right, Barbara. Don’t judge jungle Gabon by these brutes. For the most part, they are very decent people out here, who wouldn’t dream of treating a guest that way—but something is wrong around here.”

  Rupert shook his head. “That’s for damn sure. Everyone remember we can’t afford to offend these people just yet—unless we have to. But Barb, if anyone—anyone touches you again, scream bloody murder and we’ll all come running, beat the hell out of him, and worry about the consequences later. Okay?”

  Barbara nodded, and noticed she was shaking. “Okay.”

  Clark reached over as if to pat her reassuringly, and then seemed to think better of it, and stopped midway. Barbara was glad of it. Physical contact was not what she needed just now. “All right then, let’s get out there and pretend everything is okay.” He shifted to French. “Monsieur Ovono, I believe it might be best for the rest of us to go off by ourselves for a time and let you take care of negotiations. Our emotions run too high just now.”

  “You are wise, M’sieu Clark. Go down the path we came in on, and return in two hours’ time. By then we will have the beginnings of a deal with these mongrels. Perhaps you should take your packs with you and have your breakfast meanwhile. But wait a moment, I just thought of something else.” Ovono reached for his own rucksack and began emptying it. “Distribute my belongings among your own packs, and then everyone should put the things they are willing to trade in my pack.”

  Ovono’s pack started to fill up. Watches, jewelry, pocket knives, U.S. and Gabonese coins, and even paper money. Ovono thought the U.S. paper might be of interest because it had pictures of strange buildings and the stranger-looking white men, while the Gabonese notes would trade because they were prettier. They dug deep into Rupert’s gadget bag, too. A magnifying glass, a mirror, a collapsible fishing rod and some spare fishing line, a folding camp stool and a pair of binoculars. Livingston donated his class ring, a spare pair of boots he was tired of carrying, the sleeping bag it was too hot to sleep in, and a harmonica. Clark and Ovono, who had packed far more sensibly than the others, had much less to contribute. Clark threw in his tobacco pouch and Ovono a spare hat, and each of them threw in a spoon and fork. Just before Ovono closed the bag, Barbara thought of one more thing. She pulled off the wedding ring she was still wearing for some unexplainable reason and tossed it in the bag. God knows she wasn’t going to need it again. The place on her finger where it had been felt very strange, being out on its own.

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  The keeper watched the visitors move down the path, leaving their guide behind to talk. He shook his head. How could Neeri have been such a fool? Risking all the anger of these strangers just so he could have a woman! Wasn’t it enough that he had had every woman in the tribe, angering the husbands, no matter what a chief’s rights might be? A good ruler knew not to abuse his privileges. The keeper had never been away from the village—none of the Utaani had—but he knew full well that there were mighty tribes out there, who had great power. He had seen their guns, once or twice, brought along by the rare visitors to the village, seen the guns kill birds and animals from far away.

  But the chief seemed a greater fool even than that—he seemed ready to break the law of many years’ standing, and not only admit the existence of the tranka, but even trade in them again. It had been the hatred of the other peoples for the tranka that had kept the Utaani apart from them, far off in the darkest part of the jungle for so long.

  All in the village knew that even the rumor of the tranka made the rest of the jungle fear and hate them. What anger did the chief risk now in openly trading in what the other tribes thought were evil spirits or the dead brought back to life?

  Once, and once only, the keeper’s father had dared tell him the real story of what had happened when the tribe had tried to trade tranka for other things—the real tale, not the storyteller’s ravings where all Utaani were brave and bold and the trade-riches had made them all wealthy. Yes, the tribe had traded tranka to one of these strange, pasty-white men, and yes, for a time, the whole village had worn its fine new clothes made from the cloth the trader had brought, had used their fine new tools—and their fine new guns for hunting. Then the medicine men of the other villages had seen the well-armed trader parade the tranka down the jungle paths. They dared not attack the trader, but they banded together when he was gone and brought the wrath of a dozen tribes down on the Utaani for trading in imprisoned souls. All the tribes had long traded in slaves, in bodies, but they rose up against what they thought was a traffic in the reanimated dead.

  Now not even the chief was told the true tale. Even he heard only the fairy tales.

  But the keeper was a crafty man, and his father had told him that often two problems could solve each other. If he had to trade away one of his tranka, why not one they planned to dispose of anyway—a troublemaker who would make the deal look bad? And then, in the embarrassment of a trade disaster, perhaps this chief would need replacement. . . . It occurred to him that the other village leaders were being a bit too enthusiastic in supporting the chief’s stupidities. Maybe they were letting him work his own destruction. And many a keeper of the past had been a chief. It could work.

  He turned and walked toward the stockade and opened the heavy door. That one. The female who was acting strange, that no one could get any work out of. He looked at her and laughed. If she got rid of this chief for them, she would have done a lifetime’s work right there.

  <>

  She sensed his eyes upon her and looked up. The hair on the nape of her neck bristled, and she bared her teeth in hatred. Of all the humans, this one was the worst—the harshest, the cruelest, the most punishing. She longed to leap for his throat, and her fingers twitched, and she let out a low growl. But the keeper just laughed again. He could control her long enough, this one. Just long enough.

  <>

  Ovono gave the others a few minutes to get down the path before he emerged from the chief’s hut. Waiting would make the Utaani think he was planning something, make them a bit more anxious and ready to deal.

  Finally, enough time had passed by his judgment, and he stepped out into the village square, carrying the satchel full of the smaller trade goods in one hand and Livingston’s sleeping bag and shoes in the other. He squinted for a moment in the somewhat brighter light of the outside, and looked about for the chief and his chums. There they were, sitting around one side of the empty fire pit at the far end of the square. They looked a small bit nervous, Ovono thought. Good. Repressing the urge to smile, he walked over and sat down opposite his hosts. He considered mentioning the nasty incident in the hut, but decided that bringing it up again, even to dismiss it, might not be the best idea. Best just to ignore it. “Good morning once again,” he said. “My friends have gone to stretch their legs, and asked me if I might talk with you for them.”

  The chief grinned cheerfully. “That is good. Without all the tiresome changing one talk to another, we can deal faster, and everyone will be happy.”

  Ovono nodded. There was no effort to apologize from their side. He would be willing to bet the chief had no idea he had done something wrong. Ovono promised himself to deal a little harder on that account. “Yes, I agree. Perhaps it would be best if we began. We are travelers and have brought mostly small things, of great beauty and value, but light and easy to carry. I have many things to show, but since we are both eager to save time, it would easier if you told me what you wished to have, and what sort of value you placed on it.” In other words, tell me your price before I let you look in my wallet.

  “But first, I must ask, precisely what are you after?” Chief Neeri asked. “You have spoken of wanting what the trader in the legends wanted, said you have interest in what interest
ed him, but you have never come out and said precisely what you wanted. Come, it is time for plain words.”

  Ovono nodded his agreement and tried to think fast. It occurred to him that he wasn’t sure precisely what the Americans wanted. That was not right or proper. He could not be an honest agent that way—but it was unthinkable that he should jump up and run to ask them such a simple question—he would look ridiculous to these crude boors, and they would raise their prices in contempt for him.

  Well, what was it all about? Tranka, of course—that was obvious. There was no other reason to come here, and the Americans had seemed to talk of little else. He had caught the long English word australopithecine many times, and Clark had told him it meant the same as tranka. So they were interested in the creatures for some reason, and presumably had come here looking for them. They had not realized the tranka were not wild, and so had not come ready to trade for them. But the Americans had seemed reluctant to discuss the tranka with Ovono, perhaps fearing he harbored fears of the creatures, despite his denials. So what did they want with them? How many did they want?

  Ovono realized he also knew nothing about the tranka, either. Could he tell a weak one from a strong one, a young one from an old one? Were some fierce, some docile, some smart and some stupid? His sum total of knowledge was based on one glimpse of a line of miserable-looking creatures through the trees.

  All of this flashed through his thoughts in an instant. He had no information, and no good trader dared betray ignorance. What to do? Suddenly, a solution, a perfect solution, popped into his head. He spoke smoothly, after only a moment’s hesitation, making it seem that what he was saying he had had in mind all along.

  “We seek tranka—but first, we seek a beginning,” Ovono said. “A wise man does not seek to gain his wealth in one day, but slowly and carefully, so he does not lose as fast as he gains. We expect to trade again here, many times, but our people have been away long, longer than anyone still living. We do not know the quality of your tranka compared to others.” There were no others, of course, but these isolated tribesmen wouldn’t know that for sure. Why let them know they had a monopoly? “We need to know your price, your quality. So, come, I will do a very daring thing and trade without looking at what I trade for! I want to have one tranka for now, your very best one. We want to know your finest quality first, and the price for it. Sell us a poor one, and today we will not know it—but tomorrow we will. We will trade well for the best, but overcharge us today and we will trade sharply the next time. We wish to show we trust you from the beginning by asking your judgment of quality and fair price.”