The First Genesis

by Mark Macpherson

  The elders knew the story of K’ul Kelem’s rescue of the young man, it had been told and embellished many times over many years. It remained a favourite and the re-telling in the presence of two of the participants was looked forward to. Lakam Pakal shuffled his body and wedged himself into a comfortable position ready for an extended period of story-telling.

  K’ul Kelem allowed the story to be told but before an extended, post-storytelling discussion began she directed the talk to communal disputes and mundane requirements that required her attention.

  Hachakyum was not with K’ul Kelem among the elders, he wandered around the loose conglomeration of rough-made huts. He enjoyed seeing the technical progress of those people. It was slow, painfully so at times, as he watched realisation dawn on the smarter people that their technological improvements could be used in new and novel ways. His was the first creation where one of his kind was an active participant and he loved the people’s eager push to learn and make their lives easier. At times, especially those when we wandered through their campsites and rudimentary village, he felt almost like one of them.

  He came upon a group of young children playing a game. He approached them diffidently. He squatted down, so that he was almost their size, and waited like he was a new child wanting to join in. They eyed him but ignored him.

  After a few minutes he asked, ‘Can I play too?’

  The children stopped their game. One child said immediately, ‘No. This is our game. There’s no room.’

  Hachakyum knew the game the children were playing. He had played it with other children at other locations. He waited for a further minute before pointing out that their game lacked a particular, lowly, position. The children stopped again. If the man knew the rules, they realised, then he would be an asset and not a hindrance. The child who had said no said, ‘OK. You can play there.’

  Hachakyum joined them. He remained hunched down at their size and made sure he played no better nor worse than the children.

  Raised, rough-sounding voices came from behind the hut near to the playing children. An imposing looking man, leading a group of fiery young men, nearly tripped over Hachakyum as he played with the children. The leader stopped and raised his arm as if to strike Hachakyum but then his anger faded and he called his followers on. The children were fearful but relaxed when Hachakyum urged them to continue their play.

  The child that had allowed him to join their game said, ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘I walked a long way to get here. Many days.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’ the child asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied and said nothing further.

  The child stared at Hachakyum and then smiled at what he thought was Hachakyum’s joke.

  ‘You nearly tripped that angry man over,’ the child pointed out.

  ‘I was here first,’ Hachakyum said.

  ‘Yes,’ the child thought for a bit. ‘That’s right,’ he added.

  The children heard raised voices coming from the centre of the village, where K’ul Kelem was meeting with the elders.

  ‘I think he’s really angry,’ the child said.

  ‘It sounds like he’s angry, doesn’t it?’

  Hachakyum rose to full height to leave the children and their play but the children stopped playing and followed him. The unlikely group headed towards the sound of angry voices.

  The group that had retreated, many years ago, north and away from K’ul Kelem, had a new generation in charge. However, the humiliation of the leader who had been killed by Hachakyum’s anger lived on. The story had become enlarged so that their retreat had become a valiant defeat in the face of overwhelming odds. As decades passed, the power of Hachakyum was forgotten and the battle for supremacy remembered as long, hard-fought and barely lost. The rumours of the woman who could not die were dismissed as the demented musings of old, senile men. Once first-hand memory faded, the new leadership wanted to return to their ancestral foraging grounds. After a number of difficult seasons a group of the bravest men were selected to gauge the ferocity that their old home lands would be protected.

  The party of warriors from the north blustered into the conglomeration of huts when K’ul Kelem and Hachakyum were visiting. They approached the group of elders, brazenly ready to fight, their weapons raised. The elders stood and faced them although they had no weapons of their own, the younger men and women of the group were busy gathering food elsewhere. The belligerent leader of the group saw his advantage, with the partial desertion of the village. He wondered if he might kill everyone but remembered he had to discover the strength of his enemy, he did not want to doom his people to a pay-back they may not be able to resist. He approached the old man he, correctly, assumed was their leader and stood less than a spears length before him. Out of harms way himself but ready and within distance of launching his own killing blow. He wondered if he should not kill a few of the old men anyway.

  Lakam Pakal was not intimidated. ‘I am Lakam Pakal,’ he said with a strong voice that carried beyond the armed group to where he saw Hachakyum standing with the group of children. He believed the god would not let him die by violent means.

  ‘That is a strong name,’ the leader of the intruders said. The bravado of the old man confused him. ‘It is a name worthy of my own people.’

  ‘You have the appearance of a man I once knew. His name was Itz Kojaw.’

  ‘That was the name of my father. I can no longer speak his name.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear of your loss, son of Itz Kojaw. He was a friend, before he left.’

  ‘He did not leave,’ the man was angry. ‘He was defeated and those that survived retreated. All others were killed. Those are the truths we have come to avenge. You could not have known my father, you are lying old man.’

  ‘That is not the truth.’

  ‘I do not answer to you, old man.’

  ‘You know my name. You may address me by it instead of referring only to my age. May I know your name?’

  ‘No,’ the son of Itz Kojaw said with hostility. ‘Old man,’ he added with contempt. His eyes were dark and he strongly gripped the fire-hardened, pointed throwing stick in his hand.

  The young man’s shoulders showed hard muscle definition, a small tremor played on his face as if the stress of holding his face together was too much for the muscles. His lips were stretched so that the edges of his teeth showed. They were white and regular, indicating a man grown to full strength after a healthy childhood. This intruder was not a man to antagonise.

  Lakam Pakal flicked his eyes to the far group of children and back to the man threatening him. Hachakyum had never intervened to save anyone, nor had he deferred death, nor stopped anyone’s suffering. Lakam Pakal believed his life was the only one saved by the god and that knowledge was a source of pride. His own importance to the gods had been included in his storytelling of that fateful afternoon from many decades ago. However, as he was threatened by the group of men Hachakyum’s lack of interest momentarily worried him. He decided it best to discount help and to not bring Hachakyum to the attention of the intruders.

  Lakam Pakal glanced behind him to K’ul Kelem.

  ‘A young woman will not help you, old man,’ the intruder said as Lakam Pakal looked to K’ul Kelem for guidance.

  Lakam Pakal chuckled. He did not need to resort to threats he could not implement, and even if he could, he knew Hachakyum’s use of violence, all that time ago, had not solved the original problem. It had been deferred, and it was now his responsibility to undertake the effort of reconciliation.

  ‘No, probably not,’ he said as he smiled. ‘Although she is stronger than both of us together. But, we have no weapons to resist you if that is what you intend. We are your victims, we are your prisoners.’ He held out both his arms, together, as if ready to be bound.

  ‘Although, my friend Itz Kojaw would have been surprised to know his son would bind the arms of his old friend.’ He dropped his smile, his arms still extended towards the yo
ung man.

  Lakam Pakal walked closer. The man backed away.

  ‘What do you want?’ Lakam Pakal said with conciliation in his voice.

  ‘We want this land. We want our homeland back. We want everyone gone from here.’

  ‘This is also my homeland. It was mine when your father and I were children together. Would you ask me to leave my homeland? My claims are stronger than yours.’

  The man became angry again but Lakam Pakal quickly added, ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘I did not mean you have no claims to this land. As I should not hinder your return, you should also not ask me to leave.’ Lakam Pakal began to explain in a way he thought the man would understand.

  ‘As my claim is greater than yours, then yours is greater than younger people who live in this land. And so it goes down to the youngest child.’ He waited while his words had their effect. ‘There is no need to kill to conquer. It will never end. These people have kin that extend from this ocean,’ he pointed to the nearby beach and then moved his arm behind him to point in the opposite direction, ‘to the wild ocean over the mountains to the south,’ he said. ‘Killing us will not solve your problems, although,’ he looked at the young man’s strong body. ‘I do not believe you have had a childhood of want and hunger, your people have not materially suffered because of your absence from here. Although I can understand your wish to return to the place of our ancestors.’

  ‘Our deaths would be avenged,’ Lakam Pakal said quietly, directly, as if spearing his words.

  ‘Are you threatening us, old man?’ The belligerence returned.

  ‘No,’ he said but said it strongly as if he was already the leader of a newly combined group. He spoke in a voice he had honed in his years of storytelling. ‘Why is it that anger is so easy to gain but so difficult to lose? I have found over my considerable years,’ and he looked from one group to the other as his arms waved over his aged body from top to bottom, ‘that words are easily spoken and can be retracted, even if it is difficult, but violence can not be undone. The violence against your father’s people, against my people, lives on but I know,’ he waited for a moment as he glared at the young man. ‘I know for an indisputable fact that the violence began before that. My people acted unwisely but they were also provoked by the rash act of a young man. That young man’s action, not one of our people,’ he quickly added when he saw the young man react as if his own honour was being questioned, ‘from when I was very young, lives on today with you coming here. Do you want your rash action to continue and haunt your children and their children?’

  Lakam Pakal thought he had done a good job in reasonably explaining a course of action that could save face, and would stop animosity between the two tribes. However, the group of men were full of bravado after having conquered a dangerous journey and it was not about to be diluted by words from an old man, related to them or not. Action, violent preferably, seemed necessary to justify the effort taken.

  K’ul Kelem said nothing. She watched, tense and ready to act. She had quickly devised a course of action to remove a weapon from the rival leader.

  The angry young man surveyed the group of elders, dismissing them all as adversaries but the young woman confused him. Her eyes blazed at him alone and with a shudder he realised she was ready to kill him. He laughed, in his mind, at the thought but then took in the tension in her body, her obvious strength and like the hunter he was, knew he should not under-estimate any adversary. He did not believe in the legend of K’ul Kelem but he did not discount the possibility that the young woman may be a descendant of the K’ul Kelem from the stories. His people had been forced to leave, their leader had died an agonising death and the source of that anguish seemed to have been a young woman. Woman or not, young or not, undying or not, treacherous or not, the K’ul Kelem of the stories had been successful. He remained wary.

  He saw her eyes shift momentarily. Her head shook side to side, as if she was signalling a negative to someone behind him. The young man quickly turned, suspecting an attack from behind, but saw the man who had been playing with children. As Hachakyum led the young ones away he spoke soft words and the children laughed. The young man’s anger boiled over but as his anger accelerated the man with the children turned back. The young man was consumed by anxiety. He wanted to cry, to run, to return to the safety of his own people, to hide behind his old mother. He was unable to shake the feeling. He felt a wave of intense shame, as if his anxious fear was visible to all. Action was impossible, he had to leave. He gathered his men and rushed from the village, careful to avoid the group of children and the strange man.

  Lakam Pakal had a smug smile on his face, he believed the power of his words had vanquished the enemy. K’ul Kelem knew better. Hachakyum led the children back to their game but K’ul Kelem ran after him.

  ‘You have to stop doing that.’ Her voice was raised and she gripped his shoulder and turned him around. ‘How can they learn anything, if you keep interfering.’

  He was surprised at the darkness in her eyes. She had never used force to gain his attention before.

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Her raised voice worried the elders as if the gods were arguing and the result would be the annihilation of all.

  ‘I gave him doubt,’ Hachakyum said. K’ul Kelem’s anger confused him.

  ‘They have no hope,’ she said with resignation. ‘None at all, if you keep doing that.’ He squirmed as if she had some control over him. It surprised, and frightened, her. ‘At this moment, Lakam Pakal is wiser than his creator.’ She said it loud enough that the elders could hear. Lakam Pakal’s smile spread across his face, no matter how inappropriate, and dangerous, he knew his pleasure was.

  ‘Why can’t you see that?’ she said, confused that he did not understand the obvious. ‘Your revenge for the attack on me is still with us.’

  Hachakyum smiled and then laughed. The village filled with happiness like the first day of the rains.

  She was confused although she was smiling at Hachakyum's laughter.

  ‘I remember our argument,’ he said. ‘Over the life of Lakam Pakal. I said to not interfere, and you argued the opposite. And here we are, again opposites.’

  K’ul Kelem’s smile was a veneer over her anger and disquiet.

  She understood why Hachakyum interfered. Why it was different when she was personally involved. It was not a sense of right or wrong, it was not an intention to protect the weak from aggressors, it was simply that he would allow no harm to come to her. She could not be killed, but she could suffer pain and Hachakyum would always intercede if that was likely.

  Her only solution, she realised, was to withdraw from the affairs of her wider community.

  Chapter 14

  Hachakyum and K’ul Kelem stopped travelling out of her small kinship area. But they were not forgotten. Lakam Pakal told his stories of K’ul Kelem’s life and unwittingly kept alive the wrong that had been committed. He wove exaggerated tales of K’ul Kelem and her homeland as he entertained the children of the northern tribe. As his audience aged, and became figures of authority themselves, the imaginary world of K’ul Kelem’s descendants assumed a splendour of riches. It became the place of unworthy descendants who had stolen a lifestyle that should have been theirs.

  The displaced people that had returned from the north had lost the intimate connection with their ancestral lands and, after more than two decades of K’ul Kelem’s absence, the young adults grown under the story-telling of Lakam Pakal, became powerful. A reprisal from the ancestors of others held no fear for them. The stories of a vengeful god were dismissed as Lakam Pakal’s exaggerations.

  Alliances were called upon from distant kinship groups. And after years of ceremonial gatherings, where the elders of all northern tribes were cajoled by the new wave of younger men they gave into their demands. An ancient wrong had been exaggerated until any reasonable, minimal payback settlement became impossible. The people to the north finally agreed upon a novel solution to the problem they believed they
had. Conquest. The tribes returned to their own foraging grounds to wait for the end of the rainy season to begin their attack.

  Lakam Pakal understood the danger to K’ul Kelem. One night, although he was of an extreme age, he left to warn her. His absence was noted and there was some talk that he had been taken by the god of his stories. A few younger men half-heartedly looked for him.

  Lakam Pakal walked without rest for two days. The second night, when he could go no further, he found a place of hiding and slept for a day. He woke partly hoping to be found, his absence so notable that many people had searched for him.

  For two weeks Lakam Pakal struggled his way south. He was often lost and a few times found the sun setting on the wrong side of the world until he shook off his confusion and realised he was travelling north again. He stumbled upon a group of people and he wandered with them for a month, allowing them to provide for his old body, until they came closer to K’ul Kelem’s foraging ground.

  He walked on alone for days until he came upon the place where she and her people had camped. With a mischievous grin on his face, as if there was a secret humour, he approached K’ul Kelem with his arms outspread. His face sagged in disappointment when she frowned and ignored him, wondering why the stranger, the decrepit, wasted old man approached her. He groaned her name and it was the timbre of his voice she recognised. She turned to him and studied his eyes as if they hid another life. She said his name, smiled and the old man fell into her embrace as if he was her infant grandson. He let his head fall onto her shoulder and he shut his eyes as tears streamed from them.

  His watery eyes blurred his vision of K’ul Kelem’s face when she held him at arms length. He was momentarily embarrassed. She appeared so young, he forgot her age, and he thought he should show stoicism before the gaze of a young woman only old enough to be his granddaughter, or great granddaughter. Then his mind cleared and his tears flowed freely again. His embarrassment dissipated and he was again swamped by relief. He had information. He was useful. Lakam Pakal wrenched his eyes from K’ul Kelem and frantically searched the people standing nearby. They looked on with a bemused expression, faintly embarrassed for the old man but also pleased for him. He brushed away the tears, and searched the crowd until he found the one he was looking for. The disinterested young-looking man who sat next to a cooking fire watching the smoke as it freed itself from the tiny flames. Lakam Pakal was satisfied, he smiled. Hachakyum was among them, he was sure that no lasting harm could come to K’ul Kelem, to him and to the people he had travelled to warn.