Climate of Change

  Keeper thanked her, and they departed her presence. They made their way to the harbor area. The smell intensified, but the natives seemed not to notice it. Then they spied piles of rotting fish heads all along the shore. That was the source of the smell.

  “Do you like this village?” he inquired, knowing the answer.

  “No. But I would not like any village away from my family.”

  “These men she will bring—give me a signal how you feel about them, and I will honor it.”

  “Thank you. I will blink my eyes once for satisfactory, and twice for unsatisfactory.”

  That would help. But he remained disturbed. “You know I don’t want to do this.”

  “I know.” She could have said much more.

  A man was cooking gutted fish on a stone grate over a fire. He glanced up, recognized them as strangers, and knew their business. He gestured, offering them baked fish. They accepted, and talked with him as they ate.

  His name was Baker, because of his employment, and he was garrulous. That was fine with them, as they wanted to learn as much as they could about this village and its prospects for a woman marrying into it. Haven flashed him an encouraging smile every so often, and that was enough. They got used to his accent, just as they got used to the oppressive fish smell. Keeper guided the dialogue to topics of interest to them, and they learned about the ways of the village.

  One routine question brought a surprising response. “Do you have many foreign visitors?” For if there were fairly regular contact with neighboring peoples, it might be easier for Haven to stay somewhat in touch with her family. Visitors could carry news.

  “Sometimes,” Baker said as he piled roasted fish on a wooden tray and put new ones over the fire to roast. “Mostly like you, bringing wives, or with things to trade. But there was one we hardly know what to make of. He washed up in a boat, half starved and mad with thirst. He spoke an unintelligible language. We got him back to health, and he learned to speak a few of our words. He said he was from the south, far away, and had been blown north by storm and current. But we knew he was mad.”

  “From the south?” Keeper asked, interested. He had never traveled far in that direction; in fact this was his farthest extent. “There is land beyond the sea?”

  “Oh, yes. The shore curves down and around and goes on endlessly; our fishermen have never seen the end of it. They say it has no conclusion. There are surely people there, beyond our ken. Mad ones.”

  “Why do you say he was mad?” Haven asked.

  “Because of what he said. He said there was a desert, and behind it steep tall mountains, greater than the ones here. That they grew something they called potatoes, and had long-necked animals as beasts of burden. I’m no expert on tubers or animals, but I know there are no such things as he described.”

  Now Keeper was fascinated. “I am conversant with plants and animals. Perhaps I have seen these. Can you describe them in more detail?”

  Baker did, and soon Keeper had to admit that he knew of no such things. Baker took that as confirmation of the stranger’s madness, but Keeper suspected that the man had been telling the truth about the strange things of his land.

  In due course they returned to the matriarch. “Here is the first man,” she said, indicating a gruff old man. “His name is Grubber. He is a scavenger.” She turned to the man. “This is Keeper, who offers his sister Haven.”

  The man approached Haven. His odor preceded him; he must have been grubbing among the rotting fish heads recently. He was wrinkled and potbellied, and wore a habitual scowl. Keeper did not need to look at his sister for any signal; he knew the prospect of marriage to such a man revolted her.

  Grubber reached out and squeezed one of Haven’s full breasts. She had the grace not to flinch. He drew up her skirt to uncover her bottom. “She’ll do,” he said.

  “What happened to your prior wife?” Keeper asked.

  “She ran away.”

  “My sister is not for you.”

  Grubber turned away, unsurprised. He was surely accustomed to being rejected by women.

  Another man approached. He was big and muscular. “This is Maul,” the matriarch said. “To marry this woman.”

  Keeper didn’t wait for the man to feel Haven. “I think not.”

  “Not?” Maul inquired, looking dangerous. He took a step toward Keeper, but Brownback growled, warning him off. The man could surely handle the dog, but it would be an ugly scene, not worth it, since the decision was Keeper’s to make regardless.

  “The third man will be here in the morning,” the Matriarch said as Maul stalked off. “Come back then.”

  Keeper was learning caution. “What is the third man’s name?”

  “Pul. He is a warrior.”

  “Why isn’t he married already?”

  “Never found the right woman. But I think he would like this one.” She turned away.

  They walked back into the forest, preferring to get away from the oppressive smell. “Pul could be all right,” Haven said.

  “And he could be another bad one.”

  “I think she was showing the worst first, to make her real choice seem good in contrast.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. “But is any man of this village good for you?”

  She shrugged. “What choice is there? I should have stayed with Harbinger when I had the chance.”

  “And had the spirits take another baby? No, I think you did right. No problem of that, with Rebel.”

  “Which makes a problem,” she reminded him.

  “Haven, nothing about this seems right. I don’t want to see you ill-married, or to lose you from the family, and I know you don’t want to go.”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t stand in the way of family harmony, even if I could.”

  They ranged out, finding a suitable tree to camp under for the night. “If you had a single wish for the spirits to grant, what would it be?”

  “For my baby to have lived,” she said immediately.

  “But that would mean you would still be married to Harbinger!”

  “Without the curse of the spirits,” she agreed. “Maybe it is that curse I wish to be rid of. My life has not prospered since then.”

  “But you were blameless! Then and now.”

  “I let myself be raped. That was blame enough.”

  He pondered. “Had it been Rebel, she would have killed him rather than be raped. Then he would have married no one.”

  She spread her hands. “Perhaps it worked out as it had to be.”

  “You are so gentle, you blame no one but yourself. Now Crenelle is driving you out.”

  “She has the right. Were I married to her brother, and she single, I would have authority over her. It was perhaps my folly that led to this.”

  She would not even blame Crenelle. But Keeper did. He loved Crenelle, but what she was doing was wrong.

  They slept. In the night he dreamed. He was walking south, along the shore. He walked and walked, traveling an enormous distance, more than he could cover in two months of waking walking. He came to the land of the mad stranger. There were people growing the strange edible plants called potatoes, that grew from eyes. He picked up a potato, wanting to take it home and grow others like it, but it opened an eye and looked at him, and he lost his nerve and put it back. He walked through a mountain village, and saw fat little rodents called guinea pigs running around their houses, underfoot; all the people had to do was pick one up and prepare it for eating. Then he saw a llama, a strange animal like a solid deer with a long neck and woolly fur. Its head lifted up so that it looked him in the eye from his own height.

  Startled, he woke, and realized that it was indeed a dream, based on what Baker had told him. Of course it might not be true; the folk who lived south probably farmed the same crops and hunted the same animals they did here. But it intrigued him mightily, and he wished he could visit that rare land and see for himself. But that would require an arduous journey, perhaps by boat, riskin
g storms. He couldn’t do it; he had a family to support.

  And in support of that family, he had to put his sister into exile in a stinking village.

  When morning came, they foraged for fruit to eat, then returned to the village. Matriarch was there, but the man wasn’t. “He should be on his way,” the woman said. “Do what you wish, meanwhile.”

  They went back to the shore, accepting the squalor and smell as the price of it. This time they saw two fishermen working in their boats, not far offshore. They had a net, and were seining it through the water, hauling it up laden with fish. They grabbed the fish they wanted, and dumped the others back into the water.

  “Little ones,” Baker said. “No point in harvesting them. Let them grow until they are big; then we’ll eat them.”

  “The way we leave squash until big enough,” Keeper agreed. It hadn’t occurred to him to do it with fish, however.

  “But they are throwing back some big ones,” Haven said, peering at the boats.

  “Trash fish,” Baker explained. “Inedible, or bad tasting. Sometimes bits of waterlogged wood. They’re sorting out the catch.”

  “Sorting out,” Keeper agreed. An idea simmered, but did not quite take form.

  A little boy ran up to them. “Strangers!” he cried, addressing them. “Pul is here!”

  It was time. Keeper did not look at his sister as they walked to the matriarch’s station.

  Pul was a large, muscular man, not handsome but not mean-looking. He eyed Haven appraisingly as they approached.

  “You’ll do,” the man said. Men were quick to make up their minds, especially when the woman was well formed. Haven, at age twenty-four, was not young, but she had very good breasts and thighs.

  “Why are you single?” Keeper asked.

  “I like a woman, but she likes another man better,” Pul said. “Can’t think why; he’s scrawny.”

  “Is he smart?”

  “Pretty much. What has that got to do with it?”

  The man couldn’t see why a woman would prefer a smart man to a strong one. And it was true, some woman didn’t. Crenelle, maybe. Was he going to be able to hold on to her, even if he let Haven go? She wanted Hero.

  Haven kept silent, but he knew she wasn’t thrilled with this man Pul. He might be all right, but Haven was not a stupid woman, and would be somewhat stultified even if Pul were gentle.

  Keeper thought of the fishermen, throwing away the bad fish. That was what he was trying to do here: throw away the bad men. He didn’t like Pul, and didn’t want the man to have his sister. Also irrelevantly, he thought of the teo weed, with its hard little seeds; it was so much work to gather them, though they were edible. If he could just throw away the bad ones, and keep the good ones, and have a better harvest later. . .

  And why not? Each plant’s seeds produced more plants of its own kind. Suppose he reversed it, and ate the small hard seeds, and threw away the nice big ones: putting them in the ground, where they would grow more plants. More big-seed plants. Would he have more good ones?

  Suddenly excited, he wanted to get home and try it. But then he became aware of a silence. The others were looking at him.

  “No,” he said abruptly. “I will take my sister home.”

  Both the matriarch and Pul looked at him, astonished. They had thought he would have to take this final offering. And maybe he should. But he couldn’t do it to Haven. Even if it meant he lost Crenelle.

  In any event, he had something else to occupy him now. The prospect of planting good teo seeds excited him. Who could say what might come of this?

  Soon they were walking back toward the mountain. When they were out of sight of the village, Haven grabbed him and kissed him hard. “Thank you, little brother! But why did you do it? You know the mischief this will make.”

  “I know,” he agreed. “But I have seeds to plant.”

  The first tiny cobs of maize appeared 5,000 years ago, adapted from teosinte. It was a long, slow process, for teosinte in the wild was nothing like modern maize, now called corn in America. The seeds were on small brittle stalks, which shattered as they matured. But when the transition to large soft seeds on cobs was made, it was to transform New World agriculture, and later the world’s, for maize was destined to become one of the major food crops of the planet.

  So was the one Keeper didn’t quite believe existed, the potato. That eventually became the leading food crop in the world. But there is no evidence that the potato made the transition from South America to Central or North America until relatively recently. Similarly the llama remained where it was. As a result, the South Americans progressed to the settled life and civilization earlier than the Central Americans did, though in this case the climate would have permitted an earlier transfer.

  9

  DECISION

  Neolithic farming spread across Europe from east to west, reaching the Iberian peninsula (now Spain and Portugal) circa 6,700 years ago. There does not seem to have been any wholesale genetic replacement as the farmers moved in on the hunters and foragers; the various populations simply merged. This does not necessarily mean that there were no cultural clashes. The change just may have been slower and more subtle than outright conquest.

  The setting is northern Iberia, the foothills of the western Pyrenees. The time is 4,100 years ago.

  Haven shook her head. There simply wasn’t enough left to eat. It had been a lean summer, and now they faced the fall and winter without adequate stores. Something had to be done.

  She discussed it first with Crenelle, as she also had a child. Adults could suffer through when they had to, but it was awful to do it to children.

  “You’re right,” Crenelle agreed. “We can’t make it through the winter.”

  “What are our alternatives?” Haven knew them, but didn’t want to speak them.

  “We can’t stay here. We’ll have to go. But where?”

  Where else? “We’ll have to go to your people,”

  Crenelle was grim. “Tour can’t go there.”

  “Anywhere else is doom. The drought is all over.”

  “All over,” the woman agreed.

  “And you know the people.”

  “I know the people. Yet . . .” Her eyes flicked toward her daughter, who was playing with Haven’s son in the corner. Tour was seven, Risk six; they got along well together.

  But each had a problem. Risk had almost died at birth, and remained somewhat infirm. Tour had seemed healthy, but recently had started twitching unpredictably. It seemed harmless, and family members understood, but could incite ridicule by outsiders. Maybe it would go away. But until it did, Crenelle did not like to expose her daughter to the cynosure of strangers. Haven hardly blamed her.

  But they were in crisis. Crenelle and Harbinger knew the ways of their people, as Haven’s siblings did not. It should be possible to find refuge among the Traders, while it would be very difficult elsewhere.

  “It really doesn’t show much,” Haven murmured. “And we can shield her. It actually doesn’t bother most folk, once they understand.”

  “Not among our people. They would call it spirit possession, and seek to kill her.”

  “Your people are so backward?”

  “They think they are forward. They try to clean out bad spirits.”

  Haven shook her head. “Maybe if we swathe her in cloth, as for the chills, when she is in public. She’s a smart girl; she’ll cooperate.”

  Crenelle sighed. “We’ll have to risk it.”

  It would be up to the men to make the formal decision, but the informal one had just been made.

  Six of them set out for the coast, leaving only Keeper to care for the remaining farm animals and plants. There was food enough to sustain one person, and of course he had unparalleled ability to forage from nature. He would be there when they returned in the spring. Should there be a problem he couldn’t handle, the neighbors would help, and of course he would help the neighbors. A number of them had already departed, drive
n by the common malaise of the drought. Every farmer understood, and the more who left, the better it would be for those remaining.

  They walked from the cleared section of the farming village and entered the deep dark forest that surrounded it. Haven had mixed feelings about the forest. When she had to enter it alone, it frightened her, yet she knew that it served to protect her village from hostile intruders. There were paths through it, but these were deliberately obscure in places, to foil strangers. A clear path would lead to a dead end in a swamp, or terminate at the trunk of a huge tree. The true paths followed patterns that only native villagers knew. Armed strangers could readily be ambushed long before they found the village.

  It was a lot of work to slash and burn a section of forest, but the process yielded extremely fertile soil for their fields. But after a time the fertility decreased, and then they had to clear new fields. It was an ongoing process, that meant they could never truly settle down. There were also animals to be hunted, but they too faded after a time. The forest fed them, but made them work hard for that food.

  Protection and fear; food and work. The forest was everything. On the whole she liked being in it, if not walking through it. Now they were leaving it. There was a peculiar pain in that, despite the necessity.

  Tour was walking beside her. She was a pretty girl, and Haven liked her much as she would have liked her own daughter. She had never had another child; the difficulty of birthing Risk had stopped her body from making more babies. Perhaps that drew her closer to her brother’s child.

  “It’s so big,” Tour said, referring to the forest. “It scares me.”

  “Me too, dear,” Haven said. “But it’s a good forest.”

  Tour made a sound like a hiccup. Haven didn’t have to look; she knew the girl was having a fit. They tended to come on her when she was nervous or uncomfortable or afraid. Spirit possession? No, just something wrong with her body. Haven reached out with her right arm and caught the girl’s right shoulder, bringing her in close. Nothing needed to be said. Comforting the girl also made Haven feel less depressed.