Jillia's Man, Regained

By Bynum Westmoreland

Jillia’s Man Regained continues the Jillia romance (2nd book of series). After Char and Jillia have lived together for several years, Char exits their wilderness home, intent on finding the ‘promised village.’ He walks away with Jillia’s words vividly alive in his head: “Go find your world, find your purpose in life, plant roots, and gain your fortune. I want this for you! When you have done these things, come back for me.”
Char travels toward the village of Mahama. First attacked by a group of fierce little men, he rebuffs their attack, makes friends, and travels to their village. There a tall socialite lures him; their romance develops. Her homely mother recruits him to install a system to bring fresh water from the river to a pumping station.
However, before the job begins, a freak accident plunges him into the river. Downstream, a woman and husband rescue him, carrying his battered body to their home where she heals him. Bizarrely, her husband moves out, labeling Char as ‘man of the house.’ Her love develops until she becomes pregnant and dies. Dejected, Char departs to seek Samish’s village.
He reaches Mahama and prospers until convicted of consorting with spirits of the dead. His penalty: work in the frigid water, farming kelp. Pursuing an idea to augment the village’s only alcoholic drink, Char returns to the giant tree where he once camped and loads an oxcart with pears for fermenting brandy.
On the way back, he diverts to Jillia’s home site and finds it damaged beyond repair. Sitting alone and despondent, he feels arms wrap his shoulders and hears a soft voice whisper, “Oh god! Sweet Char, crying like a big baby!”
Little does Char know how these words will change his life as he develops the brandy business, becomes the High Priest’s spy, launches Mahama’s first boats in centuries, fights partisan battles with the Pious, engages in a ménage à trois and 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483564531

Book preview

AROUND

CARAVAN to WHO KNOWS WHERE

I sat beside the mountain stream and was about to remove the last container of canned fruit from the backpack, when a prickly feeling along the back of my neck told me that I was not alone. Raising my head and looking about me, I saw nothing, not the movement of underbrush or crunch of gravel, yet I heard a series of quiet whispers and slight shuffling of skillfully placed feet. Still I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. I suspected that the fur on the necks of my primate ancestors rose similarly, warning them of unseen danger. A rancid odor drifted past, like the reeking of stale sweat from unwashed bodies. I strained intently to see what the source might be, waiting for a prolonged time, which added to my level of animated stress. Did Egor and company still hunt me? I puzzled.

Suddenly with much shouting and thundering, a band of little men not more than four feet tall charged straight at me. Each of them held a small but deadly looking spear above his head. I was their selected enemy and probably their next conquest. Or so it appeared. I thought, my god, a fantasy out of a child’s storybook becomes real before my aging eyes. I told myself to believe: this is no childhood book; these are real men -- determined angry little men -- intent on doing bodily harm and to me, my favorite person.

This seemed more a dream than a reality. I remembered my parting from the space ship. With Nefro’s best-of-luck’ handshake, he had handed me a large backpack, including a tarp that doubled as a lean-to tent to ward off the heavy dew of the early morning hours and the occasional torrential rain. It also held a well-balanced variety of food. Granted it was not overly delectable for most of it was either dried or stored in plastic cans. He knew that I would need this food for the many days it would take to learn the new world, and how to survive in it.

I had eaten much of the food before meeting Jillia and had shared most of the rest of it with her. However, I had overlooked one can during our ‘winter of starvation.’ Also in the pack was a change of clothes, and a lightweight sleeping bag that was warm enough. Also was a firelighter with a near-endless supply of fuel. It was rock-like; and would burst a small flame when waving quickly so air flowed through it. Its leveraged cap, popped shut would snuff the fire.

No time to let your mind wander! I harped aloud at myself for the fierce warriors charged on with me as their target. I reasoned that I could overcome two or three, even with their spears for I carried as always a large walking stick, and could use it as a club or jabbing tool, and expertly, but I knew that even though I might stop the first few, the others would certainly skewer me with their sharpened lances. Thus, from this realization, I eliminated the ‘fight’ option, leaving the ‘flight’ option. I considered running. I also considered the impact of a many spears in my backside if I did run, and shuttered at this thought. Such could ruin my day.

Still aware of their dust-clouding charge, I raised my right arm, gesturing for them to halt. They stopped and instantly; some sliding, so abrupt was their stop. There they froze and stared. Having nothing to lose but to try another charade, I quite casually picked up three medium-size rocks, laid them side-by-side forming a triangle shape array. They watched. I picked up three more equally sized rocks, and placed them on top of the first three. No one moved. Then reaching full body length to grasp a large flat rock, I placed it on top of the last three to form a rough sort of table. Their eyes followed my every movement.

During this time, I had intentionally not looked directly at any of the little men, except to glance peripherally at the one who apparently was their leader. He was small like the rest, but he was older and wore a faded vest of red felt. What if he possessed the ‘small-man complex’ I thought and needed to prove or to reprove his manhood. I was scared, but as the song said, ‘There comes a time to bluff.’ Granted, the song’s words were slightly different, but that is what it meant and meaning is what counted, especially at a time like this.

The leader stood erect, trying to compensate for his shortness. He looked powerfully built, and had a full black beard and large piercing eyes. He in deed appeared fierce. His cap was made of animal skin. Around his neck, hung a leather thong on which was laced the claws of several gigantic birds, perhaps flying dinosaurs, my imagination prodded. A stone sparkled in the midst of the claws. It was of quartz and beautifully carved. From a glance, I saw no ornaments worn by the other warriors. No doubt, he was their decorated chief and esteemed leader.

With the seven miniature warriors standing in a half-moon formation glaring directly at me, I reached into my pack and retrieved the last can of dehydrated fruits. With much theatrics, I opened the can and with much showmanship placed the ritually deemed can in front of me in the center of the crude table, all the while chanting a meaningless tune. Then carefully scanning the can’s contents, I deliberately selected a single piece of fruit, slowly grasping it between my thumb and index finger. I looked into the chief’s eyes, and placed this piece of fruit -- it was the largest -- on the ritual table, gestured it to be his and said aloud, That one is for you, asshole. He flinched but stood stoic. I realized that testing a warriors understanding of a language could be hazardous but now it seemed like the right strategy.

After introducing my intentions, I slowly removed a fruit for each warrior, looked squarely into his eyes, held his gaze, then placed his piece at his ‘reserved spot’ at the table and spoke the same loud command to him. Except to each of the seven dwarfs, I added his name: Sleazy, Droopy, Grumpy, Lumpy…I continued this procedure until I had placed one piece of fruit for each warrior on the stone ritual table. Between greetings, I chanted, One a penny, two a penny, three a penny, four; five a penny, six a penny, damn glad there are no more. I thanked whoever looks after fruit dealers, for the can was now empty, except for the one remaining; it was mine. To affirm this, I pointed at the fruit, pointed at my mouth, balled my fists, rubbed my belly and belched.

Luckily, all the pieces were of equal size except the larger one, issued to the chief. I placed the final piece in front of me; then placed the empty can open-end down, closed-end up in the middle of the stone table. Digging a short candle from the recesses of the pack, I placed it on the can. Then with even greater fanfare, I fetched the lighter, pulled its cap, and waved it regally above my head, toward the brilliant noonday sun, all the while chanting, Come out, come out, wherever you are. Come out and burn their tails. The group gasped and leaped backwards in unison when the flame from the spaceship lighter burst forth. With this, I lit the candle. Once regaining their composure, they still stood in frozen pantomiming a regiment of statues.

Taking a deep breath, I extended both arms in the general direction of the noonday sun. Slowly rotating my wrists so that I was now starring up at the palms of my hands and while shaking them gently, I chanted in a singsong rhythm. A boy stood on a burning deck, a noose tied around his neck. They dropped the floor from beneath his feet. Now there he swings, dangling meat, and so shall you be if you trouble me. No one appeared to translate.

With this done, I touched an index finger to my lips, then stroked my throat in a cutting gesture and then after a pause, I patted my belly. This final gesture of welcome invited the warriors to sit themselves at the table with me. However, no one moved. I grunted loudly, Sit; damn it! Each jumped back another half step, then again froze statue like. Therefore, I motioned with an exaggerated swinging of my arms for them to sit, and join with me in devouring the mockingly blessed food.

A sporadic series of jumbled words uttered from each mouth. After a brief moment, the leader shouted a command, silencing the group. Orderly they approached and sat, and instinctively reached for the food. My charade had worked so well, I had no reason to interrupt my fun. Their grasp at the food was quick, but since I had anticipated their quick action, I had acted just a split second faster. I held both arms straight up and yelled, Get your damn grubby finger off them vittles. By now, I was sure that they understand not a word, but my raging shouts and gestures controlled them. All froze again in mid-pantomime.

I remembered a piece of red ochre that I had found the morning before. I retrieved it from my pocket, and then lifted the can with the burning candle over my head and with a brisk rubbing movement; I made a red spot about the size of a quarter in the center of the ritual table. I muttered, I cheer at spilling your blood upon my micro stage. Beware! Beware! After purposefully placing the ochre back into my pocket, I licked my index finger, scrubbed it into the spot of Ochre turning my finger a bright red. Then pointing toward the sun in a gesture of pseudo worship, I said, Give me strength not to slaughter these little creeps -- that scared hell out of me -- and roast them for lunch.

Of course, I knew nothing of what I was doing. I gambled neither would the little men, but that they would accept my acts as the stranger’s sacred ritual to be observed in respect to him as required by their custom. From their immobility, I sensed they tolerated my actions, but chose not to repeat my motions. At least the leader had not. The others seemed destine to mimic him. Their patience set me apart as a special one who performs rituals. A most strange ritual, they no doubt were thinking, or the act of a crazy man. I would grant them either opinion, if it would save my tail. God forbid having to repeat this ritual scene for the others of their tribe.

I held my redden finger toward the sun for a prolonged length of time, still expecting an impatient warrior to probe my gut with his spear. Lowering my arm, I placed the redden finger first against my lips and then forced it into the rocky soil. Once I scrubbed the Ochre covering it with a layer of earth, I wiped my dirty finger against the palm of my other hand. Then with a big smile patted my stomach, reached down for my portion of fruit. I waited for them to follow, and then placed the morsel into my mouth. With much nodding of my head, smacking of my lips, and using the most vehement gestures, I could produce, greeted the entire group to dine; while vocally ordering, Pull your grubby thumbs out of your ears and eat them vittles.

Not to be out done, the chief turned to one of his tribesmen and gave a command, Your ass move. God forbid! I understood him. Had he understood my rantings? Your hands bring meat! This shot his servant quickly to his feet and rush away into the underbrush. He returned almost as quickly with a huge piece of smoked goat. The chief took the meat, placed it on my table, and with his own form of ritual began carving the meat into fist-size portions. Grunting as he cut. He made it obvious that I was not only to partake, but was to take the first bite. Your faces fill. For a moment, I felt like the King’s taster. They had understood my words.

Without gesture, his second command came forth, Your ass move. Your hands tote. Get drink, quickly another of his servants leaped to fetch a skin of wine. When poured, I saw a very dark wine much like the mid-evil Spanish Wine. It was both slightly sweet and slightly bitter, but laced with alcohol and thick like Mead. Each swallow brought a change of attitude to the group. I welcomed this change for it released my fear that I might innocently provoke their hostility. In turn, it reduced my fear of being the unhappy recipient of their spears.

With much gesturing and drawing on the table with pieces of red Ochre and with spoken sentences, chopped like beef in a cheap stew, I learned that these were hunters, not a war party. They were the lead element of a caravan of peoples moving from one season’s quarters to another. They carried all of their worldly belongings on their backs. Or so it seemed.

With gestures and more chopped words, they told me they were taking products to market for trade with other tribes. They pointed at the bounty that they had killed and butchered, or grown or made or gathered. Also for protection or just for fun, they could evoke a long planned war charge to frighten local bandits who might rob them.

As our impromptu meeting progressed, I surmised they had invited me to join them, conditional upon me carrying a double load, meaning double one of their loads. Some snickered beneath hand-covered mouths. Your ass move! Your shoulders tote, meat! Being about twice their size, I accepted. They did not say exactly where they were going. On the other hand, it matter not to me for I had no particular plans, except to eventually locate Samish’s village. I remember him calling it, Mahama. The urgency had subsided. Now I was ready for adventure. Little at the time did I know down which forks in the road of adventure live would lead me.

The meal finished and the array of gesturing talk done and a mid-day nap taken, we set out to join the caravan’s main body. My visitors, the hunters represented about a fourth of the total. The main body included as expected a mix of women, older citizens, and children in all sizes, shapes and temperaments.

Once introduced to the other members of the caravan, two stout women loaded me with the largest piece of smoked meat. Originally, they had carried it. They people strapped it across my pack with cheering attempted to balance me. I addition, they handed me two water skins to carry, one in each hand. The women laughed and then looped the bags’ carrying straps over my shoulders, freeing my arms. Your ass move. Your hands tote bags. I mimicked. They had found a beast of burden and had decided to test its strength, endurance, and attitude. Luckily, I had stayed in good condition while living with Jillia. She had kept me fit with work and extended hunts. The burden was heavy, but manageable. We moved slowly, stopping often, but for only a few minutes each time, preventing the leg cramps commonly resulting from long stopovers.

The men hunted, the women gathered, the children played, the adolescent avoided work and insisted on more privileges. How natural! The caravan system was structured. At the front of the line of people was Fast Man. The leader retained the privilege of walking wherever along the line that he wanted. Therefore, he avoided having to prove being the fastest with the most endurance or the bravest. It also let him keep track of strays, talk with whomever he wished. In general, he kept the group organized.

During the day, I kept pace, staying just behind Fast Man. Troka, the leader said, Your ass move. Your feet move. Front. One ahead! Good! I think he was praising me for keeping pace with the faster walkers.

I said, Well it’s like this Troka. On a downhill slope, I have no trouble keeping pace; sometimes we race. He looked at me, not fully understanding. So I said slowly, My ass move fast enough? He nodded. When we’re on a downhill, I pointed down the hill, I can stay a few steps behind Fast Man, I gestured closeness, but when we are on a steep climb, he abandons me in a mist of pulverized shit! I pointed uphill, wiped my brow, and panted. Troka laughed. Fast Man’s chest bulged.

We passed a lookout station. Troka said that his people used it mainly in times of tribal war. This seemed to occur seasonally, a favorite pastime after the harvest season and before the coming of snows. The young bucks in their prime made sport of the war games; it was an activity, which meshed with women chasing. The unmarried women watched the combatants, hoping to be the spoils. It was necessary to know where the enemy was. To spot them this, young boys posted at the highest point as lookouts. They watched for rival gangs, and relayed this information by using a code of whistles or hand signals. When the enemy failed to appear as hoped, the young-boy lookouts survived alone on the hilltops for days. It was part of their informal training and expected transition into manhood.

Thus far, I had seen very few creatures. Only a couple of blind moles had emerged out of their tunnels, providing food for a female carnivore seeking food for her brood. The trail was well worn. Apparently, water had gushed down this path during the rainy season. This had eroded away much of the top soil, exposing the intricate network of roots which in themselves showed nature’s true beauty, normally hidden.

About noon, we reached a plateau where the foliage types had changed and the rock formations appeared different. As the sun, now passing the crest of high noon, prompted Troka to decree the lunch stop. Women scampered. Food suddenly appeared. Teapots appeared from backpacks. Small fires lit. Water was soon bubbling awaiting emergence of the black dried wrinkled leaves. This vial mix yielded an excellent tea, slightly sweet and astringent.

I sat on a bed of dry gravel beside a fast flowing mountain stream. Although the air was cool, the beaming light from the high-noon sun heated the rocks, and helped warm my lower joints. Looking into the sky, I saw the faint speck of an eagle, circling high above. Seeing it flying, jogged my memory to recall Nefro and Suca, and my space journey with them.

Munching a piece of blackened jerky -- only closed-mouth women knew from which animal -- I scanned the horizon. With the exception a single rock, I saw a panoramic view. We were as high as any gap in the mountains, nearly as high as the lower peaks. A blanket of snow covered the upper peaks year around and shaded the passes so they never basked in the sun. I wonder what it is like to be snowcapped for an entire life. I waited for an answer. None arrived. I looked across one of the numerous valleys. From this position, I saw a black rock, standing on edge, laced with snow, snow narrow at its apex, plummeting below to glacier fields, glaciers moving, ever moving, but with speeds of less than a furlong per fortnight.

As I looked back along the trail, which we had climbed, I appreciated the endurance of these tiny people. This narrow trail tumbled over rocks through thickets, among meadows, beyond small lakes, alongside cold rushing mountain streams backing against a cliff face still shadowed from the noonday sun. Looking over my left shoulder and then turning to avoid a neck strain, I followed a long serpentine lake far below winding and bending, stretching and expanding, with white caps on its surface and gulls floating, waves breaking occasionally, showing nature’s persistent flaunting of its winds. There is nothing more majestic than water, often tiny, often disturbed but always in command.

Suddenly, the corner of my eye caught sight of a palm-sized butterfly, brilliantly orange colored, speckled with forty tiny black dots. These arranged in harmonic rows, some straight, some forming tiny loops along the wings’ leading edges. The butterfly sat and waited then flew in circles, landed and waited and paused, went airborne, flew again in circles, stopped, repeated his stunt. He spied a potential mate and pursued. The two scrambled round and round, first one pursuing then the other. Circling! How like people.

I heard the people of the tribe in the background and wonder for a moment what they were arguing about, but not really wanting to know, not really able to understand their language without the aid of gestures, I returned to being awestruck by this expanse of nature.

Often the women had spoken of the flowers as we passed. They would ‘ooh’ and ‘awe’ with motions and sounds telling of the plant’s herbal value, I had guessed. They would pick selected leaves and flowers to dry and then to make into tea or medicine or spices.

I found the mountain flowers scrubby. I preferred the tulips and lilies, liking the beauty of these flowers, expressed boldly. Even mountain laurel when seen in its expanse brings a majestic scene that defies description.

I was aware of the multitude of insects, mosquitoes everywhere and ever hungry. They continuously gain success by gulping my blood. Bees droned. Flies buzz. A woman gave me a leaf which when rubbed against the skin would keep the flies away, so she gestured. In reality, it merely relieved the mosquitoes of competition, letting them attack even more aggressively.

I looked at the boots given to me by Nefro as I had left his ship. I was amazed at their condition. The soles showed wear only slightly; their deep trenching still gave full traction on the steep slopes, which were covered with shale ready to slip and propel me crashing down. Every full moon, I washed these boots, and soaked them with oil. I was glad that they were kind to my feet, hikers worldwide relish foot kindness. Or should I have said ‘universe wide?’

From the beginning, shoes had been a primary concern. Those worn on the ship were for carpeted floors, and not for the rugged wilderness. Nefro had thought of this, and had handed me a sturdy pair of hiking boots, which being form fitting, required no break-in period. Insulated and waterproof, they breathed when the hot sands burned. They had a heavily sculptured sole that gave the needed traction on steep slopes.

The clouds were scattered and fluffy; I liked this for as a kid I would search for faces in them. Scanning the sky, I saw old man Scourge with a boozed nose, long bushy eyelashes, and a goatee of all things, with hair long spraying behind as though he faced the cold North winds. His body trailed off, his legs mostly hidden and one arm grotesquely twisted at the elbow.

I looked to the Northern horizon. The sun’s rays on the rocks -- lightly covered with a humus layer of soil -- forged them with a teal color. Far above the distant hills lay a light haze. Troka proclaimed; this was a storm-front, which would dash its full might against us about dark. He wanted to be off the mountain and settled in a valley camp with tents pitched for the night by late afternoon before the storm broke. I wished him luck; I wished us luck; more especially, I wished me luck.

Mostly, I wished for this storm front to bring snow. I liked snow, when falling, especially, the first. I liked the feel of a single tiny lone flake drifting against my face. I liked to watch a single flake light on my hand, landing, resting, changing from flake to drop, waiting a moment, and then flowing as water. I also wished that the leading edge of the front would zip through now and steal away the mosquitoes for I continually scratched myself like a dog pestered by hungry fleas.

- - -

A FIGHT COMES to THEM WHAT WAITS

It seems like no matter what group surrounds, most are great people, then there is the ‘one butt’. We had a ‘one butt’. Since the little people’s medicine man had died just a few weeks prior, Butt had replaced this wise old man by self-appointment. He was now the Pseudo Medicine Man; I had adorned him with this title, calling this aloud for all to hear. Not understanding, he raised his head in pride. From the women’s comments and the horror expressed by the children when Butt tried to heal them, I judged the name I gave him carried majority approval. Butt knew as much about medicine as an elephant’s ass knows about sucking canal water.

Early the next day, a group of the older people was leading us up a rocky path, winding, narrow, and steep toward the summit of the pass where we would stop for our noontime lunch. An adolescent squad had charged ahead, seeking solitude to live apart for several hours; they would join us again at dinnertime. We of the older group had paused for a much-needed rest about mid-morning. When the normal rest period of ten or so minutes had passed, Fast Man stood and again began walking, followed by the other elders and the multitude of children.

Still sitting and not ready to begin walking, Butt called for the entire caravan again to stop by shouting, Your ass stop! Someone said for all to stop. He implied hearing a voice that no one else had heard. This caused aggravation among those at the front of the troupe. They wanted to keep moving; they resented pausing longer than normal for a chill would follow, causing sore muscles. For a time heated words passed. Troka, our leader, waited for the appropriate moment and took charge. He walked to the front of the line and explained to the front people that Butt felt intimidated by their fast pace, so please walk slower. To this the older more mature leaders, several older than Butt, replied, His ass drag. Leave! Rot!

During the lunch stop, Butt still grumbled about this incidence. He found himself ignored except a few of the older women. They would accept anyone’s attention even if it were Butt’s.

After lunch, Troka told of a lake, which was less than three miles away as the bird travels, but would require a much longer path to reach, one that wound downhill through the forest, perhaps twice as far. With an impending storm, Troka wanted an advanced party to reach the base of the mountain quickly, and setup camp for the night. He divided the group. One party would take the longer path and carry most of the supplies; the other group would blaze a shorter but steeper trail, a trail for use in future years by the advanced party.

Since the first party would be carrying more-than-normal weight, he selected the younger adult men. For reasons of safety, the women and children would go with them, walking the longer but more gentle trail.

Again, Butt complained. He wanted in neither group. If I were the chief, I would have granted his request and left him to sit alone forever. With much persuasion from Troka, Butt agreed to walk the easier, yet longer route; however, he still refused to carry extra weight. ‘Want all and give little,’ defined Butt the elder adolescent. However, arguing with Troka proved futile. Butt challenged him regularly, always loosing. Butt went with the younger group. He soon conned one of the strong teenage girls to share his added load in exchange for a magical potent. No doubt, he claimed it a ‘love potent’. The young seem to have an endless reservoir of hope.

Watching the young women, those having just reached puberty, flirt with Butt was an experience in both futility and glee. Seeing him chase them, soon to be exhausted and endure first their cheers and then their jeers, gestures and motions, hip swaying and pelvic rolls, wagging tongues and winking eyes and laughter. Poor Butt; he asked for failure.

The trail breaking progressed easily for we appeared on an overgrown trail, needing little or no clearing, the afternoon waning with no storm front appearing, life seemed routine. I went with them. Handing my load to two young bucks for an afternoon seemed an extended holiday.

Half-way down, we intersect another trail. This trail was well used and recently so, but rocky and dry so that no footprints were visible, neither animal nor people. We turned and followed it down the mountain at a trot. After a half-mile, Troka, becoming intense, grunted a warning. All stopped, leaned slightly forward, scanning everywhere for danger. Some talked. Troka’s grunts silenced them. Spears were un-strapped, held at the ready, heads turn left to right and repeated, hair bristled on everyone’s necks.

Holy Christ, I shouted silently for only me to hear, strangers are attacking from both sides. A group of little men, fierce, ugly, and hairy, the most primitive that I had ever seen were attacking us. They were about the same height as Troka’s group and about the same build, perhaps distant cousins. They shouted and charged with spears raised, then spears flew, others held ready to fling.

I walked at the end of our group, assigned there by Troka. I stood taller than anyone else, taller by far. I held neither spear nor sword, only a knife and it was small, about right for cleaning fish, not fighting. Could I convince these little people to ignore me, avoiding using their weapons? It had worked before. Why not try the holy-man act again? I asked myself. I could sit as before, cross-legged. I could pile up rocks as before, look skyward and chant as before. Offer food as before. Hell, I had no food to offer. This had been a foolish thought; another great idea, shot to hell. I looked at Troka; he motioned vigorously for me to sit with my legs crossed and chant. He waved his hands, pointed down, patted his tail, and shouted, Your ass sit! Like fool man chant. Perhaps my brilliant idea wasn’t shot to hell, after all.

No one attacked me; all ignored me. I was a spectator, so far. Perhaps they created me as a spectator. Perhaps, I was too big to fight their style, or had not learned their rules of fighting.

Whatever the little men were doing, I was out of their game, and a game it was appearing to be. However, following Troka’s orders I sat, piled rocks, and looked skyward, chanting in a droning voice while waving my arms about. Felt foolish. Abject fear produces actions.

The fighting progressed with much shouting, cursing, threatening, shoving, and pushing, but so far, no one’s blood spilled, none that I could see. Spears whistled through the air. Agile feet, though old, danced aside. A right to the jaw connected; a brave old man fell; all stopped and stared. Slowly, he struggled to stand and waved, ‘I’m ok!’ Again, the two armies of old men were back to battling; all was normal; all were fighting again.

Another down, everyone stopped. What is the game plan? I shouted but sat, still ignored. I noticed that when anyone fell, all stopped and stared. When he arose and nodded, the shaking of fists and the vile gestures and the threatening words, and the lengthy curses of this strange battle were rekindle.

Several had dropped their daypacks, several from each band and were standing in a huddle, a mixed huddle and cheering. They were talking, laughing, pointing now, and gesturing. Still no blood! No young men were present in either group, how strange. Was this some kind of sport? Crazy people! Old people! Old men, my age. Fighting with knives and spears, and letting not a drop of blood fall to mark the spot of conflict.

There were no women with the other tribe either, just men, where could their women be? Over yonder hill? Down at lakeside, preparing the victory feast for both victorious tribes, I suspected as much. Again, I looked at Troka; he was talking with, who else but his counterpart, the other chief. Had those two old bastards planned this entire battle? Was this an outing for the older men alone to experience, and then return to tell the children and young bucks and women? The two chiefs completely ignored the fight.

Startled, I pointed toward the hills as though peering at an unseen demon. Down the hill came one, then two, then three young bucks. Who let them out of the cage? I shouted a warning to Troka. He turned and shouted for them to stop. Above their cries for blood, they were deaf to his demands. A young buck threw a spear, then another did, blood flowed, the first of this mock fight.

Troka charged the young buck who had thrown the lethal spear, hit him with a fist to his jaw, knocking him out, and then swung at a second, missed and fell himself. Two other elders grabbed the second youngster, forced him facing backward. Now four, no five of ‘the mock enemy’ jumped the third young buck; down he went, kicking and swinging to no avail, face in the dirt; five old bastards were sitting on the young buck and slapping each other’s shoulders and roaring with laughter.

Well so much for war. The task came now to bandage the wounded and apologize to the other tribe, and scorn the three wild young bucks, banded from joining the tribe until after the next daybreak. They would sleep hungry that night in the forest alone according to Troka.

I asked Troka, If the young are not permitted to be wild and disobey their elders, once in a while: why be young? He just snorted, pointed at my burden, and walked away. I doubted he understood my meaning.

I have seen many greetings in my life; this exceeded all. However after all the proverbial dust cleared, I understood what Troka and the other chief had tried to affect. They had promoted a mighty battle and would tell of wondrous exploits -- a battle with only one wound and that accidentally -- to the envious young bucks at camp that night. To convince the kids and adolescents of the battle’s fierceness, they needed to demonstrate many more injuries than we had had. They argued whether the men should cut their own body to flow blood or whether an animal should be slaughtered, blood drawn and applied to bandage, then the blooded bandage wrapped around arms, legs and heads. They opted for an animal. After the wounded-warrior props had been set, vivid acting would be key.

I could envision the scene: some limping, some being half carried, some staggering aimlessly, all moaning; then stories told of war and fight and pain and anger and hate and finally an agreement of peace. They hoped this charade would be a lesson, which the fight-prone and hawkishly competitive young men would accept and understand that peace is best.

What is the age-old expression about the cunning of age overcoming the vigor of youth?

Since a genuine wound had interrupted the Battle of the Wilderness, as now named, the older men scheduled a series of athletic events to determine the most powerful tribe. The young would fight for their elders, expecting their fill of fighting. The elders told them to expect split lips, black eyes, blooded noses, and sore guts.

I wondered, what had happened to Troka’s storm front? The sky shone brightly.

After dinner, the elders chose the first event for the young bucks, and gals if they wished to participate. This first event was a four-mile race; it permitted mild pushing and shoving. With any luck, this sprinting run on a full stomach would drain some of the adrenalin produced gall and ginger which flowed so eagerly through their newly-acquire pubertal system, and reduce their energy before they began the hand-to-hand combat.

Perhaps naturally, with some disgust later that evening, the young bucks scorned their elders, especially those that had won an event with comments like, Well old Dad, it is a good thing that I am here to save your dragging dead ass from shame now that you are too old and lazy to fight for your people.

The old man snarled. He looked at me and snarled ear to ear, eye to eye, across his mouth and under his nose and through his chin, he snarled. His expression was unchanged. He always snarled. A slight twitch of his mouth showed a smirk, the closest that he could come to smiling. His smirk showed his intent to exploit, that he was about to speak and I was to be his victim.

Giant Man! Giant of men, towering as high as the mighty trees, man who must walk stooped on damp days so he does not wet his golden hair on the frosted underbelly of a low-hanging cloud. Giant Man come and throw my son! This old man was gruff, wrinkled, and bitter, but he was the first to speak fluently. I wondered why, but got no answer before he was again attacking me. The old goat pointed at his not-so-young son, an equally small man, withered and snarly, alien as his Dad, and yet