Day 13

A meeting of the Elders of the village was held today. This happens on the morn after every full moon and is held in the Meeting House, a large open shelter with wooden floor, just next to the storehouse. This building is large enough to seat the whole tribe, but meetings of the Elders are generally private. I would have loved to observe, but as a new visitor, did not feel it my place to ask. Maybe in the coming months, I will have built enough trust amongst these people to be invited to attend for the sake of my research.

Apart from Kattan, the Chief Elder, there are seven other Elders, both men and women. I have asked Kattan about how the Elders are selected. The Elders themselves, it seems, are chosen by the tribe – all those old enough to have taken their ‘sharesh’ (a journey outside the Veil protecting the forest).  The Chief Elder, however, is chosen by Arrakesh, the Spirit of the forest. The people believe that the Treespeaker alone will hear the name Arrakesh chooses and announce it to his people. So the role of Chief Elder is inherently a religious one, founded on faith; an interesting way to choose a leader, but one which, at least in Kattan’s case, seems to work well. The Chief Elder is able to choose his own Deputy from amongst the Elders.

The Treespeaker also attended the meeting of the Elders, a normal occurrence apparently. According to Kattan, he is there as a guide to the Will of Arrakesh in all decisions. That the tribe places such trust in one so young does not seem to affect Jakan in any way. He displays no pretentiousness, just a serious consciousness of his role. 

Little attention was given to the meeting by the other villagers. They went about their daily tasks without so much as glancing at the Meeting House. Tomorrow, one villager told me, any decisions affecting them will be discussed at a general meeting, along with any problems that any one may wish to bring up for discussion. I look forward to seeing how this meeting is run.

Day 12

I slept well last night and was awoken this morning by the sound of children laughing and calling. When I went out, I found them playing a game they call ‘Chase the Boar’. One child plays the boar, and the rest of the children are the hunters. One child carries a ball made of knotted rags or strips of leather. The idea of the game is that the children chasing have to corner the boar by surrounding him. Then the child with the ball throws it at the boar. If they hit him, he (or she, for boys and girls often play together) becomes the boar and everyone starts to chase him. The one who was boar joins the fray. It’s a wild, riotous game with much puffing and laughter. I have yet to see a real boar hunt, but I suspect a lot of this play is based on real hunting skills.

Another game I have seen the children play is a form of skittles. Five short lengths of hollow branch are set up in a row, generally on top of a rock or a thick log. The children take turns to throw the ball at the skittles and they tally their scores with piles of stones or nuts. Older and younger children play together, with the younger children allowed to stand closer than the older ones. Again, it is great training for the hand-eye coordination that will later be needed in hunting.

Something at which Arrakeshi children are very adept and which Carlikan children could never match is tree-climbing. I have seen little ones as young as three-years-old sitting in the branches of trees I could not begin to climb. They find hand and toe holds where I can see none at all. Older children take care of the younger ones, discouraging them from climbing too high, but even so I marvel at their agility. Their suppleness and strength makes Carlikan children look lazy, but it has to be admitted that Carlikan children do not have these opportunities.

Preview

As I have just announced in my other blog, Trees Are Not Lollipops, I am planning to publish "Treespeaker" to Kindle in the very near future. So for those of you who are interested, here's a preview -

TREESPEAKER 

by Katie W Stewart 

©2011

 Chapter 1

The worried face of the moon, high in the branches of the great oak, mirrored the apprehension in Jakan’s mind.  He shuddered and pulled his deerskin cloak closer about his shoulders. It made no difference. The cold he felt had nothing to do with the night air.

Ahead of him, a column of men, women and children trod their way up the moonlit path in solemn silence. The only sound came from their soft shoes amongst the leaves and the scuffling of small animals hurrying away to hide in the darkness. A thin mist settled on the ground, swirling in the torchlight, and the scent of damp earth wafted on the breeze. 

Gritting his teeth, Jakan tried to centre his mind on the ritual to come. At the front of the procession, frail Kattanbek, Chief Elder of the Fifth Tribe of Arrakesh, swayed in a sedan chair. Beyond him, further up the hill, three fires burned in the glade in front of Padhag Klen, promising the villagers warmth and light as they attended the SpringSpeak.

Jakan fixed his gaze on the sedan chair and sighed to himself. He had little doubt that this would be the last Speak for Kattanbek. The old man’s poor, tired soul would not last another season. Who would succeed him? It was a question that had plagued Jakan for many months now. Amongst all the Elders, there was no one he could discern who had the strength, determination or leadership that had characterised Kattan. The tribe had run smoothly under his care, without ill will or strife. Jakan could not imagine anyone else managing affairs so well. He hoped that tonight Arrakesh would name a successor, for he alone could know the true heart of his people. 

As the procession entered the glade, the sedan was set upon flat ground between two of the big fires. Jakan pushed back the hood of his cloak to rest on his shoulders and stood beside the Chief Elder. The other villagers edged around the fires and faced Padhag Klen, The Tree, a huge, dark shadow in the firelight. The moon peeked between the still-bare branches, lending a silver glow to one side of the gnarled trunk. 

With everyone settled, Kattan signalled that he wanted to stand. Jakan eased him forward and around to face the people. The old man managed a weak smile at Jakan then, with difficulty, raised his grey head to speak.

“People of the Fifth Tribe of Arrakesh,” he said, his face ashen, his voice shaky and thin, “we’ve survived another winter without hunger, for which we must all give thanks.”

There were mumblings of “Arrakesh be praised,” and Kattan waited for them to stop before continuing. “Indeed, Arrakesh be praised and thanks, also, to all of you for your hard work and dedication in preparing for the winter. Though we’ve just endured one of the coldest winters in living memory, as Arrakesh foretold, our storehouses are still partly stocked and the woodpile is not fully depleted. You can all be proud.”

There was a polite applause. At the front of the group, Kattan’s wife stood, her hands clasped in front of her, sadness glowing in her brown eyes. She knows, too, thought Jakan as he helped the Chief Elder to sit once more. Then, with a respectful nod, he turned on his heel and strode towards Padhag Klen. 

He climbed over the thick roots at the base of The Tree and made his way into a hollow between two huge roots that rose to two feet above the ground. There, he swung around to face the people. Focusing his mind on his role as Treespeaker, he raised his arms above his head and spoke, his rich, deep voice echoing against the trees on the far side of the glade.

“We seek the Will of Arrakesh.”

As one, the people replied, “We seek the insight of Arrakesh.”

          “We will do the Will of Arrakesh.”

“By moon’s silver water and sun’s golden fire, we will do as he wills. He is our strength and we his.”

 Jakan gave a solemn nod. He lowered his arms and faced The Tree. Already his heart thudded in anticipation. Making an effort to show more calmness than he felt, he reached out his hands and placed them on the trunk. Then, putting his head back a little, he shut his eyes and waited. Not a sound came from the people around him, nor from the forest. Everyone and everything awaited the knowledge, the will of Arrakesh.

Forcing himself to take slow breaths, Jakan concentrated on the silence, waiting for the voice in his mind to tell him of the coming season.  Arrakesh did not reside here in The Tree as many believed. As Treespeaker, Jakan could pick up a fresh fallen leaf and know the weather for the next day or turn a stone and know which animal had passed near it in the last hour. It was an intuitive knowledge from Arrakesh that he could not explain. Here at Padhag Klen though, the voice of Arrakesh came stronger. To the people, it was a focal point on which to centre belief. It held them together, reminding them of who they were.

Jakan had taken over this ritual as Treespeaker from his own father when he was sixteen years old. Over time he had learned to completely relax, to let the soft murmuring and gentle images wash over him, without trying to understand them. When it was all over, he found that he understood without thinking.

Tonight, though, he approached the ritual with unusual apprehension. He felt an uneasiness that he couldn’t explain. There was no clear premonition in his mind. Yet he felt afraid for the people of Arrakesh. He had tried to tell himself that it was his preoccupation with the problem of leadership that bothered him, but no matter how much he had subdued his thoughts, the niggling fear persisted.

He could hear the thumping of his own heart and fought to calm himself, to let the images start. He sank further and further into himself until at last he found the soft, quiet centre he sought.

The images came, fuzzy at first, as if he were seeing them through a mist. He fought against the mist and it began to clear. His throat constricted in fear. He saw the village of his people. Darkness had fallen, but the whole village was aglow with fire. Every building burned, flames like ravenous wolves rising amongst the trees. He could feel the raging heat on his skin; hear the crackling of flaming timber. Then he became aware of the sounds. Not the usual soft murmuring of Arrakesh, but screams and wails so loud he reeled mentally away.

He resisted the urge to try to understand and the image faded. In its place he saw Padhag Klen. It stood in the sunlight, black and spectre-like. Its branches were bare, though the rest of the forest wore its summer greenery. As he watched, two of the branches reached out to him like huge hands held out in supplication. He watched in horror as the trunk of the tree split and bright red liquid poured from its centre onto the earth below. The liquid flowed away into the forest. Everything it touched turned black and withered away to dust.

On impulse, Jakan closed his eyes tighter, clutching so hard at the tree that the rough bark grazed his hands. Behind him, he heard the uneasy shuffling and murmuring of the villagers. He could do nothing to reassure them.  Arrakesh held him.

The image of Padhag Klen faded once more and Jakan found himself in a forest meadow. It was summer and deer filled the meadow. They appeared unaware of his presence, but stood chewing at the long, green grass. Jakan relaxed. This was more like the usual visions. Suddenly he cringed. A dark shadow, like a cloud passing over the sun, crept across the meadow. As the deer were overshadowed, they disappeared as if an invisible hand had wiped them from the scene. The lush grass turned brown and shrivelled away, leaving nothing but a patch of barren earth.

 A noise like wind came from above him. Jakan looked up and cowered away from the ferocious talons of a gigantic black hawk. It turned one huge yellow eye on him and screeched as it veered away and flew off into the distance.

 Please, Arrakesh, I can’t bear any more.

 Arrakesh had more to show. The image faded and another took its place. Now Jakan sat in his own home. It was evening and he and his family had settled for dinner. Jalena smiled as she handed their son, Dovan, a bowl of roasted yams. Jakan couldn’t relax. He knew that something was going to happen. The shaking of his body had become uncontrollable and he rested his head on the trunk of Padhag Klen for support.

The image turned to chaos. The house disappeared into blackness and the huge talons of the hawk descended. With a mind-rending scream, it scooped up both Jalena and Dovan and reared away. At that moment, Jakan became aware of another scream, his own, as the bird disappeared, dropping his son with a sickening thud to the ground and taking his wife with it into the night.

Jakan reeled as his mind plummeted into a circling darkness, surrounded by the most horrendous noise he had ever heard. An imploring, mournful cry seemed to shatter every fibre of his body and carried him away into the emptiness.

He clutched his bloodied hands to his head and collapsed amongst the roots of Padhag Klen.   

Day 11

The Dedication Ceremony took place at dawn. I would say that most of the villagers (around 150 or so) were present, except the very old. To the Arrakeshi, children are a cherished and valued part of the tribe and they are cared for by all, though their parents are the primary nurturers.

The baby, only a few weeks old, was wrapped in a rabbit fur and carried in the arms of his mother and accompanied by his father, to ‘Padhag Klen’, the huge oak tree on the outskirts of the village. This tree is the centre of worship for the tribe, akin to an altar in other religions. It was there that I saw Jakan the day I went with the women to gather yams. The rest of the villagers, led by Jakan, followed them. All sat as Jakan the Treespeaker took the child and held him up before them. They each held out their arms as if reaching for the baby and Jakan announced the child’s name “Aglik”, meaning “branch of joy”, and called to Arrakesh to accept the child as part of himself, to give him health, strength and happiness and a sure knowledge of his own belonging.

The child was then given back to his mother and she took him amongst the villagers. Each stroked the boy’s head and said a blessing. Even the smallest children were encouraged to touch his head. Then Kattan, the Chief Elder, handed the father a small bow and a tiny bone broach for fixing a cloak, presents to the child from the village.

At the communal breakfast afterwards, there was a keen atmosphere of caring for the new parents and their child. I do not think I saw the child in his parents’ arms for the rest of the morning except when he was feeding, for he was passed around and admired by all.

I have noticed that very few families here have more than one or two children. How this is, I do not know. The children as a whole seem healthy and strong. I suppose there may be some deaths through illness or accident, but with Jakan’s healing skills and the care taken of the children, I still cannot imagine it keeping the population growth so low. As it stands, the population seems to be in perfect balance with the resources available, but how this balance is achieved, I do not feel comfortable in asking at this stage. Maybe at a later date, I will ask Jakan.

Day 10

A word about names amongst the people of Arrakesh. 

From what I understand, first names have meanings, but from an old language no longer used or understood in any depth by the people. In the same way that stories are passed down from generation to generation, so are the names and their meanings, though there seems no tradition of passing names from father to son, mother to daughter or even from grandparent to grandchild. When the language itself was lost, I have not been able to discover, but the Arrakeshi speak Carlikan now, albeit with a strong lilt. Some words are entirely their own.  I will write more on this at a later date.

Kattan’s name, he tells me, means “Bear’s gift” – ‘kat’(bear) and ‘tan’ (gift). Jakan’s name is harder to translate, as the Arrakeshi  have many words for things that we do not, but it refers to the light that comes through the trees in the early morning. Not the light itself, but the way it breaks to filter through through the trunks, something that cannot really be understood in Carlika where there are few trees at all.

 Megda’s name also comes from a concept not named in Carlika – the moment a leaf, falling from a tree, touches the earth. These people have such a reverence for nature that even such an event has a name. 

The forest Arrakesh itself has a meaning in the old language – “arr” means forest, “kesh” means “soul” or “spirit”. The “a” as far as I can tell is simply there for ease of pronunciation.

Other names I have been able to have translated -

Grifad (m) = grif (boulder) ad (man)

Padmak (m) = pad (oak) mak (shade)

Felka (f) = fel (pebble) ka (shine)

Hagshu (f) = hag (great) shu (water)

Family names are passed through the father’s side. So Kattanbek comes from the family of ‘Bek’, Jakanash comes from the family of ‘Ash’. Females, when referred to in the formal way, put the name of their family first. When she marries, she takes the name of her husband’s family. So Megda, when she is referred to formally, is Bekmegda.  No one seems to have an explanation for this difference in naming between genders. It is simply something they have always done. It certainly does not seem to imply male dominance, as women are just as likely to be elders or even Treespeakers. 

Tomorrow there will a ‘dedication’ ceremony, a welcoming of a new baby into the tribe. I look forward to observing this ritual.

Day 9

 An interesting day. As I feared, I awoke this morning as stiff as one of the planks on the wall of my cottage. Thinking it might help to move about, I set off for a stroll around the village, but by the time I reached the Meeting House, my neck and shoulders ached unbearably and I had to sit. I never dreamed that I was so unfit. Muscles hurt that I didn’t even know I had.

Kattan came along while I was sitting and asked if I was unwell. Maybe it was the way I was sitting, maybe I looked pale, I don’t know. I’ve noticed his keen perception on a number of occasions. It was more than a little embarrassing to tell him my trouble, but he showed only concern and immediately sent a young boy off to fetch the Treespeaker.

I had heard tales of the healing skills of the Arrakeshi Treespeakers, but now I have experienced them first hand. Jakan simply placed a hand on my shoulder and it was as if he had given me a deep pain-killing draught. I could feel the stiffness ebbing and within a minute my muscles returned to their normal laxness. He did not massage or manipulate my shoulder in any way. It was a simple, gentle touch. At the same time, Jakan seemed to stiffen as if taking my pain into himself. Yet when he’d finished, he looked as relaxed as before. Had I simply observed this procedure, I would probably have concluded that the cure was of a psychological nature - the patient's belief in the Treespeaker's power allowing his muscles to relax. But having experienced it myself, I can only say that there was definitely a force outside myself bringing about relief.

I tried to thank him, but he shook his head and advised me with a smile to admit to my limitations next time I was invited to help. As with Kattan, there was no judgement in his words, only kindness.

Later in the day, Jakan came to check on me, to ensure that the pains had not returned. I was busy at the time, writing notes on some fungi I had found on a tree trunk just outside the village. He seemed fascinated by the drawings and writing alike, never having seen anything like them in his life before.

For the rest of the afternoon, we talked – of the uses of fungi amongst the Arrakeshi, but also of more personal matters. After much encouragement from me, he tried to explain how his healing powers work, but as it is an intuitive thing for him, he had difficulty in putting it into words. The healing, he says, comes from his close connection to Arrakesh, the spirit of the forest (I find this interchangeable use of the name for the physical forest and the spirit very interesting). It is Arrakesh, he says, who gives him the power to heal. He has had the ‘gift’, as he called it, since he was 16 years old and took over after the death of his father, also a Treespeaker, when he was 17.

He is still hesitant to tell me much about the role of Treespeaker, but I sense a relaxing of his initial distrust. Maybe during his healing, he was able to sense my good intentions? Whatever the case, I did feel that we will be able to converse more deeply in future. I hope so.

Day 8

I am exhausted. I don’t know if I’ve ever done so much physical work in my life. For too long I have sat at my desk studying, without ever testing my physical powers. Kattan asked me yesterday, if I would like to help with wood-gathering and I agreed, thinking it would give me further chance to study the forest and learn more of the Arrakeshi ways. Had I realised that the wood-gathering would go from dawn until dusk, I might have made an excuse. Yet the Arrakeshi men and boys involved didn’t seem troubled by the work. They dragged, chopped and stacked with energy, working together to get the job done without sign of tiring.

With winter only moons away, a stockpile of wood is needed close to the cottages. Gatherers went out of the village in all directions, collecting the wood into small handcarts and trundling it back to stack it in the pile on the east side. We had to walk quite a way before we found a fallen tree ready for gathering. The wood stack is far away enough from the village not to present a hazard should it catch alight, yet close enough to be easily reached for household use. So, much energy was spent in walking to and fro as well as chopping.

Something I have observed since I came is the use of metal axes, knives and, to a lesser extent, pots amongst these people, yet I have seen no sign of the working of metal anywhere in the village. Kattan tells me that these things are brought back as gifts by those taking their sharesh in Carlika and are highly valued. Knife and axe handles are carved with interesting designs, each unique to its owner, an Arrakeshi stamp on Carlikan metalwork.

 

I must sleep. Somewhere on the other side of the village, the sound of a wooden flute carries on the breeze. It’s a plaintive tune that seems to hold the forest within itself. A soothing background for my aching limbs. I wonder if I will be able to move at all at sunrise? 

Day 7

I have been here less than a week and yet I feel at home. The communal feast last night helped me to get to know a lot more of the villagers, and my summation of them as a gentle, generous people is confirmed. As soon as my plate emptied, there was someone at hand offering me more. When my mead needed replenishing, it was done before I could ask (and a lovely drink it is, I must say).

When the feasting was over, the villagers – around 150 in all, I would guess – sat around and listened as Jakan, the Treespeaker, told a story. At least, to me it was a story. To the people of the Fifth Tribe of Arrakesh, it is part of their history. I will attempt to tell it here, as best I can remember it. The Arrakeshi use no form of writing. All history is passed down from generation to generation orally, as it was last night.

"In the days before Man walked the earth, or birds flew in the air, or trees shaded the ground, Arrakesh the Creator had a brother,  Maganark the Destroyer. Everything Arrakesh made, his brother would destroy. The world was a barren, joyless place because of it. Arrakesh pleaded with him, but it was Maganark’s nature to pull things apart, to uncreate.  He felt no guilt at the distress his actions caused.

At last, Arrakesh could bear it no longer. He devised a plan. During a long period of darkness caused by Maganark, he secretly created seven types of creature, which he named collectively  the 'jikhoshi'. These creatures obeyed only him and were able to make themselves invisible. Each creature of the jikhoshi owned a sound, a note that it could sing with such purity and clarity that when the creatures sang their notes in harmony, they created a solid, clear wall of music. Drawn to their song in his yearning to destroy it, Maganark became trapped by it. Together, the jikhoshi took him in this prison to Neteknesh, The Place of Darkness. There, they forced him into a hole in the ground that Arrakesh had created, pushing him deep down into the bowels of the earth. Arrakesh sealed the hole, imprisoning his brother forever. Over the top, he formed a deep lake.

Then Arrakesh created a forest to cover the land, with men and plants and animals living in balance with one another. But around Neteknesh, which became known as the Black Lake, not a plant or animal would grow. Still Maganark attempts to free himself, shaking the earth and raging through the rocks. Never has he managed to free himself, but Man must take care to do as Arrakesh wills, not to lose his temper or wish ill on others. For such destructive thoughts give strength to Maganark."

Though the villagers must have heard this story many times before, their attention didn’t stray from their Treespeaker’s face as he told it. Even the children, who would normally have been sleeping, stayed awake, wide-eyed and curious. When he finished, they stood and returned to their cottages without a sound. I looked out of my cottage window a good time later and only Jakan remained, still seated, staring into the dying embers of the fire.