Chapter 10
Those first few weeks of my new life in Oshlo were like a crash
course in understanding chaos. I was thrown into this new culture as
viewed from its underbelly. How I survived at such a young age, before barely
feeding myself, to now, taking advantage of every opportunity thrown,
(sometimes literally) my way. At first I wondered whether I would forget
completely my past, the secure, happy-go-lucky, fulfilled days of just months
ago. I wondered if I was like our pet goat, who didn't seem to show one bit of
remorse when it's mother died suddenly. She just collapsed and the kid chewed
hay right next to her head. We were all distraught, but her kid showed
not a bit of care. Animals live in the 'here and now'. They move on
effortlessly. After the first month I realised I was not an animal. I keep on
seeing my loved ones in dreams. They came to me and I was able to recall them
vividly. It was such a comfort, and I would sit up in the night and
deliberately make myself mouth their names, and sometimes I held out my arms to
them. Once I woke up thinking that Tilda was calling me by name. When I realise
I was just sleeping with three dirty smelly kids, I was not sad. It was a joy
to just think of Tilda, and to feel that she was alive and thinking about me.
Later I was told in detail all about what happen back home when
the allotted day arrived and our expedition had not returned. It had all been
worked out before what to do. Every day of our trip was mapped out and the
return journey should have taken five days. At first two people from our tribe
set out along the route, traveling for two days, walking the route. They moved
fast and without loads, covering twice the distance. Seeing no sign of us they
turned back and returned for a conference with Eliphoa. It was agreed that they
should retrace our whole journey, asking for information from anyone they met
on the way. All assumed that the town of Jokou might have been the riskiest
point. Wild landscapes and challenging terrain is nothing to the risk presented
by other human beings. The two who had volunteered to go were wise and
experienced travellers. They opted to wear clothing from the Jokou people.
Despite being proud of our traditional attire, they were aware that the headman
might be expecting a follow up call from our people, and they had no wish
to delight him with being more easy booty. I learned how our two spies were
successful in finding out a good deal of information. They discovered that we
had been split into three groups, with Tilda possibly still being in the headman's
harem. They heard that the older, stronger members were destined for the
galleys, and the younger had been taken by sea to the west, possible as far as
the Ice islands. It was reassuring to discover that our two had been treated
very well by the poor and lowly citizens of Jokou, who clearly had retained a
soft spot for their primitive cousins. So it was obviously with heavy hearts
that our spies returned. One kind supporter even handed over three of the axes
we had purchased in the market on that fateful day. He said that he
had found them abandoned in the market place, and had kept them hidden
away for us. The spies said they took them, not for their worth as tools, but
because they provided tangible evidence of our existence, given that now there
was nothing. Finally our intrepid enquirers established that Tilda was not in
the town at all. Apparently her presence in the headman's harem had create such
as stir, with the abused women beginning to change, becoming more fearless, and
joining together in extraordinary scenes of defiance, that it was felt that she
had to be got rid of. Normally in that town there was no restriction on the
wickedness that might be expected. Tilda, as a mark of ritual
humiliation, was thrown into the headman's den of jackals, to be torn apart for
sport. But Tilda was not alone in that den. Her fearlessness was not something
to be drummed up with magic incantations. The dogs, despite their hunger,
apparently did not touch her. She sat, straight-backed, through the night, with
locals coming constantly to gaze at her over the wall, and gasp. In the morning
she was gone, and no one let on what had happened to her. No threat from the
powerful headman and his cronies could produce a whisper. Our spies found they
too were kept in the dark. Not a word would be said. So they left Jokou
carrying various tools, and with the knowledge that Tilda might be alive, and
on the loose. It thrilled their hearts, and they returned with at least that
flicker of joy burning.
Our people, though used to hardship and pain, were not passive.
With the news from Jokou, long meetings and discussions were held
deciding what might be done. Morning vigils were held with greater
earnestness. It was agreed that not one of our people could be lost.
Each was held with such high value. But what to do? A few of our
people, and with the experiences of our refugee members, spoke at length about
our knowledge of shipping routes, and far of towns to the west. A great
map was sketched out on the floor. With distances marked in days,
there were numerous unanswered questions. Finding us was one thing.
Getting us released and away was quite another. The story reminded
me of the wise words of my grandfather. I had sat with him for three days just
before he died. In our community people face death and look it in the face.
It is seen as a gateway, much as the gateway of my mother’s pelvis was
when I entered this world. One day I was there, floating upside down in dark
warm water, tightly constricted; the next I was out in the light and the noise,
with faces all about me. So with the gateway of death. We were grief
stricken with my grandfather as he sat patiently under an old tree for this
journey to begin. He was not afraid, but we were in agony. It felt
like he was present at his own funeral. We left him with food and drink
in the shade of that great tree. Five days later we returned and
collected his thin rigid body, and buried it in our tribal burial mound.
We grieved for a year, marking each day with a notch on a post by the
burial site. But I always remembered the words be gave me as he died.
"There is only one thing that you can ever know for sure. You are
never alone. You go on that journey holding the hand of the one who
created you for a purpose from the start." Though alone, I was not
alone. That that was priceless.
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