Other Worlds Were Possible, page 21
He hated himself for abandoning that helpless child. And he respected himself for his restraint. He had taken the mature decision, to dodge an unwinnable battle, so he might triumph in the war.
He told himself to concentrate on the latter emotion; to be positive and march ahead. But he could not stop himself from feeling pathetic, no matter how hard he tried. His legs were weightless. His nails were scratching his arms.
One thing was certain: He was in no fit state to proceed. He needed to retreat, recuperate and recover.
***
The light had dissolved…
It could have been dusk. It could have been dawn. Sunny had experienced such a heavy slumber, the world could have turned a hundred times and he would have never known. It took him a while to recall his location, beneath a tangle of roots, within a cluster of trees. He had retreated to this position, meditated a little, fretted a little, and questioned what he had seen: Had it been real? Why had those men behaved in such a manner? And why had he not intervened? These questions had tormented him for a while. And then they had knocked him unconscious.
Sunny had no desire to return. But he had promised to find a way out of this mess, for the sake of his kinfolk, and he was determined to find one. He was going to march into that town, approach the first Woggy he found, ask the questions his kinfolk had prepared, receive some answers, and leave at the first opportunity.
These plans fell apart, just as soon as he saw Songbird’s home. He could not stop himself from entering. He was compelled by solidarity; by a duty to help Songbird and her daughter. And he was compelled by curiosity; by a desire to discover the truth.
Songbird’s daughter was asleep, resting her head upon her mother’s lap. And so Sunny spoke in a hushed voice:
“Are you okay?”
Songbird nodded, somewhat indifferently. It seemed she was sickened, but not entirely surprised.
And then it dawned upon Sunny:
“It wasn’t… It was… The thing today. It’s… It’s happened before?”
Songbird responded, without making a gesture or a sound.
“Oh… Is that… So, is that her work? She has to surrender her body, for sex, in the same way that you surrender your body, whilst you’re making all those pots?... Does she get money? Or…”
Sunny cut himself short. He had been crass, leading with such a sensitive subject, and Songbird was clearly offended. The corners of her face were gravitating towards her nose.
She ran her teeth along her lower lip, stroked her daughter’s hair, sighed, and tried to ignore the question.
Then she had a change of heart.
She responded in a stilted fashion:
“Not work… A ‘Punishment’… It’s similar, but different. With work, you surrender your body first. Then you get money, which you gift for things like food. But my girl… She shared our food, before surrendering her body. And so she was ‘Punished’ after.
“I choose to make pots. But my girl didn’t choose her punishment… She… She would’ve never chosen that.
“It’s like… Both work and punishments are abusive. Both take your freedom and joy. But punishments are worse… They actually entered my child’s body!... I… I used to like making pots. But my girl… She’s just an innocent babe.”
Sunny realised he was sobbing. He could not recall the moment he had begun to cry, but it must have been a while before. His tears had covered his chin, and his chest was already damp.
He could be such an insensitive brute!
He tried to reassure himself. He had gathered some useful information, about “Punishments” and “Work”. But he had used Songbird, treating her as little more than a fount of knowledge. That was no way to treat a friend.
He had failed to ask the only appropriate question: “What can I do to help?”
He had still not asked that question.
But Songbird was providing an answer:
“Do stay the night, won’t you? I don’t think I could cope on my own.”
Sunny nodded. He sat down, took Songbird’s head, and placed it upon his lap.
They fell asleep together.
***
Sunny awoke, feeling reinvigorated and ready to face the day. Songbird’s daughter also appeared to be in fine fettle. It would have been churlish to suppose she had recovered. But the punishment had not affected her behaviour. By the time the others arose, she had already made a pot of herbal tea. Perhaps she had suppressed the memory. Or perhaps she had been abused so many times, she had learned to numb the pain.
If anyone was bitter, it was Songbird. When Sunny explained his plan, she scrunched her nose with so much force, she almost fractured the bone. Rolls of flesh rose up, only to collapse back over themselves; making it impossible to tell where one furrow ended and the next one began.
“You’re just going to walk up to a Woggy, and tell them you’re not from here? That you’re neither a worker nor a slave?... And you think they’ll just sit you down, listen to your questions, and tell you the things you wish to hear?
“The who, the what and the why! Are you as mad as a dog with no nose? Are you a loincloth short of an outfit? Do you think you can hunt a boulder?
“They’ll accuse you of ‘Trespass’. And they’ll concoct an impressive punishment, the likes of which no sane person would ever wish to endure.”
Sunny scratched the top of his ears.
“Tress… Trespass?”
“Walking on the ground without gifting any money.”
“You have to… Oh… Well, what do you suggest I do?”
“Bugger off.”
“I cannot. I’ve made a commitment.”
“Oh, Sunny of the Eagle Clan! You don’t make things easy, do you?... Hmm… So, if you must insist on picking the highest mango, I suppose… Hmm… You’d need to talk to the right Wogies… Oh girl! Follow me.”
***
After helping Sunny to find the “Right Wogies”, Songbird had disappeared without even saying “Goodbye”. Sunny had looked for her in every direction, searched for her a second time, and searched for her a third time, before accepting that she had vanished.
He might as well have been speaking to himself:
“Songbird?... Songbird?... Soh…”
He was back in the square, sitting on something the Wogies had called a “Bench”; sharing that platform with two familiar faces: Father Ralph and Uncle Survey.
Sunny could remember very little of the second man; just his paleness, his sketch, and the indecipherable sounds which had emerged from his mouth. Sunny had been so flabbergasted by the man’s appearance, his mind had tied itself in knots. He struggled to recall the details of their original encounter.
He was calmer today; able to take a deep breath, and inspect that person’s face; noting the large wart, just above his nostrils, and the strange device, which rested above that wart. Most of the material was shiny. At first, Sunny supposed it was a kind of jewellery. But there was something else: Two translucent disks were floating in front of his eyes. They were not particularly decorative. You could not see them unless you stared. And they were too small to offer much protection. Sunny could not determine if they had any practical use.
Uncle Survey was different from the other Wogies who Sunny had met. He was not vicious, like the men who had abused Songbird’s daughter. He was not a fanatic, like Father Ralph. And he was not sickly, like the Desert Wogies. He was placid, pensive, rigid, and ever so clean. Sunny could not find a single speck of dust on his chest-cloth, no matter how much he searched.
“Blah-di-blah, blah, blah. Which is why, something-something to every clan. Blah, something, blah. Which is a fair deal, by the something. It’s respectful of you, and us, and blah-di-blah, blah blah.”
Sunny had explained their clan’s position: This had always been their land. They wished to use it, just as before. And they wished to come to an arrangement which would satisfy the Wogies. But they were not willing to become slaves, endure work, take on debt, or commit to a single sexual partner.
Sunny had finished with a question: “What other options do we have?”
Uncle Survey nodded, to show he understood. Perhaps he had understood Sunny the first time they met. Perhaps it was Sunny who was to blame, for failing to understand this man.
It did not make much of a difference. Sunny listened intently, as Uncle Survey replied; speaking in a slow, trustworthy voice. He recognised a smattering of words. Perhaps Uncle Survey was attempting to speak their language. But Sunny could not decipher his meaning.
He turned to Father Ralph, who attempted to translate his companion’s remarks:
“What I believe Hernan here is trying to say, is that this land was never yours. It was uninhabited before we arrived. By Jove, that’s it: A people without any land arrived on these shores, and claimed this land without a people.”
Sunny did all he could to stop himself from frowning; making a conscious effort to look calm and inoffensive. He was offended. He was angry and hurt. But he did not wish for this to be known, because it might have antagonized the very people he was trying to court.
“Of course, you were around. But you were a foraging people. You lived in a state of nature. You were a part of the land. But you never owned the land. No-one has. In a ‘Legal’ sense, this land was uninhabited.
“You see, my sweet blessed child of Christ: ‘Property Rights’ are derived from work. One must mix one’s labour in with the land, care for the land and improve it, before one can claim ownership... But you savages are lazy and carefree. You only take what’s already there; coasting through life, with the bare minimum of effort, and no desire to satisfy anything more than your most basic needs. You drink water, when you could drink wine. You eat nuts, when you could eat bread. You wear hides, when you could wear clothes... You only consume one-hundredth of what might be possible, if only you bothered to work. But you don’t work. You don’t produce. And you certainly don’t trade.
“You’ve never shown any industry; any desire to improve the land. You don’t till, weed, fertilize or irrigate the earth. You’ve done nothing to earn the land. You haven’t even erected any fences. You’ve never claimed the land... Genesis says: ‘Be fruitful and multiply. Fill the earth and subdue it’. But you’ve never subdued the earth. You don’t deserve to own it… It’s true. Amen to Hernan. Amen to that.”
In the days which followed, Sunny would come to regret the way he responded. He did not challenge Hernan’s assumptions, even though his kinfolk did “Care for” and “Improve” the land; albeit in a very different way to the Wogies. They lived with the land, whilst the Wogies lived off the land. They preserved the natural world, whilst the Wogies exploited Mother Nature.
Sunny’s tribe made sure not to over-hunt or over-gather. They controlled their population, ensuring it would not become a burden on the earth. They left their land fallow, allowing it to recover its strength. They burnt their grasslands, to prevent the spread of invasive bushes. Sparrow farmed cassava. Their tribe grew tobacco. Some of the neighbouring tribes had been known to coppice and prune their trees; to weed and fertilise the places where they gathered their tubers. A few of the Coastal Tribes had created clam gardens, to encourage the reproduction of shellfish. Others had built weirs, to trap specific types of fish. They had rotas, to protect their waters from over-fishing; specifying which clans could fish in each grove, swamp and zone; and on what particular days they could fish.
But Sunny was too flustered to consider such things. Father Ralph’s words had scorched his skin. His skull was pulsating. His arms felt prickly and raw.
Sunny had imagined this conversation on umpteen occasions. He had contemplated the things the Wogies might say, and how he might respond. But he had never supposed they might claim this land was “Uninhabited”. How crazy was that? How insensitive!
Emotionally unstable; unable or unwilling to pause, calm his nerves, and think of the best possible response; Sunny blurted out the first thing that came to mind:
“You talk of property ‘Rights’, but not of ‘Obligations’. You work the land, but you don’t love the land. You’ve cut down an entire forest. Mother Nature cries! You’ve planted alien crops, in unnatural ways. And for what? To produce way more stuff than any sane person would ever wish to consume? But... Why?
“You know… Every part of this earth is sacred to our people. Every shining leaf, sandy shore, and misty forest. Every clearing, bird and bug. We respect and cherish this land. But you, the Woggy, who comes in the night and takes whatever she covets? You don’t adore this earth. You don’t treat it like a sister. You treat it as a foe who needs to be tamed.
“I mean… No… I tell you: No good will come of this work. No good will come of this ownership of land. The earth belongs to Mother Nature. Yet you defile her. And you’re sure to face the consequences. One day… Yes, one day… You’ll suffocate in your excreta!”
Sunny had meant every word he had said, but he had not intended to say them. He was supposed to be appealing to these people’s better nature; turning them into allies. Instead, he had aggravated them. A vein was throbbing on Father Ralph’s forehead, and Hernan’s eyes had turned a creamy shade of puce.
He knew it was wrong. But Sunny could not help himself. He had succumbed to his emotions. And there was no stopping him now:
“I tell you: The land doesn’t belong to people. People belong to the land. We didn’t weave the web of life. We’re merely strands.
“Look: We have fables about people like you. They feature a protagonist called Mister Perfect; an absurd name, for an absurd character; someone we thought could never exist in real life… But… Well, then we met the Wogies.
“Now, Mister Perfect believed that everything was perfect. Not only did he believe that he was perfect himself; he also believed that his clan was the perfect clan, and his tribe was the perfect tribe. They’d conquered Mother Nature, and were living in the most perfect of all possible worlds.
“Mister Perfect was eaten by a snake.
“Maybe he was happy to come to such a premature end; eaten by the most perfect of snakes, in the most perfect of fashions. Who knows?
“Of course, his sistren had warned him about that man-eating beast. But Mister Perfect had brushed their concerns aside, saying: ‘I’ll wrestle that thing if it attacks me. I’m stronger than an ox… I’ll flee if it gives chase. I’m faster than the light… Attack me? That cute little worm would be too awed by my majesty and beauty!’
“In one version of the story, Mister Perfect walked right up to the snake, who opened its mouth and swallowed him whole, or bit off his head, or tore him into tiny pieces.
“In another, Mister Perfect was on a hunt. He’d just slain a great beast; a gazelle, or maybe a warthog. He was so blinded by pride, that he didn’t look around. He didn’t spot the snake who’d also been stalking that creature. The snake slithered through the long grass, and bit Mister Perfect’s neck; injecting its deathly poison.
“Well, I suppose what I’m saying is that it’s the moral which matters: We must control our arrogance. If we don’t, it may cost us our lives.
“I’m telling you this: We once tried to help a Woggy. It’s true! That man was so arrogant, he thought he could cross the desert with just one companion, without sufficient supplies... Well, he was too proud to accept our help. He shot a magic arrow, made an ear-crushing noise, and scared us all away… Things didn’t work out too well for that poor fellow. A few moons later, we discovered his corpse.
“It’s just… You seem like nice enough people. But you’ve got a bit of the Mister Perfects about you, what with your talk of caring for the land, like your way is the only way. And you’re not really caring for it. You’re damaging it on an epic scale. You risk destroying it forever.
“That’s the rub of the belly. We don’t inherit the land from our mothers. We borrow it from our daughters. We must protect it for them.
“Our tribe doesn’t claim to be perfect. Our First Ancestors made the same mistake you’re making now: They lived in a land of plenty, filled with giant animals who were easy to kill. But they hunted those animals to extinction… Well, we’re still living with the consequences of that today. We have to hunt for longer than they ever did. We have to track smaller, more agile prey… Anyway, we’ve learnt from our mistakes. We know this land. We know what it needs. And it’s not this work. It’s not this intensive farming. It’s not these forests with just a single type of tree.”
Father Ralph’s face had begun to soften, about halfway through this monologue. That vein still squiggled across his forehead, but its throbbing was less pronounced. Perhaps it was the way Sunny had told the fable of Mister Perfect. His words were condescending, but his tone was not malicious. His voice had grown gentler with each successive word. This had soothed Father Ralph. And it had reinvigorated him, giving him the verve he required to take control of the conversation:
“Ah! Such energy! Such lyricism! But you make a fatal error: The merchant may subdue nature, to produce items to trade. I believe this is what my brother in Christ was saying. But we aren’t all merchants.
“I speak for myself, and on behalf of the devout, when I say that there’s more to work than this. Work isn’t just a means to an end. For those of us who are spiritually minded, work isn’t even a means to an end. We deny ourselves the fruits of our labour. We shun pleasure and consumption… No, for us, work is an end in itself. Hard work is virtuous. It brings us closer to God.”
Sunny’s face dropped a couple of notches. His broken chin slid under his jaw, towards his Adam’s apple; stretching his face, and revealing his eyes, which had been lurking in the shadow of his giant nose. If anything, his skin became even more taut than normal. It glowed a little more, or a little less, or in a slightly different way.
