( Excerpt from "Dull Knife's Story)
Bone Face, a simple reader, stayed with the cattle, old folk, and the treasury of knowing left behind by the ancients. He stayed near the surface, keeping an open ear for any who might happen upon the hidden entrance to the caves, and an occassional eye to the slits between stones, hidden behind tall grass and disguised as the warrens of ground squirrels.
Bone face helped to dig miles of tunnels under the plains, stretching as far as the eye could see, secret passageways, shared only by those who understood that once, in this valley, and under these fields, there once existed ancestors whose roads reached lands far beyond imagining, and whose towers climbed high into the skies, cities spreading far and wide, and could be seen far across the land, for what could be days of travel. These were ancients with methods long lost, whose carriages moved faster than any living creature, and whose wonders allowed their people to fly through the skies past clouds, faster than the wind. Bone Face enjoyed pictures of these great machines, their mechanical genius lost, though, he hoped, may one day be understood again. Bone Face knew that the treasure they kept held the keys to such magical things. Lost, though. Hidden behind a veil of comprehension beyond his grasp.
Bone Face lifted his face from the pages he held in his hands, listening to the breeze on the grass above his head. He turned his face to the bands of light cutting through the quiet earth, taking a few moments to shift a dark tuft of hair from his face before his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the early morning sky beyond. It was a dry day. Brisk. Few clouds. He could smell the rotting of the leaves and earth readying itself for winter. Still, many weeks away, he surmised. If time permits, if the coming violence that must come ends sooner than anticipated, there will still be time enough to prepare for the harshest snows. So much to do. So much to prepare for, still. But Bone Face knew that there were stores of wood hidden away, for years they prepared for disaster. Food stores had been prepared. Such information was easier to gather from the writings of the ancients. The people of the book understood how to prepare food that would sustain their people for a decade of winter, if such were to come again. His childhood held such a winter, nearly four years of ice, short summers, with few days where the rivers swelled before again the snows came and froze what crops could be planted in the icy soil. Then six years of drought. And a year of disease. And three years where everything worth destroying was
For several minutes Bone Face studied the scene outside of the hidden entrance. No human movement. Not for days. He had expected to have to close off the inner caverns from enemy scouts scrounging for stashes of food, warriors in waiting, abandoned women and children, or anything of value secreted away. But ... Nothing. As yet. He remained still, keeping watch between pages, spending more hours watching than reading. It gave him time to think upon what he read. Most of it was beyond his ability to comprehend. He took care to study the images intently, seeking for inspiration. These few pages he kept with him were beautiful, filled with images of incredible wealth, strange clothing, strange tools, strange scenes of pleasure and stories obviously meant for a time and place where it's intended audience could be encouraged to enjoy unimaginable affluence. He contemplated the photographs, so they were called. The concept of photography he vaguely understood, paper treated with chemicals, which changed color when exposed to light. Electricity and computers changed everything over time, so that the color was captured as a language that only machines could read, electric screens replacing paper. He had seen photos of such screens. But they were strange ideas, as strange as dreams. He had many dreams, where he explored these landscapes of an ancient past, while trying to find meaning in the words concerning only those who lived in that ancient past would have meaning for.
There was a strange longing within Bone Face, for a motorcycle. He had seen so many of them, while perusing the pages in their collection of ancient books. He imagined that, if he were born in a different age, he could have travelled the world on such a thing. If. But no. He was no explorer, except for the tunnels. And he was no scientist, except for trying to find meaning in this collection of magazine articles. His life was to be lived as a hunter and keeper of goats, grower of vegetables, and keeper of secrets. He was happy with his world, simple, filled with good people who cared for each other, and valued the incomprehensible mindstuff kept safe for unborn readers.
Another page or two, he supposed, until his watch were relieved by his brother, Sky Man. They were different kinds of people, with different beliefs on the what and the why of the dead and buried. Sky Man was also a devout keeper of the words, but to him, the readings are not memorials preserving science, culture, or history, but also embodied in their every letter a warning of the danger of civilization wrecklessly out of balance with natural harmony. Bone Face was certain that Sky Man had never dreamed of motorcycles. Sky Man was one hell of a hunter, though, and has trained at fighting with spear and bow every day for over two decades, no matter how hard the storms or how heavy the day's work. Most of his reading material were histories, and how to make things. Bone Face thought that, if there were anyone who could build a motorcycle, or a camera, Sky Man might be able to dummy it out. He knew how to know things. But still, he was not one to dabble. He was one to keep words in languages other than the common languages. Bone Face could only read English, and a few words in Spanish, German, Latin, Italian and French. Those ones he had to ask _________ to look up for him. Dictionaries are treasures only a few are able to see. Bone Face only sees magazines and school chapters. One day, maybe. For now, Bone Face watches. And waits. Perhaps, Bone Face thinks, when he celebrates passing on to his next life, he will learn how to build a motorcycle and make photographs. And meet a woman with a bald body and yellow hair.
Bone Face turned towards the darkness as Sky Man quietly passes through the heavy wool blankets covering the entryway into the stone walled entrance. He carried a jar, and a spoon. Soup for Bone Face. "No people. Yet." whispered Bone Face. "Good." replied Sky Man, his face dirty, eyes smiling at his younger brother. The braids worn on the elder brother's head were not grey, but they were old enough to each have fathered several children. All of these had been sent to the village of their cousins beyond the foothills. Bone Face was still young by comparison, by nearly ten winters, kept his long hair unbound. "What did you bring to keep you company this time?" Bone Face asked, kissing his brother and hugging him close, before taking the cold soup. He dared not eat so near the surface, enemy dogs would be sure to be alerted to the scent. "Aristotle. Poetics. It's a classic. You wouldn't like it. No bald golden haired ladies." They both muffled their chuckles, Sky Man gesturing towards the magazine, once published by rooms full of men wearing grey suits and women wearing brightly colored dresses, it's old cover tattered, grimy with a decade of dirty fingers, having survived ages in silent darkness.
Sky Man knew that it was from a cache found near the lowest levels of their explorations. That room also held sealed sweet foods, sugar treats, and plastic bottles of once fizzy drinks, long gone flat, their chemical flavoring turned poison after generations hidden away in the dark. Many still contained pure, clean water, sealed against everything except time. The healers were given all but one bottle, which contained the sweetest, purest water that Sky Man had ever tasted. That find was a wonder, to be sure. Hundreds of magazines, newspapers, and novels well preserved in plastic, safe from moisture, temperature, vermin, and the most obvious enemy of books - humans. But most of the reading in that collection, with the exception of a few, were largely unimportant. Entertainment for an audience lost to disease and solar storms. Nothing that Bone Face thought very deeply about. He watched as his younger brother passed through the heavy curtains, and down into the depths below, soup and grubby magazine in hand.
Sky Man kept watch, peering out of the small hole, seeking movement. He noted the wind, the wild animals wandering through the valley, no longer kept at bay by the villagers, farmers, and hunters. Sky Man tended to a knot of concern growing in his belly. It has been several weeks since the women, children, and the main body of their families left the valley, the danger of remaining a terrible certainty. He whispered a blessing under his breath, and continued his watch.
He sealed the gap with the dirty scrap of wool, and opened another, on the opposite wall. This faced the river, and the hills to the north, covered in the colors of autumn, leaves brown and lifeless, though not entirely free of branches. It provided excellent cover for those who chose to remain outside, scouting, ranging, keeping watch, after camoflaging what they could of the entrance to the caves below, sweeping clean the tracks of those who fled, and setting traps for enemies who may stumble upon them. Sky Man was impressed that he could not see any sign of movement of these few who remained behind, covered as they would be in mud and branches and leaves, keeping their movements to the barest of slow and as imperceptable as possible. They were children, not of Letters, but of the Valley. They would not learn what they required from paper and ink. They would not learn how to be what they needed to be from the voiceless stories of the ancients. No, these children, these noble few, honored above all, even by elders and leaders, are those who would ensure the survival of the Valley People. They were taught how to truly exist, a part of all that exists, keepers of that which connects the Valley People to Life itself.
He thought upon his ward, Desert Boy, whom he had sheltered and shared everything he could teach, since the child's parents were taken by disease. There were only a few children who chose to remain in danger's way, but they were as important as any adult who tended to the herds below ground, or left to protect the way of those who sought refuge with our distant cousins, or even those elders, torturously tending to their legacy. These children had a skill that few others had, a language of their own, which, even if heard by an enemy, would not betray the meaning of their messages, nor the nature of the messenger. Calls of the wilderness. Coyote howls. Crow counts. Magpie cackles. Ground squirrel whistles. Seasonal bird song. Trail sign. But never tracks or marks revealing their passage. Orphaned children, these precious few, who are given refuge by the community, but are trained to be the stealthiest and most dangerous of hunters, celebrated amongst the valley people as protectors and providers, as honest as the stars above, and suckled upon only the letters and stories which give them the power of humility and gratitude, keepers of a tradition more ancient than humanity itself, the secret silence that is carried in them, the heartbeat of the People of the Book, the People of Letters, the People of the Valley.
Sky Man was one of these children. Once. Many winters past. He helped to train this generation. But his heart was called to the mysteries of paper. His mind was filled with the need to understand who they were, and from where they came. He became a man between worlds, both the living and the dead. He was a teacher. Not a leader. He did not wish to carry the finality of decisions, of answers, his was a burden of the questions. Sky man continued to reminisce, ignoring the small book in his hand, keeping his eyes on the hills and the river. Watching for movement. Listening for the voices of his kin. Breathing quietly. Patient. Then he heard a crow counting, a sentinel calling out to its kin. "Caw. Caw. Caw". Long pause. Nearly fourty breaths. Then "Caw. Caw. Caw. Caw. Caw." 35. The enemy had been sighted. They were near. He remained watchful. There were to be no warnings to those below. They were where they needed to be. He was to remain here, until the next watch. Ensuring that, if the entrance to the tunnels below were discovered, that the tunnel were sealed shut, unable to be explored without effort, until it was time again to resurface in a time of safety, from a much safer distance. Sky Man waited. Watching. The knot in his gut kept him company. Aristotle remained silent.