turned out to be, simply, nah.
“Nah?” asked Kit, raising his eyebrows in imitation of their own inquisitive expressions. He poured water from the gourd back into the catchment pool, then put in his hand. “Nah.” He shook off the water from his fingers.
“Nah,” said his small teacher, pointing at the pool, then dipping his own hand and shaking it. Then, cupping his hand, he slurped up some water. “E-na.”
The lesson continued until the elders began to return, by which time Kit had a dozen fresh words. He was polishing his new acquisition so that he could show it off to the elders when they gathered that evening, but he was not given the chance. As soon as the first adults appeared, his small teacher, in full view of everyone, picked up a stone and presented it to Kit with an expression of such keen anticipation, Kit could not help laughing. “Tok,” he declared.
The effect was stunning-as if he had set off a roman candle or pulled a rabbit out of the hat. Everyone gathered around, and before he knew it they were all offering him rocks and pebbles just to hear him say the word. He moved on to demonstrate his mastery of the word for water and for drinking, and wood, and fire, hand, leg, arm, and the rest of the few he had learned. Then, as he had their rapt attention, he placed the flat of his hand on his chest and said, “Kit.”
His gesture was met with baffled silence. He repeated the gesture and said his name once more. The clansmen regarded him with quizzical expressions, their heavy brows furrowed, their broad faces pinched. Kit began thumping his chest and saying his name, slowly, clearly, willing them to understand. His repeated attempts failed to gain any result until Big Hunter stepped forward and, in a fair imitation of Kit, put his own hand on his chest and in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep underground, said, “Dar-dok.”
Kit repeated the word to himself, then pointed to Big Hunter and said, “Dar-dok.” Then, with the same gesture, he indicated himself and said his own name once more.
Big Hunter drew himself up and with evident pride said, “Kit.”
The fact that it came out more like Ghidt was easily overlooked in the moment as Dardok’s success brought coos of amazed delight all around. The rest of the clan began chanting his name. Kit revelled in the fact that he had successfully crossed a communication divide; he could teach them, as well as learn.
To be sure, they were only getting started. A forthright young female shoved in, made the chest-pointing gesture, and repeated Kit’s name. Then placing a hand to herself, uttered with remarkable enunciation, “Ne- ek.”
Kit swiftly mastered this name and was instantly inundated by the entire clan who pressed forward all together, each one speaking a name and demanding Kit’s repeated reply. In the days that followed, alongside his study of the green book, some portion of each day was devoted to learning new words; and when Kit was not adding to his word store, he was practising the ones he had already learned. In this way, he gradually built up a working vocabulary and, with it, a sense of how the River City Clan saw the world.
Among themselves, they still did not speak all that much. But around him they became regular chatterboxes. The difference was stark, and Kit wondered about it-until the obvious explanation occurred to him: they needed very little speech because they had this strange telepathy, or whatever it was that allowed them to know what others were thinking. Among clan members, they communicated just fine without any speech at all. It was only Kit who was forced to vocalise to make himself understood.
Confirmation of this fact was conclusively demonstrated by the arrival of visitors a few days later.
The weather had been growing steadily colder and wetter, the days shorter. More often than not they awoke in the morning to frost on the ground. Nestled in their rock-ledge fortress, however, they remained dry and reasonably warm. Kit was sewing a handsome new suit of fur-deer and rabbit, mostly-which with patience and dogged perseverance he was patching together using the flint knife, bone needle, and hemp thread they had given him. He was putting the finishing touches on a feature of which he was inordinately proud: a roomy inner pocket designed to hold Mina’s ley lamp and Sir Henry’s book and keep them safe. The clan was lolling around the fire at the rim of the ledge, when suddenly Dardok stood up and gazed off into the foggy treetops along the river.
Instantly, four others joined his survey of the valley below. The rest of the clansmen dropped what they were doing and fell absolutely silent. An atmosphere of intense anxiety descended over the camp. Again, not a word or sign passed among them, but all were wary, the tension swirling around them like the sinewy coils of a serpent. Kit stood too and quietly crept to the rim of the ledge to see if he could discover what had alerted the others. A minute or two eked by, and then he heard a sound he had heard every day since coming to the winter quarters: heavy feet on the rocky trail leading to the ledge.
Someone was coming.
Kit waited, every sense prickling, bracing himself for a fight. Who was it? Were they under attack? He cast a hasty glance around for the nearest weapon.
Then, as one, the clan relaxed. Although Dardok still stood watching the path below, the palpable sense of imminent danger simply melted away. Something had changed. But what?
Before Kit could determine what had happened to alter the mood, he saw movement on the path leading up to the ledge, and a moment later their visitors arrived: a group of fifteen-seven females, five males, and the rest young ones of various ages and sizes. From the enthusiastic welcome that commenced, Kit reckoned the group was well known to the River City folk. In fact, seeing how naturally the newcomers were accepted and how easily they insinuated themselves into the life of the group, Kit began to think that perhaps they were not merely visitors but part of the same extended valley clan.
Then the newcomers saw Kit, and he was subjected to the inevitable examination with much murmuring, touching, and rubbing of his skin and scruffy beard. They appeared fascinated by the colour and texture of his pale skin and fine curly hair; and were amused by his thin frame, short arms, narrow shoulders, and curious upright posture.
The round of buffeting had no sooner concluded than a second group of visitors arrived-four sturdy males bearing a fifth on a litter made of birch poles and skins. This fifth male was the oldest Kit had seen so far, with wispy grey hair and a long white beard and a face so ancient and wrinkled that, wrapped chin to ankles in hides and furs, he looked positively mummified. The bearers carefully lowered the bier to the ground, and several of the nearer clan members helped him to his feet. As soon as he was upright, he waved off his aides and shuffled forward with unsteady steps to meet Kit.
At his approach, Kit became aware of a tingling sensation at the base of his skull. Time seemed to slow-the ordinary flow dwindled down to a mere trickle and pooled around them. Moreover, Kit was aware of a very strange and powerful emotion-one he had only ever felt once before in his life. As a youngster, Kit had been introduced to what was reputed to be the oldest tree in England-a massive, gnarled, tangle-rooted thing called the Marton Oak, which had survived almost 1,300 years of earthly life. Kit remembered standing there beneath the twilight canopy of its enormous spreading boughs among roots that were as big as he was, and feeling an almost supernatural force that gave him to know that he was in the presence of a living entity of such peace and gentleness and strength of spirit that it inhabited a whole other plane of existence, and beside which he was as small and notional as a clod of dirt.
In the presence of the old one, Kit felt that way again, dwarfed by a spirit not only far older and wiser but also far larger and more powerful than any he had ever encountered. And like that ancient oak, the old man was unutterably regal: a king of his kind. Once more Kit was that young boy standing in the shadow of a vastly superior entity and knowing to his very pith and core how very insignificant he was.
Yet he felt no fear. A boundless and placid acceptance seemed to emanate from the aged being before him, and Kit understood that despite the yawning abyss between them he had nothing to fear.
The Ancient One examined Kit slowly head to toe, and Kit saw that while one of the old one’s eyes was bright and piercing keen, the other was clouded and almost opaque. Upon concluding his examination, the aged chieftain raised his head and fixed Kit with an ardent, determined look, and Kit was aware that this was an attempt at communication; he could feel it as a physical force of considerable intensity. Kit, beguiled by the power and directness of the approach, simply opened himself to it.
The result was staggering.
What kind of creature are you?
The question struck him like a closed fist, and Kit instinctively took a quick backwards step to recover his equilibrium. It took a second before Kit realised that the question had not been spoken aloud. Moreover, it had not, in fact, used words at all.
