The Old Home

         Sun warmed water swirled lazily around Maanwa's ankles, it was a soothing and familiar feeling which Maanwa desperately needed. He squinted with his one good eye, looked out over the boats bobbing slightly just off the shoreline and lamented. Large birds hung in the air over the sea. Birds that Maanwa did not recognize but he longed to fly with them, fly away. Fly where? Home? No, this was home now. The beach, the water, the only items that gave Maanwa any comfort. Everything else was alien, unknown and dangerous.
         Maanwa looked at the notches in his spear, he had counted seven sunrises since he and those remaining of his people came upon this new land floating in the vast ocean. He had counted twenty three days in the water after fleeing their home. He counted again, adding the two numbers together and the result equaled loss. So much loss. His people slaughtered by the invaders, his people sick in the boats with no water. This new land taking its count of his people in trade for allowing the rest to stay. So much loss. Maanwa scanned the horizon, seven sunrises and no boats appeared in pursuit, yet he remained wary. He knelt down, waited for several long minutes, then his arm shot out with lightning quickness into the water. He plucked a fish from the water, his thumb and forefinger slid neatly into the gills allowing him to grasp it. He recognized the fish as the same type he had back on his home beach and it comforted him.
         There was a crunching of sand and Maanwa spun around and brought his spear to bear. It was a young boy stalking up almost silently. The boy froze where he stood in the sand but he did not show any sign of fear. There had been much learned in the days since the invaders first appeared, learned through struggle and death. Maanwa's people would no longer show fear, never again. Maanwa lowered his spear and tossed the fish to his son who caught it deftly. Son stepped into the water and stood next to father. Maanwa took pride that his son was able to get this close, he had taught his son well or maybe the years where wearing on Maanwa. He hoped it was the former. Standing there together Maanwa was relieved to still have his family, his wife, son and daughter. He pondered this for a bit then realized that they were all family now, the whole group. All that were left of his people would be family. Further down the beach the two saw a few of the fishers hauling their makeshift nets to the waiting boats, one of the men waved. Both Maanwa and his son returned the wave. Maanwa splashed a bit of water on his son, put his hand on the boys shoulder and let him lead Maanwa off the beach back toward their new home. Just as they stepped from the beach into the forest Maanwa looked back over his shoulder for another glimpse at the horizon, nothing was there.

         The clearing that the camp occupied was just a short walk into the forest off of the beach. It was sparse. There were the necessities but little more, nothing that would defferentiate this plot of land from any other simple hunters camp. No personal trinkets or family totems, no longhouses or play field. This was just a camp, devoid of a sense of identity. Maanwa watched his son take the fish over to a crude mat made of large leaves with food piled on it. There were many fish, which was good, some odd fruit that was a bit bitter but had not poisoned them and a huge snake that had been killed when it tried to eat one of the youngest children. Maanwa did not like to see his people struggling like this, it pained him to see his wife sleeping on dirt instead of clean thatch around the family hearth. Maanwa had been in hunting parties since he was younger than his son was now and had seen many sunrises on trail, living in the dirt with only a simple campfire but that was how the hunters lived not the people. Not the nursemaids or the cooks, not the weavers or the growers. This was not how the civilized village people should live.
         Maanwa missed his home and he felt for his people and as he looked at the encampment he saw young faces. So few of the village elders had escaped to the sea and of those that did, only a handful lasted through the crossing. The people would look to Maanwa now. He was the ranking warrior and hunter, his father had been the village Wise Man, which now fell to Maanwa. At the moment Maanwa did not feel very wise. He had much doubt about his ability to lead, he had no one to seek counsel from. But that was not true. He had chosen his wife because she was a smart woman, sometimes smarter than him, he would admit begrudgingly. He supposed that being a Wise Man did not mean that he would have to be omnipotent or omniscient, that maybe he had learned enough and seen enough over the years that he could share his knowledge fairly with his people. Still he was uncomfortable with his situation, his standing and his surroundings.
         On trail, traversing new wildernesses and cold nights there was always the idea of returning home. Returning to the warmth of the family and the longhouse kept hunters going when confronted with new lands or dangerous pry. Now there was no hearth and Maanwa could not get used to it. But looking around at the camp, looking at the young faces he saw the people working, little ones playing. His people were not resisting the change. These young people were less rigid about change, more adaptable than the elders and more willing to take on the task. The fishers would come in with their haul then help with thatching, the hunters helped with the children. Cooks and care takers, all taking on each others responsibilities. The people were all working with one another, helping each other and he realized that they were building from the ground up, a new village. Maanwa's people had a new home and the young ones would only know this home, it would be all theirs. He tried not to doubt but worry crept behind him.   

         Two wet seasons had passed and the camp was now a village. Two longhouses formed an L at the forest side of the village and enough land had been cleared for a yard for games of skill and strength and a plot for growing. In the cleft of the longhouses was built a large fire pit for story telling and holding court. Squinting his one eye and holding his arm over his head to blot the midday sun Maanwa surveyed the village. Seeing the people working, training, playing and in general good cheer he felt comfortable, almost relaxed. They had done much in such a seeming little amount of time and Maanwa twinged when he thought of how distraught he was those first days in the new land, how bleak he had felt. He should have known better, his people were strong, resilient.
          One notable difference of the new village was a wall. Maanwa had decided that the security of his people was most important after all they had been through so, even before the longhouses, Maanwa conceived the idea of enclosing the village. This was a radical concept for the people, they were used to flowing with the land around them not separating themselves from it, but Maanwa knew best for his people and a wall was built and a tower tall enough to top the trees, both of which were architectural achievements for Maanwa's people. Maanwa had decided that all of his people would learn the ways of the warrior in addition to the other life skills needed to survive, he wanted his people prepared though secretly he never wanted to have to fight again. The slaughter still weighed heavy on Maanwa, it hurt him deep inside at how easily the invaders had come into their village. How easily they had convinced the people to show their trophies and treasures, to give up their secrets. Now jaded, suspicious and guarded Maanwa taught his people to always be wary of new faces.
         Maanwa still felt pangs of loss when he sat alone on the beach and thought of home, and he was sure he was not the only one. He began to talk about The Old Home and soon both the young and the old were requesting stories from him. Maanwa began to refine the stories as he told them and they transformed into lessons to teach the people. The adults still had a connection, memories of The Old Home so for them it was a kind of healing to hear the tales but for the young ones it was a far off land of fantasy, legends and the Ancestor Spirits. More and more Maanwa enjoyed regaling the stories, his people must never forget The Old Home, the old ways, where they had come from and the journey that led them here. There were many lessons that could be learned from the stories and Maanwa skillfully wove those lessons into every tale so that, whether somber or lighthearted, he could explain the moral and the people would take something away with them.
          
         Sun warmed water swirled lazily around Maanwa's ankles comforting his dry wrinkled skin. The water glinted sunlight as he peered the fishing boats dipping and rolling just so slightly. Looking up he tried to focus his one good eye on some birds out over the water, his vision was not so good these days but he knew the type of birds. He smiled a tired smile.
         Maanwa was old, so much older than he thought he would ever be. Many seasons had past since arriving on this beach, there was no room left on his spear for notches. Though his memory had become foggy in recent years he still remembered with clarity the days after first coming to this beach. He remembered his fears and his sadness. He had worried so about his people. Thinking about this now Maanwa chuckled in a shallow rattle. His people had multiplied. The village had grown. Twice his people had to expand the walls and two new longhouses were built. He was so proud of what they had accomplished here. His people were stronger than ever, more wise the he was at their age and he knew that they would continue to grow. At the thought a tear streamed out of the corner of his eye.
         With the aid of his spear, which only served as a walking stick now, Maanwa shuffled through the water to his thighs. Looking out at the horizon Maanwa imagined The Old Home. He imagined his wife sitting on thatched floor next to the hearth. He would go to her. He stabbed the spear into the sand where it stood sturdy, he would leave this to his son. Taking a few more steps into the water Maanwa stopped. He knew it wasn't proper but he turned and looked back to shore. His son stood alone, a man now. A warrior and wise man in his own right. A leader of the people. Maanwa's son raised a hand, his stoic demeanor barely concealing grief. Smiling with pride Maanwa raised his hand then turned back to the horizon. Adjusting pouches of sand around his waist Waanwa continued wading out to sea and just as he went under he thought for sure that he saw the shore of The Old Home.

Word Count: 1972