First Arrival

In a past life, before invisible lines had yet to confine our nomadic spirit, I roamed freely.

Driven by an unknown force ,  an elusive call that urged me forward, I pressed on, aimless, even as the cold wind devoured me.

Humanity's arrival in the north. What was it like?

In the cold north, in the snow and ice, how did humans manage? The first bite from winter's icy teeth must have been a rude awakening. Moreover, as our ancestors settled in the north, what was that fateful encounter with similar yet different beings like?

Stranger in a strange land

Before the concept of time, before routines hardened into culture, and before the rigid structure of civilization took hold, humanity freely wandered the natural world. In those days, humans simply moved to the beat of nature. Guided by its ebb and flow, only taking what was needed.

I found myself on an ancient path, leaving footprints in the soil of forgotten history.

I stood at the beginning of a new land, a traveler witnessing the wonders it held. Now, cold white petals fell from the sky, each one, a small brushstroke, softly erasing nature's colors.

Gone are the lush fields, replaced by a barren expanse where naked trees stood like sentinels, their skeletal branches crooked and bent, pointing in many directions. Familiar foliage surrendered to strange trees, adorned with tiny, prickly leaves, stubborn against the harsh elements. And where the rivers once ran with life, their surface, now hard and still. The game, once abundant, vanished with the falling petals. Now, only the sharp tooth roamed the colorless land. I, the hunter, have become the hunted.

A bitter wind brushed against my sun-kissed face, piercing me with an alien chill. The remnants of my last kill draped around me, a miserable offering against the cold that threatened to chew into my bones. The hide barely shielded me—a thin barrier against a frigid death. The relentless chill seeped through, nibbling at my flesh with cruelty.

With every burst of wind, my cloak clung to my body as if it too sought shelter from the cold. The flimsy shield strained against the breeze, betraying me with each gust. I fought to keep it together, my fingers clutching the edges, desperate to maintain some semblance of protection. But the wind was like a petulant child, pulling at the cloak, exposing my thin, ashen legs to the merciless cold. Every breath I exhaled materialized before me, a stark reminder of the stark contrast between my homeland and this treacherous land.

As the white petals tumbled from the sky, their descent grew angrier, their delicate forms pushing and pulling against the swirling wind. Suddenly, in their midst, a familiar aroma intertwined with the frigid air—a sliver of hope crawled into my mind. Smoky meat and singed wood drifted through the falling petals, massaging my senses.

The petals that fell with the aroma, brushing my face, became fragments of a mosaic. Each fleeting touch sparked a drop of memory, piecing together the mosaic of my past.

In the chaos of their descent, I found a small calm. I smelled memories of endless grass, blades stretching towards the distant horizon, where the perpetual sun bathed the land in its rays, infusing the breeze with a pleasant warmth.

The memories were a lifeline, offering relief from my cold isolation. I clung to them, savoring the comfort of the past in the middle of the falling petals.

Pointing my nose in the wafting direction, I followed the familiar scent, my steps leaving deep prints in the cold, gathering petals.

For days, I learned to ignore hunger’s cries. One misery at a time, I had told myself, but now its persistent complaining grew harder to ignore, the mere thought of food amplifying its desperate whining.

Still, I pressed on, steadying my steps with my spear, allowing my senses and quarrelsome hunger to guide me forward.

With each stride, the frigid ground stabbed through the thin hide wrapped around my feet, reminding me of the warmth I longed for—the soft grass caressing my bare feet, its blades weaving between my toes.

Twilight washed over the land; daylight surrendered to slumber as I arrived at a clearing guarded by naked trees. And there, at the entrance of a cave, footprints similar to my own greeted me. The scent of meat and comforting warmth invited me inside. Yet I desired for more than just shelter, food, and rest.

It had been an eternity since I last heard a voice, my voice lost in the barren expanse. The passage of time had eroded my connection to my kind. In this cold, vast wilderness, I gradually became a tribe of one, a lone wanderer, as one by one, my kin surrendered to the cruel grip of the cold until the only thing I had left was my loneliness screaming at me.

The footprints turned my sliver of hope into a promise—a promise of connection in this place that had grown silent and dull.

My father was the last to fall to the cold; with frigid hands, he placed his boned knife in mine, a passing of the mantle of chieftain.

I watched as the cold crept deeper into his veins; slowly, the weight of the before, the stark reality of the now, and the gone possibilities of tomorrow settled on his face. His sorrow pointed at me until his eyes turned to stillness. In that moment, I simultaneously felt the mass of my lineage and the weightlessness of an un-promised future in the palm of my hand.

The boned knife, now pressed cold against my hip, etched with the marks of countless hunts and shared memories, a symbol of my lineage, a reminder of the generations that had come before me, yet no more ahead.

Our steps were purposeful yet without direction, guided by an instinct that pulled us deeper into the unforgiving landscape. Yet somehow I don’t hate him for taking us to what seemed like the end of the world, for I know it’s in our nature. I can feel it—that urge to look to the horizon and wonder what’s beyond it.

Still, I wish I could go back and wrap myself in the warmth of home, where fears were merely long-legged, feathered creatures guarding their precious eggs. But here I am, alone and cold.

Within this darkened cave is the hope of finding another soul to break my isolation. With caution, I entered the cave. Each stride forward, my heart quickened, eager to see who awaited within its depths.

As I drew closer to the fire's light, the silhouette of a furred figure materialized. Surprised, I paused for a moment, studying the creature that harnessed fire—its form, robust, and its shoulders broad and strong. Suddenly, our eyes met with curiosity. His face, decorated with a worn expression spoke of wisdom earned through hardship.

As I drew even nearer, he instinctively reached for his spear. His eyes, like the hue of grass, seemingly adjusted to the ebb and flow of this land.

Lowering my own spear, I fumbled to untie my bow from across my chest.

Through chattering teeth, I managed to utter the word "fire," my voice feeble and strained.

He approached with caution, his spear acting as a barrier between us. His locks—unlike my woolen hair, coarse and short—flowed down his broad shoulders, his skin un-kissed by the sun.

He circled me, his eyes filled with interest, speaking words foreign to my ears. His garb, fashioned from the remnants of a fallen giant similar to the furless, long-nosed behemoths that roamed my homeland, looked as though it had absorbed the spirit of the creature.

As he circled me, I stood there trembling, not from fear, from the brutal cold that had soaked into my bones. Still mindful of the boned knife pressed against my hip, I allow him to get his fill of my curious form.

With a trembling hand, I gestured towards the fire.

“Fire,” I repeated, a little more breathless.

His stance shifted subtly, he lowered his spear, the sharp, jagged part no longer aimed at me.

He pointed towards the fire and grunted out, “Gu.”

Sit, fire, warmth? The meaning of the word eluded me.

But his intention was clear—an invitation—I nodded and eagerly followed his gesture, settling myself into the warmth, thawing the chill in my bones.

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the heat. I could almost hear the sounds of laughter and storytelling in the crackling flames, mixing with the noises of the night.

Fire-lit nights held a deeper purpose for my tribe. Fire was a vessel for ancestral spirits, a sacred connection to their wisdom, experiences, and our history.

We would speak to the flames, telling them our hopes, dreams, and fears. Hunters song of their great hunts, while mothers would chant about the arrival of new life, their melodic voices filling the spaces between the crackling logs, believing that the fire would carry these messages to the spirits of our ancestors.

Jolted from my memories by the sound of my new companion’s voice, I opened my eyes to find his gaze fixed on me, his curiosity still not quenched. The thick, browed ridge that sheltered his stare cast a strength on his face, mirroring the wisdom of the ancient trees guarding the savanna.

With a guttural noise, "Ogto," he pounded his chest with a clenched fist.

At first, I mistook it for a choking sound—a struggle to clear his throat—but then I realized he was introducing himself.

In response, I copied his action, thumping my own chest and saying, "Ioni," my name spoken with slight hesitation.

A wide smile illuminated his face, revealing a set of broad, evenly aligned teeth.

In the flickering glow, he reached into his worn satchel and pulled out two oddly shaped furs and leathery strings. Holding them out to me, I watched as his eyes went from my feet to his. I briefly acknowledged the gift before accepting it.

Tied to a wooden frame, nestled amidst leathery strings and vines, were more furs. Their texture and shade suggest creatures unknown to my eyes. With deliberate care, he untied the knots that held the furs in place, unfurling them in front of me.

As the furs settled on the ground, their unusual patterns laid bare, he gestured—accompanied by more unfamiliar words —an over-the-head motion followed by gentle pats to his own chest, arms, and legs. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the softness of the fur.

I shed my meager leathery cloak, feeling the heat caress my bare breast. His reaction to my casual nakedness was unexpected, a blend of surprise and momentary shyness softening his hardened face.

In the long valleys of my homeland, where the sun hung high and long, we had little need for such wearing. A simple pelt draped around the midsection was enough. And when the sun was above our heads, we cast aside such coverings, seeking relief in the cool, winding rivers. But now, in this foreign land, I found myself drawn to the offered fur with a savage hunger.

I awkwardly crawled into the top half as if fighting against being swallowed by a hungry lion. It hung loosely across my slender shoulders.

As I sought to secure the bottom half, it slipped and shifted, stubbornly eluding my grasp. A graceless dance ensued, a battle between my thawing fingers and the elusive garment.

His eyes, holding the wisdom of countless survivals, watched with a mixture of slight amusement and understanding. With a gentle gesture, he demonstrated the proper way to put the infernal thing on.

Finally, a smile pulled at the corners of my lips as I stood there in triumph, dressed in my new attire—a loose-fitting shroud of protection against the unforgiving elements outside the cave. Still, I fought to keep the bottom half anchored around my waist.

He reached for the leathery strings and vines, holding them out to me, then gesturing to the ones tied around him. With a nod, I allowed him to approach.

His hands moved deftly as he worked to secure the fur tightly against my body. Each knot he tied was a binding for protection against the cold. In their tight grip, I found a sense of security. The fur pressed against my skin, forming a comforting layer that trapped the warmth. The heat was now imprisoned between the fur and my skin.

As if it were angry that I’d forgotten about it, hunger gnawed intensely at my stomach, interrupting my fleeting moment of triumph. It demanded my attention and obedience as its ferocious growl echoed within the confines of the cave, reminding me of the price of survival.

The scent of the roasting meat saturated my senses. I cast a glance toward my companion, his eyes meeting mine with a knowing look. He too understood the call of hunger and the need to satisfy it in order to continue the struggle for survival.

Brought together by chance or perhaps by something greater, our shared curiosities bridged the divide between us.

We sat there and ate, a quiet understanding filling the air, binding us in an unspoken union. A kin not of my lineage, yet connected by the thread of awareness. Our differences fading into insignificance in the face of our common humanity.

In the dimly lit recess of the cave, we transcended the limitations of our native tongues, communicating through gestures, expressions, and the understanding that bloomed in the cave.

Shielded from the howling winds, filled with warmth from the popping fire, and with the taste of meat lingering on my tongue, somewhere in the long night, I fell asleep.

As daylight flooded the cave, I blinked open my eyes, focusing my vision on my surroundings. My new companion already had his strange wooden contraption strapped to his back. Satisfied that I was awake, he made his way toward the cave's entrance. I grabbed my spear, slung my bow across my body, and hauled my rested bones from in front of the dying flames.

Stepping across the threshold of the cave, I was immediately assaulted by an intense whiteness, as if the sun itself had sought refuge on the land. Instinctively, I narrowed my eyes, raising my arm to shield them.

Slowly and cautiously, I allowed the light to filter through my fingers, giving my eyes a chance to adjust to the blinding blanket of whiteness that covered everything.

Every surface, from the prickle-leaf trees to the ground beneath my feet, was painted with a fluffy layer of white. The white expanse possessed a surreal quality. Somehow, everything seemed harsh, yet beautiful, covered in the cold white petals.

I stepped into the fluff, my legs sinking halfway up to my knees. With a swift motion, he scooped up a handful.

A sound escaped his lips, "Kwoalaya."

I pondered its significance, unsure if it referred to the cold itself, the act of touching, or simply the name for the frigid petals.

I gestured towards his hands, regardless, and clumsily repeated the sound, "Kolaya."

The sound stumbled off my tongue, carrying with it a likeness of his unfamiliar language.

He nodded, accepting my pitiful attempt. In that fleeting moment, our worlds intertwined. I had taken another step towards bridging the gap with words.

He pointed towards the mountains and started off, pushing through the fluff with ease. I followed behind him, making high, gaping steps through the Kolaya.