Writs Upon Rock

The only sound the children made as they walked through the bush was the bird-like twittering and chirping of their tongues as they spoke to one another. They were a silent people, used to moving unheard, and the light feet of the young were even less discernible beneath the light wind in the grass. It had been a day of exploration through the forests and granite hills of this land their nomadic lifestyle had brought them to, though it was familiar to all but the youngest of them. With the setting sun it was time to return to the clan's cave, and time for a lesson. The dust strewn sky above them reddened with the setting sun, casting a russet pall overall. Clouds of midges fussed in the air over the tall golden grasses amidst which the covert chattering of ground fowl heading for the trees to roost mirrored that of the children passing by, though the former was far more brazen and less secretive. It was another passing afternoon in this Land of Two Rivers- the Great and the Green; the day was done, and there would be another tomorrow. The glaring granite rocks, piled one on top of the other, bore testament to the solidity and continuity present in this ancient land. The children walked in single file, close together, clicking with practiced tongues at each other over their shoulders, absentmindedly running the grasses on either side of the path through their hands, or whacking them with sticks more deliberately. The golden sunset blended perfectly with their yellowish skin, a defining feature of the San people of which they would one day be attributed to by men with books. But one among their number hung back and walked alone. His head drooped in thought, he spoke to know one. He seemed to be carrying with him a thought that burdened his head.

The children arrived back at the overhang where their families had set up home just two days before and were brought in by the salutations of their parents and extended family who squatted around the newly lit fires, swapping stories and planning hunts. But this was not talk for the children, for their teacher was waiting for them with a face of sheer and bare granite behind him and small gourd pots of paints about his feet. Tonight, the children would learn how to place the enigmatic markings of their people upon the walls of stone and write to the Ancestors beyond. Their teacher in this was the clan shaman, the vital link between its people and the spirits that lived in the earth. He scolded the late comer to his lesson gently, whom he called Kwi, and settled the children down easily with the authority of his station and no harsh words.

He began his instruction. Dipping a finger into one the gourds it came out blood red, dripping. He began painting on the wall, tracing the figure of a familiar silhouette the children had seen just that very afternoon.

“Mhofu, mhofu!” they exclaimed. Yes indeed, the great Eland antelope was written there, clear as the day is bright. He dipped his finger into another, coming out white now, and carefully filling in the lines of red, so that the great body was illuminated fiercely against the grey wall. As he did so, he spoke, in the clicking and musical cadence of their tongue.

“Yes children, you know this! He is a friend of the People, a wanderer as we are. And we place him on the wall, because he is all that is good in this world. And we beseech to Those Beyond that he comes to us.” The children knew the stories, knew of the world Beyond the stone, but still they craned their necks at the rock wall, hoping to glimpse a shred of that other world, where the Creator and their Ancestors, and all the spirits of the earth resided, to whom their teacher was now teaching them to write.

“For we can hunt in this world, on this Plane,” the teacher continued, “with the tools the Creator has given us: bow, bone-tipped arrow, the poisonous bark of the arrow-bush; for which we may use in this life only. But in time we pass beyond the stone, into the earth, and there a new hunt begins, and we will forget ourselves and forget our family. So our family must speak to us through the stone, give us direction, so we may hunt anew in the spirit realm, and bring to those left behind what they cannot hunt, but which roams freely in the spirit plains. So it is, and the Creator wills it, two sides in balance, so that ever we are driven forward, and ever drawn back, and nothing can be done if not in concert alongside the World Beside Us, hidden from our eyes. Look now! And see the truth of our beliefs!”

The children followed the shaman’s pointing finger and gasped. Emerging from the trees below them, a grand eland bull strode warily out. Pausing, he perked his ears up at the explosion of excited clicking and chirping that his arrival had precipitated on the hill nearby. Much conversation was now elicited around the fires and plans were redrawn and discussed for the morrow. But, unfamiliar with the language of the clan, the eland relaxed and made his way down to the small river flowing at the feet of the hill for his evening drink.

The teacher was still pointing, but this time at the sky, “Look also! For the eland is not just meat, for that is what we can hunt ourselves, but our ancestors have hunted for us something else and brought it forward, something far more valuable!” The children cast their eyes upwards and gazed in awe at the gilded treasure that billowed high above them. “There! The eland of the Sky Plane! That which brings water to the ground and feeds all living things with the Creator’s Blessing. But can we see? We cannot go up to the sky to hunt a cloud, so our ancestors must do it for us, and kill its spirit, so that its form can be brought to us by the hunters, as it is when the clan hunters return with meat.”

There was much appreciative chatter at these revelations. The teacher began anew, now drawing something in a yellow paste. “Let us now look to something harder now, something that we need, but cannot catch, that all hope for, but will cannot hope to attain without their Ancestors.” The children puzzled over this but offered no answer. The teacher smiled secretly, these concepts were difficult and only a few would grasp them and maybe become his apprentice to converse with the spirits on behalf of his family one day.

Soon, however, the picture became clearer, and the yellow painted animal there was familiar to all. “Kudu! Kudu!” and the children danced around, singing a rhyme about the luck of the kudu. The teacher laughed, “So you remember the words! But have not seen the web! Yes indeed! The great Kudu is luck! He is Fortune! Something we cannot catch but need every day! Our ancestors can hunt it, where it roams in the spirit realm, in secret woods known only to the Dead and bring it to us. So it is that we place a kudu upon the stone before we hunt, or give birth, or move our home” The children all now looked about them, expectantly. Nothing happened. The teacher laughed at the disappointment clear on the children's faces, “Perhaps the ancestors are lost in the woods seeking it,” he said, “and have no luck for us this evening! But better they save it for us tomorrow, for when we hunt the eland bull.” The lesson continued, with the teacher showing them more familiar animals, explaining to them each virtue represented by each one. The zebra: best for good grazing and bountiful fruits upon the boughs; the impala: fertility for the clans' women and successful birthing; the rhino: strength, to hunt, to fight and to survive; the great elephant: strength also, but of a different kind- of family, love and bonds that extend beyond death. And so, in time a tapestry was formed, written upon the rock. So, the Fortunes of the Clan were carefully woven, depending on the success of the ancestors on the Other Side.

Light was fading, and the hour was coming for stories. Parents now left the fires and came to watch the concluding lesson, for this was the final stage of it, and the most exciting. The shaman stoked a fire at the base of the rock face to light up the wall. Handing out the pots of paint to the children, the shaman encouraged them now to paint for themselves and show what they could upon the wall. It was a task they leapt to with enthusiasm. The teacher was not concerned, the first imprints of children on the walls served no purpose; they were so obscure. He had spoken to many shamans of other clans, and they had discussed this time and again. Each had their own theory as to the potential pitfalls or benefits of putting childish fingers to the most important canvas in existence, but it was generally agreed it was of little harm. For himself, he liked to think that the childish scrawling of the children helped remind the Ancestors, who’s past life was forgotten, that the children existed, and that the Great Celestial Hunt was worth pursuing for those little fingers scratching on the wall.

Kwi again stood apart slightly, a little pot of red in his left hand, his right index finger dripping. He was still thinking of something. Something that was troubling him, something he had seen out in the bush that morning which had both fascinated him and filled him with disquiet. His parents encouraged him to put finger to stone, but as he was about to articulate his thoughts to them in words first there was an exclamation from the group which drew their attention away. Kli-kli, a girl two years older than him had drawn an immaculate monkey on the stone, unprompted, and drew great gales of laughter and joy from the clan. The Monkey was good times, fun and cavorting and it was auspicious indeed that Kli-kli should naturally have brought this upon them! Good days were surely ahead! But Kwi remained silent, mind intent. He turned to the stone and began to write his message to the Ancestors based on what he had seen that morning, hoping perhaps for an answer from them. The long thin body of red seemed to slither off his finger as he drew, as if the paint had come alive of its own accord, each coil winding and unwinding with a natural sweep of a living serpent. He could almost see the scales again, as they had gleamed in the morning sunlight…

The shaman suddenly snatched away his hand, his face grave and ashen. Silence had fallen, and the night had rolled rapidly over them with the last dying light of the sun. The shamans stern countenance broke into a gentle smile, “It is time now for tales!” He declared. And he directed Kwi to clean his reddened finger in the dirt and handed him back to his clucking parents who drew him away to the fire, but always his eyes were drawn to what he had placed upon the rock.

The shaman returned there much later in the evening, once the rest of the clan was asleep. He squatted before the painting made by Kwi, once more counting their fortunes. He was thinking of their luck in catching the boy as he passed his eyes over the yellow kudu painted on the rock. What had the ancestors seen beyond their veil, he wondered, that they had withheld their luck to that moment? He remixed the drying paint with his practiced thumb and then using his Sacred Finger he began to paint around the unfinished snake that the child had started to draw. It was incomplete magic, what he was doing now, and far beyond his skills it was to change the hands of Fate once dealt. He imagined his ancestors sitting on the other side of the stone, watching his futile attempts and laughing, he could almost hear the echo of his grandfather… There was much written here that he didn’t understand, though They may see the threads stretching ever forward into the unknown mists. The child knew not the dangers of drawing the figures of the Meat Eaters on the stone, no idea what he may have summoned or brought down upon them. There were things behind the rock that should stay there. The shaman sat quietly for a long while, completing his sealing ritual, containing the serpent drawn by the boy. He drew an enigmatic and strange pattern, meaningless splotches and twirls, speckling and striations. It was beautiful though, one the most beautiful symbols in the world. It was the pattern of the earth and the potent symbol of the Creator. Representing the rising mound of the termites, like the trees it stretched to the heavens, and also rooted firmly to the ground but it was believed its roots extended to the heart of the earth, deeper than any trees, right to the cavern of the Creator himself. From there he dreamt of abundance and his blessings flew out with the rains in their millions, flapping weakly on silver wings in clouds of quivering insects, juicy and fat. Everything ate well at those times, the ground sang beneath their feet. The Formling, it was called, and it was the ultimate essence of the Three Planes- Below, Around and Above. A powerful symbol, powerful enough to maybe lock the bad fortune of the incomplete snake behind.

He shook his head as he flicked the last stripling above the red mound. He knew it already, that the child's destiny was now fated. Kwi alone had seen the danger in the wild that day: the grey serpent of death splayed out in the bright morning sun. He alone was chosen to have the foresight needed for his people. A piece he was now, in the moving body of the Creator and so they must all walk the path to come, but Kwi will one day be in the front. Luck indeed that he did not finish it, but it was more than bad luck bearing down upon them. Packing his paints he left the rock wall, leaving the ghostly symbols to dance in the dying firelight, his head alive with voices and the prospect of dreams in the short hours of sleep ahead.

Far to the north, across the Great River that lay many days walk away, at that very moment slept the Tall People beneath the eaves of the sentinel baobabs. Nearby lay the boats they had carved out of great tree trunks with biting iron, tools and weapons which they now brought alongside dreams of new lands beyond the river. Life in the quiet granite hills would never be the same again.