Thank God You're Alive!

Chapter Two

They’re Back… 

You knew that this day was coming.  It’s four months later, and all summer long you’ve been dreading the day when the strangers would return.

Well, it’s late autumn, and just like they promised, they’re back.  And you can’t hide from them.  They’ve already beached their “boat,” and they made no secret of it this time.  The kids have already seen them, and they’re running toward the riverbank.  The women are looking up from their chores.  It’s a good thing most of the men of the village– the young men, at least– are out hunting.

So now the strangers have spotted you, and they’re headed your way.  Smiling.  Arms open, out-stretched, like you’re their long-lost brother.  Like they knew you’d be happy to see them again.  Like they’re sure you’ve got good news for them.  That you’ve decided to go along with their idea.

But you’re still not sure.  Do they know everything that’s happened, since they were last here?

Three months ago, you did a thing you never would’ve believed you would do.  You forded the river– alone– and went looking for the headman of the tribe that lives over there.  Your mortal enemy.  Your tribe’s generations-long enemy.

Boy, was he shocked to see you.

One of your earliest childhood memories was the day when your grandfather walked you down to the riverbank, and pointed across the water at another young boy, who stood over there with his grandfather.  And your grandfather quietly explained to you that someday either you would kill that little boy, or he would kill you.

That was how it had always been.  That was how it always would be.

But then these big men from downriver had shown up.  With their big, new idea: “no killing.”

And so you’d gone over to the other side of the river, to talk to your mortal enemy.  The man who once upon a time had been that little boy across the river.

And the first thing you had to find out was: Had the strange men from downriver made the same offer to him?  You assumed that they had.

And assuming they had, and if you both decided to accept this new way of “living”– this no-killing way of life– were supposed to start being actually friendly with each other?

The first thing you noticed– it was hard to miss it, when the two of you finally came face-to-face– was how old he looked.  Maybe not old, so much as care-worn.  Worn-out, worn-down.

Those lines on his face.  Were they from worry?  Like the way you worried?  Now that your father was dead.  Now that you were the one who had to worry about the fate of your people.  About their health, their safety.

Did this other man toss and turn at night, like you did?  All those lines on his face: Had he been the chieftain of his tribe for a long time, now?  For a lot longer than you?  (And so: would you have the same deep-etched worry-lines someday, too?  Maybe someday soon?)

You’d seen him many times, of course, in your two tribes’ never-ending series of battles, but you’d never seen him up close before.  You’d never actually looked at him.  Not since that day, long ago, with your grandfather.

Now that you had the opportunity to see him standing right before you, he didn’t look that different from you.  Same height, same build, same wary tenseness in his body, same rigid stance.  There was a look in his eye: not fear, not anger.  Defiance, mixed perhaps with a grudging respect.  Maybe, if the strangers had visited him as well, he’d considered coming over to visit with you, and he’d have to admit your courage in being the one who’d braved this (far from inevitable) encounter.

The other man spoke first.  His words surprised the heck out of you, as did his tone.  Because it was flat– not agitated– and all he said was:

“I was wondering if you’d come.”

What?

But before you even had a chance to respond, a fight broke out in the brush behind you.

You whirled around, to discover that three of your young braves had secretly followed you across the river, and they’d just now been ambushed by a dozen of your enemy’s young warriors.  Sure, they’d probably just been curious.  Or suspicious.  Or aching for an adventure.  But their curiosity had now gotten them killed.

For whatever reason, they’d followed you, and now, in an instant, after a few moments of unleashed savagery, all three of them were dead, lying there on the marshy ground with their throats slit, their necks broken.

You glanced back at your chieftain counterpart, and he looked at you– and then at his own pumped-up braves, who were ready to pounce on you, next– with the same sort of irritation you used to see in your father’s eyes.

Irritation that bespoke: “And now I’ve gotta deal with this mess you’ve made.”

He spoke quickly– brusquely– to his braves.  “Enough!”  Pointing down at the bodies, he added, “Take them to the river.  Wash their bodies, and make a raft.”

And when they hesitated, he added, with authority, “They will go back…”  He pointed across the river.  “… with him.”  Pointing at you.

With a sigh, he turned you away from the young men, who were still panting from the exhilaration of the kill.  He led you a short distance away, in the shade of some cottonwood trees, and motioned for the two of you to sit down.

“The young ones like to kill, don’t they?” he muttered, half to himself.  “Like to show off their prowess.  Like to show off their courage.  Stupid, always…

“How many times do we fight– your people and mine– and what ever comes of it?  Just more dead bodies.”

As he spoke, he seemed to grow even older, even more tired.  Worn-out, worn-down.  Disappointed that this was the way life– this was the way “living”– had to be.  And he’d been at this (being chieftain, being in charge) far longer than you.

“I’m glad the strange men came up the river,” he went on, speaking in a low voice.  “I know… You and I were brought up the same way: Kill your enemy before he kills you.  But…”

He pointed toward the riverbank, where his braves were reluctantly washing the bodies of your young men.

“… I’m getting too old for this shit.”

What?

He ripped some grass from the ground, tossed it up into the breeze, and watched it float a few feet away and fall to the ground.

“I’d rather be doing something better with myself.  With what time I’ve got left.  It seems like I’m either fighting you people, or worrying that you’re coming over here, to fight me, or I’m trying to talk my young men out of going on the warpath, talk them into doing something constructive, for a change.”

He took note of your surprise, and couldn’t resist smiling a little.

“You don’t think this endless fighting actually gets us anywhere, do you?

“Planting more ground… that would get us somewhere.  Having a bit more for everybody to eat.  You people would have more to eat, too.  We’d both have bigger flocks, bigger herds of cattle.  Bigger villages.  Better villages.  Healthier people.  Both of us.

“But do young men have time for planting?  No.  They’re off getting themselves killed.

“So the children grow up with no fathers.  No one to train them, in hunting, in husbandry, and maybe serve them as role models.  Not as “warriors,” but as husbands.  As fathers, providers.  Peaceful, stout-hearted men.  Men who would want to make the world a better place.”

He sighed.  Then he looked at you, and said, “Do you think it could work?”

“What?” you asked dumbly, as if you hadn’t heard a word he’d spoken.

“The no-killing,” he answered.  “Do you think it could work?”

You looked over at his young braves, who were now lashing some saplings into a makeshift raft.

“What am I supposed to say, when I return to my village with three dead young men?”

The old man paused, then said, quietly, “Get creative.”  And then he started laughing.  Really loudly.  Full-bellied, body-shaking, eyes-watering laughter.  The young men at the riverside looked over, curious.

You leaned back on your elbows and stared at the sky for a moment.  How could he laugh at a time like this?  Finally you said (and the bitterness in your voice surprised you), ”It’s about more than that.”

You were about to continue, but he interrupted.

“Yes, it’s about more than that,” he said quietly, “but that would be a start….  Agreed?”

And you sighed, but couldn’t think of any way to reply.

So the two of you sat in silence for a while.

Finally the other man stood up, wiped off his hands.

“I have to take you to my village.  The people will be wondering why you and the others came here.  We’ll have to dream something up.”

So you stood up, too, while the other man went over and spoke to his young men.  (Probably something about making the raft more sturdy, and not stealing any jewelry off of the dead bodies.)  And then he returned, and the two of you started off for his village.

Which wasn’t far.  You’d been there before… on more than one occasion.  But never peacefully.  This time it would be different, but that didn’t mean it would be pleasant.  The women, the old men, the children… they all glared at you sullenly.  Some other young braves muttered amongst themselves.  The question on everybody’s lips was: “What’s he doing here?”

The headman led you to his own hut, introduced you to his mother.  She was an old crone, much like your own mother.  She eyed you suspiciously, but didn’t speak.  Then she noticed the stalks of long, flowering mint in your hand.  You’d picked them absentmindedly on your walk through the forest.

Motherwort, you called it.  It was rare, on your side of the river.  You asked the old woman if there was much of it here, on her side.

And that seemed to break the ice, with her.  She was the medicine woman for her tribe, just as your own mother was the medicine woman for your people.  And this old woman knew the plant, but hadn’t known of any special uses for it.  “Motherwort, you called it?” she asked.

“Yes,” you answered, deferentially.  “My mother uses it for women’s complaints.  Especially for birthing: it eases the pain from the contractions.  I’m not sure how, but my mother could explain it to you.”

You were going on and on, perhaps out of nervousness.  And, before you even realized it, you blurted out, “Maybe she could show you–”

And the old woman’s eyes grew suddenly wide.  She stared open-mouthed at you, and then at her son.  Could this be possible?  Could one tribe’s medicine woman actually share her knowledge with another?  They’d have to visit…  One of them would have to go… to the other side.

The idea, the proposal, the invitation (whatever you wanted to call it. it was outlandish, unthinkable) just as quickly died.

The old woman’s son– the headman, your adversary– had become all too aware of the resentful looks that the others in the village were giving you, and he cut off the conversation abruptly.  He curtly asked you whether boiling the stalks, or crushing the flowers, was the way your mother used the plant.  And when you hesitated, he dismissed all your talk of “motherwort” as idle prattle.

And with that, he ushered you away from the hut, barked at the curious onlookers to get back to their chores, and marched you back out of the village, off in the direction of the riverbank.

“I can show you where more of this stuff grows,” he muttered as you walked.  “Does it really work, or were you just making that up?”

And you had to assure him that, yes: motherwort did in fact have legitimate uses.  Not that you, as headman (or he, for that matter) really understood such things.  But yes: motherwort was rare on your side of the river, and your mother prized it when she could find it.  So you (and your mother) would indeed be grateful, if he could show you a large stand of it.

 And again he hesitated, and then voiced aloud his concern.  “If I show it to you, I’m implying that you have my permission to come here, on this side of the river, in the future, to gather more.”

And you hadn’t thought all of this through, yourself, but you had to grudgingly agree with him: There was no reason for him to show you where the stuff grew, and then not allow you to come back and harvest it.  Especially if it was of no use to his own people.

It was a dilemma.  And the bottom-line question was: Why should he grant you free access to his territory, when you weren’t offering him the same free access to your side of the river?  (And why would you?)  You got some supposedly helpful medicinal plants, and what did he get out of the deal?

But he showed you a large patch of the stuff anyway, and you picked as much as you could stuff into your pack, and the two of you left the bigger question unanswered.  Uneasily.

The young braves had finished the makeshift raft and had secured the bodies of your three warriors as best they could, so you set your bundle down and turned awkwardly to say “farewell” to your “host.”

Once again, you shook hands, and before he let go of your grip, he gave you one last hard look and said, “You still haven’t answered my first question.”

Huh?

“The thing I first asked you: Do you think it could work?  This no-killing idea?”

All you could think to say, for now, was what you’d said before: “What am I supposed to say, when I return to my village with three dead young men?”

And he thought on that for a while, then shrugged.  “I don’t know.  At least we let you go back alive.”

“And bearing a gift,” you added.

The headman glanced uneasily at his young braves.  With a lowered voice, he said, “When you want to come back across, be careful.  Or come find me.”

You looked at the stern looks on the faces of his braves and nodded.

Then, in an even lower voice, he said, “Maybe there are once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, which only the wise or the lucky manage to grasp.  Are we too stupid to even consider it?”

…