Tikaani’s dad was addressing the people inside the hall in a mixture of Anak and English. Finally he turned to the boys with a wide smile, and gestured that they should step forward and begin their telling. Tikaani put a hand on Beck’s arm.
‘It’s OK. Let me.’
There was a strange note in Beck’s friend’s voice. Intrigued, Beck watched Tikaani step forward and raise his arms up.
‘Tikaani, son of Kunuk, son of Panigoniak. Forgive me that I only speak the tongue of the Yankees.’
He said that last bit to the very front row, where the oldest men and women of the village sat. They had long grey hair, women and men alike, and flat faces deeply carved with wrinkles. Some of them gave the faintest impassive nod back at Tikaani, as if reluctantly allowing him this one concession. He’s young, they seemed to be saying. Of course he only speaks English. There’s plenty of time for him to learn to do this properly.
Tikaani launched into the story of their journey, from the moment the plane’s engine had failed. Beck settled back in his chair. Tikaani had a clear gift for story-telling. He could convey the moment, the emotion of each situation they had faced together. There was a rhythm to his speech, a natural patter that just carried you along. It was like . . . Beck tried to think . . . it was like a song.
And suddenly Beck realized what was going on. Way back at the start of all this, the pilot had mentioned Anakat’s oral tradition. This was it! Tikaani was reciting the latest instalment in the village’s history. Their adventures were the latest chapter in an organic audio book that went back hundreds of years. This wasn’t just a talk, it was a podcast; and those old people in the front row weren’t just respected elders, they were the village’s iPods.
Now Beck was captivated. He wondered if Tikaani had ever known he could do this. Born and bred in Anakat, and once determined to turn his back on the place; now he had fallen back into it as easily as a duck takes to water. This was their obligation to Anakat. The story had just happened around them as they left the plane and climbed the mountains and rafted down the river. Now it had to be spoken into the village’s memory.
Then, maybe, Beck thought, they could sleep . . .