The development of what we call civilization proceeded at a different pace in the New World. When the hunter/gatherers got past the ice barrier and colonized North and South America, perhaps twelve thousand years ago, they continued this lifestyle in most of the continents until historic times. Where they did change, it occurred only gradually, without any abrupt shift to the settled life.
The first domesticated plant seems to have been squash, dating back to ten thousand years ago. This did not lead to settling. Maybe they cultivated it in selected fields paralleling their migratory routes, and let the fields lie fallow when too distant to attend. Maybe they planted the seeds, then visited the fields at harvest time. There might have been considerable losses to the weather and animals, but enough might have survived to feed them when they arrived.
Beans were cultivated in the South American Andes, and potatoes, but these did not move to central America for some time. Teosinte would later be adapted into maize (corn) and became a major crop staple. But in Central America in early times it was squash, and maguey—otherwise known as agave, or the century plant—whose thick leaves were roasted slowly, then chewed. It was harvested at the time it went to seed, so that human use did not interfere with its reproductive cycle or diminish its numbers. Acorns were leeched to remove the tannic acid, making them less bitter, so that they could be ground into flour. But by 5,000 years ago, there seem to have been no regular settlements.
The setting is the mountains of Central America, southwest of the Yucatan peninsula, about a hundred miles north of the narrow waist of southern Mexico. The time is 5,000 years ago, or about 3,000 before the Christian era.
The three of them set out on foot, as no river went the way they were going. Brownback, the most adventurous dog, was well satisfied to be along to guide and protect them. Keeper was ill at ease, and so was Haven; neither of them liked the mission they were on. But neither seemed to have much of a choice.
They made their way down the mountain path, headed for the distant sea. The journey would take them five days, and be wearing on their bare feet. They carried some supplies in their packs, but would forage along the way for most of their food.
The first day they concentrated on conserving their strength and making good progress down the sometimes steep slopes. When they crossed a stream, they drank deeply, so as to conserve their waterskins. It was a nuisance carrying water they did not drink, but if they got caught away from a stream or lake, that would make a difference. Close to home the terrain was familiar, but that would change.
As evening came, Keeper guided them to a protected copse he knew of, where a spring flowed from a small cave. The cave had been the lair of a panther, but recently the big cat had died. The smell of it remained in the cave, keeping most other creatures away, so the hole was empty. That made it safe for savvy visitors to use.
Haven settled in, foraging for wood while Keeper and Brownback went to check a nearby slope where maguey grew. He was in luck; the largest was sprouting, sending up its seed stalk. “This one we can harvest,” he said to the dog. “After they go to seed, they die anyway, so we are not taking anything away from this natural garden.”
Brownback wagged his tail in agreement, though he didn’t much like maguey.
Keeper drew his knife and used it to cut off two of the large tentacular leaves. Brownback’s ears perked, and he sniffed.
“I hear it too,” he said. “A good-sized rat. If you can catch it, you can have it. Go!”
The dog was off immediately, pursuing the rat. There was a scurrying sound in the brush, then a crashing, followed by a squeak. Soon Brownback returned, carrying the rat in his mouth. He had his supper.
Keeper carried the maguey leaves back to the cave. Haven had a little fire going. The dog settled down by it, satisfied to consume his rat and then snooze. They cut the leaves into segments, poked sharp sticks through them, and roasted them over the fire. This took time, as it had to be done slowly, cooking without burning.
“Are you satisfied?” Keeper inquired of Haven as they sat there holding and turning their segments.
“You know I’m not.”
He nodded. “Is there something else to do?”
“I don’t think you would care for it.”
He knew what she meant, but preferred to have her tell him. “What would that be?”
She shook her head. “That’s not for me to say.”
“Can you say why she wants this?”
“I know, but can’t say.”
He had an idea. “Tell me a story.”
“A story?”
“Of. . . of Brownback, and his sister Whitepaw, and his wife, whose name I don’t know.”
Haven smiled. “I don’t know either, so I will simply call her the bitch.”
Keeper hoped his wince didn’t show in the darkness. “Yes.”
His sister was contrite. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
“No, sometimes I agree with you.”
“I’ll call her Fairtail.”
He shrugged. They both knew that the name did not change the reality.
“Many years ago, when the spirits were new and the world was fresh,” Haven began, in the standard manner for a story, “there was a dog named Brownback. He was one of a litter of three males and two females. They all got along reasonably well, until they met two other dogs, Blackeye and Fairtail. Brownback’s sister Whitepaw got raped by Blackeye, and lost her litter, so left him. Then Brownback mated with Fairtail, and she had a female pup. But maybe she liked his brother Toughtail better.”
There was the ugly suspicion. Keeper had married Crenelle, and their daughter Allele was two years old. That much was fine. But his wife seemed to be too interested in both his brothers, with whom she had had affairs before marrying Keeper. He remained very glad to have gotten her for his wife, but that continuing flirtation bothered him. He had never spoken of it, but if Haven has seen the same thing, that was confirmation.
“And what of Whitepaw?” he asked her. Whitepaw was Haven, in this story, though in real life the dog preferred Crenelle.
“She came to like Blackeye well enough, and would have stayed with him, had their puppy survived. But the spirits showed the curse of the commencement of their union by destroying the baby, and Whitepaw had to go. Blackeye then married her sister, Leanbelly.”
Keeper choked. What a name! For Rebel had never gotten herself with child, and remained lean in the belly.
“Blackeye thought they might adopt a pup, but they didn’t find any they liked well enough. He began to look at Whitepaw again, knowing that her belly would not remain lean. However, she would neither risk another cursed baby nor make mischief for her sister. Still, Fairtail noticed, and concluded that her brother would be better off if Whitepaw were gone. Since the wife of a married dog has authority over the husband’s unmarried sisters, she told Brownback to take her to a far place and leave her there.”
“And he could not tell her no,” Keeper concluded. “Because he loved her, and because it was her right. But he did not relish it.”
“She knew that.”
The maguey was done. They took their hot pieces and began chewing on them. They were quite fibrous, but there was nourishment between the fibers, and patient chewing worked it out. It wasn’t the most delightful meal, but it would do.
They had covered the territory. Except for one thing. “What else could they do?”
Haven considered. “There might be a larger consideration. Black-eye might in time give up on Leanbelly and seek another bitch anyway. Perhaps one outside the family group. Then Whitepaw would be exonerated, and not need to be elsewhere.”
“So it would be all right not to take her away,” he said.
“Or so it might seem, later,” she said. “Though it would perhaps annoy Fairtail at the time, and make things more difficult.”
This led into the other ugly aspect. “Yet if Fairtail had interest in one of Brownback’s brothers—”
“It might merely make her stray sooner rather than later.”
Surely so. But where would that leave him? He did love Crenelle, and couldn’t stand to lose her any sooner than he could avoid.
Haven understood. “It is only a story,” she said. “What do dogs have to do with people?”
All too much. But he let it go gratefully, not wanting to pursue the painful alternatives further.
They finished chewing their maguey, drank some water, banked the fire, and retired to the cave to sleep.
Next day they resumed travel, descending into a winding valley, pacing a stream for a time. But the stream meandered in the wrong direction, and they had to leave it and the valley and climb over another mountain.
On the fifth day they reached the village that was said to be looking for wives. The first thing Keeper noticed was the smell. The whole village stank. Even Brownback seemed to wrinkle his nose. The second thing was the barbaric accent of the people here; it was hard to understand their speech.
But they made their way to the head matriarch, the woman who had the authority to put women with men. She gazed intently at Haven, saw the fullness of her breasts and thighs, and nodded. At age twenty-four she was no young bride, but she would do. “I will bring three men to feel her,” she told Keeper. “You may turn down one, or two, or three, but I will not bring more.” Haven, of course, was not consulted; she was an unmarried woman, without rights.
“I will consider them,” Keeper agreed.
“In a quarter day,” she said, making a signal with her arms to indicate the portion of the day that would pass as she located the men.
Keeper nodded. It was noon now; that would put it in the afternoon.
“Go to the shore,” the matriarch suggested. “They will give you fish there.”
Keeper thanked her, and they departed her presence. They made their way to the harbor area. The smell intensified, but the natives seemed not to notice it. Then they spied piles of rotting fish heads all along the shore. That was the source of the smell.
“Do you like this village?” he inquired, knowing the answer.
“No. But I would not like any village away from my family.”
“These men she will bring—give me a signal how you feel about them, and I will honor it.”
“Thank you. I will blink my eyes once for satisfactory, and twice for unsatisfactory.”
That would help. But he remained disturbed. “You know I don’t want to do this.”
“I know.” She could have said much more.
A man was cooking gutted fish on a stone grate over a fire. He glanced up, recognized them as strangers, and knew their business. He gestured, offering them baked fish. They accepted, and talked with him as they ate.
His name was Baker, because of his employment, and he was garrulous. That was fine with them, as they wanted to learn as much as they could about this village and its prospects for a woman marrying into it. Haven flashed him an encouraging smile every so often, and that was enough. They got used to his accent, just as they got used to the oppressive fish smell. Keeper guided the dialogue to topics of interest to them, and they learned about the ways of the village.
One routine question brought a surprising response. “Do you have many foreign visitors?” For if there were fairly regular contact with neighboring peoples, it might be easier for Haven to stay somewhat in touch with her family. Visitors could carry news.
“Sometimes,” Baker said as he piled roasted fish on a wooden tray and put new ones over the fire to roast. “Mostly like you, bringing wives, or with things to trade. But there was one we hardly know what to make of. He washed up in a boat, half starved and mad with thirst. He spoke an unintelligible language. We got him back to health, and he learned to speak a few of our words. He said he was from the south, far away, and had been blown north by storm and current. But we knew he was mad.”
“From the south?” Keeper asked, interested. He had never traveled far in that direction; in fact this was his farthest extent. “There is land beyond the sea?”
“Oh, yes. The shore curves down and around and goes on endlessly; our fishermen have never seen the end of it. They say it has no conclusion. There are surely people there, beyond our ken. Mad ones.”
“Why do you say he was mad?” Haven asked.
“Because of what he said. He said there was a desert, and behind it steep tall mountains, greater than the ones here. That they grew something they called potatoes, and had long-necked animals as beasts of burden. I’m no expert on tubers or animals, but I know there are no such things as he described.”
Now Keeper was fascinated. “I am conversant with plants and animals. Perhaps I have seen these. Can you describe them in more detail?”
Baker did, and soon Keeper had to admit that he knew of no such things. Baker took that as confirmation of the stranger’s madness, but Keeper suspected that the man had been telling the truth about the strange things of his land.
In due course they returned to the matriarch. “Here is the first man,” she said, indicating a gruff old man. “His name is Grubber. He is a scavenger.” She turned to the man. “This is Keeper, who offers his sister Haven.”
The man approached Haven. His odor preceded him; he must have been grubbing among the rotting fish heads recently. He was wrinkled and potbellied, and wore a habitual scowl. Keeper did not need to look at his sister for any signal; he knew the prospect of marriage to such a man revolted her.
Grubber reached out and squeezed one of Haven’s full breasts. She had the grace not to flinch. He drew up her skirt to uncover her bottom. “She’ll do,” he said.
“What happened to your prior wife?” Keeper asked.
“She ran away.”
“My sister is not for you.”
Grubber turned away, unsurprised. He was surely accustomed to being rejected by women.
Another man approached. He was big and muscular. “This is Maul,” the matriarch said. “To marry this woman.”
Keeper didn’t wait for the man to feel Haven. “I think not.”
“Not?” Maul inquired, looking dangerous. He took a step toward Keeper, but Brownback growled, warning him off. The man could surely handle the dog, but it would be an ugly scene, not worth it, since the decision was Keeper’s to make regardless.
“The third man will be here in the morning,” the Matriarch said as Maul stalked off. “Come back then.”
Keeper was learning caution. “What is the third man’s name?”
“Pul. He is a warrior.”
“Why isn’t he married already?”
“Never found the right woman. But I think he would like this one.” She turned away.
They walked back into the forest, preferring to get away from the oppressive smell. “Pul could be all right,” Haven said.
“And he could be another bad one.”
“I think she was showing the worst first, to make her real choice seem good in contrast.”
He hadn’t thought of that. “But is any man of this village good for you?”
She shrugged. “What choice is there? I should have stayed with Harbinger when I had the chance.”
“And had the spirits take another baby? No, I think you did right. No problem of that, with Rebel.”
“Which makes a problem,” she reminded him.
“Haven, nothing about this seems right. I don’t want to see you ill-married, or to lose you from the family, and I know you don’t want to go.”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t stand in the way of family harmony, even if I could.”
They ranged out, finding a suitable tree to camp under for the night. “If you had a single wish for the spirits to grant, what would it be?”
“For my baby to have lived,” she said immediately.
“But that would mean you would still be married to Harbinger!”
“Without the curse of the spirits,” she agreed. “Maybe it is that curse I wish to be rid of. My life has not prospered since then.”
“But you were blameless! Then and now.”
“I let myself be raped. That was blame enough.”
He pondered. “Had it been Rebel, she would have killed him rather than be raped. Then he would have married no one.”
She spread her hands. “Perhaps it worked out as it had to be.”
“You are so gentle, you blame no one but yourself. Now Crenelle is driving you out.”
“She has the right. Were I married to her brother, and she single, I would have authority over her. It was perhaps my folly that led to this.”
She would not even blame Crenelle. But Keeper did. He loved Crenelle, but what she was doing was wrong.
They slept. In the night he dreamed. He was walking south, along the shore. He walked and walked, traveling an enormous distance, more than he could cover in two months of waking walking. He came to the land of the mad stranger. There were people growing the strange edible plants called potatoes, that grew from eyes. He picked up a potato, wanting to take it home and grow others like it, but it opened an eye and looked at him, and he lost his nerve and put it back. He walked through a mountain village, and saw fat little rodents called guinea pigs running around their houses, underfoot; all the people had to do was pick one up and prepare it for eating. Then he saw a llama, a strange animal like a solid deer with a long neck and woolly fur. Its head lifted up so that it looked him in the eye from his own height.
Startled, he woke, and realized that it was indeed a dream, based on what Baker had told him. Of course it might not be true; the folk who lived south probably farmed the same crops and hunted the same animals they did here. But it intrigued him mightily, and he wished he could visit that rare land and see for himself. But that would require an arduous journey, perhaps by boat, risking storms. He couldn’t do it; he had a family to support.
And in support of that family, he had to put his sister into exile in a stinking village.
When morning came, they foraged for fruit to eat, then returned to the village. Matriarch was there, but the man wasn’t. “He should be on his way,” the woman said. “Do what you wish, meanwhile.”
They went back to the shore, accepting the squalor and smell as the price of it. This time they saw two fishermen working in their boats, not far offshore. They had a net, and were seining it through the water, hauling it up laden with fish. They grabbed the fish they wanted, and dumped the others back into the water.
“Little ones,” Baker said. “No point in harvesting them. Let them grow until they are big; then we’ll eat them.”
“The way we leave squash until big enough,” Keeper agreed. It hadn’t occurred to him to do it with fish, however.
“But they are throwing back some big ones,” Haven said, peering at the boats.
“Trash fish,” Baker explained. “Inedible, or bad tasting. Sometimes bits of waterlogged wood. They’re sorting out the catch.”
“Sorting out,” Keeper agreed. An idea simmered, but did not quite take form.
A little boy ran up to them. “Strangers!” he cried, addressing them. “Pul is here!”
It was time. Keeper did not look at his sister as they walked to the matriarch’s station.
Pul was a large, muscular man, not handsome but not mean-looking. He eyed Haven appraisingly as they approached.
“You’ll do,” the man said. Men were quick to make up their minds, especially when the woman was well formed. Haven, at age twenty-four, was not young, but she had very good breasts and thighs.
“Why are you single?” Keeper asked.
“I like a woman, but she likes another man better,” Pul said. “Can’t think why; he’s scrawny.”
“Is he smart?”
“Pretty much. What has that got to do with it?”
The man couldn’t see why a woman would prefer a smart man to a strong one. And it was true, some woman didn’t. Crenelle, maybe. Was he going to be able to hold on to her, even if he let Haven go? She wanted Hero.
Haven kept silent, but he knew she wasn’t thrilled with this man Pul. He might be all right, but Haven was not a stupid woman, and would be somewhat stultified even if Pul were gentle.
Keeper thought of the fishermen, throwing away the bad fish. That was what he was trying to do here: throw away the bad men. He didn’t like Pul, and didn’t want the man to have his sister. Also irrelevantly, he thought of the teo weed, with its hard little seeds; it was so much work to gather them, though they were edible. If he could just throw away the bad ones, and keep the good ones, and have a better harvest later. . .
And why not? Each plant’s seeds produced more plants of its own kind. Suppose he reversed it, and ate the small hard seeds, and threw away the nice big ones: putting them in the ground, where they would grow more plants. More big-seed plants. Would he have more good ones?
Suddenly excited, he wanted to get home and try it. But then he became aware of a silence. The others were looking at him.
“No,” he said abruptly. “I will take my sister home.”
Both the matriarch and Pul looked at him, astonished. They had thought he would have to take this final offering. And maybe he should. But he couldn’t do it to Haven. Even if it meant he lost Crenelle.
In any event, he had something else to occupy him now. The prospect of planting good teo seeds excited him. Who could say what might come of this?
Soon they were walking back toward the mountain. When they were out of sight of the village, Haven grabbed him and kissed him hard. “Thank you, little brother! But why did you do it? You know the mischief this will make.”
“I know,” he agreed. “But I have seeds to plant.”
The first tiny cobs of maize appeared 5,000 years ago, adapted from teosinte. It was a long, slow process, for teosinte in the wild was nothing like modern maize, now called corn in America. The seeds were on small brittle stalks, which shattered as they matured. But when the transition to large soft seeds on cobs was made, it was to transform New World agriculture, and later the world’s, for maize was destined to become one of the major food crops of the planet.
So was the one Keeper didn’t quite believe existed, the potato. That eventually became the leading food crop in the world. But there is no evidence that the potato made the transition from South America to Central or North America until relatively recently. Similarly the llama remained where it was. As a result, the South Americans progressed to the settled life and civilization earlier than the Central Americans did, though in this case the climate would have permitted an earlier transfer.