7. THE BLUEKNOBS

Just as Owongo seems to have sorted out one danger, along comes another

Owongo, with a relieved and still very frightened Mirumda, had been back home for a couple of days when the riverbank people received a visit from one of the Blueknobs.

A word of explanation might be due here.

Bearing in mind that the distance a man could travel back then in a day, from sunrise to sunset, was considered a mighty long way and best avoided because of the proximity of beasts that fancied a taste of Homo Sapiens flesh, and there were plenty of those, and bearing in mind also that there was very little need for such a journey, a mighty long way was beyond the plans of most. So for a fellow Homo Sapiens to make a journey in excess of two such distances was virtually unknown.

The fact that there were people from the Blue Mountains alive and different to them was almost common knowledge, of course, and they were known as the Blueknobs, and those same Blue Mountains were two days away on foot if the walker had good fortune and fair weather.

There were two reasons for the name Blueknobs. Firstly was the fact that distance made the mountains where they lived in a spectacular valley look blue when seen from the River Bank and the second was the tradition that the males who lived there uniquely daubed their genitals with woad, a dye fermented from the woad plant and which turned them bright blue, a condition they proudly displayed during the summer months when their valley, with a wonderful micro-climate, made nakedness both desirable and arguably essential. Hence they were called the Blueknobs, and they rather enjoyed the suggestions implied by that nickname.

And now one one them (clothed, for summer was over, both in their valley and along the river bank) had made the torturous journey across country and through dark forests, over rivers that tumbled dangerously round rocks and boulders, and finally to the caves of Owongo and his neighbours where he was greeted as a long lost cousin, for it was rightly or wrongly perceived that there was a kinship between the cave-people and the Blueknobs.

Before anything was said the stranger was fed and watered, the food being dried meat left over from the great party of a week earlier and the water being a kind of fermented drink that made men see things rosily. Then, fed and fermented, the stranger spoke. His tongue was like theirs though his accent was strange, but they understood the detail of what he said perfectly.

“Four of us set out,” he said, “for I am Mika, and with me came Meka, Muka and Moka. But there were dangers on the journey, and I am the sole survivor, and that is more due to good fortune than any particular skill on my part. We set out, for our people have been harassed and harangued by a stranger who claims sovereignty over us, makes slaves of our womenfolk if they are young and tender and he can get his hands on them with promises of wealth and greatness, and has even forbidden the production of woad, for he says it is evil and leads all men astray and anyway he wants it for himself, for he was born without any colour to his flesh and paints it to both please himself and mark himself as special. And, he says, he is fed up with being orange!”

“The orange man?” sighed Owongo, for the meeting was in his cave. “We have had dealings with him, too.”

“He captured me, and even though I was rescued by my bold man I still dream of the horror!” almost wept Mirumda.

“Like he has captured the sweetest of our women,” moaned Mika. “Me and my kin were sent as ambassadors, to beg for your help while there is yet freedom in the world, for the one known as Fart-fart seems to us to have hailed from the river bank and not the mountains.”

“He is not one of us,” muttered Owongo, “but he is a danger to all free souls.”

“It is said that his wealth is beyond the adding up of the figures,” mourned Mirumda, “as if such a thing as wealth would draw me to him when I have my bold Owongo in my life!”

“But there are men who support him,” said Mika. “They are of a savage nature, brutish in their ways and they speak in grunts.”

“We have met some of them,” acknowledged Owongo. “They are truly evil and deserve no better than a spear through their guts!”

“So you will help us?” begged Mika.

“We need a counsel,” murmured Owongo, “We have no leader amongst us, for we are what some call democratic. Each man has his say and what ensues is a result of that! In such a way no minority can take control. Everything that is decided needs the applause of above half of us, and is usually as a result unanimous and sensible.”

“Can you call a counsel?” begged Mika. “It is several days since I left my mountain home, and who can tell what has happened to my Blueknob cousins during my absence.”

And so it was decided that Owongo would call a meeting for that very evening, before the sun finally set.

All the men and most of the women of the river banks community gathered by what was already known by Owongo as his and Mirumda’s Mouthing Stone. It was a convenient place to hold a gathering, for being on a slope all could be seen and heard without prejudice or a sense of control being exercised by a minority.

Mika was asked to explain to the gathering why he was there, and when he mentioned the fact that he was the only survivor of four who had set out to seek for help there was a great sighing and sobbing, for the river-bank folks were kindly, gentle and above all, empathetic souls. The news called for poppy-dust to be added to the fire which blazed fiercely, casting the warmth of its heart and the fragrance of its narcotic breath upon the gathering.

“We are all in grave danger,” concluded Mika, pleased at his reception. “For I have been told that the orange fiend has plans for you folk, too.”

“He will have to beat us first,” came a cry from the back of the crowd.

“He has, in his force, men I would not like to meet on a dark night even if I were with comrades and he was alone,” warned Mika.

“I have met them,” said Owongo, grimly, “and they are without speech as such, and grunt their way to a sense I can’t begin to understand! And they kill without compunction.”

“Then we must prepare for hard times,” moaned half a dozen. “For our freedom may well be at stake, and we all treasure that!”

Then a fresh voice reached out to them from the shadows behind the Mouthing Stone.

“You need a leader,” it said, “a man of strength who will reclaim your lands for you, who will make the River Bank and the Blue Mountains great again, and I swear I am that man!”

And from behind the stone stepped a figure bright as a grove of oranges and maniacal as the gods of darkness.

The people, as one, all shuddered when they saw him. How he got there unseen and unheralded none could tell, nor afterwards understood. But he was there, bright as an evil summer’s day and glowing with an intensity that put fear in every free heart there

“I am your man,” he repeated, and grinning his odd vertical grin, “and I will build a wall...” he added.

TO BE CONTINUED…

© Peter Rogerson 16.04.17