11. THE WISE WOMAN

Now, when did the penny drop for the male of the species?

Owongo had a stone slab conveniently parked outside the entrance to his cave, comfortably close to where he lit a warming fire when the weather was a tad chilly, and he was sitting on it now, and ruminating.

He had quite a lot to ruminate about.

For starters, Mirumda was having a lie-down even though it was well short of evening and the sun was still blazing in a spring-blue sky. But she was feeling the need for a lie-down and it troubled him.

There could be no doubt about it: she was putting on weight and yet the winter (which was over, but Spring hadn’t yet provided a great deal because the herds that had made their way South for the winter were only just returning in spits and spats and hunting had yet to be the belly-filling triumph it would be before long), the winter should have trimmed her down a bit like it did to most folks.

All that hunger, all the shivering because of it being too cold and there being nowhere near enough skins for true warmth, all the worrying … that should have trimmed her down a bit, yet here she was gaining weight. And she was doing it in an obvious way, one that put a sloppy grin on her face and made her want to lie down during the daytime.

As far as Owongo was concerned it was all very unnatural. Why, he didn’t feel tired all the time, did he? And he most certainly wasn’t putting on weight … not with what he’d had to feed himself on during the long months of cold winter.

Why, there haven’t even been any nuts to fill the corner of a belly, what with the way the hazels have been raided by every kind of feathered thing under the sun… and as for crab-apples and the sour way they churn a man’s stomach when he reckons he might have had his fill…

So Owongo was worried, and he scratched his head and then stood up.

It’s time for me to see what the Wise Woman has to say about it. Maybe she’ll know of some herb that might help, some tincture I can ooze onto her tongue, some salve or minimimut I can rub into that porking belly of hers…

The wise woman lived five caves down, and he usually did his best to avoid her because she was mad. But needs must when the bad times come, and he found himself walking towards her cave.

She lived alone, though she had been with a man and even had chidlings, chidlings who had grown up, every one of them, rumour had it as quickly as they could seeing the kind of mother they had, and she was now alone. She might, thought Owongo, have gone forth and found a sprightly young cove to share the rest of her life with but she hadn’t bothered, and so she had grown older all alone.

Well, he thought, if that’s the way she liked it…

He stood for a moment at the entrance of the one cave he had always feared going close to. There were so many rumours of what the woman … her name was Sappo … could do to disable a man and even cause him permanent injury without doing any more than breathe the sweetness of her breath on him, and his heart felt troubled by his very proximity to wild danger. He sniffed.

It smelt better than all right. It smelt good, the air escaping from what was clearly a warm interior. There as sweetness in the scent, elderflower out of season was there, maybe, and other luscious things that only meant goodness and summery health.

Yes, maybe some of that sweet stuff would cure Mirumda, his beautiful maiden. He would have thought the word bride, but such personages had yet to be invented. And he’d best hurry, for he had to see Gondut shortly, Gondut the Great Leader, Gondut who needed to be told about the orange man and his secret meeting with savages in the woods some days off. But first things first. Mirumda was more important … of that he was absolutely certain.

“Sappo,” he whispered, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear him but needing a rehearsal.

“Owongo!” she laughed right by him where he was sure she hadn’t been a moment ago.

But there she was, and it was hard to believe she had actually reached above four lots of ten summers, and still breathed. For there was no doubt about it. She had magic at her finger-tips or those breasts of hers would have sagged … and they didn’t. There was, in fact, very little of a tell-tale sign that she was older than she ought to have been and yet lived. She gave every appearance of being a healthy and happy woman not far past her own youth.

“Sappo,” he mumbled, lost for words.

“You are troubled, young neighbour?” asked the Wise Woman.

He was, though he was loathe to admit it. But he needed to fill the sound-vacuum with something or he knew he’d look more foolish than he felt.

“It’s Mirumda,” he whispered, “I fear she is dying...”

There! He’d put his worse fear into words, and didn’t it sound ugly? But it was the truth. He was afraid that she was dying. It happened, all the time if the truth were to be told, women grew fat in a way he would never (he thought) understand, and some of them died. They took to their beds, there was sometimes the presence of an incubus, a foul spirit that made the sounds of a newly deposited infant, and then they were carried to the Mount of the Dead, and that was that.

They were lost to life and very swiftly converted into bleached white bones. It’s what happened to many women. It was their curse, and as he stood there shaking he wasn’t going to let it happen to Mirumda because he knew what love was and he loved her.

“Why? What seems to be her ailment?” asked the Wise Woman, moving dangerously close to him so that he could feel and smell the warmth of her, and neither was remotely unpleasant.

“She … she has grown big...” wept Owongo, indicating his own stomach with a simple motion of one hand. And yes, he wept. Big tears, unmanly tears, the tears of a weakling unworthy of the reputation as a great hunter that he had earned. “And she sleeps a lot!” he cried, “she is weary, so weary, she lies down and sleeps!”

“Oh,” smiled the Wise Woman.

Why is she so cheerful, grinning like that! It’s no laughing matter, my poor, poor Mirumda, lying there even now and probably gasping her last breath…

“Owongo, my neighbour, think back,” said the Wise Woman seriously, “did you ever, maybe months and months ago, lie with her and … excuse the intimacy, I mean no harm by the reference, but did you… you know, squirt?”

He had. Lots of times. He knew that he had. Even last night he had, when she had snuggled up to him and whispered stone-age sweetness into his ears. He hadn’t been able to help it. There was something inside him, some dark secret, and he knew one thing.

He knew he couldn’t help it.

So he nodded, suddenly knowing that maybe the fault was with him. Mirumda was dying, and it was all down to him.

“I may have … I know … I did...”

She laughed the sweetest, most trilling little laugh.

“Then you are a most fortunate young man,” she said, “and your lovely woman is with child… and you, sweet Owongo, are to be a father, and sooner rather than later, I suspect, for I caught a glimpse of the lovely Mirumda only yesterday and I thought to myself she will be needing my aid very, very soon as she produces a delightful little chidling and Owongo has a son...”

Owongo gaped and gasped, and blinked several times.

“A son?” he asked.

She laughed her trilling laugh again. “Of course!” she exclaimed, “but I suppose you knew that, Owongo? You have squirted, have you not, and you know what squirting does, don’t you?”

Then she laughed again. No, she thought, he doesn’t. He’s a man and the penny’s not dropped just yet, has it? They’ve yet to work out the consequences of their pleasure...

“What’s a penny?” she asked, obliquely.

Owongo had no idea.

TO BE CONTINUED…

© Peter Rogerson 20.04.17