19. HOLIDAY TIME

All stories must come to an end, and this one, has, right here.

The mouldering remnants of a severed head stared sightlessly across the green and pleasant countryside with its forests and mountains, rivers and streams. It’s skull, once clad in oddly bleached hair, was white and bony with only a few meagre scraps of leathery flesh hanging from it, and a vulture gave one last peck at its crusty and crumbling substance before giving up and flying off to new death and fresher flesh.

Owongo held Owongo Junior in his arms and stood next to Mirumda and gazed over much the same scene from the entrance to their cave, and smiled.

“It’s a good day,” he murmured.

“Better if Mirumda’s father was here, Owongo, brave man mine,” she whispered.

“All men die,” philosophised Owongo. “All men have their four of five tens of years, and end up pushing up the daisies.”

“What are daisies?” asked Mirumda.

“Flowers. Only flowers, my love,” he replied. “Come, we will walk now, and it may be days before we return, but return we shall!”

“We will walk,” sighed Mirumda. “But slowly, as befits those on holiday!”

And they set off on their first family holiday.

There was a bend in the river, several miles away, a broad sweeping bend forming almost a loop where sometimes the waters washed over the land leaving a sandy beach behind, and they were going there. It was the furthest Mirumda had been from her home, and even Owongo had rarely trespassed as far, hunting during bleak and harsh seasons for the little prey that remained in a landscape that annually turned inhospitable.

But now it was far from inhospitable and Owongo knew they would live well off the land without, maybe, him having to throw his spear even once. Mirumda did the gathering and Mirumda was good at it, and if fruit became scarce there was always fish in the river. No, he may not have to throw his trusty spear, a new one for he had used his old one to dispatch the orange man and couldn’t bear to touch it after that. It had been soiled, too soiled for him to be comfortable holding it in his hands and balancing its weight before pulling his shoulders back and launching it. So he had crafted a new one, and that was every bit as good.

It had to be. The welfare of his family depended on it.

They took their time on the walk, pausing now and then to admire this rocky outcrop or that splendid tree, to foray into this or that copse where fruit was already hanging heavy or reaching through brambles to softer fruit that flourished in patches along the river bank. And every so often after a while Owongo put his son down and the little one crawled along, and giggled at his own cleverness before clamouring to be picked up again.

It was well after noon when they arrived at the great loop in the river, where it almost doubled up on itself before returning to its original course and rolling on.

There were others there. It was a popular place for busy people to visit and play for a few days before returning to their homes. In such a way were the stresses of living, of rearing a son, of hunting almost daily, of keeping one foot in front of another in the journey called life, all soothed away.

Owongo had his plans. They would have no cave, no construction to shelter in, just themselves and the broad blue sky and its daily sunshine. But he found a corner where his family could settle, not too far from the sandy beach but sheltered by a cluster of saplings and mature trees, and he roughly levelled a patch of the ground, and they lay down. And he looked at Mirumda whilst Mirumda looked at him, and Owongo Junior closed his eyes and snored.

“So what do you call this?” asked Mirumda.

“This is a holiday,” Owongo told her seriously. “This is when Mirumda can splash in the warm waters of the river and Owongo Junior can play in the sands. This is when Owongo can lie beneath the skies and under some trees and close his eyes, and dream.”

“What will he dream about?” asked Mirumda.

“He will dream about his lovely Mirumda. He will dream about the goodness that is the hearts of most men. And he will dream, my love, of the mistake he made when he failed to kill the orange one when he had a chance.”

“But Owongo is no killer,” Mirumda reminded him. “Owongo is a strong hunter and only kills at need, and then not other men but wild beasts of the scrublands when meat is needed. And he could not foretell what evil would fall if the orange one lived on. Owongo has nothing to blame himself for.”

“But I can’t help it, when the nights are quiet and the days are sultry. I lie on my skins back in the home cave and worry that I might have done more to keep your father alive, but I did nothing. I might have, you know, I was there, with my spear, and the painted wretch was pinioned to a tree. He couldn’t move, not an inch, and we thought, all of us, that he would die pinned to that tree. But he didn’t. He got away and because of Owongo’s thoughtlessness he lived to slaughter your dear father.”

“Owongo wasn’t on his own,” reminded Mirumda, “there was also the mighty Gondut and others, so hush and let’s have peace. Stop blaming yourself! There were many of you out there, not just Owongo.”

Owongo shivered. It had been a laborious day, most of it spent carrying the sleeping Junior who was by no means as heavy as a slaughtered deer but considerably more awkward when he wriggled. That was something dead prey never did, wriggle. He closed his eyes for a moment, though it was still light, the sun sliding down towards the west and the skies glowing pink then orange.

“Are you a sleepy-head?” asked Mirumda.

He smiled at her. “I just feel like resting,” he replied. “While the little one sleeps and we have a bit of peace,” he added.

“Then close your eyes, man-mine, and dream...” smiled Mirumda.

And the odd thiing about Owongo’s world was that was exactly what he did do. He closed his eyes, and sighed for a moment, and sleep washed over him.

And in that sleep he was far away in a magical kingdom where men who paint their small parts blue dance at the edge of a lake and meat is so plentiful he no longer had to hunt, while Mirumda could reach into the hedgerows and pick the choicest, juiciest, sweetest fruits. And all the while the waters of the lake lapped all around, little waves crashing into his heart.

Yet he’d never, in all of his life, seen a lake or knew what one was or even that such watery delights exist anywhere on the Earth. But he didn’t have to. This was a dream and the magic was all in his head.

THE END…

© Peter Rogerson 30.04.17