14. Childhood’s End

STEPPING BACK IN TIME Part 14

Every bride loves her wedding day even if it might not be called that because they lived long ago when weddings were totally unknown, and Mirumda was no exception. She was about to be joined with Owongo and she spent an age down by the stream that ran through the community in which she lived, scrubbing her lovely skin and washing her gorgeous hair at least a dozen times before she was satisfied that every last nasty creepy crawly had been exterminated.

Then her bodily decoration. She had a creative mind and she needed to look special and she knew exactly where to get the colours she required in order to paint her skin perfectly. She knew which flowers gave a pretty and natural shade of many colours, and then there were fruits and nuts as well as some minerals that could be found within a short distance of her parents’ home. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for the menfolk on their forays into the wild to daub threatening patterns on their faces in the belief that dangerous animals capable of tearing them to shreds would be intimidated by their grotesque painted appearances. Knowledge like that might save lives and at the same time it might beautify Mirumda.

In the end she was a sight worth beholding and made Owongo look plain even though he had paid considerable attention to his appearance and was wearing a brand new almost white loincloth on which he had painted a grotesquely enlarged image of male manhood, just to show the world at large who he was. But other than a couple of red lines on each cheek and dark rings round his eyes he looked more or less his normal self.

How, you might ask, do I know all this? Well, I have mentioned several times that I am privy to his personal notes in the shape of a few odd lines etched into the wall of his ancient cave and have interpreted them as I see fit. If I have made any mistakes in my interpretation then you can blame me … if, that is, you know any better! And a warning to any clever dicks who claim that marks etched into stone thirty odd thousand years ago would have long since crumbled away and consequently not be the work of my cro magnon ancestor I say bah!

So we have the two main characters, Owongo and Mirumda, looking their glorious and antiseptic best. Piles of dry timber collected over the past several days from the extensive primeval forest that lay all around the cave dwelling community lay ready to be lighted, and it was to be Owongo himself who was to be the firelighter. His reputation, since the affair involving a hollow tree, had spread and although fire wasn’t unknown to the villagers, the creation of it was looked on as a skill beyond the ability of most men. And yet, here was a boy, maybe in his teens and maybe not, nobody ever counted the years between birth and death of a human because the number they reached might be disappointingly small, going to demonstrate to one and all how it might be done.

A special guest was to be Squinteye because he had made a discovery in the shaded recesses at the back of his cave, that he thought might add a touch of humour to his young friend’s party.

“I have found my dad’s secret store,” he explained on the morning of what was to be the wedding party, not that anyone knew the word or even concept of wedding.

“Say more,” said Owongo, intrigued.

“Before he passed beyond the land of men my old man collected a vast store of those fruits that grow in luscious bunches,” nodded Squinteye, “and he put them in a water-tight stone vat to save for the winter so that he might offer them to the nasty hornets and other creatures that are greedy for sweetness when cold winds blow.”

“So?” asked Owongo.

“Then he died and that was that. Heavy slab put over vat and then forgotten. I find it yesterday and when I look the fruits have turned to water! Or looks like water. And it bubble like stream over sharp stone.”

“Is it bad?” asked owongo.

“Taste bloody good!” grinned Squinteye, “me drink some and it knock my head off! And fizz in mouth like nothing ever fizzed!”

A note here from your author. I have no idea how he knew about fizzing if nothing to his knowledge had ever fizzed before, but so what? Mankind is an inventive beast when it comes to language! But back to the wedding.

The afternoon arrived and the guests (minus those who hadn’t been invited, but even so one or two of them found their way to the large and some suggested sacred open space where the stream plunged through a crack in the hillside and entered the light of day

Then the two youngsters, Mirumda in all her beautiful paintwork and Owongo with his bragging loincloth, stood together, the guests all gathered around in a kind of awe seeing as nothing like this had ever been seen before.

A hush fell, and Owongo turned to the love of his life.

“Mirumda, my angel,” he said, though what he meant by the word angel is far from clear seeing as it was a brand new word. “Owongo love you…” Again, another new word: love. My ancient ancestor was indeed a bright and creative young man.

“And Mirumda like love Owongo,” said the girl quietly, blushing but clearly entering into the spirit of the occasion.

“Owongo spend life, all of life, in cave with Mirumda,” announced Owongo, “and all here must know: Mirumda Owongo’s woman!”

And that did it. In the eyes of all present Owongo and Mirumda formed a partnership that must remain intact for the remainder of their days. So there was cheering, a great deal of it, and not just because of the sacred moment but because Squinteye produced his booze.

But first, the fire needed lighting, and here Owongo struck it particularly lucky. One strike of one stone against another and sparks flew, sparks that, first time of trying, caused a spiral of smoke to rise into the air. The there was the tiniest of flames which Owongo carefully transferred to a huge pile of dry timber and after a few anxious moments a blaze began, accompanied by a huge round of cheering and folk explaining to each other that Owongo was surely a magician.

So it was time for Squniteye’s booze. Somehow he’d manhandled the huge stone vat to the site where Owongo had plighted his troth, and smiling broadly (possibly because he himself was already slightly intoxicated) he started distributing it to those who’d had the foresight to bring appropriate receptacles.

First to do the rounds was the clear bubbling liquid that Squinteye had found in the shadows at the back of his cave, and much to his surprise (he’d issued it first because he wanted to get rid of it, hoping that the elderberry juice he’d hurriedly prepared would be looked on favourably as a real treat by one and all.

But the ancient fizzing stuff proved to be the real hit. And had they known the truth it was the first time anything that might properly be called champagne was used to celebrate a marriage anywhere on Earth!

So ends my tale of the distant and young ancestor of mine, Owongo, who went on, as is recorded elsewhere, to live a remarkable life of happiness and adventure with his lovely loving wife, Mirumda.

THE END

© Peter Rogerson 04.03.22

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