Other Worlds Were Possible

UNCLE CROW’S LAMENT

The Tale of Uncle Crow had been rattling around Sunny’s mind...

It was a well-worn fable; one he had heard on innumerable occasions, whilst sitting beside the campfire, chewing on barbecued meat. That yarn was always recounted by the oldest member of their clan, who always swore blind that the subject was their very own uncle; a man not much older than themselves. The other elders must have known this was not the case. Yet they never doubted the truth of the story itself; a story they had first encountered at that impressionable age, when the young believe almost everything they are told.

The story had once been true. Of this, there was little doubt. But it had been embellished by the whimsy of time. It was impossible to say how much of the tale had actually happened, how much had been forgotten, which bits were correct, and which bits had been re-remembered, re-imagined and re-invented; intentionally or by accident, in the recent or distant past.

The story was so simple, it barely merits such an introduction. But it was spinning around Sunny’s head with such ferocity, it was only natural that Sunny ponder these things, as well as the story itself.

Uncle Crow had a big belly, or a big smile, or a big mouth. What was big, had a habit of changing. Sunny, for his part, never had a fixed image of Uncle Crow in his mind. If he had been with his mother, that legendary ancestor might appear to him with his mother’s peculiar eyebrows; the ones which took an unpredictable turn as they reached their outer limits. But if he had been with his sister, Harmony, that character might appear with her marbled eyes; cerulean, turquoise and teak. Uncle Crow could look like a mighty warrior. He could run with a rhythm that matched the wind. And he could look like a gawky teen, with limbs which moved in contradictions. He could be tall or short, stocky or lithe; a fact which said as much about Sunny, and his volatile imagination, as it did of Uncle Crow.

On this particular occasion, however, the image which appeared in Sunny’s mind did not have his sister’s eyes or his mother’s eyebrows. It did not look like a warrior or a teen. This Uncle Crow was the mirror image of Sunny.

The resemblance was uncanny. Here was the scar Sunny got as a boy, when he had insisted on going hunting with the grown-ups. He had struggled to keep pace, tripped, and lacerated his ankle. Here was Sunny’s oversized nose and his broken chin; the two features which dominated his face to such a great extent, that they hid most of his eyes and mouth. Here were the tattoos which covered Sunny’s skin; his loincloth, his only item of clothing; and his legs, which were the second longest in the clan. His torso was not in proportion. It was not especially narrow, but it was a little short. This imbued Sunny with a mildly comedic appearance; something akin to a dog on stilts.

Why did this Uncle Crow share these features with Sunny? And why had he appeared at this specific time?

Uncle Crow may have looked like Sunny. He may have looked different in every possible way. No-one could say for sure. All they knew was this: Uncle Crow was a great hunter. Nobody doubted the fact that he was the greatest hunter the Eagle Clan had ever known. A few people had gone so far as to claim that he was the greatest hunter the world had ever known; an opinion which could neither be confirmed nor denied. Yet such trivialities had never prevented the clans-folk from falling for the superlative; describing Crow’s abilities as Marvellous, Exceptional and Wonderful; remarking on how he was almost certainly better than any hunter a rival clan had ever produced; insisting that he had mastered his craft, and was, dare it be said, pretty much perfect when it came to his ability to hit any target, from any range.

Why, haven’t you heard? Uncle Crow once downed two antelope with a single arrow!

No, it was three!

"Three antelope with one broken arrow."

No! They were buffalo. Uncle Crow killed three buffalo with a single broken spear.

"And, what was that? His back was turned? Uncle Crow killed three buffalo, with a blunt spear, without even spotting those creatures?"

No! Surely it cannot be true?

But yes. This was the mark of the man.

***

When he was still a child, Crow’s successes had been welcomed with warmth and appreciation…

Young Crow was a prodigious talent, but he had a lot to learn. He could spend days in the bush, and still return empty-handed. On those rare occasions when he did return with food, his kinfolk celebrated, and complimented his achievement. When he shared that meat, he was received with appreciative gestures; with cheesy grins, stomach rubs, and even the occasional wink.

Young Crow was a quick learner. By the time he reached Sunny’s age, he was bringing home more meat than anyone else, feeding half the clan. Yet his unprecedented generosity was not met with any additional gratitude. If anything, he was met with less appreciation than before. His kinfolk still rubbed their stomachs, whenever the meat was tasty. But the winks had become a thing of the past. The smiles were a little too stony for comfort.

As Crow moved into his prime, there could be no doubting the matter. He was the most successful hunter anyone could recall. Thanks to Crow, everyone was able to eat meat for both lunch and dinner.

But his peers no longer rubbed their bellies, to show their appreciation. They hugged their bellies, to comfort themselves from the stomach pains this meat induced. The cheesy grins went the way of the cheeky winks. Uncle Crow had not seen one for so long, he began to suspect that they had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

It had become the norm. Like the clouds, which brought the rain, which nourished the grass. The grass did not give thanks to the clouds. And his kinfolk did not give thanks to Uncle Crow.

Things moved ahead, as things have a habit of doing…

In one of those mythical years, in which the sun shone for just the right amount of time, and the rains fell whenever they were called; the valley bloomed, animals feasted upon the new growth, multiplied, and filled the plains. Uncle Crow took advantage, hunting more animals than anyone had hunted before.

The clans-folk gorged themselves, eating far more meat than was good for their health. They became bloated. They retched. An elderly woman keeled over and died, mid-sentence, whilst addressing her peers. A toddler’s corpse was discovered beneath a tree.

A consensus began to form: This was an abomination, and a single man was to blame.

That evening, the clans-folk held a meeting. Uncle Crow pled his case: He had only tried to help. He was providing them with the very food which kept them alive. Had he not always been there for them? Should they not be grateful? So what if he brought home a little too much? He had not forced anyone to eat that meat. His peers should have shown a little restraint. They should take personal responsibility for their actions.

His kinfolk did not interrupt Uncle Crow, even when they disliked the things they heard. They maintained a dignified silence, as tears assembled in the knuckles of their eyes, and as their brows crumpled into furrows. Members of their tribe always remained silent whilst their peers were speaking, granting them the time they needed to plead their case. They only ever made a decision once they had listened to everyone’s point of view. And even then, a vote had to be held, and the result had to be unanimous.

In this case, the vote was unanimous at the first time of asking. Uncle Crow was invited to enter into a voluntary exile.

Crow respected the group’s decision, agreeing to this request without a word of complaint.

And yet, in an unpredicted turn of events, the clans-folk did heed Uncle Crow’s advice. They did take a little more Personal responsibility. Or perhaps it was collective responsibility. Rather than rely on a single hunter, they each hunted a little; sometimes alone, and sometimes as part of a group. They never secured quite as much meat as in the days of Uncle Crow. But that never seemed to matter.

***

The Eagle Clan did not measure time using seconds, minutes and hours…

They could not help but notice the difference between daytime and night. They knew of the seasons, solstices and lunar-cycles. But they had no need for such things as Weeks and Months. They rose a little before the sun, when the air was at its coolest. They fell asleep as the moon approached its zenith. They hunted if they were moved by a desire to hunt. They fished if they felt like fishing. They gathered plants whenever they appeared. And they repaired their huts whenever it took their fancy. No-one ever told them what to do, and no clock ever told them when to do it.

But if had they used such units, it could have been said that Sunny had recalled The Tale of Uncle Crow, on no fewer than five occasions, in what had been a little under an Hour. An image of that legendary hunter was reappearing in his mind’s eye, on an increasingly regular basis.

But why?

It started three days before…

Sunny had awoken before dawn, jumped to his feet, and tiptoed out of the circular hut which he shared with eight other people; avoiding the bark-less wooden pole in the centre of that abode, stepping over the bodies which were strewn across the earthen floor, and slipping out through an opening in the wall; a head-high bamboo structure, which was interwoven with strips of banana leaves.

Sunny had collected a spear from the clan’s communal store, and wandered into the bush.

Things had not gone as smoothly as he might have envisioned…

On that first day, Sunny had only spotted a single animal. Impelled by an inebriating cocktail of excitement and nerves, he had tangled his gangly legs; rustling one too many plants, and kicking one too many pebbles; alerting his prey, who bolted from view.

Too proud to return empty-handed, Sunny had slept in the wilds, and tried again the following morning. This time, he failed to locate a single target.

On the third day, he believed his perseverance had finally been rewarded, when he backed an antelope into a cave. He thought he might die, when that animal readied itself to charge; bowing its head, exposing the points of its antlers. And he thought he might triumph, when he pushed through his fear; lunging forwards, bracing his knees, and thrusting his spear into space.

Neither of these things had come to pass. The two combatants had danced a tango; passing without touching, making a sound, or leaving a mark.

What was Sunny to do?

He needed another plan. And, in one of those rare moments of inspiration, or luck, or destiny; he remembered, or found, or was discovered; by a nomadic clan, who had erected their camp nearby. Perhaps Sunny had spotted the smoke, which billowed out from their fire. Or perhaps he had smelled their food. He was so drowsy, overcome by hunger and thirst, that he could not be entirely sure how he found those people. Nor could he remember how he had ended up by their fire, clasping a bowl of pigeon soup.

That meal, and the sleep which followed, had set Sunny straight. Come dawn, he was back on his feet, raring to go, and determined to complete his mission.

As he was leaving the camp, he noticed five oxen, who were tied to a tree. He must have been mesmerised by those animals, because he was oblivious to the person who approached him from behind:

Pretty impressive, right?

Sunny jumped. His heart missed a beat, and his nose missed a breath. He had to thump his chest back into action, and gulp down a mouthful of air, before he was able to form a response:

"Aah… Aah-ooh… Yes! Yes, yes."

Why don’t you take one?

Eh?

What’s ours is yours?

But… It’s just… Well, I couldn’t.

Consider it a gift! Take it now, and re-gift us whenever you’re ready.

Really?

The woman nodded.

Sunny shrugged.

It had never been his intention to take another clan’s animal. He would have preferred to hunt one himself. But these were particularly fine oxen. And he could always hunt a different animal, sometime in the future. He could use that to settle his debt.

Sunny reached a conclusion: He would have been stupid not to accept that ox.

He trod back into the camp, spoke to the elders, received their blessing, chose the fattest ox, and led it back to their clan’s Small Camp.

It really was a splendid animal; so shiny it sparkled, as tall as most men, with horns like an eagle’s wings. Sunny supposed it might provide enough meat to feed his peers for half a lunar-cycle.

He daydreamed as he walked, envisioning the claps and cheers which would greet his arrival. Allowing his imagination to roam free, he saw people emerge from their huts, burst into song, lift him, throw him, and catch him as he fell:

Amazing, Sunny!

What a fine animal.

Wow, Sunny, you’re the best!

You’re a hero.

Please will you have sex with me?

He knew, deep down, that he was unlikely to receive such a welcome. But he still expected a little praise and a modicum of respect. He could have never predicted the sheer indifference with which he was met.

There he stood, as proud as a sunset; with his chest puffed, and his hands on his hips; with the animal before him, and the camp before them both.

And nothing. No-one came to meet him. No-one said a word. At first, no-one even glanced in his general direction.

After several moments had passed, a couple of elders finally turned towards Sunny, almost unwillingly, as though it was the greatest of all possible burdens. They did not say a word, or react in any other way. They merely looked him up and down, before returning to face each other. One nibbled the piece of wood he had been chewing since daybreak. The other nodded, as though to agree with her friend, who was yet to voice an opinion.

Sunny was happy to wait. He knew there wouldn’t be a procession. That was a flight of fancy. There wouldn’t be any hollers or hurrahs. But he was certain that a few people would smile. Someone might offer a word of praise. Someone else might pucker their lips or clap.

As the moments rolled by, his certainty gave way to doubt, which gave way to dejection. This was a fine animal. Its meat would feed the clan for several days. Why was no-one coming to greet him?

He broke.

Calling out to the two elders, he implored:

Come and see this miraculous beast. Come and wonder at its stupendous thighs, astonishing rump, and eye-boggling hulk. Dearest auntie and beloved uncle: This is the finest catch of the season. Come and feel its bounteous meat. There’s enough to satisfy us all. I mean… I couldn’t possibly take a share, until the elders have taken theirs.

Nothing.

Come! Come and look at its muscled limbs. Come and see its opulent coat. Come and feel its sturdy bones.

Nothing.

Supposing he had little to lose, Sunny led the ox between the two rows of huts which gave shape to their Small Camp; the place they called home during the dry season. He had already jinked his way through the clan’s allotment; a hotchpotch of plants, which skirted around the southern end of this encampment, blurring the border between their home and the scrublands which lay beyond; an unnervingly flat expanse; dusty, dry, yellowish, amber and bronze. Now he was strolling down this avenue, which had formed organically over the course of a hundred generations. None of the tiny flowers, which filled the grasslands to the north, could be found on this earthen track. It was a perfect desert; hard-packed, impeccably smooth, without a crack or dent in sight. A visitor might have supposed it had been designed this way. But the clans-folk had never maintained this space, unlike the fire pit which took pride of place at the opposite end of the lane. A few of the elders did take care of that circle; the place where the clans-folk roasted their meat and held their parliaments. They swept that space every morning and most afternoons.

Sunny came to a stop in the shade of one of the twenty-six bulbous trees which lined this road. They were all alike; emerald spheres, which towered above their podgy trunks; balancing precariously, as though they might tumble at any moment. Those trees provided a certain symmetry to the camp. There were two of them between each hut. And they served a purpose; supplying the shade which cooled this place when the heat became too much to bear.

There were only two seasons in this region; a rainy season, and a slightly longer dry season. The rainy season was characterised by daily showers. They did not last for long, but they were intense; pounding the ground, churning the earth, and flooding the land. The dry season was oppressive. The air was so dry, it glistened. The heat could cook an egg. The tribes-folk had evolved to tolerate these temperatures. But they were still grateful for the shade these trees supplied.

Sunny took a breath, allowed the shadows to stroke his skin, and gazed along the lane.

Something caught him by surprise: There were people in almost every hut. They seemed to have stopped what they were doing, just to stare at him. Or at least, Sunny felt they were staring at him. In the days which were to follow, he would question if this had really been the case. But in that moment, he had no such doubts.

He led the ox a little further up the lane, reached the silent couple, stopped, and addressed the woman, who was called Aura:

Dearest Auntie Aura: Feast your eyes upon this.

Aura lifted her face, revealing a maze of tattooed lines; bluish, bruised and blurred. Every adult in their tribe had facial tattoos, but Aura had more than most. Her face was a leathery canvas, confused by a mishmash of patterns, which had been drawn by an array of different artists, over the course of hundreds of seasons. It took quite an effort to work out which line belonged to which pattern, and to focus on that design, whilst ignoring the surrounding fuzz.

Aura was wearing the type of loincloth which was worn by almost everyone in their tribe. It was made from two pieces of antelope hide, which had been stitched together with boar sinew, such that the front piece covered her genitalia, and the rear piece covered her buttocks. She wore her hair in the style which was common among a few of the local clans; tying it into plaits, before combining those plaits into a bun. Her neck was decorated with ivory pearls, and her wrists were adorned with eggshell beads. But the rest of her body remained as naked as the day she was born, covered in nothing but these bluish tattoos.

Whilst her attire made Aura look like any other member of her clan, her features marked her apart. Her face was longer and thinner than any other face Sunny had ever seen. Her teeth were skew-whiff. They pointed outwards in different directions, and met her gums at different angles; they were different shapes, shades and sizes. Time had not been kind to Aura’s body. But she still retained an unflinching femininity. People said that she had been a wondrous beauty in her youth. All the men had desired her body. And, since she was a generous person, she had shared it with anyone who had asked.

Oh, that? she finally replied, with an almost aggressive form of disinterest.

Yes, Auntie.

That old bag of skin and bones?

Well… Auntie… Can’t you see? This is a fantabulous beast!

"Beast? It’s beastly, that’s for sure. All I see is limp skin and withered bones. Its own mother must have been ashamed of the wretched thing."

Sunny tried to suppress a frown. Surely Aura was mistaken. She was old. She was probably losing her sight.

He changed tack, turning to address Aura’s friend, a man named Sparrow.

Sparrow was also wearing a loincloth. His hair was also plaited, and his skin was also awash with tattoos. But despite these things, Sparrow and Aura could not have looked less alike. Though they were a similar age, time had been gentle with Sparrow. His teeth were still aligned, white, and well-proportioned. His face was neither too long nor too short, too wide nor too narrow. Yet it was hard to imagine that he had ever been handsome. There was nothing wrong with Sparrow’s appearance. Everything was where it was supposed to be. But it lacked character. It was scientific, not artistic; too average to catch one’s attention, too blurry to pique one’s interest, and too plain to inspire warmth or love.

Beloved uncle: What do you say?

Bag of bones. Worthless. You must have burnt off more energy, dragging this creature home, than you’ll ever get from the crumbs of meat on its shrunken carcass.

Sunny stalled:

But… It’s just… Well, I wanted to share it. Won’t you do me the honour?

What would I want with that?

To eat it, uncle.

Eat what? I’d have to eat its horns, because there’s certainly no meat on its body.

Sunny froze.

It was probably for the best. It would have been disrespectful to argue with his elders. And he could still share this gift with the other members of their clan.

He bowed his head, backed away, and continued down the lane.

But he could not let the matter rest.

Hungry for validation, he paused outside the next hut, waited for a person to appear, and boasted once again:

Auntie! Feast your eyes upon this tremendous creature. It’ll fill our bellies for twenty dusks and twenty dawns!

Sunny had been addressing Kitten.

Kitten was a similar age to Sunny’s mother. She had borne no fewer than fifteen children, although only three had survived past infancy. Her losses weighed heavily in Kitten’s eyes. Yet there was an inescapable sense of defiance in her demeanour. Kitten’s shoulders were aggressively square, and her breasts projected forwards, as though intent on poking anyone who approached.

Kitten scoffed, generating so much mucus, she was forced to spit it out:

"Tut, tutty-tut-tut, tutty-tut… That sack of guts will barely feed the members of a single hut. Don’t you know that we are many? What, have you forgotten your Auntie Aura, and the people with whom she shares a hut? Or your Auntie Butterfly, and the people with whom she shares a hut? What about that hut, where Health is the matriarch? Or that one, where Mountain lives with her children and grandchildren? So many huts, with so many people in each. And you have the gizzards to arrive here with such a tiny amount of meat? Huh?"

But… I mean… Haven’t you seen this animal’s mountainous height? Just look at how far its body extends. Dearest auntie: Gaze your eyes upon its gargantuan, humongous, super-colossal chest.

"Size? It’s big, but there’s no fat on the thing. It’s all carcass and air. Are you blind? Can’t you tell the difference between a proper animal and an old wreck like this?"

Oh.

"I’m surprised at you, Sunny Boy. For how many seasons has the sun shone upon your head? You should be old enough to hunt properly; to bring home real meat; to know the difference between a good animal and a bone-bucket like this."

Oh.

Of course, we’ll eat it. But it won’t fill us. It won’t give us the energy we need to hunt. We’ll traipse off to sleep, dejected, with hollow legs and rumbling bellies.

Blown back by the savagery of Kitten’s response, Sunny opened his mouth to say Sorry. But he barely emitted a sound. He turned, paused, and tried to apologize again. He failed, accepted defeat, bowed his head, and trudged away; heading back to the hut in which he slept, where he greeted his mother:

"Mother kindest: Don’t you think we could feed just a few people with this ox? It’s just… Well, there’s got to be a bit of meat on these bones."

Sunny’s mother took her time; pondering her son’s question, as though mulling over a mouthful of berries, some of which were sweet, and some of which were sour.

She eventually deigned to respond:

"You know our tastes, chick-i-lick. We love meat. In fact, we love fat. When we see a skinny animal like this, out there in the bush, we almost always let it go. We save our energy for a worthy creature. A creature who’s dripping in fat. You know the sort. The kind of animal whose meat is layered with white fat, which turns into a clear, thick oil when it’s cooked. The sort of fat that slides down your throat, lines your stomach, and gives you roaring diarrhoea."

Sunny could not disagree. His people did like fatty meat. This was why he had selected this particular ox. It possessed more fat than any other animal they had captured since leaving their Big Camp, at the end of the rainy season. Why could his peers not see this?

"No doubt, its bones will be good for soup. But there’s no fat on the thing."

Sunny pinched the ox’s belly.

What’s this?

It’s a little fat, but not much. Lovely: I worry that this animal will cause a fight. You serve up something like that… There’d be so little to go around, one person is sure to accuse another of taking all the prime cuts. A few people will go hungry, whilst others will eat. And then what? Smoke in a beehive! You’ll have provoked a riot.

Sunny thought better than to disagree. A single person might have been mistaken. But he had heard the same opinion from four different people. They could not all be wrong.

And yet, no! They could all be wrong. This was a fine creature. It was jacketed in layers of fat. He had done well to get it, and his kinfolk should have been grateful.

That was when it hit him…

That image of Uncle Crow appeared in his mind’s eye, replete with his mother’s unpredictable eyebrows. There it was, providing more meat than anyone else. And there it was again; cast into exile, chided and disparaged, in much the same way that Sunny was being chided himself.

No-one had called him Uncle Crow. At least, they had not done so out loud. But Sunny was almost certain that they were calling him an Uncle Crow, in the subtext of their speech; in the hidden meanings, which lurked between the lines; all the more powerful because they were left unspoken, and so remained unpolluted by the inadequacy of words.

Perhaps those people were envious. Sunny very much doubted that they had ever returned with such a majestic animal, back when they were as young as him. He doubted that they had ever returned with such a catch.

Did they know that he had been gifted this ox by another clan?

Surely not.

Then what?

Sunny could not be sure.

But of one thing he was certain: This image of Uncle Crow. This semi-mythical character had not just appeared to him once. It had appeared again and again, with increasing regularity; transforming in shape and appearance, until there could be no doubting the matter: Sunny was no longer seeing an abstract Uncle Crow. He was seeing an image of himself.

SHAMING THE MEAT

The ox moseyed around for an unspecified number of days, that no-one seemed inclined to count.

As though obeying an unspoken law, the animal never ventured beyond the camp’s invisible boundaries; remaining between the two rows of banana-leaf huts, stopping to eat the grass which surrounded the fire pit, and avoiding the windbreaks, made from reeds and grasses, which protected the clan’s possessions: Their stone-bladed hunting-spears, wooden thrusting-spears, and the barbed-points they used to spear fish. Their arrows, whose tips were covered in poison. Their bows, clubs, rabbit traps, fish traps, fishing nets, blades, and water vessels. The baskets and cords they had made by weaving plant fibres together, the stone anvils they used to crack nuts, the pot they had made from clay, the sewing needles they had made from animal bone, the digging-sticks they had made from antlers, and their burins; the stone flakes, with chisel-like tips, which they used to decorate these objects.

Whilst the members of the Eagle Clan did own a few personal possessions, such as their loincloths and beads, the items kept in this store were held in common. People borrowed them whenever they wished to use them. But they returned them once they had finished; treating this store as though it were a library of things.

The ox moseyed on; indifferent to Kitten, who had gathered some yams, which she was sharing with her hut-mates; and indifferent to Aura’s nephew, Buffalo, who had gathered some bananas, and left them for anyone to take.

Unseen and unheard, the ox observed a group of children, who were playing Grown Ups; pretending they were adults, and thereby learning to be adults. The younger children were hunting butterflies with bows and arrows they had made themselves. The older children were hunting small mammals. In time, they would join the adults; hunting alongside their elders, whilst maintaining this spirit of