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  Ki’ti’s

  Story,

  75,000 BC

  BOOK ONE OF WINDS OF CHANGE,

  A PREHISTORIC FICTION SERIES ON

  THE PEOPLING OF THE AMERICAS

  BONNYE MATTHEWS

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  [email protected]—www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-312-5

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2012946067

  Copyright 2012 Bonnye Matthews

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Dedication

  For Katy

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  Without the assistance of several people, this book would never have seen life. Those people are: first, my brother, Randy Matthews, and then Karen Hunt, Sally Sutherland, Skip (Lorene) Henderson, Patricia Gilmore, Robert Arthur, John Morris. Each contributed far in excess of what could be expected or hoped for on the basis of family or friendship. I also thank my publisher, Evan Swensen, who had the courage to take on this project.

  INTRODUCTION

  Ki’ti’s Story, 75,000 BC, launches a new novel series that takes an alternative view of the peopling of the Americas. What is currently taught is that the First Americans, called Clovis people, arrived in the Americas via a “land bridge” from Russia to Alaska some 12,000 years ago. They travelled through an “ice-free corridor” in Canada to what is now the United States. Once here they covered the Americas from North through South in about 500 years, exterminating the megafauna (large animals such as mammoth, mastodon, and giant bison) evidenced by “kill sites” where bones were piled together and where, sometimes, spear points were found. The idea of a land bridge was put forward in 1589 by Fray José de Acosta, who had never been to the site. The ice-free corridor was not derived from evidence but rather from a conjecture of W. A. Johnson at the Geological Survey of Canada in 1933. The term “ice-free corridor” was coined by Ernst Antevs in 1935.

  There are problems with that view. First, geneticists have shown that the land bridge was not a necessity because the arrival of people from Asia began earlier than 30,000 BC when there was no glaciation. That view is substantiated by scores of sites of human Pleistocene evidence throughout the Americas. Second, Dr. Lionel E. Jackson, Jr., of the Geological Survey of Canada, along with Canadian archaeologists, searched carefully to establish the presence of the ice-free corridor in Canada in the 1990s. They concluded, after the application of science, that there had been no ice-free passage from 21,000 to 12,000 years before the present. Third, there is another explanation of what are viewed as kill sites of megafauna. Since numbers of large animals were found together in bone beds, it makes as much—if not more—sense to speculate that the animals may have died in groups from floods that would have been prevalent with the ending of glaciation. Just because human tools were found in the bone beds does not provide evidence that humans killed the large animals. Humans could have been at the bone beds scavenging meat from a flood kill or gathering bone and ivory to extend the life of hearth fires, for carving tools, or for carving various items, including art. Fourth, the Clovis spear points that are found at the “kill sites” have no connection with any tools made in Asia, where Clovis people supposedly originated. Instead, the Clovis spear points share characteristics with spear points made by European Solutreans. Finally, changing climate altered the vegetation available to mastodons, mammoths, and the giant bison. Extinction of megafauna did not require human intervention.

  There is additional evidence that humans have been living in the Americas long before what is even being brought to light today. Some fossil data show humans present in the Americas in the hundreds of thousands of geologic years ago. There is potential for an enormous prehistory of humans in the Americas.

  Ki’ti’s Story begins in time with the eruption of Mt. Toba, a real supervolcano that exploded somewhere between 69,000 and 77,000 BC. The major part of the story takes place in what is today China.

  For more information, see www.booksbybonnye.com

  Chapter 1

  “Why? Wisdom, why?” The old man was shouting while tears of frustration rolled down his wrinkled cheeks to become lost in his beard. “We’re having enough trouble just keeping the People alive without this quick, forced move to only you-know-where! Why are you letting this evil befall us? You could have forestalled this eruption or prevented it altogether. You have the power! There is nothing that justifies the time this is taking! Nothing! Do you no longer care for your People? Why are you cursing us? Ah! Who can understand you?” Wamumur shouted, shaking his fists in the air above his head. His stocky body was filled with tension. White curly hairs on his shoulders and arms glistened in the daylight. He was old at sixty, but he shouldered a backpack as heavy as any man. He was at the end of the line of refugees, with his back toward them. He would never have said those words if anyone could have heard him. It was blasphemy. Wisdom was not to be questioned. He stood there not expecting an answer, lowered his head, and then turned with a shrug and a sigh, wiped his face, and rejoined the line, taking longer strides to catch up.

  Ki’ti had looked back and observed the old man shaking his fists. She was seven years old. Her blue eyes burned with fire in her small face that was framed with slightly tangled light brown hair. She knew that Wamumur, the Wise One, was talking with Wisdom, but the Wise One looked angry. She also knew that anger toward Wisdom was not right. She turned and faced the other way so he would not catch her watching. She guessed she’d seen something she shouldn’t have seen. Small lines of perspiration in the dirt on her body and beads of sweat on her scalp showed her exertion in the heat. She plodded in line with the People as they moved slowly northward. She was tired but did not complain. She wondered briefly what caused the Wise One to shake his fists. The smell of rotten eggs assailed her nostrils. There was an irritation in her lungs when she inhaled. She watched her brother, Manak, move just ahead of her. He walked almost casually, seeming never to tire, but then he was fifteen years old. Unlike the Wise One, Manak seemed to be enjoying the trip. His brown hair was cut shoulder length and secured with leather across the forehead to the back in the fashion of the young male. He carried a large load. Ki’ti had to lead dogs that were burdened with tools for the hearth and other necessities. The dogs seemed pleased to carry or drag their loads. They held their tails high and kept their heads up.

  Behind them, Baambas had spewed out another plume that rose higher in the sky than any they had seen. The mountain had been puffing reddishlooking smoke for months. Finally, the People had decided they must leave their homeland. Wamumur, the Wise One, had insisted after he talked to Wisdom and fell to the ground, shaking. The Winds of Change had been exhaled from the nostrils of Wisdom. There was no alternative but to follow the lead of Wisdom. Often, so the stories told, those who didn’t follow Wisdom perished. The sun was beginning to sink in the west. Soon, they would have to stop to rest and eat. Ki’ti felt the ground move again. She was mor
e curious than frightened. Ki’ti wondered if the earth might be as hungry as her belly, which also rumbled.

  Ki’ti could hear Nanichak-na from the front of the line calling a halt. She allowed herself to feel a great sense of hope that the day’s march had finally concluded. She squatted on the ground to rest. The old man stood high on the hill, his white hair blowing in the wind. His bushy, stiff eyebrows stuck out beyond his eyes at odd angles. His eyebrows made her think of the large bird called the brown-eared pheasant, which had showy white feathers that stuck out of the back of its head below the chin. The back of Nanichak-na’s head where the bone formed a protrusion was prominent as the breeze parted his hair at the back. Nanichak-na had a flowing beard and it, too, was moving. His sturdy body was amazing for his age. He was not called the leader, but everyone in the group looked to him for leadership. They didn’t have a named leader like the Minguat people, or Others, as they were known. Nanichakna’s leather tunic was stained from the trek. The lacing in the arm strap was worn very thin and needed repair. He had a gash on his leg from a rock on the trail, but it had healed over quickly because Totamu had put herbs and honey on it. The wrap had recently been removed but blood still stained his leg in broad lines. Other older men stood near Nanichak-na. Chamul-na, her paternal grandfather, was talking to Nanichak-na. Neamu-na, her maternal grandfather, seemed to disagree with Chamul-na. She knew the language of their bodies even though she could not hear their words.

  Ki’ti looked off to the west. A large group of flowers bloomed just beyond the path they followed. The flowers were almost as tall as she was. There were brilliant blues, yellows, reds, and oranges. They were flat with petals radiating from the center. Ki’ti loved to examine flowers and spent much time thinking on their different constructions. She would draw images of them in the dirt to get the differences caught in her mind web. She also compared the scents of the flowers. She knew their ecological needs and some of their medicinal uses. Leaves were just turning yellow and red on the flowers and the trees beyond. The season of colorful leaves had begun. There was a thick woodland where large animals lived in the distance. Ki’ti was not at home in the deep woods where hardwoods predominated. That was a place for the hunters. The margins were hers.

  Ki’ti noticed one of the pole dog’s straps had loosened; she jumped up to tighten it. She took her responsibility seriously. Some dogs carried backpacks; some dragged poles with another dog. Skins fixed to the poles held items too heavy for a single dog. Crosspieces of lighter weight branches held the poles apart. They were green wood so that they would be less likely to snap.

  “I think we are going to eat and rest and then continue on,” she heard Manak tell her mother, Likichi, who looked at him without expression. Manak had beautiful dark blue eyes with long eyelashes. He smiled at his mother. Likichi was tired. Her brownish gray hair was long and was held back by a piece of leather. Her face was marked with wrinkles and it showed that, normally, she smiled often. She had been carrying a heavy load as well as a two-year-old, Frakja. She busied herself getting ready to prepare trek food, but she was not pleased to be continuing on into the night, even though she suspected the need for it. She knew the mountain was rumbling and they had to flee, but flight could be very tiring. She placed Frakja’s carrier to the side and whistled to two of the dogs for her hearth tools. The other women were joining her to prepare the food.

  Nanichak-na had seated himself and the other men joined in a circle. Nanichak-na pointed to the ash plume high in the sky. The tip of the plume seemed to have changed direction and was headed toward them. The faces of the men did not reveal their concern, which showed only in the raised hairs on the backs of their necks.

  “We can outrun the danger only if we can get to the caves quickly. Cave Kwa has a very large underground and that should protect us. It has water,” Nanichak-na reasoned.

  “Safe from what?” Manak asked.

  “Safe from what is to come,” the Wise One muttered. His white hair pulled back from the sides and top with a piece of leather at the back, framed his face. There was one section of hair on his left temple that refused to whiten and the brown streak gave him a look of being physically off balance at first glance, until you looked into his piercing blue eyes. Anyone knew then that if one of the People was well balanced both physically and mentally, it was he.

  “Wise One,” Manak asked with deference and a bowed head, “what is to come?”

  Wamumur dropped his head slowly to his chest in sadness, not deference. He scratched the back of his neck and said, “The sky will become dark and filled with particles like the ones in the air now, some larger. But there will be too much of it to breathe and it will choke the life from all who are left out in the open. The particles will get larger and it will pile up on the ground.”

  “Have you seen this?” Chamul-na asked, scratching his head.

  “No. It’s in the history. The stories of Maknu-na and Rimlad tell of this. We tell this story every season of cold days. Remember how they fled from the giant Notempa?”

  Manak looked up. “You mean Notempa is not a giant person?”

  Nanichak-na and Grypchon-na, Manak’s father, looked at each other in surprise and gently laughed. “No, Manak, Notempa was a mountain that exploded. Don’t you remember how it rained down on the People for five days?” Wamumur said.

  “I thought that was an expression of anger,” Manak responded.

  “Manak,” Chamul-na, his grandfather, said gently, “the stories are what they are. They aren’t trying to represent something other than what they tell. See that tall cloud? The mountain far to the southwest is clearing its throat to get ready to cough up terrible gray material from under the earth. What you see right now is just a hint of what is to come. The whole sky will cloud over and there will be little sun. It will be a time of great difficulty. That’s why we have the stories in the season of cold days. It’s a way we tell all the People our history and provide lessons on how to survive together through the Winds of Change.”

  Manak hadn’t heard Chamul-na say that many words together for a long time. He listened carefully. The words had a profound effect on Manak. He had listened to the stories in the past and let his mind wander as they gathered around the fire and listened to the stories late into the night. Manak had accepted the stories more as entertainment than critical guidelines for living. His view of the stories made a dramatic shift. He knew that although Wamumur told the stories, both his father and Hahami-na, his uncle, were learning the stories verbatim from the older man. Sometimes, they were asked to tell a story around the fire. If they missed a word, the Wise One said so. Nobody realized that Ki’ti was also learning the stories word for word and she had no idea that such a thing might be unusual.

  “So we call Notempa a giant because it was a big mountain?” Finally, Manak reached understanding.

  “Yes. That’s what Notempa means, tall mountain. You didn’t know what Notempa meant?”

  “I don’t think anyone ever told me. I just thought it was a name.”

  Hahami-na leaned toward Manak. “And whose name means nothing?” he asked in his deep voice.

  Manak was put on the spot. All names meant something. How could he have concluded that a name of a mountain meant nothing? Manak meant Strong Rock. He felt foolish. He crossed his arms, holding his shoulders by his fingers. His shoulders curved forward. He thought. His belly hurt.

  “Uncle, my mind web must have become ensnared in daydream. I can give no reason for my lack of understanding.”

  “Manak,” the Wise One said as he put his hand gently on Manak’s back, “You learn well because you examine your own mind web and fix it when it tears. Like a good spider, you are going to be successful because you tend to what is yours. I know now that you will listen more carefully to the stories.”

  “Yes, Wise One.” Manak glowed in the words of approval from the wise man. Manak loosened his grip on his shoulders, and let his hands rest beside him in a return to relaxation.
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br />   “We have to walk through the night because the cloud is blowing our way.” Nanichak-na said.

  “But Nanichak-na, the People are tired,” Grypchon-na said quietly. “I don’t know if all can continue at this pace.”

  Nanichak-na looked at the People circled around. “We do it, or the People die.” He hit his left palm with his right fist. He knew the truth of his words and feared that even with the continued walk, they might not make it to the cave. Nanichak-na ran his fingers over the twelve tiny holes he’d punched in the side of his tunic. One hole was for his deceased wife and the other eleven were for his children who had died either at birth or later. Hunting accidents killed two of his sons. Two sons died in combat. There was a drowning and one daughter had died of a fever. Four daughters died in childbirth, like the last, which took the life of his wife. Only Hahami-na had lived. For Nanichak-na, holes in his tunic represented holes in his life.

  Grypchon-na looked up. “What of Totamu?” Totamu was his wife’s mother’s mother. She was the eldest of any of the People. At age sixty-three, she was older than Wamumur by three years. She was fine walking flat terrain, but they faced some hills between their present location and the caves.

  “Totamu will have to keep up,” Nanichak-na said with finality. He took his right fist and hit the palm of his left hand with it, signifying forceful finality of his words. Grypchon-na slightly raised his eyebrows but otherwise made no facial move. He, too, knew it was necessary for survival. Neamu-na seemed to have expected the sign. He was staring at the light colored earth on which he sat and didn’t jump at the sound. Manak had kept his composure despite his deep love for Totamu. He had learned much in the last few moments. Life was sometimes hard. The men looked at each other and nodded agreement. At the same time, they sealed the agreement with a palm strike.