The Knowledge Stone (6 page)

After some moments, Old Malik’s gaze returned to the trapped boy. Stepping forward, he lifted the heavy plough and set it aside, revealing that the boy’s leg was deeply embedded into the soft ploughed earth below. Released from the dead weight of the plough, the boy scrambled free, carefully lifting his leg from the earth while keeping a very wary eye on his master. The leg came free with ease and the boy rose slowly to his feet, testing his weight upon the limb, rather gingerly at first, then with increasing confidence, finding he could move it without pain or tenderness: ‘I’m really lucky,’ he thought gratefully, ‘that heavy plough could easily have broken my leg.’

Now, he was in a quandary. Should he run away to avoid Old Malik’s fury or should he just stand still and pray to the spirits that he would not to be killed? Should he try to explain what happened – how it was not his fault but the fault of the bird suddenly frightening the bullock? Or should he restart his ploughing work again to try to please his master with his dedication?

Meanwhile, the man was still and silent, looking at the standing boy with a strange neutral expression that Joachim had never seen before.

In fact, Old Malik was looking at the boy with almost sightless eyes, his mind in bewildering turmoil. Strangely, part of his mind was calm and serene, a long-forgotten condition for him, and part was a racing tumult of almost totally-forgotten memories. Finally, Old Malik looked around him, a look of appraisal, a careful scan of the farm as if seeing it for the first time. Then he smiled, a rather bewildered but genuine smile quite unlike his usual cruel leer. Bending down abstractedly, he scooped up the bullock whip and tucked it neatly under his arm. Then, without a word, he turned around and walked back down the hill, striding purposefully towards the distant farmhouse.

He was so delightfully playful, too, she reflected. They both enjoyed laughing together, telling each other about the extremely funny events they had seen: the ropes of that heavily-loaded hay cart breaking and the road completely blocked with many bundles of hay; it had taken such a long time to reload the cart and no-one could pass by for hours! … the old fisherman overbalancing on the bridge and falling into the water among the fish he was trying to catch. How wet and furious he had been! … the village merchant’s carefully built display of apples, so lovingly and painstakingly constructed into a high tower outside his shop, suddenly collapsing catastrophically. How hilarious it had been to see the fruit rolling away in all directions! How funny to see the merchant dashing this way and that to retrieve his precious produce! Did you see? Some of the apples had even rolled away down the hill!

Oh, how they laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks.

Her mind now turned to the part of their tryst that she loved most: their special chasing game. How thrilling and exciting it always was to dash breathlessly around the trees, avoiding his outstretched arms, until that moment when he caught her. That glorious moment when his arm fell across her body! She recalled how they had played this wonderful game many times and the pressure of his arm on her back was the culmination of their amazing time together. It filled her with such yearning and suffused her with a feeling of absolute peace.

Then her smile faded to solemn introspection as she recalled the day before. They had had gone to the forest as they usually did. Their chasing game had been played with all its energetic joy and the time had come for that moment of unified peace. Her old dress was so loose on her body that she was completely unaware of its billowing travel from feet to shoulders at that moment when she threw herself down on the leaves. She only realised that something unusual had happened when she found large copious folds of thick black material underneath her hands, arms and upper body. Certainly she would never have expected the closer-fitting undergarment to be lifted up too, to reveal her body almost completely.

So instead of the usual light pressure of his muscular forearm across the loose waistband of her dress, it was a surprise, though certainly in no way unpleasant, to feel the touch of his warm flesh upon her own. It was then, registering his unexpected touch along with the distinctive caress of cool air upon the complete length of her lower limbs that she realised fully what had happened. At such moments, the human brain works remarkably quickly. On this occasion, the age-old wisdom of womanhood took over. She did nothing. She made no movement. She lay completely still.

Wisdom can be instinctive and some wisdom is exactly that. But most wisdom is garnered and honed by the experience and learning that the progression of life brings. Maretta was the second child in a very poor serf family; her elder brother was a few years older and a younger brother had followed her. Family life had always been very hard. They lived precariously on a very small patch of infertile, rocky land which was, in fact, common land.

The family were aware they had no rights to live on this common land and so were in constant fear of eviction. They knew that such evictions happened periodically and, if it ever happened to them, they knew they would be driven out of the area with anger and violence. Members of serf families had been injured or even killed in the course of such evictions.

The five members of the family lived in a rude shack built on this land and they attempted to grow root vegetables and keep a few animals on the extremely poor soil surrounding the shack. This was mainly unsuccessful; the crops were stunted at best and the only animals that survived were a few thin and scrawny hens, providing them with infrequent eggs.

Maretta’s father and mother were absent throughout the length of the day, having to take any labouring work they could find at neighbouring farms or businesses, their pay usually being in the form of some food to feed the family in the evening; mostly, the food they were “paid” was inadequate and, in consequence, the family was almost always hungry. With the absence of her parents, Maretta was looked after by her elder brother throughout the day.

By the time Maretta was around eight or nine years old, her mother had felt it appropriate to inform her daughter that girls and boys were
very different from each other:

‘You need to be careful,’ the mother warned her daughter, looking at her significantly. However, she did not elaborate further. This lack of explanation did not surprise Maretta, because serious conversations with her parents were very infrequent and invariably brief. By the time the adults returned from their day’s labours, they had little energy for conversation and the whole family retired to their sleeping areas as soon as the meagre evening meal had been consumed.

Later that evening, lying in her narrow bunk, Maretta recalled her mother’s teaching. What had she meant, “very different”? The girl turned her thoughts to her little brother who was around five years old at this time. Like Maretta herself, the little boy was in the care of her elder sibling during the day; this care included giving him his daily wash in a large wooden tub, set down in front of the shack and filled to a shallow depth from their supply of collected rainwater.

This was a routine that had previously been applied to Maretta when she was younger; of course she was now much too old to need someone to wash her and these days her ablutions were carried out carefully and in private. In her mind, she now scrutinised her little brother’s naked body as he stood in the tub, examining it slowly and with great care to establish all the significant differences between his body and her own.

No “big sister” of a baby boy is unaware of the physical difference between baby boys and themselves. On first sight of the child being bathed or changed, their curious eyes are drawn to that peculiar (ugly?) little tube of flesh set in the groin and, in response to their questions, spoken or unspoken, their mother explains that “all boys are made like this”. It is common for the girl to accept this explanation with pensive neutrality.

Remembering this scene some years before and now visualising the familiar sight of her little brother standing naked in the tub, Maretta could not identify any other physical differences; in fact, as far as she was concerned, all other parts of the little boy’s body were identical to her own. Head, neck, shoulders, arms, body and legs were just like her own.

She puzzled about this for a while, then she thought: ‘Maybe it’s
other
boys who are “very different”. How can I find that out?’

Despite her young age and disadvantaged life, Maretta was an intelligent and resourceful little girl, well used to solving her own problems. Now she lay quietly and wondered how she could solve this particular problem. Suddenly, she brightened: ‘I know exactly how I’m going to do it!’ she whispered triumphantly and turned over to go to sleep with a little smile of satisfaction on her face.

The opportunity to put her plan into action came several days later when her elder brother took his sister and brother into the village to buy a small quantity of salt for the family. The previous day, his father had been paid a few coins for his day’s work and the family needed to replenish their small stock of this essential item, used for cooking and flavouring.

The day was perfect for Maretta’s purposes, being very hot and still. On such a day, she knew it was highly likely that some of the village boys would be swimming and splashing in the river near the bridge; they usually did this if the weather was very hot. Because she knew that the boys always played naked in the water, this would offer Maretta the perfect opportunity to make a detailed inspection of their bodies.

On reaching the village, Maretta told her brother she would sit down near the road to the bridge and enjoy the sunshine while he went to the village store.

‘I’ll stay near here,’ she assured him artfully, already hearing the shouts and laughter of the boys playing in the river nearby.

‘All right,’ her brother replied. ‘Stay there and I won’t be long.’

As soon as her brother was out of sight, Maretta crept down to the river and concealed herself in a large bush growing beside the riverbank. Sure enough, several naked boys were playing in the river and she had a completely clear view. As the boys dived from the bank, swam in the water or stood up and wrestled with each other, shouting, screaming and fighting each other with various degrees of violence, the hidden girl examined each one with great care.

After ten minutes or so of detailed study, Maretta judged that her mission had been accomplished and withdrew from the cover of the bush, skipping quickly back to the crossroads where she had arranged to wait for her brother. Once seated there, frowning with concentration, she recalled all she had seen and formulated her conclusions: ‘Now I know for certain,’ she thought with satisfaction, ‘all boys look like that. They’re all just the same as my little brother. There’s just that one little difference between each one of them and me – and I know exactly what it is.’ She felt quite sure of the result of her investigation.

Then her smirk of satisfaction faded: ‘But why did Mother tell me they were very different? And why must I be careful?’ Now she felt confused again.

For some time, the girl sat quite still with her eyes tight shut, frowning and concentrating as hard as she could on this difficult problem. Then, in a sudden flash of understanding, she remembered the behaviour of the boys in the river – weren’t they so rough with each other? Weren’t they always jumping upon each other, pushing each other beneath the water, fighting, shouting and screaming?

‘That’s it,’ she thought, her frown cleared from her face by a wide smile, ‘they
are
very different, because they’re always fighting and they’re so very rough. And that’s why I need to be careful.’ At last she understood!

After this, in the weeks and months that followed her great investigative adventure on the riverbank, Maretta often looked down at her own smooth, streamlined body as she stood naked in the tub and, with a gentle smile of satisfaction, remembered the rough behaviour of the boys in the river and whispered that traditional mantra of femininity: ‘I’m glad I’m not a boy.’

There comes a time when children (quite suddenly, it seems) become taller, quite elegant creatures and seem to leave much of their childishness behind. Time had passed and it was now obvious that Maretta had crossed that mysterious threshold. It was then that a new routine was introduced into her life by her elder brother.