Kinnamara awoke, stretched, then padded to build up the fire in the shaman's longhouse she lived in. It was very early morning, but might as well get up, she thought. She got the water for the morning tea boiling, and straightened up some herbs and items on the shelves standing against the wall of the house. Glancing over to the sleeping area she notices Tinnemanga, her mother and Shaman of her tribe, still sleeping. Well, she wasn't as young as she used to be...it wouldn't hurt to let her sleep. Then the young woman Kinnamara crossed to the end of the sleeping area where a bamboo crib sat, to check on her baby son. He was just eight months old, but he was strong and beautiful. At least he was to his mother's eyes--he resembled her a lot, and had inherited her large, grey eyes, eyes which missed little.
She had named him Berabha, which was a shortened form of the words "brilliant man" in her people's language, in honor of his grandfather, her father. He was crafty and wise according to what the old ones of the village told her, and she'd met him once when she'd went through her Womanhood ceremony and given her virginity to the Good Spirits. He was from the Outside World, one of the White Men they didn't understand and generally feared. Her mother allowed her to see him, and she'd knelt before him, for the first time calling a man 'father'. He was tall and slender, with pale skin and short brown hair, and those steel-grey eyes. A few days later he returned to his own people, but she'd never given up her dream of going out into the wider world after seeing him. She'd vowed to leave her tribe someday and venture out, and see what all that they feared was all about. She wanted to find Nightstalker, her father, and learn all she could. She felt she'd learned and did everything of worth to do here in this tiny village, she'd become a woman and a shaman, had given the shaman's line an heir. She kept having the same dreams telling her she had a different destiny.
She was 17 years old, according to the outside.
According to her people, she'd been a grown woman for over 4 years.
She made the flat cakes of unleavened bread and porridge for breakfast, and Tinnemanga had finally awoken and rubbed her sleepy eyes, instinctively checking on the sleeping babe in his holder. "He's fine," the young woman said. "Come have some breakfast, Mother."
"You are a good daughter," the elder shaman said. "And you make my life so much easier. But I still don't understand why you wouldn't marry Yorogi, he's a chieftain's son. It would've been a good match! It would help your status, at any rate."
Tinnamara snorted, setting out the wooden dishes they would eat off of on the low table. "My status is fine. A Shaman doesn't have to have a husband, you never did. And besides, Berabha was sent by the Gods in the Great Feast, just like a lot of babies of married and unmarried women."
"We all know what lad you've ever had your eye on," grumbled the older woman, taking over serving duties from her daughter. "That silly Mehetse. That's good, I have his offspring under my roof. I'm surprised any child of his has brains enough to suck a nipple for food. Gah."
The younger woman held her tongue. They both sat on woven floor-mats and ate at the low table, dipping the crispy, flat cakes into the porridge and drinking the tea. After eating, she heard the baby stirring and fussing. She changed his swaddling clothes and cradling him in one arm, stepped outside to breathe the fresh morning air. He began to nurse, grunting contentedly, for she was clad only in her usual grass skirt and armbands.
The rest of the tribe were going through their morning routines, the men getting ready to go hunting and the women to tend the few cultivated crops and babies. She loved her people and its culture, but felt so...restless and constrained. She'd always been that way since learning that her father came from the white man's cities, and that Nathan Explosion of Dethklok was of their tribe, descendent of one of the Great Chiefs of long ago, and was guarded by Nightstalker, her father.
Wistfully she watched the men setting out for hunting for meat. She would accompany them at times, for she was good luck, being a shaman and all, but she'd also learned to wield spear, club, and blowgun. However, with an infant at the breast, she had to remain at camp. She didn't mind being a mother so much, she wanted a baby. A medicine woman or man wasn't expected to marry or produce children, although they sometimes did. They always had status and a place within their society, for they were the doctors, magicians, psychiatrists and scholars of their people.
When Berabha was weaned, she'd decided, she would leave this tiny place, and venture into the great cities, and find her father, and Dethklok, and her destiny.