The Map of Seasons
The migration began, and Father spoke to me whenever we rested, sharing his knowledge.
“When the dry season comes, we move to Ati. When the wet season arrives, we move to other lands.”
His words felt almost too obvious. In this era, humans did not settle in one place. Their primary way of life was to move on once the food in an area ran out.
Perhaps he noticed my expression, because he gave a light chuckle and began a more detailed explanation.
“Our group has three nesting grounds. We go to Ati during the dry season, but during the wet season we rotate between the other two.”
“Three?”
Good land was limited, so I understood the idea of cycling through fixed locations. But I wasn’t sure whether three was a lot or a little.
When I had lived with Mother, there had only been the two of us. Gathering enough food for just two people meant we could stay in one place for years. That was probably why the number felt strange to me.
“It’s on the smaller side compared to other groups. They usually move between five or six different places. But we don’t need to do that.”
“Why not?”
“The land we live on is beloved by the sky. The dry season makes it hard to survive, but during the wet season, there is no better place.”
He continued with passionate descriptions of the place that would become our new home.
A stream of clean, flowing water.
A forest filled with all kinds of fruit.
Grasslands where countless animals roamed.
And even a large rock cave that could shelter us from wind and rain.
The nesting ground he described sounded like the most perfect land anyone in this time could possibly imagine.
That was exactly why one question rose naturally in my mind.
“Then why don’t we live there during the dry season?”
Father stopped walking for a moment at my question. He looked around, then picked up a dry branch that had fallen to the ground.
“Pretty Eyes. The meaning of ‘good land’ is not that it is always good.”
He drew a winding line across the dirt with the branch.
“When the wet season comes, water flows through here. Small streams come alive, trees bear fruit, and animals give birth to their young.”
Father drew several circles around the line.
“But when the dry season arrives, the streams disappear. The fruit withers, the grass dies. All that remains are stones and dust.”
So the river there couldn’t survive the dry season and dried up completely. That explained why they had to walk such a long distance to reach Ati.
Water that never dried up. That single fact turned the place into the most precious land in the world during the dry season.
Father checked the position of the sun and the weather, gave the group instructions to continue moving, then spoke again.
“The land changes its face with every season. Land that is good in the wet season, land that is good in the dry season, land that is good for hunting, land that is good for giving birth. Any group that does not understand this will not live long.”
I quietly mulled over his words.
To a modern mind, a nomadic life might seem like nothing more than wandering aimlessly. But the reality was completely different.
These people did not walk without purpose.
Where water remained. Which fruits ripened in which season. Which paths hid dangerous beasts. Which territories would bring them into contact with other groups.
They remembered all of it, taught it to their children, and constantly verified it with their own bodies.
This was the prehistoric era. Quite literally, the time before writing existed.
Without the permanent medium of written records, their knowledge had to be passed orally. Every piece of information about their lives and everything their descendants would need to survive had to be stored inside their heads.
All that remembered knowledge, along with the wisdom they had accumulated themselves, became a map more precious than gold—a map for survival.
And now, Father was handing that map to me.
“Listen well, Pretty Eyes.”
His voice was low.
“The land we are going to is good land. But good land is never occupied by us alone.”
I lifted my head at those words.
“There are other groups?”
“Other groups, animals, those who shake the earth, and all those who hunger and long for abundance gather there.”
Father gazed into the distance, speaking as if he wanted the words burned into my memory.
“So remember this, Pretty Eyes. A group must live only to protect the group. Only then can you, the group, and the family survive.”
As he spoke, he looked beyond the horizon with sorrowful eyes.
Long-distance migration was always grueling.
It wasn’t just the endless walking. Carrying water and food, enduring weather that changed without rest—every part of it slowly wore away at a person’s strength.
The one small mercy was that we were hunter-gatherers. At least we didn’t have to carry all our food with us.
Of course, the wet season had only just begun. A constant drizzle fell from the sky, and the forest offered nothing but newly sprouted shoots and tiny berries.
But what exhausted people most wasn’t any of that.
It was their feet.
“Ah?!”
When I heard a pained cry mixed with a groan from behind, I turned my head with a sense of here we go again.
A woman had collapsed to the ground, clutching her foot. Thick calluses covered her sole, but bright red blood was seeping between them.
She must have stepped on a sharp stone or a dry thorn.
Human feet have some of the thickest skin and callus layers on the body. But no matter how thick, skin was still skin.
Being Homo erectus made no difference. Even if their feet were slightly wider and their skin a little tougher than modern humans, stepping on something sharp still caused injury.
Father examined the wounded foot, then glanced up at the sky.
“We rest here!”
The group could not abandon one of its own over such a small injury. Whenever this happened, Father would call for a short break.
The others sat down as if they were used to it. They checked their feet, brushed off the dirt, and used their fingernails to dig out tiny thorns lodged between calluses.
Their feet were covered in scars both large and small.
…If any of those get infected, they’ll die just like that.
Small wounds could not be taken lightly. If you couldn’t walk, you couldn’t find food, you couldn’t follow the group, and you couldn’t escape from predators.
Infection was especially deadly. Even the smallest scratch, once it began to fester, could bring fever, bodily collapse, and eventually death.
Father seemed to understand this on some level. He carefully inspected the injured foot.
But the treatment method was, by my standards, quite shocking.
“Ptoo!”
After confirming nothing was stuck inside the wound, Father spat on it. Then he tore a strip from the piece of hide wrapped around his body and tied it tightly around the injury.
From my perspective, it was a direct path to infection. Yet this was the best these people could do in this era.
I didn’t have any better methods either. There was no disinfectant, no clean cloth, and even boiled water was difficult to obtain right away.
The most I could suggest was washing the wound or cauterizing it with fire.
Watching the woman thank Father, I unconsciously looked down at my own feet.
They too were covered in scars. Large and small wounds hid beneath the calluses.
I had been lucky so far. But there was no guarantee that luck would continue.
There was a solution.
The answer was so simple that it didn’t take long to think of.
Cut a piece of hide to match the shape of the sole. Make straps to wrap around the top of the foot and ankle. Then tie them together.
That was it.
Primitive sandals.
It didn’t even have to be hide. Braiding tough grass or tree bark would still be better than going barefoot. By modern standards, it was laughably simple. But in this era, it was anything but laughable.
If feet could be protected, the group could travel farther. If they could travel farther, they could claim more land.
If they claimed more land, they would clash more often with other groups.
And when that happened, the group whose feet were protected—able to walk longer and fight longer—would hold a massive advantage over those who weren’t.
In the end, this too can become a weapon.
I bit my lip.
Tools for survival and tools for killing were closer than one might think. A knife was made to cut meat, yet it could also stab a person. A spear was made for hunting, yet it could be used in war. Fire could ward off cold and cook meat, yet it could also burn someone’s home.
Then what about a piece of hide that protected the feet?
It was something that sent people farther. It could make them run farther to escape, or chase farther to pursue.
Once I realized that, I found it hard to open my mouth.
That was when it happened.
“Pretty Eyes.”
Mother’s voice reached me.
She never interrupted when Father was teaching me something. It was her own way of showing respect for him.
“What are you thinking about?”
She held out a thick papyrus stalk she had found somewhere. It was full of water and had a faint sweetness—perfect for chewing during short rests like this.
I took it and chewed slowly.
Then, suddenly, I noticed Mother’s feet.
Like mine, but far more scarred. The calluses were cracked, and between them I could see a wound that looked fairly recent.
The moment I saw those feet, the sweet taste of the papyrus spreading through my mouth turned strangely bitter.
“…Don’t your feet hurt?”
At my question, Mother glanced down at her own feet for a moment. Then she smiled as if it were nothing.
“They hurt.”
“Then why do you just keep walking?”
“Because if I don’t walk, I die.”
It was such a simple answer.
Yet that simplicity stabbed straight into my chest.
They hurt. Still, she walks.
She gets injured. Still, she walks.
She bleeds. Still, she follows the group.
That was their life. Because if they didn’t, they would die.
I looked down at the papyrus in my hand.
Tough, long, and difficult to tear. If braided, it could become string. If layered, it could become a sole.
It was more than enough material to test before using hide.
After a brief hesitation, I called out to Tall Bird.
“Tall Bird!”
He immediately stopped resting and walked straight over.
“What is it, Pretty Eyes?”
I didn’t answer his question right away. Instead, I held up the half-chewed papyrus stalk and asked Mother,
“Where did you find this?”
She pointed in one direction with a puzzled look.
I stared in that direction and let out a small sigh.
This decision might make me regret things again someday. The small piece of knowledge I shared could one day cause someone to get hurt.
But regretting doing nothing was worse.
Pretending not to see wounded feet was worse.
It was better to act and watch the results with my own two eyes.
At least, that was what I wanted to believe right now.