KINGAWA: THE PAINTER’S BRUSH
August 1st, 1488 CE
Iyáanga, Tonga Territory/33º45'N 118º05'W
Ah, you wonder about my images, milord? But of course. Come in, stranger.
A fine city, is it not? Not like the cities around the Bay to the north, of course, but Iyáanga has its benefits. A beautiful beach, of course, and the hills behind are just as lovely, but the heart of Iyáanga is in its people. Not just us Tongva–we've lived here longer than the living memory of the twentieth ancestor–but all others from across the known world. And now–a surprising thing indeed!–a man from beyond that world.
But you see, in Iyáanga there is a special feeling that we alone may covet. We call it the Race, and it is in a way–how we show ourselves, how we behave. In the Race we start at the bottom, drifting in from outside the confines of our fair city, and we run through the days until we find a treasure for ourselves. Perhaps through speech, as my father did; he was an interpreter for the Yokuts, well back when, and it earned him iron blades enough to become chief of his village for a full twenty years. Or through trade, that's always popular. Consultations–the Chumash have the best calendars in the world, and the best horoscopes. You'll have passed psychics on the streets, of course. Music and performance? They're always essential, and the dancers often turn to the fifth method–selling their, ahem, bodily services–to supplement the income they get from work in the trade. I see your look of incredulity, milord, but it's a profession like any others, and what happens in Iyáanga stays there.
Myself? I paint.
There are many people, milord, who would not understand my work, quite literally. Oh, pictures they recognize, and they may even speak aloud the names of pictures. But these are new–comparatively. The kehatak, the Miwok merchants, did the most blasphemous thing possible and let their script become available to all. But I must admit, the tellahapok, the logograms, may just be the best thing to ever happen to me. After all, it keeps me in quite high standing, here in Iyáanga.
Because people like the idea that they can put their words, any words, into a new form. They like that the sounds of their voices can be recorded down the ages, using the great gift the kehatak gave to the word. So I take my reed pen and my soot and my freshly-traded ochre and crushed shells, and I carefully paint on tule papyrus the words that people so often want to keep for themselves.
See this one! Kehaatkuhe', "May you become rich" in Miwok. But I see the word makes little sense to you, milord, and I understand why. Most do not speak Miwok, even now, even here. So I make it clear by other means.
The genius of the kehatak–one way among many–is the patterning of their system, complexity from an inherent simplicity. See, the symbols for KE-HA-AT-KU-HE: a hash, an eye, a stool, three reeds, an upturned arch. Simple enough, you might think–why not leave it at that? Because it would be impossible to understand to any who didn't speak the language! The best of us tellahpek, us scribes, we get creative. What is the surest sign of wealth? Shells! So I make a design of a man (but often a woman, these days) holding for themselves a shell. Behind him stands a doorway, the hash grown large over top; his eye is bright and brilliant; he sits upon a stool, a symbol of great worth; three beautiful maidens with reedlike bodies bow before him; a man bears a basket of shells. All this I paint on paper, outlines in black, skin in red, touches of white here and there for the shells and the door and the shapes of the letters. A dream as much as a message, no?
It's quite a popular thing, even for those who do not speak the language. And, of course, I can apply the writing system to almost all of the languages in our lands. Tongva, of course, but if you use another tongue I can apply that too if you tell me the sounds. It's all so simple, really, like a game, but it takes dedication as you wouldn't believe. And people pay well for my crafts–even the Land and Water Grandfathers of Hulpu-Mni and Sokel. Surely this tells you something about the quality of my work?
I wonder if you would like one yourself, milord. A foreigner, of course, one from the Far West of the world. Perhaps a simpler phrase for you. 'Etaalinam, perhaps–"I will return." Or something in your own language? And a portrait of the White Islands you bear yourselves across the sea in, between two great lands on a dark sea? I can provide the purple especially–
But no. You demur. Ah, you remind me, milord. Not everyone has an interest in the art of writing.
Ah, you laugh, milord? I wonder what it is I have said that amuses you so, that I might say it again.
Oh, yes, this is fine work, milord. The quality of the paper is astounding–so soft, so clear in colour–
Oh, the smudges?
This is your writing?
I see.
Hmm.
Yes, I suppose that makes some sense. You have turned pictures into words, as I turn words into pictures. But milord, a symbol for each word, unchangeable and over-complicated? Is that not terribly cumbersome?
No, I mean no offence. How could I possibly mean offence? It's not real writing, of course, but it's a remarkable idea nonetheless.
Ah, I see you leave, milord. I know not what this word "yaban baka" means–perhaps a farewell? In which case, milord, goodbye and yaban baka!
…pale-faced git. Didn't even offer a tip.
***
CONTEXT: An AU California where people got past the Neolithic and started empires up, much to the surprise of the Japanese who found them while looking for France. (Hence the derogatory name “Frenchmen” for the natives...) Also, Hungarians invaded China, Jesus became emperor of Rome, flexible glass is more precious than gold, and the Malinese are about to discover Haiti. It’s a fun little world.
(In case it wasn’t clear, they’re in Los Angeles.)