It was hard. It was so very hard, and yet at the end of the day the Big Man put his foot down and said, "We trust that the rains will return, that only those fated to die will do so, and that we need not hurry along the process along... even by refusing those in need what little can be spared. We will, however, save as much as we can by staying put, not making an extravagant gambles on this."
There was disagreement. There was squabbling and fighting and violence. People within and without the tribe killed each other over scraps of bread to try to feed friends and family wasting away. Travellers arrived hearing of supplies of grain and found that despite the fact that there was barely any to share, they could still get a pittance. People wept and wailed and suffered. Fall turned to winter and the weather was perturbed and uncertain. The equinox passed and thin clouds taunted the people. Thin warriors guarded the storehouses and the chiefs from emaciated people all too eager to get at the remaining supplies. The most vulnerable had all died already and the older children and younger elders were next on the list, and the people knew that if the rains didn't come then maybe one clan would survive.
What fools they had been to trust that the rains would come and that they could afford to be charitable!
They could feel it, they could feel the skeletal presence of death among their ranks, bony fingers flaking away the flint of his sickle with hideous taps. The crop was well tended to, and now it was time to reap what had been sown.
Hunger beyond the mere physical began to gnaw upon the souls of the people. Their Big Man was useless, had done nothing to try to undo all of this, and had just given their food away! He... he was going to take the remaining food and run away, leave them all to starve, wasn't he? They had to get to the food, had to save their families before someone else got there first! Someone noticed that someone else had a rock, what for was unknown, but soon enough people knew that they needed rocks of their own, for self-defence if nothing else.
The warriors tightened their grips on their own spears and clubs. They had better weapons, training, and were only on a third their usual rations rather than the slowly murderous ones of everyone else. People eyed each other warily, hungrily, and knew that the only thing keeping it from immediately exploding was the fact that the first person to strike was almost assuredly dead.
Someone cried out in shock and outrage and the crowd drew in a collective breath as it prepared to strike itself like a maddened serpent biting its own tail, but before that breath could be released as the rabid death scream of a people, that first voice trailed off in confusion of all things. Confusion and then excited, agitated shouting, but not the anger that people expected. A cry went up, a chant.
"Not spit! Not spit! Not spit!"
The chorus made no sense to those further out, until they too started to understand as fat but sparsely spread drops of rain started to fall. The almost riot quickly broke down as the people collapsed into grateful sobs, the rain painting their faces with the tears they no longer had in them.
The rains that year were late and weak, but they came. The harvest was poor, but it was. And the channels and cisterns and forests were all there to catch every last drop, and to slow down the water flowing over the dry soil and keep a blessing from becoming a curse. It was a hard year, a lean year, a year without births, but rations could be increased just a little bit and stockpiles increased.
And with the coming of the next winter, the skies grew darker than they had been in years, and the people knew that the worst was over, for now.
And with the conclusion of the first decent rain in years, came travellers seeking the people not for food or shelter, but something more, something different. Dressed in extravagantly dyed cloth and carrying great canoes over the hills, they were pointed out as being from the fishers to the west by those who had travelled the trails with the traders before. Their presence was strange, but despite the natural wariness of large numbers of foreign men showing up out of the blue, there was some degree of hopeful wonder about what these men wanted.
A man who was probably a chief of some sort - possibly an heir or sub-chief since he probably wasn't their Big Man - approached with a friendly hand raised and a bundle held in the other. Wondering what this was about, the Big Man approached with his own warriors watching out for him and said in the blended tongue of the traders, "Who are you and what business have you?"
"I am of the Sea People, and I come bearing a gift for your people and request," the man said, holding out the bundle for inspection.
Curious, the Big Man approached to examine the bundle, which was a leather wrapped clay pot, that at the other man's prompting was carefully opened to reveal the pot was full of the powdered shell the village was famous for, used for creating the bright red-violet dye that was so prized among every tribe that knew of the village. The sea chief lowered his head at the Big Man's flabbergasted expression and said, "News of your remarkable generosity has reached our ears and has shamed us. We gather the shells while doing other fishing, and we couldn't really catch fish any faster than we could, but with the drought's passing and your story... we gathered together a full season's worth of dye, shamefully gathered when you were starving and we were merely hungry."
The Big Man tried to find the words, before he hung his head as well and said, "Just because we gave grain does not mean we did not send people to their deaths..."
"But you had nothing and you still tried," the foreign man replied, shameful tears upon his cheeks. "And now... now perhaps the curse turns upon us for our greed. The sea seems intent on turning against us for our harvest of its bounty... we come here for many reasons. To thank those who had nothing for their charity, to atone for our own sins, and to ask for your help."
Deciding that this situation ran deeper than he initially thought, the Big Man nodded and summoned his people forward to take the precious, precious gift and to prepare a limited feast to welcome these visitors. Eventually the full nature of the visit is made clear. Not only did they feel compelled to apologize for inadequate action during the drought, but now the fishers are having troubles of their own in the form of storms... an ironic punishment from the spirits perhaps. While there was some direct danger from boats being caught out on the sea during a bad storm or from a house being blown over, the real danger from the fact that the storms were changing the coast, changing the local currents and how to best harvest the fish. They were adapting as best they could, but when they looked at the shores and banks and saw the water cutting them away, all they could think of was of the charitable people of the valley who had mastered mud and water.
They needed help. They needed forgiveness. They needed friends.
They needed your people.
And help they would receive, but how much would be difficult to judge. The rains were still poor in comparison to previous years and there was an intense fear that they might fail again, and that while previous actions had been correct, preventative action might be in order, especially now that they wouldn't be risking mass starvation if things went poorly. A journey to the spirit talkers to get confirmation that their actions had soothed the anger of the spirits was a suggestion. Organizing a punitive action against the lowlanders was definitely high on the list of things to do... although there were also strong voices that if the behaviour of the lowlanders had triggered all of this and charity had solved it, launching a punitive expedition could very well anger the spirits once more. Then there was a suggestion that in terms of preventative action they should have something suitably established for appeasing the spirits closer to home instead of requiring a massive expedition in order to make a meaningful contribution.