My Autistic Ancestor
A short story
…
Satisfaction, curls her lips. The long walk will pay off. As predicted, the ground has grown increasingly damp—the others won’t have detected it yet, but she knew. She had not led them astray.
Brighter light ahead—the woods will part soon to reveal the water source. Joy spills into her limbs, her hands flap with glee. The children—who love to be near the mysterious “Senser”—spy the signals in her movements, and cry out with glee before taking off at a run.
The other adults reflexively turn to confirm: the Senser has led us to a new home—just as she always does. Excitement picks up the pace, the adults take off at a jog, their packs suddenly feeling much lighter.
As she runs with her tribe, her highly calibrated senses pick up something—what is it? She purposefully scans the surroundings. Scuff marks on trees, distinct indents in the soft earth, the faint smell of…rotting carcass. Her impressive memory and pattern detection work in concert—she instantly derives meaning from the subtle clues. She assesses her group—the hunters are fierce, but few, and so many children had survived the past few winters—more than they could keep a watchful eye on.
Up ahead, hollers of glee, the sound of delighted splashes. As she approaches the water’s edge, her group is all smiles. Knowing that the others won’t understand, she does what she must—it is her purpose.
She allows herself to take a long, needed drink, then stands, shrugs up her pack, and continues walking, following the river uphill. Behind her, the joy snuffs out, sending ripples through her body. A need for security, and stability—a need that supersedes her desire to be accepted and liked—propels her forward, even though she can feel their disappointment in her body, as if it is her own.
Soon, the children surround her again, and the adults keep pace behind—they trust her judgement. One of the younger children stares longingly at her hands, hoping to spy a twitch.
Finally, the group makes it to the top of the hill—a stunning view. They’ll make camp here tonight.
The Senser, having shed the children onto their waiting parents, sits alone on a peak, the setting sun creates a painted sky. In the quiet stillness, she fully opens her mind, her senses acute and expansive. In this state, she is one with nature. She is fully connected to herself and her Source. No longer a single being, but an intricately woven thread in the tapestry of nature—her mind easily traces its patterns.
The sun is falling fast, if her scan is not fruitful soon, she’ll have to stop. Once the hunters return, they’ll build a fire, and the smells and sounds will make scanning both pointless and painful.
From the group, the children take off in skips and leaps again—the hunters must be back. Sighing, the Senser stands to re-join the group, then stops. A slight shift in the wind, her nose turns into it. She sniffs again to confirm—yes! She has a new direction for her people. Not wanting to disappoint them again, she shares the direction they’ll start in tomorrow, but holds back on the wind’s full promise.
There’s no need to warn the others about the rain—the dark clouds and stiff air make it too obvious to need pointing out. They are fortunate, and find a small cave to sleep in—they will be able to stay dry and warm though the night.
In the inky black center of night, the Senser wakes. Rain falls heavily outside. Lying motionless, her senses scan the area—what had woken her? Unlike the others, her eyes prefer the soft light of the moon and the stars, but the storm makes it difficult—even for her—to see distinctions in the darkness. The cave is quiet, still. She casts out her senses like a net thrown into the dark depths of the ocean.
There are…irregularities in the rain. Irregularities, moving in patterns. Staying low and quiet, she crawls to the hunters and awakens one. She motions for him to be quiet and collect the other hunters, so he does.
The ways of the Senser are mysterious, but her abilities have kept the group safe from dangers they cannot perceive or understand. If it wasn’t for her fierce empathy, honesty, and loyalty, it would be easy to distrust her.
The Senser indicates where the pattern is—where the danger lies. The hunters gather their hand axes and spears and slip out.
Soon, they return, unharmed, fresh blood on their spears, but no bounty. She knows what that means. Tomorrow, they will herd the children away from the area quickly, protecting their young eyes from the harshest parts of life.
The Senser stays awake and alert, unable to fall back to sleep. A sentinel: occasionally pacing, always detecting.
The next day, the sun beats down on the group, as they cross an open field. The senser has been looking for a winter home for them. The river in the woods was the second of their former camps that was no longer safe. A low hum of fear permeates the group—will they find a winter home before the chill forces them to risk a more dangerous resting place?
She takes a deep sniff, the growing scent reassures her. Surely, the group must have detected it by now.
In the distance, she sees the cluster of trees. Before she can stop herself, her hand twitches. A child spots it. An excited shriek ripples across the children. The group looks to her with cautious anticipation—their hopes have been dashed several times before.
She fully opens up her senses, knowing the shrieks of the children and dryness of her throat will be overpowering, she’s willing to accept the pain—she has to be sure. She casts out her net as widely as she can.
Then, a familiar smile tugs at her lips. Her hands flap freely, she spins, then takes off in a sprint towards the promise on the horizon.
The wind shifts and her tribes’ eyes light up. Soon, the group is laughing, running, skipping into the apple orchard and wading into a small, clear lake.
…
Months later, the snow has melted and the group is ready to migrate again. The Senser, as usual, leads the group—one hand gently rests on a growing belly. A young hunter carries her water bladder, tools, and skins for her—you did not need to be a Senser to understand the patterns of a growing womb. As they follow her into the unknown, her group shares one thought: Please, may her child be a Senser too.
—River
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