“Fine. Do it. Take off the obscuring lenses of the Great Forgetting and explain—or for God’s sake stop calling yourself B. Go home to your cozy little parish and apologize for behaving so foolishly.”
I felt fear. Then I realized he couldn’t possibly expect me to accomplish such a feat on the spot … but he did. He said, “If you’d like to become B another time, Jared, then by all means say so. Tell me this is your ambition—someday to become B. Then please go home.”
“But surely even B couldn’t perform this miracle sitting in a tavern, without a single reference book, without even a general encyclopedia.”
“I’ll be your encyclopedia. Or if you want books on prehistoric warfare, I can have them here in half an hour.”
“So you already know the answer to your question.”
“No, not at all. The books were not written by people who think like B. They were written by people who in their heart of hearts believe that Man was divinely shaped to conquer and rule the world. They’re scandalized by prehistoric warfare. They don’t explain it, they lament it. They’re embarrassed, because the creature destined from all time to be the ruler of the world should have been finer, nobler, more angelic.”
“Yes, I see…. Am I right in assuming that prehistoric warfare was similar to the sort of warfare found among tribal peoples in modern times?”
He shook his head, disgusted. “Either you know how to take off the obscuring lenses or you don’t, Jared. Don’t expect me to do it for you. I’ll be on hand if you want to consult an encyclopedia, but don’t ask me to do your thinking for you.” He got up and moved to a table by himself on the other side of the room.
I was relieved. He was right: Either I knew how to take off the obscuring lenses or I didn’t, and it would be easier done in solitude than in company. I flagged down Theda and ordered another drink.
The point I’d been making with Albrecht was one that I’d never explored with either Charles or Shirin, though it was implicit in everything they said. How do we know that modern tribal peoples live the way ancient tribal peoples lived? B’s answer is this: The tribal lifestyle survived to the present moment because it works. What is extant in the world is what has endured, what is stable, what works. Failed experiments disappear, successful ones are repeated and repeated and repeated. It’s fatuous to suppose that hibernation is a recent innovation for bears—though there’s no way to prove that it isn’t; bears hibernate because this works. It’s similarly fatuous to suppose that migration is a recent innovation for birds—though again there’s no way to prove that it isn’t; birds migrate because this works. It’s fatuous to suppose that web-building is a recent innovation for spiders—though there’s no way to prove that it isn’t; spiders spin webs because this works.
If you go back in time a million years, you will not expect to find bears spinning webs, birds hibernating, and spiders migrating. Bears hibernate today very probably because hibernation worked for them a million years ago. Birds migrate today very probably because migration worked for them a million years ago. And spiders spin webs today very probably because spinning webs worked for them a million years ago. Because humans were not the object of a special creation but evolved in the bosom of the community of life with all the rest, this sort of reasoning applies to people as well as it does to bears, birds, and spiders. We know for a certainty that totalitarian agriculture is a recent innovation, but there’s no reason at all to suppose that the tribal lifestyle is a recent innovation. People live tribally in modern times very probably because living tribally worked for them a million years ago.
I asked myself what I knew about warfare in the nonhuman community. What I knew was this: The closest thing to warfare in the nonhuman community is all within species, not between species. Predation isn’t war. Birds aren’t at war with worms, frogs aren’t at war with mosquitoes, eagles aren’t at war with rabbits, lions aren’t at war with antelopes. Predators don’t do battle with their prey—they just eat them. When animals do battle, it’s always with members of their own species, for territory or mates, and no one despises them as morally flawed or dreams of a happier day when they’ll learn to live together like Thumper and Bambi.
When nonhuman animals battle, the winners generally take over the losers’ territory or mates. Tribal warfare doesn’t wor
k that way. (Albrecht confirmed this in his capacity as reference library.) Tribes living in a given area are more or less constantly in a state of low-level war with each other, but when Tribe X attacks Tribe Y, it doesn’t typically take over its territory or its mates; rather, after inflicting a certain amount of damage, it typically turns around and goes home. Before long, typically, Tribe Y returns the favor, attacking Tribe X, inflicting a certain amount of damage, then going home. This relation of more or less permanent low-level hostility between X and Y isn’t special. The same relation exists between X and Z and Y and Z—and these three have similarly hostile relations with the neighbors around them.
Characteristically, the people of these tribes don’t think of themselves as having “a problem” with their neighbors; characteristically, no one is “working for peace”; characteristically, no one thinks there’s anything wrong or reprehensible about this way of life. Also characteristically, the people of Tribe X don’t imagine that their life would be sweet if one day they went out and killed off all their neighbors; they know there are neighbors beyond their neighbors, and these distant neighbors would be no friendlier than their near ones. It’s in fact really not so bad. Years go by in which X doesn’t attack Y and Y doesn’t attack X, and in these years relations between them are typically very cordial.
The task of B is to ask, “What’s working here?” or “Why is this system so successful that it’s still around after hundreds of thousands of years?”
What’s working is that cultural identities and cultural borders are being preserved. When X attacks Y, it doesn’t annex it. It doesn’t destroy Y’s identity or erase its borders, it just inflicts a certain amount of damage, then turns around and goes home. It’s no different when Y attacks X. In other words, every attack serves as a demonstration and affirmation of identity to both sides: “We’re X and you’re Y, and here’s the border between us. We cross it at our risk, and you cross it at yours. We know you’re strong and healthy. Every once in a while, we’re going to make sure you know we’re strong and healthy too. We know that if we mess with you, we’ll suffer. We want you to know that if you mess with us, you’ll suffer too.”
One would think, of course, that there must be some better system, but if thousands of centuries of cultural experimentation haven’t turned it up, what does “better” mean? Evolution is a process that sorts for what works, and “better” is discarded as easily as “worse”—if it doesn’t work.
What works, evidently, is cultural diversity. This should not come as a surprise. If culture is viewed as a biological phenomenon, then we should expect to see diversity favored over uniformity. A thousand designs—one for every locale and situation—always works better than one design for all locales and situations. Birds are more likely to survive in ten thousand nest patterns than in one. Mammals are more likely to survive in ten thousand social patterns than in one. And humans are more likely to survive in ten thousand cultures than in one—as we’re in the process of proving right now. We’re in the process of making the world unlivable for ourselves—precisely because everyone is being forced to live a single way. There would be no problem if only one person in ten thousand lived the way we live. The problem appears only as we approach the point where only one person in ten thousand is permitted to live any other way than the way we live. In a world of ten thousand cultures, one culture can be completely mad and destructive, and little harm will be done. In a world of one culture—and that one culture completely mad and destructive—catastrophe is inevitable.
So: Tribal warfare—casual, intermittent, small-scale, and frequent—worked well for tribal peoples, because it safeguarded cultural diversity. It was not sweet or beautiful or angelic, but it did work … for hundreds of thousands of years, perhaps even millions of years.
Into the rubble
Sitting in Little Bohemia getting sloshed, I didn’t work all this out as easily or as tidily as I’ve presented it here—and I certainly don’t suggest that this represents a definitive last word on the subject. By taking off the obscuring lenses of the Great Forgetting, I was able to make out a dim path where before there seemed to be only an impenetrable thicket; I haven’t explored the path to its full extent by any means. This, I think, is what B does. B opens a path for exploration.
Albrecht was forced to agree. He wasn’t thrilled, clearly, but he had to admit that my insight into the problem had the stamp of B on it.
When it was all over, I was pleased and surprised. How had I failed to realize that I needed to be tested? How had I dared to think I could assume the mantle of B without first proving I could wear it?
I was pleased and surprised—and very, very drunk. I’d accepted Albrecht’s challenge around nine o’clock, and it was now almost two. The crowd in the Little Bohemia had thinned out and, oddly, had clustered round my table to witness Albrecht’s examination of me. I couldn’t tell whether they comprehended what I was saying, but they listened in a lively, smiling way, applauding well-made points, exchanging appraisals of my success, and generally cheering me on. By now, most of the candles had been extinguished, and it was exceedingly dark.
Someone asked, “What is that thing?”
Quite unconsciously, I’d brought out the fossil ammonite to busy my fingers with as I made my presentation to Albrecht. It now lay in a pool of light beside the candle on my table.
“This is another test that was given to me, one I haven’t managed to pass as yet. It’s the fossil remains of a creature that may have lived as much as four hundred million years ago. I’ve been assured that the past, the present, and the future are written in it. Think of it as a track in the dust. A track in the dust shows not only where the creature has been but where it is and will be.”
“Are you supposed to tell its future?” someone asked from the shadows.
“I’m not sure. Charles Atterley gave it to me but was killed before he had a chance to explain why. Shirin wanted me to smash it to pieces.”