Mallkikuna

The pututu woke me before sunrise. Its sound entered the room so deeply that for a moment I could not tell where it was coming from. A second call rolled through the valley, longer this time, followed by voices outside. By the time I stepped onto the road, people were already leaving their houses. Everyone seemed to know where they were going.

Families joined the road carrying bundles, food, woven cloth, flowers, and vessels. An older man walked beside a child whose hand disappeared inside his. Two women ahead of me were laughing while they balanced baskets against their hips. People came down from higher terraces and up from the river until the road itself seemed to be moving. The pututu sounded again. I followed.

By the time we reached the gathering place, the Sun had begun breaking over the mountains. People arranged offerings and textiles while others greeted relatives who had arrived from elsewhere in the valley. An elder began speaking, and the crowd gradually quieted. I understood only fragments, but I heard names repeated. Some belonged to people standing among us. Others clearly did not.

At one point everyone turned toward the mountains. No one had explained to me why. I looked around at the faces beside me, at children standing near grandparents, at people carrying things made by hands I would never know, and suddenly the gathering felt much larger than the people physically present. The pututu sounded once more. This time I understood the call differently.

It had gathered people from across the valley, but perhaps that was not all it was gathering. Every person standing there had arrived carrying something from those who came before them. Names. Skills. Stories. Responsibilities. Fields. Roads. Ways of making things. Ways of remembering.

When the ceremony ended, everyone began walking home. The road filled again with living people carrying the past forward.