The Prophet of the Termite God

by Clark Thomas Carlton

  “You’re being sarcastic.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Should we invite some of them to join us at the meal?”

  “Not permitted.”

  True to her word, the silent Seed Eaters watched the Britasytes as they docked their roaches and fed and watered them. Later they watched as the roach people ate a simple dinner and then visited among each other’s sleds. The Britasytes were oblivious to the hundreds of quiet watchers—all of them but Anand, who looked back at them and wondered if he should pity them for their deprivation or envy them that they were so easily amused. When it grew dark, it got very dark, and not one of the Seed Eaters had a torch of any kind. Anand could see them only as solid black shadows, and he was sure that was how he appeared to them.

  “We should sing now and drum a bit,” Daveena said. Anand stumbled in the darkness of their cabin for a drum for himself and a grater and rubbing stick for Daveena. They began with a slow and simple rhythm and were soon joined by drummers on other sleds, who weaved their variations into the beat. Daveena sang the first song of the night in Yatchmin, and Anand was taken with the honeyed sadness of the tune. He was just wondering what the words meant when she sang the Britasyte translation.

  I will get through this life,

  Will suffer for my pleasure.

  I’ll ask what my emperor needs,

  Not waste my time in leisure.

  I’ll take brief tastes of paradise,

  Knowing that my treasure

  Is not found upon this Sand

  Or knows the common measure.

  For I was born to die,

  For I was born a martyr.

  For I was born to tolerate

  A life that just gets harder.

  I welcome pain.

  I welcome sadness.

  Knowing when sweet death arrives

  At last I’ll live, at last among

  Those who live in Ever-Young.

  Daveena invited all the dark figures below to join her in the chorus and they sang, not in joy, but in a group dirge. Anand was glad she could not see him frowning in the dark after he had heard the translated lyrics. When he looked out at the shadows of the crowd below, he saw them rocking like slow lake waves as the song repeated. When it was over, their applause was stiff and ended quickly with an empty silence.

  “That is the most depressing song under the sky,” he whispered.

  “It’s not one of ours,” she said.

  “Obviously.”

  “It is the one they want to hear.”

  “But it’s instructions on how to be a good slave. Suffer for the rulers now, paradise later.”

  “Singing this song allows us to travel these lands. They might have a problem with a tune called ‘Let’s Kill the Emperor and Raise Ourselves Up.’”

  They continued on the route for two more days and two more nights, until Punshu veered right before a shallow pond and a cluster of beautifully crooked sycamore trees that had fallen and sprouted new branches along the lengths of their reclining trunks. They continued to Durxict through stands of barley and other seed plants, including chia, red wheat, buckwheat, maize, and autumn amaranth, the latter of which Anand had eaten in Dranverish dinners. Its densely packed flowers bloomed in pendulous ropes, and their bright maroon provided the first real color they had seen in days. They continued past piles of accumulated pebbles on Durxict’s edge and saw workers in the process of sorting them, breaking them down into smaller sizes, or chipping at them to shape into building blocks.

  As they got closer to the mound, they entered into an irregularly shaped wall that surrounded a slaughtering ground. Countless cages of living insects were stacked one atop the other. On the ground below, they witnessed ritual slaughters with priests dressed as the insects they were killing—Katydid, Cricket, Grasshopper, and Locust. Other cages held insects being killed by different priests who honored Aphid, Black Weevil, and Red Mite.

  The dissected insects were dragged by travoises into the next walled encirclement, another strangely shaped structure with an area in its west that had been cleared. On the eastern side was a busy market crowded with chaotic rows of tables and stalls under woven grass tarps. The orange-haired Durxites watched as the roach caravan took its place in the clearing. Anand heard the market quieting as sellers and purchasers turned to look at them in a way he did not like.

  “Now what?” he said to Daveena.

  “We wait for permission to market,” she said.

  “Why does no one ever smile here?”

  “It’s disrespectful. If you show your happiness, it incites people’s envy. Keep your joy to yourself.”

  “Or infect others with it.”

  “Simply not done.”

  As they waited for permission, the caravan made its usual if smaller camping arrangement by arranging the sleds in a circular position, as the wranglers assembled the roach pen and then herded and tethered the insects inside it. Anand was astonished by how different the people of this mound looked when compared with the scantily clad villagers of the borderland. The ones standing and staring at them were wearing long, embroidered robes of rich, deep colors, and all of them incorporated the bright orange fuzz cloth of velvet ants in their collars. On their heads were one-, two-, or three-pointed nimbus hats that were decorated with strung bits of Britasyte beads. In back of them stood mysterious figures in tent-like robes wearing orange bonnets with long antennae for negotiating with the harvester ants. As for the ants, they had fled the Britasyte’s roach-scent and were scurrying along the top of the wall, their antennae waving, as they retreated into the mound and left a faintly poisonous toxin that made Anand’s eyes water.

  “Are those merchants?” Anand asked Daveena as some of the nimbus-hatted came closer with the most severe look on their faces.

  “They are. They are disappointed there are so few of us.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can see it on their faces.”

  “You can? They look as glum as everyone else.”

  “They are glummer than usual. Come, we have to assemble before our sleds and wait.”

  Daveena stood in front of the sleds and was joined by Anand and the rest of the Roach Clan, all of them facing front, standing stiffly, as if for a military inspection. “Give me your arm,” she said to Anand, and she held it with her right hand as her left held a brown lacquer box. Anand looked up at the crooked yet towering wall of glued and reinforced pebbles and saw a few harvester ants poking their heads over its top, their beards brushing over its rough surface before they retreated. From their pen, Anand heard the roaches as they clicked and pivoted, sensing so many nearby ants.

  “The roaches need feeding and watering,” he said to Daveena.

  “We will do nothing until we receive official permission.”

  “Whom do we get that from?”

  “We are never quite sure. But someone will approach. They want very much to trade.”

  The people of the market quieted as all waited for something to happen. At last Anand heard a strange and rhythmic sound growing stronger. A procession of drummers appeared with nutshell kettledrums, which they brushed/tapped with sticks that ended in stiff bristles. Four large and muscular men wearing pied orange and green garments marched in a slow unison, as one of them instructed, “Shmug,” before they took each step. Atop their broad shoulders was a sedan chair and a weirdly oblong cabin with a screen that hid its occupant. When the sedan was set down before the Britasytes, its carriers lifted up the cabin to reveal its occupant. He remained seated on a magnificent chair, or perhaps a throne, the back of which was carved and gilded into a radiant sun-disc. The young man had strange features that Anand had seen somewhere before . . . a heavy lower face, large thick lips, and eyes with a pleasant fold over them. He was wearing a thirteen-pointed nimbus hat, and his thick hair and beard were an abundance of long, thin plaits that had been combined into larger, cable-like braids that were cinched with orange bead clasps.

&n
bsp; He looks like a Bulkokan! Anand realized as the man made a faint wave of his fingers as a demand for Daveena to come forward. She pressed her hands together and bowed and waited for him to speak. Once he did, she opened up the box before him and its upper lid glinted with a pleasant yellow sparkle. Anand knew that inside it were one hundred wafers of the Holy Mildew. The man, whoever he was, accepted the box, set it on his lap, and clasped his hands over it. As he conversed with Daveena, she answered each of his questions with a bow of her head, and at one of them, she pointed to Anand.

  The young man was shaking his head no. Anand heard Daveena’s voice as it got more excited, louder, but again he shook his head no. Anand started to speak to her when she threw out her hand to quiet him, followed by a glare over her shoulder. She curtsied lower, then made her request. After a moment the man nodded, permitting her to return to Anand.

  “He is the princeling, a Dur Knazhek. His father is the Dur Gorodz, the Grand Prince of the mound and brother of the emperor in Worxict.”

  “Will they meet with me?”

  “No. The Knazhek said he will pass our messages to his father, who will pass them to the emperor. He says the emperor has never met with an outsider. He will only consider their messages.”

  “And you have told him it is urgent, that we want to avoid a war and have come with an offer of a peace treaty.”

  “I have told him, but he says they are very eager to wage war on the Mushroom Eaters. He says the Slope can rename itself, but that does not make it a new or different nation. Emperor Volokop wants his mounds back.”

  “Ask him if I may approach.”

  Anand opened his roach-wing cape to reveal the orange tunic inside and then bowed. He saw the princeling was intrigued by the brightness of the cloth. Daveena made her request, and he shrugged before he motioned Anand to come forward.

  Anand lowered his head, then stood at full height and kept his cape open with his elbows set back. “Our deepest gratitude for meeting with us today,” he said, and Daveena followed with a translation. “And our gratitude for allowing our caravans to travel in your lands and conduct commerce. Soon, we should like to bring you the fabled goods of our newest contact, the greatest, richest, and most powerful nation on the Sand.”

  Daveena hesitated and looked at Anand with widened eyes. He urged her to relay his words with a sharp pointing of his chin. As she spoke, the princeling leaned forward in his throne and looked at Anand with eyes that popped open and dilated. He asked Daveena a question.

  “He is asking if you speak of the Red Ant people of the Northern Unknown Beyond the Sweet Blue Lake—what we call Dranveria.”

  “Tell him yes.”

  “Are you sure? They may be enemies.”

  “Tell him yes, I speak of the Dranverites, a people who seek peace with their neighbors.”

  She curtsied, answered the question. From the volume of his voice and the look on his face, Anand could see the princeling was scolding her. She turned to Anand, short of breath.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s angry with me because I hesitated in my translation. He is asking if you have had direct contact with Dranverites.”

  “Tell him the truth. Tell him I am a Dranverite.”

  The princeling stood up and stared at Anand.

  “I don’t think I need to translate that,” Daveena said. The princeling spoke sharply with one of his sedan porters, who ran off. He spoke to a second porter, who ran off as well.

  The princeling stared at Anand and Daveena in silence.

  “So much staring,” Anand said. “Don’t they know it’s impolite?”

  “I’m going to ask him if we can trade our goods now,” she said, “but only to fill the silence.” The princeling nodded his head.

  A second sedan with two chairs appeared, and the princeling pointed sternly to it as an order that Daveena and Anand should get on top of it.

  “I sense we are in trouble,” Anand said.

  “Not too much trouble. Or we’d be walking behind him.”

  “Britasytes, sell some goods,” Anand shouted. “Keep half to trade for the journey home—you may need them.”

  The Britasytes pulled down the tables attached to their sled’s sides and arranged their goods.

  “Punshu!” Anand called to his driver. “If we are not back by sunset, you are all to return to Cajoria—immediately—and contact Pious Terraclon and Queen Polexima. Tell them we are captives.”

  “We won’t leave without you!” Punshu shouted.

  “You may have to. You must . . . for everyone’s safety.”

  Anand saw the worried look on Punshu’s face as he struggled to look fierce. Anand and Daveena sat on the sedan’s comfortable, cushioned chairs and were hoisted up and onto the shoulders of the carriers who followed the princeling’s sedan. They entered a wide tunnel that opened into another walled, oddly shaped ring of more than twenty stories. The walls had hundreds of large, open, and arching windows throughout its bulging pebble construction. Seated under each arch was one man or one woman in colorful, flowing robes and jackets with broad shoulder pads and each of them wearing a nimbus hat. Most of them had their eyes closed in prayer but some opened them to watch as the sedan chairs passed.

  “Who are they?” Anand asked.

  “Priests and priestesses,” Daveena answered.

  “What are they doing?”

  “They are communing with their gods,” she said.

  “They appear to be doing nothing,” Anand said. “Which makes them typical of clergy everywhere.”

  “Shh,” she said. “This is their prayer wall. They believe if prayers are not constantly made to each of their deities that the slighted ones will get jealous and angry and curse or neglect the mortals.”

  “As I said. Doing nothing,” he whispered. “Where do you think we’re going?”

  “To meet the Dur Gorodz, I hope,” she said. “I’ve never been in one of their palaces. Why did you tell him you’re a Dranverite?”

  “Because I sensed they would want to meet one.”

  “How do you know they won’t imprison you?”

  “I suspect we are already their prisoners. It’s a risk I’ll take to avoid war with them—one we might not win.”

  The sedan chairs entered into another walled circle, which Anand realized was a stable that housed drawing insects and sand-sleds. The Seed Eaters’ sleds were longer and lower and resembled something like centipedes in their design. The scales under the runners were densely packed, and looked to be crafted more for a comfortable ride rather than a speedy one. Anand and Daveena’s sedan chair was set in a slot at the top of a sled. Wranglers appeared wearing rough, oily clothes, and led eye-spotted bean beetles to the reins with lure sticks whose ends were a stinking speckle bean, fermented in tree sap.

  The princeling stared at the two of them from his chair.

  “Ask him where we’re going. Maybe the Gorodz is out hunting or something.”

  Daveena spoke with the princeling, whose words were clipped and whose tone was stern. He made angry gestures and pointed east.

  “Are we meeting the Gorodz or not?”

  “No,” she said. “He’s sending us to meet the emperor.”

  Chapter 30

  A New Queen for Mound Palzhad

  “Good gods on Ganilta,” Trellana said when the sand-sled slowed again. “What’s in our way now?”

  Bevakoof, the eldest and plumpest of her maidservants, peered out the window and blinked in astonishment. “Your Highness, it is acorns!”

  “Acorns? Very well. Let’s have the guards roll them away.”

  “They are being rolled. But it looks like hundreds of them—maybe thousands—in the route.”

  “What?”

  She looked at Nuvao, who shrugged, unconcerned, as he unrolled his cylinder of scratching paper and went to work with his stylus. Trellana left the cabin, and after pinching her eight skirts together she made the difficult climb up the spiral staircase to its ob
servation perch. She looked out and saw masses of people rolling acorns up the sand route. Behind most of these men were their families—wives and sisters and children—hauling their possessions behind them. Trellana was confounded, and returned to the cabin.

  “It’s the oddest thing,” she said as she watched her brother scratch into his roll. “Why are thousands of these people rolling acorns to Palzhad?”

  “Perhaps they were asked to roll them,” Nuvao said.

  “Why?”

  “So that they could be split open and eaten.”

  “Eaten? By whom? Acorns are very bitter.”

  “The refugees in the border weeds need food. I am sure they can abide a little bitterness at this moment.”

  “Why would we feed the refugees?”

  “Because they are starving.”

  “What do we care if they starve? They aren’t Slopeites.”

  “Some of them were, or may be, Slopeites. Or Bee-Jorites, if they choose to live on this side of the border. All the rest of them are human beings . . . like we are.”

  “Oh, I see. This is one of the Dranverite’s notions.”

  “And Mother’s. If you had ever known starvation, you might understand why they would want to end it.”

  “We have all been hungry, Nuvao. There are worse pains.”

  “Hungry and starving are two different things. You have never known starving—when a person is powerless to get food, when hunger turns into a debilitating weakness that can lead to death.”

  Trellana returned to the top of the sand-sled’s perch and shouted through its amplifying-cone to the people in the sled’s way. “Your attention, subjects! Attention! Roll your acorns to the side. We are passing.”

  She saw the people turn and look at her, then return to pushing their acorns.

  “Subjects! I command you to push your acorns to the side!”

  Nuvao was climbing up the spiral towards her. “Allow me,” he said, displacing her before the cone. “Good day, citizens of Bee-Jor. Our kindest thanks from Commander Quegdoth for your help in feeding the starving,” he shouted. “In the meantime, would you be so kind as to roll your acorns to the side of the sand route? We have need of getting Princess Trellana to Palzhad, so that she may offer it her protective essence. Your cooperation would be most appreciated.”