by Jon Saboe
“We are travelers from across the sea,” he began. “We mean no harm and come peacefully to learn about you and your land.”
The boy responded with incomprehensible syllables, making no indication that he understood anything that Peleg had said.
Not another language! Peleg groaned inwardly. Where could this boy, or his people, have come from?
Peleg held out his open hands in a universal gesture of good will—and an indication that he was unarmed. Then he made a slow sweeping gesture to include the entire Urbat company to indicate that they, too, meant no harm.
The boy looked at Serug’s knife, and then looked back into Peleg’s eyes intently.
“Serug,” instructed Peleg. “Put your knife away.”
As Serug sheathed his knife, the boy appeared satisfied. He placed his lips over the metal tube and made some more finger waving gestures around it.
The dogs jumped to their feet as Thaxad cringed again, covering his ears.
Alarmed, the men drew back, but the boy made additional motions with his fingers and the dogs began to leave, bisecting their circle and moving as two groups back into the woods, vanishing as quietly as they had arrived.
When the urbarra were completely gone, the boy motioned to them, indicating that they were free to move about. He looked back at Peleg, and began to speak slowly.
Here we go again, thought Peleg.
The future of human civilization was at stake. The deposed High Minister had no personal agenda. He was only concerned for the education of society and its future. Nothing was more important than that.
Reu-Nathor became more and more incensed as he thought of the travesty of Knowledge that now occupied his chair. Since becoming High Minister thirty-eight years earlier, Reu-Nathor had worked tirelessly to eradicate myth and superstition from society, and even instituted the Citadel’s boarding school program which selected the brightest and most promising; removing them from their homes so their education would be free from the undisciplined speculations and old-fashioned mysticism that abounded in the backwards populace. The parents were always proud that their child had been selected for such honors and considered the loss of contact a small price to pay—an investment in society and the future.
Now, in less than five years since his Great Discovery Proclamation, his beloved Citadel was teaching the very myths and pseudo-science he had worked so hard to eliminate. That anzillu Salah (or Dumuzi, as he now demanded to be called) was flinging society into a downward spiral that could only lead to ignorance and barbarism. The future global society he had envisioned could never function with the kind of subjectivity and pluralism which he represented. The simple masses were being seduced by sensationalism and mystical speculation—nothing to do with real Knowledge.
Studying history via distance imaging and necromancy.Channeling “helpers” to develop anthropology. Resurrecting the ancient demigods as if they were legitimate natural forces. He was horrified beyond revulsion. This simply could not be allowed to continue.
It was bad enough that the focus of the Citadel had changed to history. What a waste of time. History was not the path to the future. He smiled involuntarily at his wry joke.
The world belonged to humanity, and it was humanity in all its potential that would conquer it. They didn’t need any mystical or spiritual help. The idea itself was offensive and even demeaning. Suggesting that mankind needed help was to suggest it was incapable of solving its own issues. Such defeatist attitudes were always self-fulfilling.
Fear and loathing filled his mind. Since the takeover, he had been at home, in hiding, and his thoughts churned constantly for an attempt to change what was.
The people must see the error of their ways. Salah/Dumuzi must be shown for the fraud he was. Such falsehood must fail. Such falsehood must die.
Perhaps if the usurper were mortally wounded? Then the people would realize what they had done. The simple masses might even attribute his demise to the will of the gods or a justification of fate. Either way, truth would vindicate him and the task of re-education could begin.
All he needed, now, was to select the best time and place.
Chapter 18
Family
“Building a legacy is only valuable if it also builds a future.”
Quenxian was concerned for her son. Although he was almost old enough for his Time-of-Travels, it was past noon and he still had not returned. A mother always worries—and she would still worry, even years after he had left the clan to pursue his personal Mèsha.
The dogs had been very restless the previous night—howling more than usual at the new moon. He had gone out to check on them, and returned, claiming he saw flames in the direction of the shore. Lighting strikes often caused small fires, but they would not spread in the humid forest. Sometimes, however, they would drive out small game which could be stalked and surrounded by skilled hunters.
Tañqin and his team had left just after midnight, promising to return before noon. She was sure he was fine—after all, he had completed his half-moon trial just four months ago and returned successfully—earning his fourth and final feather.
She heard scuffling noises in the distant underbrush and looked up to see Tañqin’s team approaching. They jostled together, playfully jumping over each other as they slowly made their way back to their corral. They gave no indication that Tañqin was following, but since they seemed unconcerned, it was clear he had sent them back on their own.
Their clan was comprised of four families which had hunted along the coast for years, but soon Tañqin would select a girl from one of the other three families, bringing the number of young couples to four. They would create their own clan and begin their own hunt—following the free spirits which lived in the game animals that traveled the coasts and ran before them. The new clan would build four new families during their travels, and if they were blessed, someday would produce clans of their own.
However, game had become scarce lately, and their Clan-guide had expressed concern that in their haste they may have outrun their quarry. For countless moons, the clans had pursued the game; inspired by the spirit of Mèsha who had fashioned their migratory culture with one premise: “Cover all the earth.” Mèsha, or departure, decreed they should never remain in one place. They traveled constantly, and as soon as four new couples were ready, they ‘departed’ from the clan to form a new one to begin their own hunt. What better way to fill the world than by following the food supply?
Tañqin was very confused. He had sent his team back to the clan’s encampment when he decided these strange men were no threat. Besides, they were not appropriate game. At the leading edge of Mèsha, he had never expected to find other humans.
The most puzzling thing was their inability to speak. They made strange gibbering noises and pointed a lot, but they used no words he could discern. They seemed pleasant enough, and it appeared that the ship and supplies they carried were manufactured by craftsmen of great skill, but he doubted these out-of-place travelers could be them.
One of the men was very tall with pasty white skin (the color of a grub worm) and a large forehead. Apparently he was sensitive to Tañqin’s team control whistle since he appeared to wince in pain every time a command was given.
A man with dark black skin, thick hair, a thin nose, and bright indigo eyes was thrust towards him, apparently assigned to communicate. He began by pointing to himself, making chattering sounds, then pointing to various items around him while continuing his funny noises. He was very earnest, and Tañqin would have laughed if it weren’t so strange.
After a while, Tañqin began to discern separate syllables. Perhaps these men had developed some kind of code—perhaps for some military purpose. He reached out his hand in a gesture, with his palm open and facing forward. He advanced until his hand was close to the dark man’s mouth. The bright eyes suddenly focused on Tañqin’s, and the man was finally quiet.
Tañqin took the man’s arm and directed him to sit down. They sa
t together on the sand while Tañqin began drawing. First some simple stick figures, then a picture of what appeared to be four narrow tents. He then drew a picture of the newcomer’s large vessel.
He wanted to show the dark man his community, contrasted with that of their ship. When he was finished, he drew a deliberate, yet wavy line separating the ship from the rest of his drawings.
Peleg realized he had been told to shut up. This boy refused to talk, and seemed only interested in making pictures in the sand. Peleg had disliked learning the sophisticated ideographs of Kemet because of their lack of objective information content; and now he was compelled to make sand drawings with this hunter boy.
He watched as the boy continued his wavy line in one direction. Peleg was grudgingly impressed when he slowly recognized the Urbat emerging from the sand etching. It was a remarkably good representation. The boy rose, suddenly, but continued his jagged, meandering line in a general, northerly direction along the beach. After drawing in this stooped fashion for about three meters, he abruptly stood erect and pointed decisively at his artwork—indicating that he was finished and that the meaning should be perfectly clear.
Peleg frowned, trying to figure out the significance of the line which divided the Urbat from the rest of his markings. He looked closely at the half-circle which almost encircled the ship before it headed north and then circled east before it resumed its northerly path.
It suddenly dawned on Peleg that the only thing separating the Urbat from the boy’s community was the shoreline. The initial curve resembled the shape of this cove which he had witnessed from Zini!
He looked up at the boy who now smiled as he realized his drawings were understood. He looked at Peleg and pointed, indicating that Peleg should add to his drawing.
Peleg finally thought he understood. The boy was explaining where he was and how he came to be there, and wished Peleg to do the same. He thought for a moment, then drew a wavy line which he hoped signified water. He began at the boy’s ‘shore’, passed next to the ‘Urbat’, then continued about five meters in an easterly direction.
While he continued etching in the sand, Thaxad approached the boy slowly with great care to be as non-threatening as possible. When he was close enough, he reached out his hand, silently asking if he could examine the porcelain dog.
The boy looked up without a trace of fear, just a look of bewilderment. Slowly he offered the object to Thaxad, who studied it for a moment, then raised it to his lips. The boy watched intently as the Mentor placed his mouth over the metal tube, and then almost laughed as Thaxad jerked with discomfort as he blew into the device.
Thaxad looked over at the other men who were observing them. “Can’t you hear that?” he asked. When their silence indicated they could not, he returned the whistle to the boy. As he bent down to place it in the boy’s hand, he said, quietly, “Very impressive”. He looked down into the boy’s eyes, almost smiled, then cupped the boy’s hand in his. He placed the porcelain dog in it, nodded, then turned away.
The boy turned back to Peleg’s drawings. His markings could not be misunderstood. They had traveled across the waters from the west, and Peleg could now be seen scratching a crude outline of their own eastern continent showing where they had come from.
The boy looked directly into Peleg’s eyes, then down at his drawing. He looked back up, then looked at the Urbat in the bay. A frantic expression came over him as he looked first at one man, then another. Another quick look at their ship was followed by one last stare at the map on the beach.
He clasped his dog whistle tightly, looked one more time at Peleg, then whirled and ran towards the trees. Within seconds he had disappeared into the forest, leaving the men of the Urbat staring after him with questions and concerns.
Inmaquo had been Clan-guide for over 250 new moons. Although he was not the oldest father, he had assumed leadership after the death of their original Clan-guide, Shanqin, who had been attacked and killed by a large mountain cat. They had sent his spirit on to join the great hunt in the sky to begin his final Mèsha, and he had adopted their fallen leader’s wife and children as his own.
Now he sat with his wife, Quenxian who was concerned about her son’s whereabouts. She said nothing, but there was no way she could avoid thinking about her husband’s demise as she waited for Tañqin.
Suddenly the dogs began a frenzied barking and they could hear Tañqin shouting in the distance.
“They crossed the water! They came from the sun!” He kept repeating this, even though he gasped for breath and was unable to form his words clearly.
Inmaquo and Quenxian rushed to meet him. He was now in sight but kept running full force towards their tent.
“Compose yourself,” Inmaquo demanded. “You have returned late and require excellent justification.”
Tañqin stopped in front of them and quieted his breathing, trying to organize his words.
“There are strange men on the shore,” he began, pointing towards the southwest. “They have traveled straight from the house of the sun, and across the great ocean.”
Inmaquo regarded him quizzically. “Tell me more about these men.”
“Clan-guide Inmaquo,” resumed Tañqin with an increase in formality, “They seem quite old and they have an enormous watercraft. My team surrounded them this morning, but they appear to be harmless.”
He looked up at the Clan-guide.
“They can’t talk,” he said bluntly. “I mean, they seem to be able to communicate with each other, but they don’t know how to make real words.” He gave a teen-age smile. “And they can’t write, either. I had to draw simple little pictures just to find out where they were from. I have never seen such a huge watercraft, but I can’t imagine these men building it.”
Inmaquo looked up sharply when Tañqin mentioned the lack of speech. There were reports of the time immediately after Mèsha had been declared of a malady that had affected men’s tongues. The reason that the Founder had decreed Mèsha was to escape such curses. Was it possible that survivors had created a vessel that could make such a journey?
“We must go to them at once,” declared Inmaquo. “We must see if their speech is an abomination.”
He turned to his stepson.
“Tañqin, tell the other fathers to meet us here, and we will see these men of whom you speak.”
“Should I bring my team?” asked Tañqin.
“That is not necessary.” He looked around.
“I must go to my tent first. Wait here, and when I return we shall leave.”
Inmaquo walked toward his tent, his mind whirling. He wished to retrieve a sacred item he had received when the belongings of Shanqin had become his. He entered his tent and opened the large leather bag which contained his ceremonial clothing, jewelry, and writings. He pulled out a large scroll made of tanned animal skin and began to unroll it.
This was only for the eyes of Clan-guides. In theory, there were only four such documents in existence, since it was passed on only to the leader of the clan’s first new clan. He would soon hand this over to the new Clan-guide when the new group was sent out. A Clan-guide was also the spiritual guide, and one of his private rituals was to study this document—and to add to it as history was made. Encoded within its mysteries were the answers to where they came from and who they were.
He re-rolled the skin, placed it in a tall wooden cylinder, and returned to the group. He wasn’t sure whether they were going to meet brothers of the sun, or descendants of a great curse from across the sea, but he hoped his scroll would provide the guidance he needed.
Mentor Inanna was greatly concerned and somewhat fearful about her husband’s condition. While speaking as Dumuzi, he was energetic, insightful, and imbued with a personality that seemed to expand beyond his own. However, when he finished his lectures and directives, or returned home from his administrative duties, he was exhausted to the point of confusion and incoherence. What was worse was the incredible lethargy he expressed when he was simpl
y her husband, Salah.
There was something else at work here—a strange power or perhaps some form of schizophrenia. He had deciphered volumes of pre-Calamity history, but often could not remember what he had written the day before.
She needed her husband to be an energetic and charismatic leader if she was ever to accomplish her own goals. But, as a wife, she also needed her husband to be energetic for other reasons.
She heard his steps on the front porch, and could tell by their plodding nature that he was the normal, weary husband she had become accustomed to.
He entered the front room where she sat, and looked over at her with a downcast, stupefied expression. He had never been very romantic, but these last several months, he hadn’t even looked at her; had scarcely touched her. It was time to confront him.
“Salah,” she began. He glanced up with a slight shudder, and looked down again with a slight shake of his head.
“Good evening, my love,” he said reflexively. He turned to walk past her towards the stairs where he habitually went the moment he arrived home.
“Salah,” she said again, more forcefully this time. “I need you to come sit with me.” She indicated the embroidered divan where she was partially reclined. She had gone to the trouble of misting herself with a fine Hirin-perfume from Indus which the old Salah had been particularly fond of.
“Um, certainly,” Salah said without concern. He looked once or twice at the staircase as he slowly adjusted to the change in routine, then sidled over to his wife and methodically placed himself next toher.
She took his hands in hers and spoke quietly.
“I know you’ve been taking care of yourself and avoiding the drugs that once wore you out. But you are becoming more and more lethargic, and your level of fatigue seems to grow daily.”
