Tears of the Dead

by Brian Braden

  Ghalen looked down at Sana, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. She held a small pouch.

  “Are you ready?” Atamoda asked.

  Sana nodded and slowly raised the bag.

  “Do you remember the words?”

  Sana nodded and stepped to the edge. She extended the pouch into the downpour as the sky lightened in the east.

  “The only power left to us is our choices. The choice I make this day is I remember my lost. Today, I speak for my dead, the Scythia.”

  She slowly tipped the bag and, at that moment, a gust of wind snatched the ashes.

  To Ghalen, the north wind smelled like dry grass, orange sunsets, and upturned earth. The ashes swirled across the waves, for a moment almost taking the form of a galloping horse. With a peel of thunder they vanished in the downpour.

  She reached down and untied the thong around her thigh, five blades secured in their slots. Sana rolled up the thong, tied the ends into a bow, and tossed them over the edge. With a plunk, they vanished beneath the waves.

  Ghalen could not believe his eyes.

  “The Five Daggers have no place in a patesi-le’s hut.”

  She embraced Ghalen without reservation. He lifted her chin, savoring the anticipation of their first kiss.

  Sana shoved him backwards. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No, I said. Not until I am your wife. Is it not Lo tradition? Now, go away. You may kiss me after the wedding, and not a moment before.” Sana turned up her nose, crossed her arms and marched away, Atamoda in tow.

  “Atamoda!” Ghalen pleaded.

  Atamoda winked at him. “She’s learning our ways quickly, isn’t she? You heard her, go away. I’m going to be busy begging and borrowing to prepare your bride, so stay out of our way.”

  The two women vanished among the Minnow, who were beginning to stir.

  Ghalen grinned, thinking of what his wedding night might bring. A song bubbled in his throat, a low thrum rising and falling with the waves. The Minnow men rose from their slumber and watched Ghalen stroll through their rafts, a spring in his step.

  ***

  Aizarg and Kol-ok listened from the Köy-lo-hely as Ghalen’s low bass rhythm spread to several other throats. Aizarg rose from his stool and placed his hands on the staff. Men’s voices rose and fell from bow to stern with each wave, saturating each log, beam and rope.

  The arun-ki vibrated with life, yet no women joined the song.

  “Why do they sing, Father?” Kol-ok asked.

  “Because they are tired of being afraid.”

  The song grew with each crashing wave, not in harmony with the sea, but in defiance of it. Aizarg felt its power course through his body, drawing him in.

  “The ai doesn’t join the halah,” Kol-ok said.

  A pang of sadness penetrated Aizarg’s happiness. “The women cannot find their song.”

  Then, a long, high note floated above the men. It waivered up, up, up; riding the men’s voices like a wave. Powerful and strong, an exotic note never before heard among the Lo.

  Then, it plunged downward in perfect harmony with the men’s, yet uniquely apart.

  “Who is that?” Kol-ok peered through the rain curtain toward the Supply Barge.

  “That is our future,” Aizarg grinned and slapped his son on the back. “In this terrible forge, our chain grows stronger.”

  He knew Sana had joined the ai-halah, and in the process forever changed his people’s spirit. On this thirty-eighth day of rain, a song gave birth to something new on the Black Sea.

  Atamoda’s voice joined Sana’s, struggling at first to match, but then blending with the harmony. Then, in rapid succession, Crane and Minnow women joined the wondrous chorus.

  ***

  Spako woke and lifted his nose like a dog sniffing the air, peering into the distance as if trying to seeing the music as it floated through the air.

  “What is it?” Spako whispered.

  “They’re singing,” Ezra replied.

  “Spako never hear singing before.”

  Side by side, they listened as the song gained strength as it rolled along. Ezra looked over to see large tear drops rolling downs the giant’s cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Singing make Spako happy and sad.”

  Ezra patted Spako’s shoulder. “Me, too.”

  He gazed out over the endless ocean. “I wish my sister could have heard this. She deserved it, not me.”

  ***

  Virag crouched alone in his boat and cursed. He cursed Aizarg for taking Spako from him, and that damn Hur thief for robbing Spako of any terror he could induce among the Lo. He cursed his hunger and the rain and the sea and the damnable noise pulsing through the arun-ki.

  Virag pressed his hands against the sides of his head.

  “Shut UP!” he screamed and kicked his feet.

  His heel went through the bottom with a wet crunch. A foul, fetid reek exploded in the boat as the sea flooded into what had been his home.

  Virag sat dumbfounded as water surrounded him and covered his horded fish. The water brought him to his senses, and he scrambled onto the adjacent raft just in time. The mooring line pulled tight as the hull slipped beneath the waves with a sucking sound.

  Virag grabbed the line and pulled, hoping to save as much as he could. The rope snapped and the boat vanished into the deep.

  41. Night Watch

  At winter’s end, when a Lo boy is deemed ready, his father released him to an elder for the Marsh Journey. The elder blindfolded the boy and took him deep into the marsh, far away from their people or neighboring Lo villages.

  The next morning, the elder would depart, leaving the boy with only a knife with which to survive until his return. The boy would exist in isolation until the first north wind. In that time he must not only survive, but construct his own shelter, nets, spear, and boat.

  In the Marsh Journey, the boy endured both a physical and spiritual test. Here, for good or ill, the boy met the man he would become.

  The elder returned to find either a thriving Lo man or a dead boy. It wasn’t uncommon for boys to simply vanish forever. If the boy died, the elder would commit his remains to the sea and gather what objects he could salvage. The elder would present the objects to the father and recite the terrible words, “I return your boy’s spirit to his family.”

  If the boy survived, the elder would present him to his father with words of joy.

  “Your boy is dead. Before you stands a man.”

  The Chronicle of Fu Xi

  ***

  The air always felt cooler after a big storm. Exhausted, everyone slept deeply after a day battling wind and waves. Only Okta and Aizarg remained awake, exchanging whispered council on the Köy-lo-hely.

  Okta’s beard had grown long, his cheeks sunken. Holes had begun to form in the sco-lo-ti’s winter tunic. Aizarg wondered if he appeared as feral.

  We are lean and hungry, like wolves.

  “No more rope. No more wood. No land in sight and no end to the rain.” In the dark of night, Okta knelt close to Aizarg’s stool, voice low. “What we have now may be all we ever have. If something doesn’t change soon, the arun-ki will sink.”

  “The Nameless God will not forsake us.”

  “You faith strengthens me, Uros, but it doesn’t strengthen the ropes binding this flotilla.”

  “How much longer?”

  “The outer rafts rest two hands lower in the water today than seven days ago. Half the barrier boats are gone, the remainder are practically worthless. The storm wall is a blackened, stinking heap. Another good storm and its gone.” He wrinkled his nose. “The family boats are almost as bad. This infernal water eats everything. If we didn’t have rainwater to drink, we’d be dealing with sickness now, too.”

  Aizarg gazed up at the leaking canopy. The reeds had turned from pale green, to yellow. Streaks of brown and black mold infected the roof, with ghastly fingers of white fungus poking through.

  “Th
ere is one raft showing no signs of rot, or waterlogging for that matter.”

  Aizarg raised an eyebrow.

  “My raft floats high, the wood is firm and without a single soft spot.”

  “We made that out of unpitched scrap wood. It should be completely waterlogged by now. The deerskin strips alone should have been eaten through weeks ago.”

  Okta shrugged. “The bindings are still strong. How that can be, I don’t know, but I am resigned to merely accept it and be thankful.”

  Okta pressed on. “We must move everyone to the Spine rafts. Cannibalize what material we can from the boats and rafts to keep our central vessels seaworthy as long as possible.”

  “How much time will that buy?”

  “Two weeks, maybe a month. I’ve dived under the rafts a few times, but there isn’t enough light down there for me to get a feel for the rot on our underside.”

  Aizarg’s shoulders sagged as he placed his head in his hands. Long moments passed until he spoke.

  “Let the people enjoy the wedding. The morning after, gather the men, break down as much good material as you can from the outlining vessels, and pile it on the Supply Barge. We’ll move those still living in boats to the Köy-lo-hely.”

  “We must do this without delay.” Okta leaned closer. “One more storm, that’s all it may take.”

  “The people need good news, something to take their minds off their suffering. Packing everyone around the Spine will only serve to deepen their misery. Tomorrow, tell Ghalen, Ba-lok and Levidi the plan, but no one else. The morning after the wedding, make it so.”

  Okta opened his mouth to protest, but Aizarg shook his head. “This is my decision.”

  Okta nodded.

  Aizarg took a deep breath and looked about, visualizing the arun-ki as a long, narrow strip of rafts packed with his people.

  “The arun-ki will be more streamlined,” he said. “It will put less strain on the sea anchor and Spine.”

  Okta stared hard at Aizarg.

  “You have more to say, I can see it in your eyes.”

  “You’ve been a good leader, Aizarg. The only reason we’re alive is due to you. But we need purpose. Floating aimlessly on the tide, waiting for a miracle while we waste away is not a plan. We need to take action. We must retrieve the sea anchor, convert the extra canopies into sails, and catch the wind.”

  “Catch the wind to where?”

  “The Southern Land.”

  “You’d have us chase myths.”

  “Weren’t the Narim a myth, too? And yet we chased them and found a new chance for life. No other clan sailed as far to sea as the Carp. Our legends of the Southern Lands are the strongest. My grandfather spied far off hills on the southern horizon after being lost in an ice fog for days.”

  Aizarg shook his head. “With no idea of where we are, we’d be striking out blindly.”

  “I am Carp. At sea, I am never lost.

  Aizarg looked up at his friend and said a silent prayer of thanks for one such as Okta.

  “The current is slowing, sometimes even ceasing all together. On Days of Rain, the anchor line floats limp, but sea still flows from the north. The wind has died down, but predominantly from the north, too. Even if our homes are no longer submerged, we are far from them. If the Southern Lands truly exist, and above water, I wager my life we are close.”

  “If we are destined to make landfall in the Southern Lands, it will happen only if the Nameless God wills it.”

  “Aizarg, please...”

  “Reinforce the arun-ki, move everyone to the center rafts. But our fate is not our own, the Nameless God sets our course.”

  Okta lowered his head. “As you wish.”

  The Master of Boats stood to go, but turned around. “She would have killed Atamoda had it not been for Sana. Kus-ge fought like a...” Okta frowned, as if choosing his words carefully. “…like a Scythian. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Aizarg’s mood darkened. “We will have no further trouble from Kus-ge. We had a long talk.”

  “You weren’t there; you didn’t see her savagery. She’s bad, Aizarg. No amount of talking will change that.”

  “She is patesi-le.”

  “She is dangerous. Ba-lok is weak. Our people are rotting, too. They also need reinforcing. Ghalen, Ba-lok, myself...we are like the outlying rafts and you are the core. The old ways and the old gods are dead, washed away. Dissolve the clans. You have your Isp. That is all you need.”

  Okta’s words struck Aizarg numb.

  “Do you realize the weight of what you say?” Aizarg stammered. “You renounce your clan leadership so easily?”

  “Not easily, friend. Somewhere over the waves I pray my people have a new sco-lo-ti, leading them to us. They need him, and you need a Master of Boats, not a sco-lo-ti.”

  Aizarg’s sighed. “Things are different now.”

  “Yes, things are different now.”

  ***

  In the flickering lightning Kol-ok stared up at the canopy, watching raindrops drip onto the deck. Embers from the dying brazier gave the darkness a crimson edge. Sleep eluded him, his mind drifting between hunger and his nearly completed boat only a few paces away.

  No pitch, but Father and Okta say we can get it a little wet.

  He hoped tomorrow brought a Day of Rain so they could test the hull.

  Bat-or rolled over, slapping Kol-ok in the face. He shrugged off his brother’s hand and rolled onto his side, staring through the rain curtain dividing the Supply Barge and the Köy-lo-hely.

  Okta is gone, but Father is still awake. Maybe he will help me make a spear tomorrow.

  A cold draft tickled his toes, and he suddenly realized Ba-tor was completely rolled up in their blanket. Kol-ok entertained the thought of snatching it from his little brother, but changed his mind.

  He doubted he could sleep, even with a blanket.

  If the Master of Boats cannot figure a way to pitch our boats, how can I?

  Every few minutes he heard the pops and creaks from a rolling wave lifting the bow rafts. The Spine, only an arm’s reach away, stretched against the sea’s power. The wave splashed along the ribs as the wave marched toward him. A moment later, the barge gently lifted and then settled back down. After a few more splashes, the wave exited from under the arun-ki with a whoosh. Only the occasional rumble of thunder interrupted the cycle.

  Kol-ok let the sea’s ballad rock him, and tried to push thoughts of his beloved boat from his mind. But other, equally obsessive thoughts took its place.

  He’d thought of Su-gar more often than not. Several years older than he, Kol-ok knew she thought of him like a little brother.

  I am a man now.

  Kol-ok knew if he had a proper boat and a proper spear she might see him differently. Maybe she would see him and not Ezra.

  He liked Ezra, but the a’gan boy could barely swim. He didn’t know how to properly use a spear, and still walked like an ox across the deck. Ezra didn’t have any of the qualities of Lo man, yet Okta spent hours teaching him.

  Father has no time, he is Uros.

  Slowly, the waves’ cadence began to work its magic upon Kol-ok’s eyelids.

  Clack.

  An odd noise, one which did not belong, interrupted the beat. Kol-ok’s eyes flew open. There it came again, this time accompanied by a soft shuffle.

  Wide awake, Kol-ok waited for the noise again, wondering if his father had finally decided to come to bed. He craned his head, looking about the barge. His mother slept a few paces away, curled up on a stack of unfinished mats. A Minnow elder, an ill-tempered man named Ameck, slept sitting up against Kol-ok’s upturned boat, facing the neatly organized food pile. Men from both clans took shifts guarding the fish, and tonight was Ameck’s turn.

  His father’s motionless figure still sat on the Köy-lo-hely, though judging by his lowered head, Aizarg might have nodded off.

  From the other side of the food pile the shuffle came again, like a mouse. Kol-ok knew someone
else lurked on the barge. Then he heard the faint tearing of a leaf.

  Kol-ok briefly thought about waking Ameck, but refrained.

  Letting the next wave mask the noise, he rose into a crouch and grasped his spear. Staying low, he crept around the pile, now barely high enough to conceal him, even in a crouch.

  Whoever it was, they snuck in from the Minnow side of the Spine.

  It’s that nasty Virag, I know it.

  Kol-ok would handle this himself, save their food, and prove his manhood. Pulse pounding, trying to control his breathing, he tensed.

  The shuffle came again.

  Catch him before he flees.

  Kol-ok rose like an avenging spirit, spear cocked over his head, ready to strike.

  Alaya crawled on the deck like an animal. Startled, she looked up at him, a stack of fishcakes cradled in her arm.

  Lips trembling, she scrambled up and snatched his arm. Stunned, Kol-ok stumbled behind her as she dragged him between sleeping forms to the storm wall.

  Once there, where no one could see, she placed his hand upon her belly.

  Kol-ok tried to pull his hand away, but she held his palm against her warm flesh.

  “I have a baby in me, but Levidi doesn’t know. I’m hungry, Kol-ok. If I starve, the baby dies. Do you understand? We’ve tried so long to have a child. I can’t lose it like Sahti. Please, please, don’t tell anyone!”

  Kol-ok didn’t feel like a man anymore. He didn’t want to see Alaya this way, eyes swollen with tears.

  “Wha-why don’t you tell Levidi?”

  “He’ll try to get more food for me and the baby. He’ll steal it if he has too. He’s the Staff Bearer; he’ll have to choose between the baby and the Uros. I can’t make him choose.”

  “Tell Mother. Tell Father. They will help.” Kol-ok grabbed her hand and began to drag her back across the rafts.

  “No!” She snatched him back. “You can tell no one. Levidi mustn’t know.”

  She pressed his hand harder against her abdomen, drawing closer to him. “If I lose the baby, and Levidi knows...” her words came in between heaving, racking sobs, “I could not bear it, if he knew he had a son and lost him.”

  She pulled him close, closer than he’d ever been to a woman, and whispered in his ear. “I beg you!”