Dukkai took the kid from Neitis Ksoka and swung it over the fire three times, continuing her chanting as she did. Then she caught the young animal close against her and in a quick, graceful movement cut its throat but took great care not to sever its head or touch the spine, for such a clumsy act would sully the sacrifice. Satisfied with her work, she swung the kid once, twice, three times more to fling the gouting blood onto as many clan members as possible. She herself was soon soaked in it, and her face had become a gory mask. As the kid went limp in her grasp, she once again held it over the fire so that it was engulfed in smoke; she remained there, chanting and swinging the kid as the smoke roiled. “The offering is accepted,” she announced, and staggered backward as if suddenly bereft of all her strength.
“I have it!” Neitis Ksoka cried, springing forward to keep the kid from falling into the fire—a dreadful omen if allowed to happen—while Demen Ksai rushed forward to steady Dukkai.
“Let the fire burn down of its own,” said Dukkai weakly. “The blood isn’t enough to put it out.”
Neitis Ksoka carried the kid away from the fire to a wooden stand, where he cut off the head, putting it into a leather bag, then began to skin and gut the little goat. He sliced small bits of raw meat from the bones and offered this to his clan members, making sure everyone had a taste of this pledge between them and the Lords of the Earth.
From his vantage point beyond the tents, Ragoczy Franciscus watched, his thoughts on the sacrificial animal. He had witnessed such offerings from his own youth to the altars of Nineveh and Babylon, to the Temple of Imhotep. He had also seen the slaughter in the Roman arena during the Great Games and the maddened hunting of the Goths, and every time he felt sympathy for the animal giving its blood.
Standing on her own again, Dukkai approached the sacrificial fire once more, her arms extended. “Sweet is the life given to the Lords of the Earth,” she intoned. “Let all of us give thanks for the bounty they provide.” There was a thudding of a drum from the edge of the light; Zumir was pounding it with a leather-wrapped stick. “This, like the heart of the Earth, shows the Lords of the Earth our devotion.”
The Desert Cats began to move with the drumbeat, a slow, sideways stamp then a shuffle, all gradually moving to the right around the fire. After a short while most of the clan had joined the dance, many of them chewing their bit of goat in time to their dance.
“I will read the smoke,” Dukkai announced, and half-closed her eyes, rocking in place with the throb of the drum. She was soon caught up in the drumming and the fragrant smoke, and after a short while, she began again to speak. “Hear the Gods of the Smoke, Desert Cats: there is more traveling to come, always to the West,” she murmured. “There are more raiders and greater dangers ahead, but we cannot remain here long, for the Lords of the Earth are weakened by so much water, and we will have more fever among us if we stay here more than two fortnights—long enough to repair our tents. The Lords of the Earth will desert us if we stay too long.” She began to hum, a ululating, soft wail without melody. “There is no rest for us before we reach the high plains in the crook of the mountains. We will lose more of our own before we arrive there, and our herds and flocks will be more reduced. I will fall before the place is found. If we do not continue on, all of us must surely die, from hunger, from fever, from raiders, from the loss of the favor of the Lords of the Earth. So say the Gods of the Smoke, and the Lords of the Earth.” She swayed in place, but soon stepped back, her hand to her head, her face pale beneath the blood drying on it.
The drumming stopped abruptly; the dancers broke their circle and moved away. Dukkai motioned to Neitis Ksoka, who doused the fire with the last of the kid’s blood mixed with the powerful liquor of the clan, and a new billow of smoke arose. Dukkai watched it with intense concentration, all her attention fixed on the rising cloud. Finally she shook her head and stared at Neitis Ksoka. “Speak to me in the morning, and I will tell you, for what the Lords of the Earth imparted in your regard are for your ears alone,” she said, her voice dropping to an exhausted whisper. She rubbed her face, smearing what damp blood there still was on her skin, and flaking off some of the dried. “The Lords of the Earth are pacified for now, but they will not be neglected.”
“So far from our own territory, how can they reach us?” Zumir dared to ask.
Dukkai answered him, “There are veins in the earth, as there are in our bodies; we see them in the rivers, and in the roads. The veins in the earth are everywhere, including deep within the earth, where the Lords of the Earth reside, and the Lords of the Earth are the bodies of those veins. That is why the head must remain with the sacrifice, or the Lords of the Earth would be cut off from us. The mountains are their spine, and when they fall, all the world is fallen.” She drew a long breath, going on in a sing-song, “When we travel the roads, we walk their bodies, the bodies of the Lords of the Earth. When we drink from the lakes and the rivers, we have their surface blood, which is clear when it is wholesome, because it is near the air. When the rain comes, it is the Lord of the Skies rewarding or punishing or guiding the Lords of the Earth. When snow blankets the roads and the rivers, it is so the Lords of the Earth may sink back into their deep veins and rest, just as the stars go beyond the God of the Sky to rest. All things need rest, Zumir, and if they tire too much, they die.” She sank down onto her knees; no one moved to touch her.
Zumir suddenly abandoned his drum and fled.
Neitis Ksoka took the bag containing the head and held it out to Dukkai,. “Where is this to be buried?”
“Under the enclosure for our ponies.” She was barely audible, but purpose shone in her bright blue eyes. “See that you dig deep. A shallow scratch will insult the Lords of the Earth.”
“Very good,” said Neitis Ksoka, and went to fetch a shovel before he began his assigned task.
The rest of the Desert Cats milled about near the fire, a few of them still chewing on the raw goat meat. The air smelled of copper and smoke, and the people of the clan seemed uneasy. Finally one of the women—Ragoczy Franciscus recognized the first wife of Demen Ksai—approached Dukkai, bending down to her. “Can you stand?”
“In a moment,” she said flatly. “The Lords of the Earth are near. I must attend to what they say.” She bent over and put her ear to the ground.
Demen Ksai’s wife looked about uneasily. “So we must prepare for what they may demand.”
“They have had enough already,” said Jekan Medassi, who now had to lean heavily on a stick when she walked and coughed much too often. “Isn’t it enough that they have taken our best men and sickened our children?”
Ragoczy Franciscus heard this with apprehension, for he was aware of the sharply increased desperation among the people of the clan. He moved back a half dozen steps, pushing his horse with his shoulder. He could not help but remember the other times—in Babylon, in Nineveh, in his homeland, in the nameless wastes of the Persian mountains, in Byzantium—when he had seen chaos erupt out of prolonged privation, and this was building up to be another such instance.
“You there!” a voice challenged him from the path behind him.
Ragoczy Franciscus turned around, his hand on his short Byzantine dagger, the only weapon he had brought. “Yes?”
“Step forward where I can see you,” the voice demanded.
Doing as he was ordered, Ragoczy Franciscus found a vantage place where the spill of the firelight brought his face into sharp relief. His composure was unruffled although all his senses were on the alert, and he moved very little. “I think you know me,” he said in a calm voice.
Losdi Moksal came into view, his scarred cheek looking ferocious as the surface of the desert. He was not yet used to his position of family leadership, and so he blustered to make up for his unease. “Zangi-Ragozh. You have no business being here. This is a sacred occasion.”
“Dukkai sent for me,” Ragoczy Franciscus said with diffidence. “I meant no disrespect.”
“You stay here,” Losdi Mok
sal told him. “I will speak with her directly.”
“Well and good,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “It is fitting that she should have the right to decide about my presence.” He patted the neck of his blue roan. “My horse and I will wait here.”
Losdi Moksal made an abrupt nod, then strode off toward the fire where Dukkai was still crouched on the ground, her head pressed to the earth. “Dukkai,” he said as he neared her.
Very slowly she looked up, her eyes dazed. “What is it?”
“I found Zangi-Ragozh out there”—he gestured in the general direction—“and he said you asked him to come tonight. Surely you didn’t want him here?”
She rubbed her eyes and rose. “Yes. I did. He has a great strength and I have need of it.” She tottered a little as she got to her feet, but steadied herself; when she spoke again, her voice was clearer. “I am grateful that he came.” As Losdi Moksal turned away, Dukkai peered into the deepening night. “Zangi-Ragozh?”
“I am here,” he said, and raised his hand to provide movement for her to see.
“You, did come,” she said, stumbling toward him. “You, of all I have ever known, are one with the Lords of the Earth.”
“I might not have said it that way, but I agree,” he said, a suggestion of a smile in the depths of his eyes.
She held out her bloodstained hands to him. “I knew you would help me. You gave me more force than the sacrifice alone could provide.”
“Then I am richly rewarded,” he said, touching her shoulder lightly; the blood spattered there was still slightly damp and tacky. He studied her face, seeing fatigue and a deeper exhaustion than he had perceived before. Trying not to be alarmed, he glanced toward the fire. “I do not recall you reading the smoke while I traveled with your clan.”
She gave a short, wild laugh. “How could I read the smoke while I was pregnant?”
“Ah. I did not understand this.” He waited for her to speak; when she only sighed, he said, “You read the smoke tonight.”
“You must have seen,” she said.
“I did, but why?” He let this suggestion hang between them for a short while.
She shook her head. “I have need of your strength.”
“Do you? With all your clan around you, what difference can I make.”
“You need nothing from me, you seek nothing from me, so your strength is untrammeled.” She wiped her brow, leaving streaks in the dried blood. “I am too worn to be able to support them all.”
Ragoczy Franciscus regarded her with recondite understanding. “Then I am honored you sent for me.” He held out his hand to her. “You and your clan have had much to bear.”
“That is the reason we have made this sacrifice,” she said, adding in a whisper, “There is more misfortune to come.”
“Is that what you saw?” he asked with concern, his dark eyes searching her face.
“No. Or that was not the whole of it.” She finally laid her hand in his; her fingers were hot, feverish, and dry. “Some of our ponies are failing, and that worries me, given what I saw in the smoke. They must all be sound and strong for us to continue our journey.”
“Certainly they must,” he said, grasping the enormity of this new problem.
“It was bad enough when we were only hungry. But then we lost Baru Ksoka and the rest, and their ponies, and his flesh did not sustain us long. I thought we would regain our vigor here, but that has not been the case. Yet the Lords of the Earth led us here.” She glowered at him. “You are of them, of the Lords of the Earth, but you are not one of us.”
This last startled him. “No, I am not,” he said, a shade too quickly.
“But you know the Lords of the Earth of old,” she went on dreamily. “You have seen how they work in the world, and you know their power. And you will know what must be done so that our ponies will not fail. We must be able to hunt, and we cannot do it from goatcarts.” She pulled away from him suddenly. “If you have anything to help our ponies thrive, I ask you to provide it, for the sake of the Lords of the Earth.”
“I hope I can help,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “You have come so far and sustained so much, it is hardly conceivable that you should have to bear more.”
She stared at him. “The Lords of the Earth are demanding. It is because the sun is so weak.”
“But the sun is getting stronger; it is slight now, but over time, it will become apparent,” he said.
“How can you say this?” She rounded on him, her temper in tatters. “The world is dark, the earth is parched, there is not enough grass, the seasons are too cold. Yet you say the sun is stronger. How is it possible?” She stood panting, her mouth square with fury, her hands hooked into claws. “Tell me, foreigner.”
Ragoczy Franciscus waited a short moment until he was certain she would listen; then he said, “Those of my blood are, as you have said, allied with the earth. Because we are, we have a keen awareness of the sun, as well, just as the earth does. I know the sun is not as … as veiled as it was.” He remained where he was, very still, the whole of his concentration upon her. “Believe this.”
Her face went blank, and she sank to the ground. “Lords of the Earth,” she muttered; she gestured to him to keep back as she stretched out on the ground, listening intently. Finally she raised her head. “There is a sickness in the earth. The Lords of the Earth are engulfed in a plague for lack of the sun.” She pushed herself up on her elbow. “You know this. You must know this.”
“All things in nature are bound to the sun, as all things in nature are drawn by the moon.” He sought for some means to comfort her. “I have lived a long time, Dukkai, and I have seen hard years and bountiful years, wars, plagues, and calamities of all sorts, and the one thing I have learned from it all is that eventually it all comes to an end—the good times and the bad ones never last.”
She began to chant, softly, her face turned away from him. Finally she got to her feet and brushed her hands on her long goat-hair robe. “You mean well,” she said distantly. “I thank you for that. But these hard years will not be over next spring, or the next, or the next.”
He saw she was caught at the edge of a trance once again. “Dukkai. Do not—”
She held up her hand. “If you have something for the ponies, I will thank you for it, and so will all the clan.” Her eyes sharpened and she took a few uncertain steps toward him. “Is there anything you can provide to help our ponies?”
“I will have to see them for myself,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “Not tonight: tomorrow. I will come early in the morning, to see how they eat and how they are behaving.”
Her countenance showed no emotion of any kind. “That is good of you, Zangi-Ragozh. I am grateful to you for doing so much.” Her voice was flat, lending no credibility to her words.
“Will you join me in the morning?” he asked.
“I will have to. None of Imgalas’ family will let you near the ponies without me.” She tossed her head and without a backward glance walked away from him.
When he was sure she was not going to return, Ragoczy Franciscus swung up into the saddle and turned his horse toward the gates of Sarai. He watched the path ahead, but his thoughts were elsewhere: what had Dukkai experienced in reading the smoke that had so much aggrieved her that she was unable to speak of it directly? As he reached the gate, the guard who had let him out challenged him.
“It is three coppers to enter,” he called out through the small, high opening in the gate.
Ragoczy Franciscus had expected something like this, and so he said, “I have that. Open the gates and you will be paid.”
“Hand the coins in, and I will,” the guard countered.
“Oh, no,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, “You must admit me. Otherwise you will demand another three coppers, and another, and I will not get inside the walls.”
The guard barked a laugh, and then the bolt scraped open and the gate swung back. “Enter,” he said.
Ragoczy Franciscus rode into Sarai, handing three
copper coins to the guard as he did. “Thank you,” he said, and continued on toward the Foreigners’ Quarter, where he made his way to his house. He found Rojeh waiting for him in the rear yard where the small paddock was. “You did not have to remain up,” he said as he dismounted.
“I thought it might be wise,” said Rojeh, lifting his oil-lamp high to allow its small puddle of light to spread as far as possible.
“In case I was delayed overlong?” Ragoczy Franciscus guessed as he led the blue roan toward the small stable. “Did you expect me to be detained?”
“That had occurred to me,” said Rojeh.
“I thank you for your concern, old friend, but I was as safe as we ever were while we were with the Desert Cats. Dukkai is not apt to summon me and then turn that against me.” He pulled the horse up at a grooming hook, secured the reins, then went to unfasten the girth.
“Are you certain of that?” Rojeh asked.
“Because she commands the clan’s magic, do you mean, and might read some omen that would link bad cess with me?” Ragoczy Franciscus laid the girth on top of the saddle, swung them off the horse, and put them on the simple rack at his elbow. He reached for the box of brushes and began to groom the glossy neck.
“Dukkai may not be as trustworthy as you assume she is,” Rojeh warned.
“Meaning you have reservations about her,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “I am not wholly … sanguine about her state of mind.” He paused, then added, “I am going back to their camp in the morning.”
“Why?” Rojeh asked.
“Dukkai is worried about their ponies. Something may be ailing them. She has asked me to help,” he said, keeping on with his brushing.
Rojeh thought for a long moment. “Is there anything you can do?”
“I cannot tell, not until I have seen the ponies. They are hardy creatures, but they have had poor fodder for so long, it may have taken a toll on them.” Ragoczy Franciscus was working over the rump now, and down past the stifle.
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