Even Levidi gasped.
A few seconds later, the spear gradually nosed toward the earth, slid out of the air, and disappeared behind the slope. A muffled crunch, like broken pottery, emitted beyond from where the sagar landed, easily twenty paces beyond Levidi’s boar spear.
A cheer went up as Levidi shook his head in disbelief. Everyone gathered around Ghalen to congratulate him. Everyone, that is, except Aizarg.
He walked towards the slope.
Ghalen called after him, “Uros! Pace off the spears, I want to know how far they went!”
Aizarg ignored him. Something about the sound when Ghalen’s sagar landed wasn’t right. He passed Levidi’s spear and came to where the slope fell away.
Dread filled the pit in his stomach. He tightened his grip on his boar spear. Ghalen’s sagar was buried deep into a weathered human skull. Tufts of tall brown grass grew around the skull and in between a dismembered skeleton. The arm and leg bones, carefully arranged in a spread-eagle pattern, were pulled away from the rib cage and pelvis. A single Scythian arrow, fletches dyed red and black, protruded from the center of the rib cage.
Ghalen’s spear shattered the skull, but Aizarg saw the entire skull cap above the eyes was cleanly sawed off. To the left of Ghalen’s spear, another sagar extended from the head of the skeleton. In contrast to Ghalen’s smooth, dark spear, this one was broken in two, weathered gray, and starting to split.
Aizarg spotted more broken sagar poking above the grass every few dozen paces along the ridge, with ribs and arrows protruding at the base of each spear. The grisly pickets stretched as far as he could see.
The rest of the group came up behind him. Sarah inhaled, put her hands over her eyes and buried her face in Aizarg’s chest. The only sound was that of the wind whipping at their backs.
Setenay stepped forward with her hands behind her back and lips pursed in an expression of utmost seriousness. She walked in front of the first few skeletons.
“This is foul magic!” Ba-lok hissed. “Aizarg, we must leave this place!” Ba-lok turned to leave, but Aizarg barred his way with an arm across his chest.
“Wait.” Aizarg pointed to Setenay strolling along the ridge, looking down on the bones as if she were inspecting the daily catch laid across the dock. “Your grandmother will be the judge of what this means. We will not leave until I hear her council.”
“Look!” Okta shouted, pointing to the opposite ridge. There, highlighted against the sky, were the thin, but unmistakable silhouettes of broken sagar sticking straight up at regular intervals.
Setenay looked up and across the expanse to the far ridge. She squinted against the bright orange sunset. The harsh light emphasized the deep lines in her craggy face as the ever present wind blew back her stiff, silver hair.
“Hhhmph,” she scowled, and returned to calmly inspecting the bones at her feet.
“What does this mean?” Levidi whispered to Aizarg.
“It means the Scythians let the dead guard the trail to Hur-ar,” Setenay spoke up.
“I don’t understand,” Aizarg said.
“The Scythian witches enslave the spirits of the conquered dead to guard important places, like their burial mounds. These slain Sammujad are now Scythian death slaves.”
Aizarg noticed how Setenay showed no fear in the face of the evil before them. This was her element, the realm of spirits. The men, however, were visibly afraid. While Aizarg tried not to show it, the terror he felt at the Valley of the Beasts stirred fresh in his heart.
“We should leave now!” Okta said with urgency.
Yes, we should leave, but where do we go?
“Uros, we should abandon the ridge and low ground altogether. If we follow the rising sun we should surely find these mountains.” Okta stood with the rest, united.
The other men grunted in approval.
Setenay shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but Sarah spoke first.
“Uros, I think we need to follow the depression,” she said softly, now looking at the skeleton like Setenay did, her earlier fear seemingly gone.
“Aizarg!” Okta could not conceal the panic in his voice. “The low ground is clearly death!” He pointed his spear to the bones for emphasis.
“Go on, child,” Setenay said to Sarah.
Setenay knows something.
Sarah hesitated, looking between Setenay and Okta.
“Speak,” Aizarg said.
“Look at the eyes of the skulls. They look inward, toward the depression below. Their feet point to the low ground. If we sent someone to the opposite ridge, I believe they will also be arranged pointed inward. I think they’re here to keep those below away from the surrounding steppe.”
The men looked at each other.
Setenay looked sideways at Sarah, almost suspiciously. “How do you know this, child?”
Sarah shook her head and squinted as if focusing at something beyond the bones, something only she could see. “I just do, but why I cannot say.”
Setenay smiled broadly, exposing her blackened teeth to the sunset. “Yes, child! The damned have but one purpose, to confine those traveling below. The broken sagar symbolize the broken earthly power of the defeated Scythian enemy. Their spears are only good in the spirit world, to torment and curse any that stray from this depression.”
“It means we’ve reached the edge of the world.” Aizarg nodded in understanding. “Beyond these deathly totems we enter Scythian territory.” He pointed downhill. “It means we are all going back down there for the rest of our journey.”
“Do we have anything to fear from them?” Okta asked.
Setenay shrugged. “It depends on what enchantments the Scythian witches chained around their captive souls. If we stay to the low ground, we might escape their torment.” She eyed Ghalen’s sagar and the shattered skull. “However, the spirits do not smile upon a despoiled totem.”
“Old mother,” Aizarg spoke up. “Is there anything you can do to protect us, perhaps a charm you can invoke?”
Setenay shook her head and turned her back on the bones. With a look of deep concern and her hands still clasped behind her back, she started downhill. “The magic here is like a hornets’ nest in the dead of winter. What rage lies inside is hidden to me. If we let it be, perhaps we might pass without being stung.”
Setenay abruptly stopped and looked back at the setting sun dipping below the slate-gray clouds, as if she suddenly remembered something. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. “It is a cold sunset,” she said absently to no one in particular. Then her eyes came back into focus and she turned back downhill. “No,” she said, not turning around. “I doubt you men have anything to fear from the dead.”
Resigned to their fate, they started downhill, following Setenay into the cool, blue shadows.
While Aizarg didn’t fathom all of Setenay’s words, he now understood the source of the undefined fear he experienced since they left the low ground. The Scythians’ message was clear: Stray beyond the ridges and die.
He looked at the rolling grassland with new eyes. In the darkening overcast, the rolling hills looked even more like waves. He wasn’t the only one who saw the similarity.
“We are now trapped between these frozen waves,” Okta said. He spat out some black juice onto the ground. “May they not crush us.”
He’s chewing mud weed. Mud weed grew in shallow, calm water. Patesi-le often recommended chewing it to calm the nerves or sooth tender gums. Too much of it stained the teeth and left one’s breathe foul.
Gloom settled across the party as the wind turned cold and shifted out of the north. The gray clouds finally covered them like an iron blanket, their fiery edges now extinguished.
Ba-lok spoke. “If caravans think they’ll die if they leave the depression, then perhaps the Scythians won’t patrol here as often.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
Perhaps he is starting to think instead of simply reacting to situations.
“I agree,” Okta
said. “I think our young sco-lo-ti is correct. The broken sagar speak of crushed Sammujad power, so perhaps these foul totems will repel wandering Sammujad as well.”
Ba-lok let a smile of self-satisfaction escape at Okta and Aizarg’s praise.
“If the Scythians are confident in their control over this caravan route and not expecting Virag any time soon, we might pass unnoticed. The depression might be as safe as any stretch of the g’an,” Aizarg said. “We should stay in this fold of earth. It’s the best chance we have. We’ll continue on for a little while longer, then make a cold camp. I don’t want to chance a fire being spied by unfriendly eyes.”
Aizarg looked over at Sarah. “I will not doubt you again.”
Setenay came alongside Sarah and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Let us women step out of earshot from these men and talk.”
“These didn’t help those poor souls up there.” Levidi shook his sagar and nodded up at the ridges. They could clearly see broken sagar above them, lining the ridges on either side.
Ghalen laughed and shoved his bundle and boar spear into Levidi’s chest. “Those ‘poor souls’ should have learned how to properly throw their spears!”
11. Fu Xi, The God Of Names
‘Home’ represents all a man can hope to attain in his earthly life. Home is more than a shelter against wind. It is the fertile soil from which memories bloom, where today becomes yesterday and one can see beyond the dust from which they are formed.
Only within her home’s embrace can a woman tend the hearth and nurture without fear. Home is where a wife can love without reservation. For without love, a man cannot dream. In dreams we find hope.
Hope gives mortals a fleeting glimpse of eternity’s endless landscape. Forever’s promise is the foundation of faith. Without faith, men cannot find their way to God.
This is what made the Lo different from the rest of wretched humanity. Home was an alien concept to the nomadic brute, whose savage heart sees the past as the ashes of a cold camp and the future as the next hunt. The sheltered marshes of the Great Sea gave the Lo a home and fostered their gentle spirit. They lived and died with a true understanding of faith, hope and love.
Love of home was the bond I shared with Aizarg. In my heart, I believe this is why we both gained Heaven’s favor.
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
He sat tall on the black stallion’s back; one hand on the reins, one hand on his hip. The gray mare slowly followed behind, head down, and content under her burden. Late afternoon sunlight poured between towering cedars. Dust motes drifted through the shafts of light in the otherwise still forest. The narrow trail wound along the rim of a cool, deep glen which dropped off to his left. To his right the terrain sloped up through an evergreen forest, where occasionally he caught glimpses of bright cliffs between the dark trees.
Pulled low over his eyes, his wide conical hat hid a square jaw firmly set in concentration. Fu Xi contemplated great and important thoughts only the God of Names could ponder.
“Hhorrssse,” he let the word slowly roll around his mouth and trickle out, trying to get a feel for the alien syllable. “Horse!” he said it very quickly this time, as if the word would sound better if he spit it out. He shook his head. No matter how he said it, the word was crude. He didn’t like what the men of Wu called these beasts, these ‘horses.’ Like the rest of their guttural tongue, the word sounded as if spat, not spoken.
No, the word ‘horse’ will not do.
Fu Xi brought the gift of language to many dark places where savages could previously only point and grunt. He’d grown accustomed to making up words for the new things he encountered in the wide, empty world. He knew the root of any name must lie in its inner nature, its spirit. During the long journey home he often pondered the inherent nature of these beasts. He concluded that ‘horse’ utterly failed to capture their spirit and resolved to invent a new word for these magnificent creatures.
They are large and powerful and fast, like the wind and water made one. These two traits were obvious, but Fu Xi considered their more subtle attributes.
They are graceful, especially when they run. Ahh, yes, strong, do not forget strong. I have never seen such strength.
These creatures deserved their own name, a name which captured the spirits of wind and water as well as encompassing grace, beauty and strength.
It was easier to bestow names to the sun and moon than these creatures.
Fu Xi stretched, yawned and fondly looked back at the gray mare plodding along. Then he considered the black horse beneath him.
“You,” he poked at the animal and pointed back at the gray horse, “are not as sweet as she is.”
The black horse neighed in response.
Fu Xi reached into a bag laid over the horse’s back and pulled out a handful of crab apples. He leaned over and offered them under the horse’s snout. The animal quickly gobbled them up and then tried to bite his hand.
“Hmph!” Fu Xi snapped his hand away and sat straight up. “That’s what I get for being nice! I guess I won’t be sharing my apples with you. Too bad. You should see the apples my mother grows in her garden.” He held out a hand as if weighing a heavy object in his open palm. “They are big and juicy. My mouth waters just thinking about them.”
He leaned down and whispered into the horse’s ear. “I ride you only because you are proud and strong, and I respect that. Don’t assume I like you, because I don’t. However, I look good riding you and such things are important.”
Something gently nudged him from behind. The gray horse pushed at the sack of crab apples. Fu Xi let go of the reins, grabbed a handful of apples, and offered them to her. She ate out of his hand as he rubbed her neck.
He’d gotten to know these horses very well since they departed the edge of the world last winter. Fu Xi often talked to them as they trekked westward down lonely, treacherous paths. Each had its own personality. The black one was temperamental and proud, the gray one sweet and affectionate. Both proved themselves loyal.
“No, I do not like ‘horse,’ but I cannot name either of you properly yet. Perhaps my mother can help in this matter. Until then, I shall have to continue to call you by your temporary names: Heise and Huise.” Black and Gray.
Fu Xi gazed up through the golden leaves of the familiar forest. Many of the older oaks had not changed, but new saplings sprung forth on the dappled forest floor. Old friends were now mushroom covered logs, rotting in the shadows.
The sunset is approaching. The Honey Lotus Bridge is very close. I am almost home.
Memories of a thousand past homecomings drifted though his mind, a happy blur of warmth and love.
***
Sunrise is a time for beginnings, high noon for mortal toils, and at sunset we lay our labors aside and rest in the company of those we love. Perhaps that is why I always returned to Nushen at sunset. It wasn’t something I necessarily planned, it merely came naturally.
The villagers knew this, too. At dusk the children always played on the pebble lane at the west end of the village, hoping to be the first to glimpse Lord Fu Xi emerge from the forest.
As I stepped from the forest onto the pebble lane, the children swarmed around me and shouted, “Lord Fu Xi has returned!” The older children showered me with hugs and kisses as the younger ones kept their distance. They had only heard tales of Fu Xi the Wanderer, The God of Names, the Immortal Son of the Goddess Nuwa.
“Where have you been, Fu Xi? What have you seen? What did you bring us?” the children cried. In my pack I always carried exotic treats or strange wonders to show them. I would never come home without something for my beloved children. The little ones quickly lost their fear as they watched their older brothers and sisters crowd around my legs.
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
Peeking through the high branches, Fu Xi glimpsed Tortoise Mountain rising steeply in the distance. His mother’s temple, its alabaster pillars carved out of the living
rock, gleamed in the late afternoon sun.
The snowpack is almost gone, he thought surprised. Tortoise Mountain’s snowpack never came this close to melting away.
The Silver Stairs rose out of the tree line and vanished between the alabaster pillars. His mother called them the Silver Stairs because the white rock shimmered gloriously in the morning sun.
Perhaps they are glorious in the dawn, but in the sunset they look like what they really are: long, steep and narrow. He groaned and started to laugh.
“We’ve travelled since the end of last winter’s snows.” He patted Heise. “You’ve carried me across mountains and deserts. Now, I only regret you cannot carry me up the Silver Stairs.”
For countless centuries, Fu Xi walked from one end of the Cin to the other and never thought twice of it. Now that he found these wonderful creatures he could not imagine ever walking again.
“No, friends, you are too big to climb the Silver Stairs. You’ll have to stay in the village. The acolytes will take good care of you. By day you’ll graze in pastures of soft clover. By night you will sleep within the confines of the convent, where I shall build you a stable. You two are my favorite things in all the world and only the best shall do!” Fu Xi laughed, feeling the joy of his homecoming.
Then he paused, pursed his lips and rubbed his beardless chin, thinking he might have spoken rashly. “Well, except maybe for women. Yes, you are the dearest things in my heart except for women. It’s not as if I can share a bed with you.”
Heise neighed and shivered slightly.
“My sentiments exactly!” Fu Xi laughed heartily.
Fu Xi removed his wide, conical hat and let his thick black hair tumble over his broad shoulders. His sparkling eyes and smooth, bold features were that of a man barely out of his teens. His spirits rose with every glimpse of Tortoise Mountain, soothing the woes of an ancient life and a long journey. On rare days like this, eternal life and eternal youth were the same.
Black Sea Gods: Chronicles of Fu Xi Page 10
