Legends of Garaaga

by Paul E. Cooley

  Darian feinted and slipped in the mud. Acquila thrust forward and slashed diagonally across the older man's chest. Darian hissed and then lifted his blade. Acquila's forward momentum had put him in range. The xiphos' point stabbed into Acquila's shoulder. Acquila screamed in pain as dark blood flowed from the wound. Darian wrenched his sword free of muscle and tissue.

  Acquila, still screaming, swung his sword at Darian. Darian ducked under the blade and then kicked Acquila in the chest. Feet slipping in the mud, Acquila fell to the ground with a wet plop. Darian leapt forward, his sword held in both hands. The point pierced Acquila's chest. The young man screamed in agony. Darian twisted on the hilt. The scream died. Acquila dropped his blade, twitched, and then lay still.

  Nerutal managed to find his feet. "Gods," he whispered.

  Darian pulled free his sword as he rose from Acquila's corpse. He spat and turned toward Nerutal, a grim smile on his face. He opened his mouth to speak and then his eyes grew wide. "Move!" Darian screamed.

  Nerutal jumped to the treeline. Something heavy landed to his right. He turned and froze. The thing from the altar had landed a few paces away with a muddy squelch. The creature's triangular head slowly turned toward him, a rope of spittle falling from its glistening teeth. It raised a taloned claw toward him and growled. "Garaaga..."

  The thing fell backward as Darian's body slammed into it. "Get Ellistan! Flee!" Darian flung a pack at Nerutal's feet and stood above the creature. He slashed down, his sword clanging off the thing's flesh.

  Nerutal stumbled past Darian and the howling creature. He crouched and lifted the unconscious Ellistan, groaning as something gave loose in his back. He flipped the man onto his shoulder, grabbed the pack with his free hand, and ran toward the river.

  He turned around when he heard Darian scream. The thing held the old soldier by the throat. Darian's sword arm continued swinging, the xiphos scraping and sparking against the creature's flesh. The thing swung its free arm sideways. Darian's body went limp in its arms as blood spattered against the mud. Its maw snapped forward and Darian's head disappeared.

  Nerutal turned and ran as fast as he could. The river was mere paces away when his ears heard the fast, heavy footfalls above the rushing water's roar.

  Screaming in terror, he flung himself forward into the frothing, dark river. He crashed beneath its surface. The current pulled him down toward the river bottom. Out of breath, Nerutal struggled to rise. Ellistan's body threatened to slip away and Nerutal clamped down with one hand, kicking toward the surface as hard as he could.

  He broke above the water, facing upriver. Ellistan's body floated next to him. In the twilight, he saw a pair of crimson eyes staring at him. The woman stood at the head of the path, one arm freakishly long. In her taloned claws, she held a severed arm, a xiphos still clutched in its dead fingers.

  The sounds of men conversing, cargo being loaded, and the gentle lap of the river, woke him. Nerutal took a deep breath and then broke into a coughing fit. A hand reached out holding a wooden cup. Nerutal looked up and smiled.

  Philus returned his smile and nodded to the cup. Nerutal took it from his hands and swallowed a trickle of water. He took a shallow breath and handed back the cup. "How long?"

  "A night," Philus said. "I sent a messenger to the King. He'll be happy to know you live."

  Nerutal leaned over and spat on the wooden floor. Three long days in the river. Three long days of clutching Ellistan's corpse and using it as a raft as they rushed through the valley. The storms had ceased, but the roaring river continued to swell.

  He had tried to reach shore several times, but the river's current had been too swift. By the second day, Ellistan's bloated body was all that had kept him from drowning. Exhaustion and hunger had taken over by then, making it impossible for him to do more than hang on.

  The days had been spent shivering in the cold water, his face burning from the sun's constant exposure. The nights had been filled with terror. Every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd seen the thing, its glistening teeth, burning eyes, and taloned arms. Sometimes it carried Darian's severed head. Other times, it carried his own.

  When he finally reached shore on the third day, he'd removed the soaked pack he'd tied to Ellistan's body. "Goodbye, Scout," he'd whispered and then kicked the body back into the current. He'd watched the river take Ellistan downstream in its roaring embrace.

  The sickness that had killed Ellistan had seized him once on shore. The fever made him sizzle with each step as he followed the river. Somehow, he'd managed a day of cough-filled walking before he fell into unconsciousness.

  When he awoke, he had no idea how many days or nights had passed. It was dawn and the river had finally receded enough to obey its banks. He'd thought about slitting his own throat, or unsheathing the xiphos and piercing his heart. His men were dead. He would never again laugh at Darian's antics or try to make Acquila smile. He would never lead again. And without the wars, was there really any point in living?

  It was then he'd remembered the book, the thing, and the village.

  He'd stumbled down the river-bank once more, concentrating on each step. The woman's song had radiated from the river. The creature's face had stared at him from the tree line. The wind had carried the screams of his dead men. And each time he thought to lay down and die, they reminded him why he should not, would not, let it happen.

  His body had failed him in sight of houses near the river's widening mouth. When he'd awakened, brown faces stared down at him, mopped his brow, and fed him a strange gruel.

  Men dressed in smart tunics had visited him. Through his fever dreams, he remembered them asking questions. Darian had stood beside him, the old soldier's arms crossed, a thin smile on his bearded face. "You need to tell them, sir," the old man had grumbled. "Tell them everything." Blood dripped from the old soldier's chest. His head disappeared and then his body had faded away. Nerutal remembered talking, but had no idea what he'd said.

  He didn't know how long he'd been in the house on the river. The first time he'd awakened and recovered his wits, he realized Philus and seven other soldiers from the King's army had found him. The villagers, plied with coin, had attended him.

  "What will the messenger say?"

  "That you live. You have a story. And an artifact."

  "Why should the king care if a fellow countryman dies here? He wanted us dead."

  Philus sighed. "Nerutal, the Indus campaign is over. The Macedonians mutinied, demanded Alexander return to the kingdom and forget this accursed place."

  Nerutal swallowed hard. "My men died for nothing. We struck out into exile only to have the King change his mind and risk others to find us." Nerutal spat again. "A fool's errand. A fool's decision. And our countrymen are those that brought him back to sanity."

  Philus looked around as if to ensure they were alone. He leaned close to Nerutal. "Keep your tongue, old friend, or my soldiers might remove it. Not all of them know what we know."

  "What we know," Nerutal whispered. "The book. Have you--"

  Philus nodded. "I've looked at it." He clucked his tongue. "One of the men of Lothal saw its cover. He ran screaming."

  Nerutal turned on his side, lifting his head with a tired arm. "Screaming?"

  "Aye. I sent men after him, but he'd disappeared."

  "We have to leave," Nerutal whispered. "We must."

  Philus scrunched his brows. "We can't. Not until Alexander sends back word."

  Nerutal shook his head. He felt a shiver of fear. "No. We must."

  "To where?"

  "Out of the Indus. Anywhere. Now. Ur. Babylon. Alexandria. I don't care, but we have to leave."

  Philus scratched his hair. "You fear Garaaga?"

  Nerutal opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. "What did I tell you?"

  "Enough," Philus said.

  "The villagers, Philus. If they know we have the book, they may send men. We could die here while we wait for a messenger!" Nerutal saw the look of disbelief on the m
an's face. "You and I, we saved Alexander dozens of times in battle. For every strike of a sword on my shield, you took one as well. Believe me, please. We have to leave. I have not succumbed to Pan. Believe me."

  Philus shook his head. "My friend, these people are cows to slaughter. They'll not dare--"

  "We have to leave, Philus. Now."

  "If we leave now, you could die on the sea. The men of Lothal told us as much. Our translator said the herbs to hinder the illness do not always cure it. Without them every day, you might burn away."

  Nerutal lay back on the hard pallet. "I'm already dead, Philus." He closed his eyes. "I died in the river with my exiled brothers."

  "The King wishes to have you back, Nerutal. He wants--"

  "It doesn't matter." Nerutal's breathing broke down into coughs and wheezes. Philus held out the cup to him but Nerutal knocked it aside, spilling water on the sheets. His old friend shrank back. Nerutal's eyes burned. "Take me out of here, or kill me now. But do not waste any more time."

  They carried him on a litter to the long boat. He was still too weak to walk. The cacophonous dock fell silent as Philus and his men boarded the boat. "Perhaps," Philus whispered. "Perhaps you were right."

  Nerutal sat up from his place on the bow. A group of men clothed in crimson robes stood in a small circle on the other side of the dock. They parted. Nerutal shivered as a woman walked between them, her face hidden within the confines of a hood.

  Philus' men kicked the boat away from the dock, their strong arms paddling it into the current. Philus yelled orders to them.

  Nerutal's breath caught in his lungs when the woman raised her head. Two glowing coals stared back at him. He coughed and spat a wad of bloody phlegm on the bow. When he raised his head back to the dock, she was gone.

  Scrolls

  48 BCE

  Three Egyptian boys are chasing him through the streets. Dressed in a dirty tunic and stained robes, Herodot runs past vendors. Men yell at him as he bumps into them, bouncing off their hips and stumbling back into a run.

  The boys are closer now. Yelling in Egyptian. Calling him filthy Jew. Orphan. Fatherless. Motherless. Son of a camel.

  His bare feet are bloody from stepping on sharp gravel, broken pieces of pottery, and the leavings of the vendors. He flees around the corner and smashes head first into a cart.

  The world explodes in stars and planets. He falls to the street on his back and unleashes a cry. The scalp wound floods his face with blood. He tries to stand up, but his body won't obey. Through a half-swollen eye, he sees the three boys standing above him.

  The largest of the pursuers whispers something he can't hear over the ringing in his ears. Brown arms roll him over and then lift him. Herodot feels blood dripping down his chin. His vision wavers to black and then returns. He is staring at his own stumbling and bleeding feet.

  They are carrying him. He thanks them. They laugh.

  Herodot reels from a slap on his cheek. He stares out through a square of light. His arms and legs are cramped and he cannot move. The leader of the three is hunched over and smiling.

  "Can Yahweh see in the dark?" the boy asks.

  "Where am I?" Herodot stammers.

  The boy laughs. "In Sheol." He stands aside as the other two boys roll something forward.

  The square of light disappears, leaving Herodot in complete darkness.

  Herodot's scream echoes in the small space. His ears ring with the sound of it. A high pitched keening seems to reverberate in his brain, shaking and loosening his mind. He continues to scream until his voice dies.

  He has no sense of time. There is no sound except for his thundering heartbeat and shallow rasps of breath.

  The pain in his skull, in his feet, are the only things reminding him he's alive. Sometimes he thinks he hears people passing by. The occasional snatch of conversation, laughter, normalcy, drifts into his walled prison. But he doesn't know if it's his imagination.

  He cries, but has long since run out of tears. His voice has deteriorated to nothing. Cramps join the screaming and thumping in his head as his joints lock and spasm.

  He sleeps, or thinks he sleeps, but always wakes to find the world dark as pitch and filled with more pain.

  A scratching sound pulls him from his fugue. His heart-beat rages. The crushing pain in his skull increases. He is not dreaming now. Not sleeping. The scratching sound grows.

  "Please help me," he croaks. The sound of his own voice scares him. It is filled with broken shards of stone and barely more than a whisper.

  A ray of light slices into the darkness. Another. A rectangle of black outlined in bright, white light. The square explodes into the sun. His eyes burn from the sight. He looses a silent scream and shuts his eyes, but the afterimage lights his brain.

  He can hear a voice asking questions. Greek. Hebrew. Egyptian. The words are muddied and make little sense. Something tugs at his leg. Herodot opens his eyes and sees a large hand scrabbling at his foot.

  Images. Dreams. Someone is carrying him. Someone is speaking to him. Cool water across his chapped lips. Hebrew words spoken by a woman. "So much blood," the voice whispers.

  "Mother?" he asks.

  No, mother is dead. Father is dead.

  All are dead.

  Herodot opens his eyes but sees nothing. Cloth is tied around his forehead. It's unpleasant, but his joints are no longer screaming to stretch. The fire in his brain is subsiding. His feet are bound and cool.

  He is in a bed of cloth and straw, instead of a tomb of stone.

  He sleeps. He wakes. He sleeps.

  Voices ask questions. In Egyptian. In Greek. In Hebrew. In Aramaic. He answers them all.

  Time passes.

  He wakes in a darkened room. A man dressed in clean robes sits on a small chair in the corner. He is reading a scroll and tousling his beard with his fingers.

  "Where--" Herodot croaks.

  The man puts down the scroll and smiles. Bright eyes. Kind eyes. "Hush, child," the man says in Aramaic. His accent is slight, but there.

  "Greek."

  "Yes. I am Greek."

  "Speak Greek."

  The man chuckles. "You are Herodot, little one?"

  Herodot nods.

  "You are the boy that eats language like food."

  Herodot says nothing.

  "I came to see you at the temple. To ask you a question."

  Herodot tries to speak again, but the words come out in an unintelligible rasp.

  "No, boy. Listen, do not speak."

  The Greek rises from the chair and walks to the bedside. His smile makes Herodot feel safe. "My name is Akakios. You are in my home. I wanted to ask if you would like to study. At the Library."

  The gymnasium smelled of sweat, oil and pain. The room was sparsely filled with Greek men stretching, lifting bags of sand, or practicing their tumbling.

  Titus, the Chief Librarian of Astronomy, shadow boxed near a stark, stone wall. A simple loincloth covered his privates as his fists moved and his body bounced. The man nodded at Herodot and continued his workout. Herodot yawned as he headed through a door and into the swimming pool.

  The pool was open at one end to the ocean. The wide rectangle was made of stone sides that gradually sloped into the water. A green fish leaped in the early morning light.

  An Egyptian boy ran up to him. "Robe?" the boy said in Greek. It was one of the few words the child knew.

  Herodot turned and allowed the servant to undress him. The boy pulled the cotton from his body and neatly folded it. "Thank you," he said in Egyptian.

  "Welcome," the boy returned in Greek.

  The morning ritual performed, Herodot stepped carefully across the wet stone and lowered himself into the water.

  He shivered at the change in temperature--the water was cold that early in the morning.

  With the ocean breeze and the temperate Alexandria weather, the ocean could bite into the flesh. Even after so many years of swimming in the pool, the first dip always caught him
by surprise.

  Herodot ducked his head beneath the water. Eyes closed, he allowed himself to drift. Words of Greek, Aramaic, Herratic, and Akkadian filled his mind. He focused on one of the words. It slowly drifted backwards and into its place on a papyrus scroll.

  He smiled as he lifted his head. Akakios had said his memory was unique.

  You will make a great scribe, this patron had said. The boy who breathes languages and remembers every word he sees. It is a gift, young one.

  Herodot opened his eyes and began a lazy crawl through the water. Gentle waves brushed against him as he moved down the pool's length. The cold was leaving him, replaced by the warmth of waking muscles. The fuzziness of a long night was finally departing.

  When he'd first come to the Library, Akakios insisted he learn to swim.

  You will never grow strong if you sit in front of a scroll your entire day. Besides, he'd said with a smile, it will give your eyes a chance to rest and let your mind wander.

  Akakios taught him how to swim by throwing him in the pool. His patron had laughed and twisted his gray and black beard as Herodot struggled to float. The Librarian showed him how to move his body while on dry land, and Herodot quickly memorized the movements. But once in the water, he'd had a moment of panic and nearly drowned.

  Sputtering and spitting water from his lungs, the boy managed not only to float, but swim. More like flailing across the water's surface, but it had been enough.

  At dawn every day, Akakios woke him and took him to the pool. Akakios himself never entered the water, but taught and corrected him from the water's edge. In time, Akakios ceased waking him--it had become routine. Shortly after that, Akakios stopped coming at all.

  Herodot felt a fish bump against his leg. He laughed and quickened his pace. His long, brown arms reached forward, cupped hands pulling him while his legs scissored in the blue water.