Tears of the Dead

by Brian Braden

  Levidi smiled. “I don’t think he’ll hurt him much, he just wants to send the boy a message.”

  “What message?”

  “Spako’s been taking his rations with Su-gar. I don’t mind, he’s docile enough. He weighs down the raft, too; great ballast, you know. Tonight, Ezra joined us. He sat down next to Su-gar. They talked, they laughed, he touched her shoulder, and then the giant roared. Before I could react, he ripped out the deck log and tried to bash Ezra’s brains in.”

  “He ripped it out?” Atamoda couldn’t believe it.

  “Yep. With his bare hands.”

  Ezra scurried up the mast, Spako swatting at him. Some of the men, including Ghalen, began to laugh.

  Spako dropped the log and with both hands began to shake the mast.

  “Now it’s getting serious,” Levidi stuffed the rest of the fish in his mouth

  Aizarg signaled Ba-lok and Ghalen. “Take him down.”

  Head pressed up against the canopy, Ezra hugged the mast. He grabbed a long rope used to secure part of the canopy, snatched the knife from his loincloth, and cut it free. Swinging around the mast in a wide arc, he circled Spako as he descended. Before Spako could react, the rope tightened over his neck. Ezra landed lightly behind the mast and yanked with all his strength, just as another wave slammed against the flotilla. Spako stumbled backwards against the mast, and Ezra wasted no time tightening the slack. Ba-lok and Ghalen joined him, while Xva and Kol-ok threw another rope around Spako’s feet.

  Soon, a dozen men strained to bind the giant. Spako’s face turned red and then purple as the rope dug into his neck.

  Atamoda spotted Virag’s furious face in the crowd.

  She tugged Aizarg’s arm. “Tell them to stop.”

  “Spako must be rendered harmless.”

  Su-gar pushed her way through the men. “You’re hurting him! Let him go.”

  “Get away, Su-gar,” Levidi warned, but Su-gar shoved him aside.

  She knelt in front of Spako, rubbing his cheek. “You have to stop. Do you understand?”

  Spako visibly relaxed, the rage ebbing from his eyes.

  “Promise me you won’t hurt Ezra.”

  “He...touched...you,” Spako rasped.

  Su-gar peeked behind the mast and nodded at Ezra. “That’s okay. Ezra is my friend.”

  “Release him,” Su-gar commanded the men.

  They looked to Aizarg, who nodded. The ropes went limp and the giant slumped coughing to the deck.

  Always touching his arm, Su-gar spoke softly, as if addressing a child, “Promise me you won’t get angry like that again.”

  He wouldn’t look at her.

  She lifted his chin. “Promise me.”

  Atamoda marveled at how Su-gar controlled him, absorbed his rage like a poultice draws venom from a wound.

  “He touched you.”

  “Promise me!”

  “Spako promise.”

  She removed the ropes and he stood, towering over the Lo.

  Aizarg approached. “Spako, we can’t have any more of that, do you understand?”

  “Spako promise Su-gar. Spako promise Uros.”

  Ezra meekly walked around the mast. “Spako...? Are we friends now?”

  A low growl rumbled in Spako’s throat. “Ezra is quick.”

  Ezra grinned. “Spako is strong.”

  Spako looked at Su-gar. “Friends?”

  Su-gar beamed. “Friends!”

  Spako turned to Ezra with childish glee and nodded enthusiastically. “Friends!”

  Spako lifted the log in one hand and handed it to Levidi who, with both arms, humffed under its weight.

  “Sorry, Levidi,” Spako shrugged sheepishly.

  Okta laughed and slapped Levidi on the back. “Come on, let’s see if we can fix it.

  Ezra and Su-gar took Spako’s hands and led him away.

  “Spako is strong. Spako is hungry,” Atamoda heard the giant say as they vanished through the rain curtain.

  The waves roared, the wind blew, and the rain pounded as Atamoda’s family sat down to finish their meal.

  A few minutes later a sharp cry, followed by a moan, rang out from beyond the rain curtain. Atamoda and Aizarg rushed to Levidi’s raft to find Sahti lying on the deck, her head in Alaya’s lap. Xva knelt over his pregnant wife as blood gushed from between her legs.

  “Atamoda, help her!” Xva pleaded.

  37. Boats and Blankets

  Gods and mortals share an equal disposition for self-delusion.

  The Chronicle of Fu Xi

  ***

  A Day of Rains.

  Atamoda knew a calm sea would make the task easier.

  “The boat is small, but it will do.” She tried to ignore the faint rotting smell drifting up from the boat as she lined the bottom with handfuls of salvaged reeds.

  “I need more reeds,” she remarked to herself, hands frantically flattening fronds across the slimy bottom.

  “Levidi says there are no more.” Sana passed her a small handful of yellowed stalks.

  Atamoda looked up, trying to focus across the empty Supply Barge where they knelt around the little boat Okta pulled off the storm wall. Kol-ok tried to donate his boat, but Atamoda would not hear it.

  “Where is Alaya?” Atamoda asked.

  “In her boat. She won’t talk to anyone, even Levidi,” Sana whispered.

  Alaya had helped Atamoda as she tried to deliver the baby. She last saw her standing over Sahti, arms and torso covered in blood.

  “Su-gar?”

  “Washing and preparing the bodies.”

  “Kus-ge?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Emptiness invaded Atamoda’s spirit. “Mother delivered Sahti; it was the first birth she let me assist.”

  Sweat dripped from her brow as she stuffed more reeds into the boat, slapping them down and trying to make the yellowing strands lie flat.

  But she couldn’t cover the rot.

  “I couldn’t move her to the water. It happened so fast.” Atamoda snatched another handful of reeds. “I couldn’t turn his head. I’ve never delivered a child out of water before.” She shivered and wiped the sweat from her eyes. “I need more reeds. Sana, find me more reeds.”

  “There are no more.”

  Atamoda ignored her, scraping the deck with her fingertips for bits and pieces.

  “I should have had Aizarg carry her to the Lagoon. In the water, I could have turned the baby’s head. I could have stopped the bleeding.”

  “The baby was dead, Atamoda. There was nothing you could have done for either of them.”

  “What do you know about birthing, girl?” Atamoda snapped.

  Sana lowered her head.

  Atamoda looked about, searching the decks. “Where are my people? I need reeds. More reeds. We can’t put them in here.”

  Sana placed her hand on Atamoda’s shoulder.

  Atamoda stared at her trembling arms, still covered in Sahti’s blood and then into the boat. She’d unknowingly smeared blood in the bottom.

  Atamoda turned her gaze to Sana. “Where are my people?”

  “They are here. You are not alone.”

  “I can’t put her in there. It’s rotting. We need more reeds.”

  “I will find more reeds.”

  ***

  Sana knew nothing could have saved Sahti or the baby. In her young life she’d known several famines, when hunts and raids did not yield enough food for expectant mothers during the long winters. The following spring always brought a plague of stillborns.

  “I will find reeds and finish the boat. Go lie down. If I need you, I will call you.”

  Atamoda didn’t answer.

  “Please, Atamoda.”

  “You don’t know how.”

  “I will find Su-gar. She will help.”

  “It is my duty.”

  “Let others share the burden.”

  “So much blood. We must wash the deck.”

  “The deck can wait.”
<
br />   A scraping sound rose from the Minnow side of the Spine. Okta emerged from the rain curtain, closely followed by Spako dragging a boat. Kirabol limped behind.

  Spako rested the good boat next to the rotting hull.

  “Kirabol donated her boat for the funeral,” Okta said. “She’ll take up residence on Levidi’s raft. This one is longer and in better condition.”

  Okta pointed to the old hull. “Spako, grab that boat and help me secure it to the storm wall.

  Spako scooped up the little boat and lifted it over his shoulder.

  “Su-gar has prepared the bodies. Summon us once it is ready, and Spako and I will carry it to the water. Aizarg is assembling the people around my raft for the funeral.”

  Atamoda stared at the boat, not acknowledging The Master of Boats.

  Sana looked up. “She will be alright. I won’t leave her. We will summon you when we are ready.”

  Okta nodded and led Spako back through the rain curtain.

  Kirabol stepped around the hull and picked up the bloody blanket used to birth the child. “Don’t wrap the baby or the mother in that.” She handed it to Sana. “Toss it overboard. Find a blanket, maybe two, to wrap the dead. I will stay with the patesi-le.”

  Sana took the blanket. “All the other blankets are used by the living.”

  “Go to Levidi’s raft and look next to the place where you sleep. You’ll find my blanket. Bring it here.”

  Sana opened her mouth, but the hag’s expression deflected all argument.

  ***

  Sana stepped lightly over others’ sleeping places until she came to hers. Other than Alaya, sobbing a few feet away under her boat’s canopy, Sana found herself alone. She briefly thought about consoling Alaya, but knew she must complete her task.

  Sana found Kirabol’s blanket rolled tightly, Lo style, with both ends neatly tucked to keep water from penetrating and soaking the inside.

  She imagined the old woman shivering at night without her blanket. It baffled her why Kirabol insisted on surrendering her blanket to the dead.

  Sana sighed and reached for her own blanket, folded square and proper as if ready to be thrown over a horse’s back.

  I am young, and Scythians are used to cold nights.

  “It wasn’t mine anyway,” she whispered, remembering when Atamoda gave her the blanket shortly after she saved Ba-tor.

  A hand grabbed her wrist. Sana whirled about, ready to strike, and came within a breath of Ghalen’s red rimmed eyes.

  Ghalen placed a tightly rolled blanket in her arms. “Use this.”

  He vanished through the rainwater curtain.

  Sana examined the blanket, wondering where he found a spare. She pulled the cord and unrolled a small portion. For some unknown reason, she sniffed it.

  It smelled like a man.

  It’s his.

  Sana made sure no one watched before completely unrolling it. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, buried her face in the warm, roughhewn flaxen, and deeply inhaled Ghalen’s scent.

  She rerolled the blanket in Lo fashion as best as she could before sacrificing it to the dead.

  ***

  Arms folded, heads bowed, Okta and Spako waited patiently as Atamoda prepared Sahti and her baby for their final journey. A fold here, a tuck there; Atamoda doted over little details as she molded the blanket over the mother embracing her child.

  “I helped do this for her mother,” Atamoda said to no one in particular.

  “We must take Sahti to the water.” Okta touched her shoulder. “Everyone is waiting.”

  “She must be completely covered.” Atamoda would not be hurried.

  “Others grieve, too. Xva stands in the cold rain. Kol-ok won’t leave his side,” Su-gar said. “Xva needs to see his wife and baby off to Heli-dar. Let Okta and Spako take the boat.”

  “So much death,” Atamoda whispered. Su-gar embraced her from behind and helped Atamoda stand.

  Atamoda gestured for them to take the boat. Spako shuffled to one end, Okta to the other.

  “Careful, whatever you do, don’t tip it. Lift on three,” Okta said.

  “What is this?” Kus-ge’s voice emerged behind them. She stepped forward and inspected the funeral boat.

  “Go to my raft, Kus-ge,” Okta said in a low voice. “We’ll honor our dead there.”

  “Yes, of course. But why, I ask, are we wasting a perfectly good blanket on the dead? Isn’t that a Minnow boat, too?”

  “Go away!” Su-gar hissed.

  “It’s a legitimate question.” Kus-ge ignored her. “I mean, there are so few to go around as it is.” Kus-ge reached into the hull as if to take the blanket.

  Atamoda next found herself standing over Kus-ge, breathing heavily with balled fist. “Don’t...touch...her!”

  The Minnow Patesi-le rubbed a red cheek, staring up in shock.

  Like a cat, Kus-ge sprang so quickly Atamoda didn’t have time to bring up her hands. Kus-ge slammed Atamoda’s head against the deck until bright lights flashed in her vision. The Minnow woman fell upon her, pinning Atamoda’s arms down with her knees, and raining blows across her face and chest.

  “Kus-ge!” Okta shouted.

  Through blinding pain Atamoda saw hands reach for Kus-ge. Spako fell into a ball, holding his groin.

  Atamoda tasted blood as the beating resumed.

  A shadow darted to her right. Kus-ge’s leg snapped out again, and Okta landed flat on his back.

  Kus-ge clenched Atamoda’s neck with crushing force, dark fire dancing in her eyes. “Never strike what you’re not prepared to kill, stupid bitch!”

  The world faded, and then the pressure around her neck vanished. Air, sweet and cool, filled her lungs as light returned to the world.

  Atamoda blinked, wondering why Kus-ge looked so surprised. Then she saw a thin black dagger drawing a crimson bead at Kus-ge’s jugular. Sana clenched a wad of Kus-ge’s hair, pulling her head back as far as it would bend. Kus-ge’s eyes bulged in shock.

  “Touch her again, I beg you,” Sana whispered into Kus-ge’s ear like a lover. The wicked edge sank almost imperceptibly deeper as Kus-ge held her breath.

  A drop of Kus-ge’s blood fell on Atamoda’s abdomen.

  “Sana,” Okta held out his hand. “Let her go.”

  “Yield or die.”

  “I yield,” Kus-ge sputtered.

  Sana’s next words were so faint Atamoda could barely hear. “Raise a hand against her again, and I will finish this.”

  Sana threw Kus-ge to the deck and stood, licking the blade before sheathing it against her thigh.

  Kus-ge staggered up, rubbing the bloody streak. “Atamoda struck first! I only wanted to teach her a lesson.” She pointed accusingly at Sana. “The Scythian is dangerous. You saw what she did to me!”

  Okta pointed to the Minnow side. “Go to your boat, Kus-ge. We’ll deal with this later.”

  Su-gar helped Atamoda up and examined her. “A few cuts and scrapes. Are you hurt anywhere else?” She looked up at Spako. “Go fetch Aizarg.”

  “No.” Atamoda waved her off. “We must commit our dead.”

  Atamoda turned to thank Sana, but the Scythian had vanished.

  Okta and Spako picked up the boat. Supported by Su-gar, Atamoda led the pallbearers through the rain curtain toward the waiting mourners.

  38. The Last Daughter of Scythia

  The final dagger given a Scythian Maiden is Death, with which she will defend her last breath and deny her body to her enemies. Vengeance and Death are the Black Blades, common to all daughters of Scythia.

  The other three daggers, known as the Silver Blades, the maiden names herself. Forged to protect what she loves, in these she instills her secrets.

  The Chronicle of Fu Xi

  ***

  As the Lo mourned Sahti, Aizarg held council deep into the night with Kus-ge and Ba-lok. Dawn brought another Day of Rains and vows of reconciliation from the Minnow leaders. Atamoda had her doubts, but survival demanded she concentra
te on the needs of the moment. This morning began Sana’s training as patesi-le of the Turtle and Isp of the Lo people.

  Atamoda’s throat still ached; yellow and black bruises testified to Kus-ge’s rage. She tried not to think about Sahti or the fight as she attempted to focus her thoughts on Sana’s training.

  “This presents a difficult situation,” Atamoda scanned the jumble of odds and ends scattered in front of her; strands of frayed rope, a few bits of reed, leaves, and a handful of dried herbs from her healing pouch. “I’m not sure where to begin in your training.”

  Sana stood with her back to her, arms folded and leaning against the mast. “Where did yours begin?” she asked absently, staring across the Arun-ki.

  Atamoda sensed rage still smoldering behind the Scythian’s glare.

  “I am not the daughter of a sco-lo-ti, so I started late. Setenay formally took over my training as a patesi-le when I was about your age, after my father arranged my marriage to Aizarg.” Then a thought occurred to Atamoda.

  “What do you know of healing lore? Perhaps that is a good place to start.”

  Sana turned around, eyebrow raised as if Atamoda had asked perhaps the most ridiculous question possible. “Unlike our men, most Scythian women learn to both kill and heal. I’ve stanched enough blood and fought enough infections to know the uses of weed and root, both of the steppe and Limita. I’ve seen your bag of herbs, most of them are known to me.”

  I see it now, so clearly. The way she folds her arms, the arch of her brow, the fire in her eyes. She is undoubtedly Setenay’s blood.

  “Of course. Well...” Atamoda struggled to find a place to begin. “We can’t very well take a stroll along the shore, can we?”

  “No. We can’t do that.”

  Her easy manner with Sana evaporated in the wake of the Adoption Ceremony. Everything had changed, and now Sana had built a wall around herself, one Atamoda didn’t know how to penetrate. The confrontation with Kus-ge only aggravated matters.

  “Healing and midwifing is at the heart of being patesi-le.”

  “As it is for a Scythian kotiama.”

  “I...I didn’t know.” Atamoda had heard many terrible stories of the kotiama, the Scythian witches.

  Sana’s expression turned icy. “The steppe is a hard life, our lore and craft acknowledge this fact. Food does not swim up under our tents, begging to be caught. The grasslands deliver death to our yurt, not fresh water and cool breezes. The weak die, the strong thrive. Still, there is a place for mercy...” Sana paused. “…or was.”