Black Sea Gods: Chronicles of Fu Xi

by Braden, Brian

  Another thunderous chorus rose from the crowd, giving more power to the word. “No!”

  The council grew quiet. All eyes fell upon Aizarg.

  “I do not know the spirit world, but I know the world of flesh and blood. We share this world with the people of the g’an.” He pointed off into the darkness, to the shore and the steppe. “This crime against the gods may not be ours! If so, Psatina may want us, her blessed children, to put it right!”

  He might be right, Atamoda thought.

  Aizarg turned to Setenay. “Old mother, there must be a way.”

  The shaman smiled and caressed Aizarg’s cheek, then turned away and addressed the council. “Aizarg speaks wisdom. This crime against the gods, whatever it may be, may not be ours. If the truth lies across the g’an, it is beyond my sight. Unfortunately, to walk the g’an is to die.”

  “Good mother, to do nothing is to die. I will walk the g’an. I only need to know where to go,” Aizarg responded.

  Okta rose to speak. “There are many reasons my clan does not touch the soil and chooses to remain in the womb of our Great Mother. My ancestors not only say ‘to walk the g’an is to die,’ but to walk the g’an is to wage war! Scythian horsemen attack all they see. Even the Sammujad will frown on a Lo party penetrating their grasslands. Your boar spears are no good beyond the reeds. The a-g’an will cut us down less than a day’s walk north.”

  Ba-lok spoke, “And where will we go to inquire about this supposed crime against the gods? Who will we ask? What will we trade for information? We can spare no fish for barter. My arun-ki has only a month’s supply of dried fish before our children’s bellies growl.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled across the water. No one wanted to trade away food.

  Ba-lok continued, “There is no wisdom on the g’an. They are savages, no better than the animals gathered in the north! My people know this better than any of the Lo. We trade with Virag and his filthy Sammujad degenerates almost every day. To seek their council is to court fools. I say we stay upon the water, pray for forgiveness and forget Aizarg’s foolishness.”

  Aizarg approached Ba-lok. “Foolishness? Foolishness? It is foolish to do nothing!”

  Angry voices erupted behind torches.

  “SILENCE!” Setenay’s high pitched voice pierced the darkness. “My grandson is correct, action without purpose is foolishness,” she said. “But Aizarg is also correct, prayer to a goddess who refuses to listen is futile.”

  Setenay glanced over to Aizarg again. Once again, Atamoda saw the same look in her eyes.

  Why is she looking at my husband like that? Atamoda didn’t like it. Setenay caught her gaze and Atamoda bowed her head.

  “Aizarg, while not a woman, your insights into the spirit world are correct,” Setenay continued. “I am not a man, but I ask you to respect my insights into the world of flesh and blood. A fisherman cannot blindly throw a spear into the water and hope he hits a fish. He needs a target, a shape below the murky surface. Am I right?”

  The men grunted approvingly.

  “Good, then perhaps I have a target for Aizarg’s spear,” Setenay’s eyes narrowed. She pointed across the darkness to the northeast. “We must consult the Narim.”

  Atamoda hadn’t heard that word since childhood. Her stomach tightened as she began to grasp the weight of Setenay’s words.

  “Good mother, please explain. I don’t understand,” Aizarg asked.

  She walked to her place next to Ba-lok and patted him on the hand. “Grandson, it is your place to talk of such things.”

  Atamoda could tell Setenay knew better than let her shadow fall too far across the authority of her young sco-lo-ti. Only in his nineteenth summer, his father passed during the winter and he needed to make his own name among the Lo nation.

  I do not fully trust him, but as long as his grandmother serves as patesi-le, his arun-ki will be well served.

  He stiffly kissed her cheek. “Yes, beloved grandmother.”

  “My family!” Ba-lok began. “Under my father’s leadership, a northern tribe called the Hur-po, the Men of the Yellow Metal, began trading with us. Like the Sammujad, they established an outpost not far from our shore camp.”

  Atamoda had never heard of the Hur-po, nor seen this ‘yellow metal,’ but Aizarg often traded with the Sammujad near their clan’s shore camp. Perhaps they knew of them. Trading with the steppe dwellers, no matter how distasteful, was necessary.

  Ba-lok continued, “Neither Sammujad nor Scythian, the Hur-po greatly desire our reed baskets and sacks for which they generously trade furs and bronze. They say they dwell on the eastern edge of g’an, where the dry grass meets the Adyghe Mountains.”

  “That’s the edge of the world!” a voice called from behind the torches.

  “Yes,” Ba-lok said. “It is a place no Lo has ever seen. The Hur-po trade for baskets and sacks, then disappear across the g’an, only to return by the next full moon.”

  “They don’t trade for fish?” Aizarg asked.

  “Very seldom,” Ba-lok reiterated. “They tell us they exchange the baskets and sacks for the yellow metal, dug from the earth near their village at the base of the Adyghe Mountains. They covet it and use it to decorate their bodies.”

  “Who digs this yellow metal from the ground?” Atamoda asked

  “The Narim,” Setenay interrupted, voice trembling in reverence.

  Okta wrinkled his long face in disbelief. “The Narim are children’s tales, and stories fathers tell their sons around the braziers when the cold wind howls and the sea breaks against the stilts.”

  “The Hur-po have seen the Narim for themselves,” Setenay said. “The Scythians call the village of the Hur-po Ghund-Ghund, The Place of Mazes. It is within sight of where the last of the god-men dwell. There is no deception in the Hur-po’s eyes when they speak of the Narim.” She walked around the circle, addressing not only the sco-lo-ti, but those beyond the torches.

  “The Narim are an ancient and powerful tribe of demigods. The Scythians call them the Narts and say they were once great heroes who ruled the entire g’an. They made a pact with an ancient god to give them long life. The Hur-po claim the Narim dwelling near their village are the last of their kind.

  “They say food springs from the ground at the Narim’s very command. They lay waste to entire forests, and then command the full moon to descend from heaven to gather the wood. If there is any hope of appeasing the gods, they will know. We must seek their counsel!”

  “This is foolishness,” Masok, the oldest of the seven sco-lo-ti, stood and shouted. “This place you speak of is beyond the g’an! It is at the edge of the world. If there is an answer to be found, it will be found here, upon the Great Mother’s womb!”

  Once again the council erupted into chaos.

  Unnoticed by the men, Setenay stepped away from the hot center of the köy-lo-hely. In the flickering darkness on the edge of the platform, Setenay held council with each patesi-le, one at a time. She bent down to each and exchanged words. Each woman’s eyes grew wide and then glanced at Atamoda. After a few seconds, each nodded, and then Setenay moved on to the next.

  What is she doing? Atamoda wondered with dread. Finally, she approached Atamoda. Atamoda looked through the crowd at the other women, but no one met her eyes.

  Orange firelight lit one side of Setenay’s grizzled face, making her white hair look as red as Aizarg’s.

  She bears Aizarg’s fate. She comes to take him away from me.

  Setenay whispered in Atamoda’s ear.

  Atamoda grew pale and closed her eyes. After a moment, she nodded, and forced back the tears. Setenay’s countenance softened and they embraced.

  6. Uros

  Bow your back only to retrieve your net and bend your knee only to steady your boat, but in the day of the Uros, all free men must bend to the will of the spear. – Lo Proverb.

  The Chronicle of Fu Xi

  ***

  Atamoda climbed down one of the ladders. Setenay didn’t f
ollow; she returned her attention to the Council. Atamoda walked from boat to boat towards her hut as their occupants held torches high and paid her no attention. Their eyes were riveted on the events taking place on the köy-lo-hely.

  She almost reached her hut when she spotted Su-gár’s lovely face, transfixed upon the center of the council and Aizarg. She recognized the adoration in Su-gár’s eyes. Atamoda knew she should feel anger or at least jealousy. Instead, she felt a disconcerting emptiness.

  At the end of the long line of boats, she hopped the remaining distance to her dock. Atamoda climbed the ladder and peeked into the hut. Kol-ok and Bat-or slept peacefully, oblivious to the events outside. She knew if Kol-ok were but a few seasons older, he’d be awake now, trying to grasp what transpired on the köy-lo-hely. She was thankful he was not.

  Climbing back down the ladder, Atamoda fetched the object Setenay sent her for. She pulled the knots securing it to the wooden storage rack under the hut’s floor where Aizarg stored his fishing and hunting gear. She grasped the object and slid it out. Much heavier than she imagined, Atamoda caressed its surface, in some places rough but in others smooth from repeated use. If she touched this object at any other time, it would be considered taboo. Now, it was holy.

  I must be careful carrying it back, lest I fall in and lose it. That would be a terrible omen, indeed! Atamoda prepared to step to the nearest boat, but stopped. She gasped at the spectacle before her.

  Across the water, hundreds of torches floated and bobbed, becoming more compressed towards the bright center. They merged into solid light around the köy-lo-hely. There Aizarg stood, in the center of his people, and above the lights. All the eyes of the Lo were upon him. She heard his voice, loud and confident above the fray. She never knew he had such a voice.

  Who is this man? Where is my quiet, thoughtful Aizarg? Love, pride, and fear swelled in her heart. That was her man. As much as it hurt, she marveled at Setenay’s wisdom.

  “He will lead them,” Setenay had whispered in her ear. “He will save our people.”

  Atamoda suddenly felt alone. She stood outside the circle of lights, separate and in darkness. A cold wind blew from behind her. She shivered, turned and saw only blackness. The emptiness returned and gripped her heart. She wanted to run back into the hut and embrace her children. She wanted to march across the boats and take her husband from the circle of light and scream...You can’t have him!

  When I carry this across the water, I lose him, probably forever. Atamoda struggled to keep her composure.

  He is sco-lo-ti, I am patesi-le. She stepped across to the first boat, carrying the fate of her people.

  No one paid attention to her as she made her way back. A few minutes later she set foot upon the köy-lo-hely, her heavy burden safely in her arms.

  Heated debate raged around the brazier. No one noticed Setenay helping her up the ladder. Unseen behind the circle of chieftains, Setenay and Atamoda carried the object to Ba-lok. Setenay pulled Ba-lok away from the crowd and whispered into his ear. His eyes grew wide as he beheld the object.

  “No!” he protested.

  Setenay’s eyes narrowed as she pitted her will against her grandson’s.

  Ba-lok shook his head in disbelief. “You truly believe we must do this?”

  “It’s the only way. You will do this.”

  Ba-lok regarded the object with awe, not because of what it was, but because of what it meant. Setenay pressed closer to her grandson. “The sco-lo-ti are paralyzed with fear. Look at them! You know my words are truth. All patesi-le are in agreement. It must be done and you must do it!”

  Something flashed across Ba-lok’s face. “Setenay, let it be me!”

  Atamoda noticed the lustful look in Ba-lok’s eyes as he regarded the object.

  “No,” Setenay said coldly. “You are not the one. It must be Aizarg. Now, step forward and speak the words I told you to say. Say the words with conviction, speak them like a sco-lo-ti!”

  Around them, the bickering continued among the equals, despite Aizarg’s best efforts to mediate. Reluctantly, Ba-lok stepped from the shadows and into the inner circle.

  “LISTEN TO ME, MY FAMILY!”

  The roar slowly died.

  Gooseflesh rose on Atamoda’s arms. I hope he speaks the words correctly. So much is resting on him. He will have the honor of Nomination and perhaps that will satisfy his pride.

  “I, Ba-lok, son of Aie-lok, Sco-lo-ti of the Lo, speak these words...

  “The a-g’an are in the marshes,

  The women weep for the dead!

  The shore camp burns,

  The Time of the Spear has come!”

  “Ba-lok, do not be a fool!” Masok shouted at the young sco-lo-ti, as if he spoke of things beyond his years. “We have not been attacked. This is a Council of Boats, not a Council of War.”

  “No,” Ba-lok countered, obviously feeling the power of his role. “We are at war! We are at war with those who offended the gods and brought this curse down upon the world. Okta, you said to walk upon the g’an is to wage war. Well, then we must wage war.”

  Setenay nodded approvingly from behind her grandson.

  The crowd remained quiet. The Lo hadn’t been to war in over a generation. In those days, when danger threatened the marshes, they did what Lo always do — melt into the reeds until the danger passed. This, however, was different.

  Okta stepped forward. “Ba-lok’s words are wise, though I hear his grandmother’s voice on his tongue.”

  Ba-lok flinched.

  “However,” Okta continued. “This is the right path. I, Okta of the Carp Arun-ki, summon my spears.”

  One by one, the seven sco-lo-ti summoned their people’s war spears, including Aizarg.

  No one cheered. The Lo were not a warrior race and a War Council was an act of desperation.

  The chieftains looked at one another with grim understanding about what happened next. Each sco-lo-ti leads his own arun-ki in peace, but a War Council requires a war chieftain, the Uros, to lead the nation. The sco-lo-ti who initiates the Summoning of Spears must also nominate a patesi-le, which cannot be his own, to choose the Uros.

  Okta spoke again, “Ba-lok, who do you nominate for The Choosing?”

  Ba-lok didn’t hesitate. “I nominate Atamoda of the Crane for The Choosing!”

  The crowd parted around a startled Aizarg. Atamoda slowly approached him, his boar spear held out in her trembling hands.

  Crafted from heavy gopher wood, a hardwood native to the marshes, Aizarg’s boar spear appeared much the same as every other man’s hunting spear. Trembling, she bowed on one knee before him and held the spear over her head. Tears in her eyes, she spoke the ceremonial words in a quivering voice.

  “Sco-lo-ti, the spears are summoned. I choose you, Aizarg, to lead them. Take the spear and become Uros of the Lo Nation until the Time of the Spear has passed.”

  Atamoda looked up at her stunned husband. The shock and uncertainty on his face were amplified in the ruddy firelight. She knew he didn’t want this.

  She bowed her head and stretched out the heavy spear.

  She heard Setenay whisper to Aizarg, “This is not yours to choose or deny. You have been called. The time of the sco-lo-ti is past; the time of the Uros is upon you. Take the spear and lead us.”

  If he takes this, there is no going back. Aizarg could not relinquish the title until death or his patesi-le took the spear from his hand and spoke these words:

  The marshes are quiet,

  The dead are in the Deep.

  The Lo can once again smell the Sea,

  The Time of the Spear has past.

  She looked from her husband’s hesitant eyes and to each of the sco-lo-ti. All but one of them looked relieved this burden passed them by. Ba-lok barely masked his disappointment.

  Aizarg and Atamoda looked at each other, seeing one another as husband and wife, not the sco-lo-ti and patesi-le. She wanted to throw the spear into the water and hold him. She wanted everything t
he way it was. Then she remembered her children sleeping across the water.

  Her eyes pleaded as she mouthed, “Take it.”

  He seized the spear and called out in a strong voice that carried across the waters and high into the starry heavens, “I, Aizarg, Uros of the Lo Nation, shall find the edge of the world! I will see these Narim with my own eyes and set the world to rights!”

  The crowd erupted with hope as the spear transformed into a magical symbol of power.

  Each sco-lo-ti filed past and grasped the spear. They were now bound to follow his orders to the death. Men from the boats, led by Levidi, gathered to do the same. Soon, the men settled around the fire as the Council of Boats became a Council of War.

  No one noticed Setenay’s absence on the platform. She knelt in Atamoda’s hut, holding the sobbing wife of the Uros.

  7. The Reed And The Wood

  The nomadic steppe tribes called the Lo many things: the Boatmen, Stilt Dwellers, and Marsh Men. Often, they referred to their southern neighbors as ‘The Silent Ones.’ Without silence, the Lo say, one cannot hear the gods. This saying goes hand-in-hand with the old Lo blessing: May You Live in Beautiful Solitude.

  This means living a life of quiet introspection. The men often fished alone, spending hours or even days in solitary thought. Being alone and being lonely were two different and distinct concepts to the Lo.

  When they sought each other’s company they did so in small groups with soft voices. It naturally followed the Lo didn’t beat drums or dance around fires like their g’an neighbors. In fact, they didn’t dance at all. Music, however, saturated the Lo soul and filled their lives like the Great Sea herself.

  Their wordless songs were composed of soft melodic humming. Often spontaneous, Lo music laid bare their innermost feelings. Low, soulful male voices blended with the natural chorus of frogs and crickets. Slowly, each man lent his voice and followed the originator’s lead, sharing his joy or pain, until the melody spread throughout the entire arun-ki. This male harmonic foundation was called the halah, or “wood.” These deep harmonics pulsed far across the shore, permeating spellbound listeners miles away. Even at its crescendo, the halah never overpowered the surrounding natural sounds, but instead complimented them with an almost supernatural quality.