Black Sea Gods: Chronicles of Fu Xi

by Braden, Brian

  The children’s faces were downcast as the fat monster occasionally grabbed one and spun them around to show the buyers. Many faces of the crowd wore the same lustful expression Gilga wore when he considered Sarah.

  Revulsion overwhelmed Aizarg and, in an instant, he knew the reason the gods abandoned the world. Hatred burned hot in Aizarg’s heart.

  Now I understand, Great Mother.

  Hur-ar deserved the worst of heavenly judgments, but Aizarg feared Hur-ar’s sins were so great they would drag down the rest of the world.

  Aizarg looked at the poor children being sold into suffering and then he looked at Sarah. She looked away from the auction block, her arms were folded tight, pain swimming just below the surface.

  She’s been there.

  At that moment, Aizarg made up his mind. He would not turn Sarah over to the commander. Setenay said the Narim were the key to their salvation, but if he surrendered Sarah to Hur-ar’s clutches, then he and the Lo shared in Hur-ar’s judgment. Perhaps Aizarg could not turn the wrath of the gods, but he would meet the next world with a clear conscious.

  Aizarg gripped his staff tighter. At the first opportunity he would strike Gilga over the head and they would make a run for the Cliff Road.

  “As much as I’d like to stay and enjoy the auction, the commander awaits.” Gilga sighed and pointed his whip up the stairs. “The commander’s barracks are at the top of the stairs on the Avenue of Ba’al.” He turned and started up the stairs.

  Sarah took Aizarg’s arm when Gilga drifted far enough ahead to be out of earshot

  “The worst is behind us,” she whispered. “We can be at the Black Fortress before sunset, but you must control your anger! I can see you seething. It will draw suspicion.”

  How can one man’s anger draw any attention in this foul place? Aizarg looked up at the Black Fortress looming high above them.

  “No, Sarah, the worst is not behind us,” he whispered. As Gilga led them up the stairs and out of the market, Aizarg began to doubt the Narim could save them.

  Gilga pointed them to a dark side street and waited for them to pass. “This way.”

  Sarah glanced at Aizarg with a confused look before she turned to Gilga. “Great warrior, I have been this way many times. Isn’t the entrance to the Central Barracks around the corner?”

  Rage crossed Gilga’s face, but he quickly suppressed it. “Of course it is, but I’m not leading a choice morsel like you through a den of wolves. I don’t feel like fighting half the garrison and I don’t want to be responsible for delivering a bloody and bruised harlot to the commander.” Gilga smiled like a serpent. “He likes to deliver the blood and bruises himself.

  “The entrance to the commander’s quarters is this way. I will discreetly deposit you there and then retrieve the commander.” He turned to Aizarg. “You can wait outside the commander’s door until he is done. After that, your affairs are your own.”

  Gilga once again motioned Sarah and Aizarg ahead down the alley. Sarah went ahead, but gave Aizarg a worried expression.

  “Go, I will follow you,” Aizarg said. He wasn’t about to let this dangerous man get behind him.

  Gilga laughed and went ahead of him. “As you wish, outlander. I admire your caution, I’m sure you learned that on the steppe.”

  With Gilga between Sarah and Aizarg, they entered the narrow recesses of the alley. The brick pavers gave way to dirt.

  Aizarg readied his grip on his staff.

  Gilga pointed to the right. “It is the third entrance on your right. Enter, and then take the first door on your left.”

  Aizarg looked back over his shoulder. In a few more paces they would be deep enough in the alley where he could deliver a blow to Gilga’s head without being seen from the street.

  Aizarg turned back just in time to see Gilga’s fist slam into his face.

  22. The Fisherman’s Farewell

  The Fisherman’s Farewell was performed by the Lo wives the night before their husbands departed on the arduous winter fishing expedition. When autumn’s color gave way to the gray winds, the giant trout migrated from the shallows to the deep waters beyond the Silt Flats. The expedition could last weeks and often netted a bountiful catch, but the winter sea was dangerous and fisherman often never returned. It was so perilous that, if the summer fishing season was plentiful, a wise sco-lo-ti wouldn’t chance a winter expedition.

  Two days before the expedition, the wife would fast to acknowledge her husband’s sacrifice and the consequences if he should fail. She prepared a feast the night before her man’s departure, but she would not eat during the ceremony. Instead, she fed her husband by hand until he could eat no more.

  The spirit of the Fisherman’s Farewell was captured in the Lo chant, “Remember”, recited by the wife at the conclusion of the ceremony. The chant was meant to nourish her man’s spirit and give him strength for the long journey ahead. More importantly, it was a way to say goodbye.

  The Chronicle of Fu Xi

  ***

  Setenay woke with a gasp. “Aizarg!”

  “Do not be afraid. I am here, old mother.” Ghalen reached under the blanket and held her hand. He’d been sitting next to her since the rest of the party departed.

  She looked about as if she didn’t know where she was. Finally, her eyes focused on Ghalen. The way she looked frightened him. Her cheeks were sunken and dark circles surrounded her eyes. Her breath carried a slight wheeze.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was just a dream...it has passed.” She reached up and caressed his cheek. “Ghalen, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “Build me a fire; a great, roaring fire.”

  Ghalen cautiously looked over his shoulder. They were on the highest ground on this side of the river. A fire could be seen for miles.

  As if she understood his thoughts, Setenay touched his arm. “Trust me.”

  “Yes, I will see to it.” Ghalen pulled away to start the fire, but she held his arm.

  “And Ghalen...if there is enough wood, can you fashion a spit?”

  “Yes, old mother.” He pulled away, but she pulled him back again.

  “If you can, try to find a good, flat cooking stone.”

  He patted her hand. “Yes, old mother. I will see what I can do.” Ghalen leaned in. “What am I cooking?”

  Setenay winced as she pulled herself up on her elbows, took a deep breath and exhaled. The wheezing didn’t go away. “You are not cooking anything. I am.”

  “Are you up to it, old mother?” he asked, doubtful of her ability to even stand.

  “I am. I have one more request, Ghalen. Do not call me ‘old mother’ anymore. I know it is proper and you do it out of respect, but my name was Setenay long before my hair turned white and my skin turned to leather. It will please me to hear my name from your lips.”

  “So be it...Setenay.”

  In a few minutes, Ghalen gathered all the available wood from beside the old fire pits and placed them in a large pile.

  Setenay managed to stand, though she swayed unsteadily. He rushed over to help her, but she shooed him away.

  “I am fine. Make the fire.”

  Ghalen watched her out of the corner of his eye as he worked. She stood on the edge of the hill, her arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, gazing at Hur-ar with a haunted expression. He worried she would lose control again. Without Aizarg and Sarah here to help he wasn’t sure how to handle it.

  “When did they leave?” Setenay asked, not taking her eyes off the city.

  “Not long after your...” Ghalen paused to carefully consider his words. “...after you passed out. Aizarg and Sarah went into the valley and the rest went east searching for Ba-lok.”

  Ghalen motioned to the wood pile. “We are fortunate. If we are careful there is enough wood for three days.”

  Setenay considered the wood pile. “Burn it all,” she calmly said, returning her gaze to the city. “We wi
ll not be here for three days and I do not wish to be cold.”

  Ghalen opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and threw another pile of sticks onto the fire. Soon, he fashioned a spit and even managed to find a fairly flat, broad rock to serve as a cooking stone.

  He looked up to see Setenay inspecting the fire. She jiggled the spit to test its sturdiness and poked the cooking stone, judging its quality. Her demeanor dramatically changed from only a few minutes ago. The old Setenay returned, complete with the twinkle in her eye.

  “Yes, that is a fine fire. Now, get up.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, you heard me, get up!” She clapped her hands rapidly to accentuate her point. Setenay took his hand and led him with authority to the upwind side of the fire. “Stand here, don’t move.” He obeyed, not knowing what else to do. She unfurled her blanket at his feet and then folded his blanket into a thick square and placed it against his pack as a crude backrest.

  “Sit,” she commanded

  Ghalen felt ashamed. It was Setenay who should be sitting in front of the fire, not him. “Please, Setenay, let me...”

  “Sit,” she repeated stubbornly. He searched Setenay’s eyes, trying to see behind her weathered mask.

  “All right, I will sit down.” Ghalen relented, and that seemed to make her feel better.

  At first, he felt guilty for enjoying the way the roaring fire felt against his skin. As the shadows lengthened, Ghalen finally relaxed and let the flickering light hypnotize him. He plucked a piece of long, dry grass and put it between his teeth and idly twisted another between his fingers. For a moment, he was home, perhaps in shore camp after a hunt. He almost smelled the sea and heard the water lapping against the shore. Setenay hummed a happy tune as she set her pack down and removed bundles of food wrapped in leaves, bound with leather strips.

  A man content with the simple pleasures of fishing and hunting, Ghalen often heard the whispers about what a good sco-lo-ti he would be, but he had no ambition to fill his older brother’s role in the Turtle Clan. While he didn’t want to be a sco-lo-ti, he desired a wife worthy of a sco-lo-ti.

  Perhaps that is why he declined all attempts to marry him off. The girls of his arun-ki were pretty maids all, but they were just girls. Even across the Lo nation he couldn’t find the woman of his dreams.

  Sarah...now that is a woman! Even though he respected her, Ghalen found no desire in his heart for Sarah. She loved Ood-i and Ghalen sensed she had another destiny to fulfill.

  His future wife must have a fire in her soul, the strength of the sea in her flesh, and the wisdom of a goddess in her heart. These were all the traits which made a strong patesi-le.

  Patesi-le are only married to sco-lo-ti.

  Ghalen sighed and threw the mangled piece of grass into the fire.

  He looked up and caught Setenay staring at him with a sad, sweet smile.

  “It won’t take me long to prepare the meal,” she said and went back to work.

  My wife will have to be like her. He knew he harbored a fool’s hope. A woman like Setenay came along once in a generation. The closest the Lo had come to producing a patesi-le like her was Aizarg’s wife, Atamoda.

  Over the next few minutes she had all of her food, a week’s worth of dried fish and crushed wild grain, laid out in an orderly row. She untied the bundled leaves to reveal dried brine salt, crushed plant roots, and dried yellow marsh peppers. One of the leaves contained several strips of dried pig fat, which she tossed onto the cooking stone. It sizzled and began to melt over the rock.

  In rapid succession, she sprinkled the grain and crushed the spices into the sizzling fat and then carefully laid a third of her fish ration over the concoction. The dried fish began to swell with the fat and turn delightfully brown. The fat and crushed grain stewed into a thick, brown sauce, which she smeared over the top of the fish.

  “It smells so good.” Ghalen’s mouth watered and his stomach grumbled.

  She smiled warmly and softly touched his knee. “I hope you enjoy it. I’m the best cook in the Minnow Clan.”

  Ghalen believed it. Having a wife that could cook was important, too. He noticed how much food she cooked and would make sure he replaced her rations from his supply.

  With two sticks, Setenay lifted the fish off the cooking stone and, one by one, laid them over the spit where they would slowly finish cooking. She reached down and picked up the rest of her food, and instead of putting it into her bag, she quickly placed it all on the cooking stone.

  Ghalen bolted upright. “Setenay! What are you doing? That is all your food!”

  “Yes,” she said as she stirred the sauce over the fresh strips.

  “Once you cook them they have to be eaten or they will spoil by morning. Take them off!” He tried to pick them off the rock.

  She slapped his hand. “Let them be.”

  Ghalen leaned forward. “You won’t have enough food for the journey home.”

  She continued cooking, but her unspoken words were clear to Ghalen.

  “Don’t think that way!” Ghalen scolded her. “You will make it home, all of us will.”

  Setenay gently pushed him backward into his lounging position. She crawled next to him and knelt with her hands on her thighs. Large tears formed under her baggy eyes and rolled down her cheeks, but Setenay spoke softly and patiently.

  “Tomorrow we will talk of the needs of the flesh and of what we can or cannot do with the time we have. Tonight, it is the spirit that needs nourishment. It is my spirit that needs tending, Ghalen.”

  Crushing sadness washed over Ghalen at the realization of what Setenay was about to do.

  She’s performing the Fisherman’s Farewell.

  Ghalen tenderly wiped the tears from her face, leaned back, and surrendered to her will.

  ***

  As the sun died in the west, Setenay tended to her fisherman as Lo women had for generations. She knelt next to him and fed him by hand until the food and sunlight were gone.

  Setenay pulled a blanket over the both of them. Without hesitation Ghalen pulled her close and put his arm around her. Soon, laughter rolled down the hillside and into the night. They spoke of the small things in life, of the everyday, as if tomorrow was just another day. She spoke of her late husband, about her children, and of a hundred things about her clan and the Lo she hoped would never be forgotten.

  As the night wore on her tone became more subdued and she told him secret things, knowledge only reserved for a sco-lo-ti...for an Uros. Ghalen listened quietly. She needed him to listen. She needed him to remember. Mostly, she needed this moment to last forever.

  One subject Setenay didn’t speak of was her vision. Tomorrow fast approached and that thought threatened to drag her into madness. Setenay the woman wanted to bury her head into Ghalen’s chest and cry like a child, hoping against hope tomorrow would never come. Setenay the venerable patesi-le was simply thankful for the fire, the blanket and the man next to her.

  She snuggled closer to him under the blanket, put her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat. Ghalen reminded her so much of her late husband. He even smelled like him. She found his hand and she squeezed as tightly as her arthritic joints permitted.

  The fire slowly faded and the noose of darkness tightened around them.

  I have tonight.

  Ghalen’s breathing became more regular. She looked up and saw his eyes were closed.

  “The ceremony isn’t over,” she whispered, but he was already fast asleep.

  Setenay looked upon Ghalen’s tranquil face like a maiden adores her husband on their wedding night. She lightly kissed him on the lips.

  As Ghalen slept, sadness swept over Setenay. As an unmarried man, he never heard the chant spoken in love.

  And she knew he probably never would.

  “Remember, my love...” Setenay began the chant that completed the ceremony.

  “When the waves strike hard against the bow, let the memory of my soft embrace protect yo
u,

  “When the wind blows cold against your skin, let the memory of our hearth warm you.

  “In the endless silence of night, let the echo of our children’s laughter fill you with joy,

  “In the starless darkness, remember the light in my eyes and let it guide you.

  “When your weary arms sag and your shoulders ache, let the memory of my strength inspire you,

  “If your beautiful solitude turns to loneliness, remember my love and let it fill you with hope.

  “When you are adrift in the vast emptiness do not despair, remember your home lies beyond the waves.

  “Remember me, my love.”

  23. The Black Fortress

  “I put my faith in a stranger’s voice. He told me to move, and I moved. He told me to stop and I stopped. I didn’t look ahead and I didn’t look behind. The world ended with his voice and my fingertips. That is the true meaning of faith, of trust. I had to believe and hold on for only a few minutes.

  “The Narim had been holding on for centuries.” - Conversations with the Uros.

  The Chronicle of Fu Xi

  ***

  The screaming burned into Aizarg’s throbbing head.

  He commanded his eyes open, but only one obeyed. The blurry scene beyond came into focus. His left cheek lay in the dirt as blood pooled in the dust before him.

  Sarah!

  Gilga’s armor and sword belt were strewn across the dim alley and his quilted skirt hung loosely over his broad back. He had Sarah pinned high against the wall, one hand squeezed her neck while the other tried to pry her legs apart.

  Sarah fought like a cornered wildcat. She kicked, scratched, and slapped with all her fury, but her struggles only excited him further.

  “I could turn you around and take you, bitch, but then I wouldn’t be able to enjoy that white hair spilling over your pretty face!” Gilga unleashed a hard backslap across Sarah’s face. She slumped and ceased struggling.

  Aizarg struggled to pull himself on one elbow, but his vision swam and nausea overwhelmed him. He vomited into the dust and collapsed again.

  Gilga looked over his shoulder. “Ah, the slaver awakens, if that’s what you really are.” He spat on Aizarg. “I’ve seen every manner of snake slither through my gates. You do not mask your intentions very well, outlander. I saw the treachery on your face.”