Lost Gods

by Micah Yongo

  “I am Súnamite. Many among my people still keep the old ways, the traditions of the Magi. There, it is a common thing to know.”

  “You are a priestess?” Caleb said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Priests are outlawed in the Sovereignty,” Neythan said.

  “They are,” the woman answered. “A strange thing. My people have always spoken of the lands that killed their gods, but it is still another thing to have come and witnessed your ways for myself.”

  Neythan smiled. “It is the priesthoods that were destroyed. There are no gods.”

  “Is that so? Then where did your first laws come from?”

  “They were written by men, the most learned among us.”

  “And yet many of them resemble those formed by the priestly traditions you killed.”

  “Many wars were formed by those same traditions.”

  “So there have been no wars since they were destroyed?”

  Neythan smiled thinly. The centuries-long enmity between the Sovereignty and Súnam had erupted in war many times, and well after the Cull, as the Five Lands tried to invade where the few surviving priests had fled to. Since then the conflict had simmered as little more than a vague wariness, punctuated by the occasional skirmish whenever a Sovereign patrol strayed too far beyond Súnam’s borders – which was why the Shedaím had first tried to recruit Súnamites, like Sol, in the first place.

  Neythan sighed. “You know there have been.”

  “Yet you blame the gods for your wars and praise men for your laws.” She tilted her head to one side, puzzled, amused, it was hard to tell which. “In Súnam we do the opposite.”

  Caleb shifted his weight, tired of the game. “How did those men come upon you? Where were they taking you?”

  “For judgment, so they said, to the nearest city. They hoped to fetch a purse as their prize.”

  “Why?”

  The woman looked at them and smiled. “They thought me a priestess.”

  “Quite a coincidence.”

  The woman shrugged. “As men endure so does what is in them. They thought my words strange, said I knew things too well. And they see I am Súnamite.”

  “Knew what things too well?” Caleb asked.

  But the woman only smiled and fiddled with her headscarf, tucking in the black tufts of fluffy hair that peeked from the hem.

  “What is to stop us completing their errand and fetching the bounty?” Caleb said.

  “You will not,” the old woman answered simply. “It is not in your heart. There is some other path before you.”

  Neythan just looked at her. “Who are you?”

  “Filani. My name is Filani.”

  “Filani,” Neythan repeated.

  “Yes.” She was looking at him strangely now, as if at a puzzle or tiny detail she had to squint to see. “Though I see you will not answer what I ask of you…”

  “Of me? What do you ask of me?”

  “I ask what troubles you?” she said, her gaze still curious, her round head even nodding a little. “But you do not answer because you cannot… Yes… For you do not yet fully know.”

  They slept that night in the middle house, huddling together for warmth as the night stared down at them through the hole in the roof. They took three blankets from the spoils and used two to cover the ground and the other to cover them whilst they slept.

  The smell of blood settled in Neythan’s nostrils from his stained knuckles. Blade and blood, the same no matter what. It had felt that way as he slew the bandits; a sort of easy normality to it – solid, safe, known. Against all that had gone before it had almost felt like cleansing. Caleb had seen it too, the peace that had settled in Neythan’s eyes afterward, and looked away. Neythan was unsure what to think of that. He dismissed the thought and turned beneath the blanket to face the roof instead, gazing up through its gap into the night’s cool black diffidence.

  “What do you think is out there?” the old woman said, lying beside him.

  Neythan rolled his head to see her watching him, the whites of her eyes visible despite the dark. They’d spoken little the rest of the evening, which was the way Neythan had wanted it. He found being around her uncomfortable. Strange, even. The way she’d looked at him earlier, as if her eyes were peering through to something else, a secret she knew and he didn’t. He was beginning to see the bandits’ point. He rolled his head and looked back to the darkness overhead.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Out there, in the sky.”

  “Nothing… moon and stars.”

  “But you cannot see them.”

  “The night is cloudy.”

  “It is.”

  A quiet moment passed. He could feel her gaze still on him, as it had been throughout the evening, watching when he sat, watching when he moved, watching when he ate. “What do you want?”

  “Just moon and stars, Neythan.”

  When he rolled his head to look at her, she was smiling. “I think I’m beginning to see why those men thought of you what they did. You speak in riddles, like a priest would.”

  “Riddles are the way of wisdom, Neythan. Of answers waiting to be found.”

  “Why should an answer need to be hidden?”

  “All things of value are hidden. Like treasure. Like the world itself, too broad and vast to be fully revealed.” She rolled her head to look up and through the broken roof. “Just like this cloudy night. I have always known this. But you, you have seen. You have seen above the clouds to what hides behind…” Her gaze rolled to him again, mild yet watchful. “Haven’t you?”

  Neythan remained silent. Even in the darkness those old grey eyes seemed to pass through him.

  She sighed an old woman’s sigh. “Yes. You have seen. Yet you are not Magi…” She rolled onto her shoulder, turning her back, as if to return to sleep. “And you are not a witch… You are a strange one, Neythan… You make an old woman curious.”

  “Curious of what?”

  But only silence answered, and then a moment later, the soft gentle sawing of the old woman’s sleeping breaths.

  Thirteen

  S U M M E R L A N D

  In the end, Yasmin waited until one night after supper when the children were asleep before telling Hassan everything Bilyana had told her: her strange notions about why Zaqeem was killed, her claim of knowing more, the price she’d asked to share her secrets. It all seemed so surreal, ridiculous even. Yasmin found herself smiling a little at the absurdity of the words even as she shared them. And so when Hassan, having heard it all, sat back in his chair and after long thought simply answered, “Very well,” Yasmin was confused.

  How could Bilyana’s fanciful claims be, to Hassan’s mind, believable enough to warrant – just two months from Noah’s Judgment – a twenty-day journey on the whim of Bilyana’s brother to visit with his Súnamite fancy’s kin and speak on his behalf?

  The fact Hassan had agreed to the trip and Bilyana’s request was almost as hard to believe as Bilyana’s claims. And yet here they now were, traipsing through warm clothy air and luminous green bushes on the way to some Summerland village.

  It had been years since Yasmin’s last journey to Súnam. The circumstances then had been so different, travelling with Hassan to recover some tired artefact for the library he’d been gushing excitedly about. Back then, accompanied by Hassan’s enthusiasm and sense of adventure, it had been easier to ignore the constant shrill cries of the gypsy bugs. Or the suffocating and sweaty cling of her clothes when she moved. Or just the sheer brightness of everything, of leaves, of water, of earth, all hammered white by the excessive gleam of the sun. It made her head ache.

  “Are you well, Inchah?”

  Yasmin glanced up at her handmaid, Lusana, and smiled weakly.

  “We will be there soon, I think. Mulaam said this morning we would reach the village by midday.”

  Yasmin gave a small appreciative nod and tried to push her mind from the queasy sway of the camel benea
th her. She could feel the shifting fat of the beast’s hump through the saddlestool, drifting side to side with each long, lazy pace.

  Hassan was at the front of the caravan with the assigned men of the cityguard. Bilyana and her fool of a brother, Zíyaf – who, having inflicted all this upon them, had the gall to laugh and joke with his sister all the way here – went behind. Then there was Yasmin herself with her handmaid, Lusana, followed by two of Hassan’s bodyguard; both of them, like Lusana, Súnamites, driving a cart of gifts for the would-be bride’s father and kin.

  “When I was a girl we’d play along the river and talk of the village of Ulan and how pretty the women are there and how great the festivals are. My mother’s mother was from there. I think you will like it, Inchah. I think you will like it a lot.”

  Again, Yasmin attempted another smile, though from the uncertainty in Lusana’s eyes it may have appeared more a grimace. The young girl nodded and smiled dutifully and then turned to busy herself further up the caravan.

  In the end the estimate proved false. The caravan reached the village closer to late afternoon. Children greeted them as they arrived, prancing beside the camels before a light-skinned Súnamite strolled across from a hut at the front of a horseshoe arrangement of mudbrick houses. Short, scanty shrubs dried leafless by the heat sat around the village’s periphery. A long straw-roofed pen, surrounded like an island by the resultant clearing of pale dirt, stood in the middle of the plot with villagers sheltering beneath.

  The Súnamite man, long-limbed and languid, approached Hassan at the head of the caravan. Yasmin watched as the two conferred briefly before the man then pointed and waved the caravan in. They went across the clearing toward the pen. Most of those sheltering beneath were women, each dressed in brightly coloured dye-stained fabrics they wore wrapped around them from the armpits to the knees like cocoons.

  Yasmin dismounted from her camel beyond the shelter. Hassan helped her from the saddlestool as the animal lowered.

  They were led to a large hut at the plot’s rear where more houses sprawled out into the jungle.

  “Wait here,” the Súnamite said before going inside.

  “They are deciding how much will be given for Hassan to sit with the elders,” Bilyana said. She’d drawn alongside Yasmin, apparently inserting herself as guide to Súnamite custom in Lusana’s absence. Perhaps to keep her thoughts off the disappearance of her husband, Tobiath. Missing for a while now. Likely seeking respite from Bilyana’s constant fussing, Yasmin thought. Yasmin watched her now as she sidled a podgy shoulder against her own and leaned in like a co-conspirator.

  “They will ask a gift for the privilege to sit with him,” she said. “Then a gift to discuss the brideprice, then there is the brideprice itself. They make marriage a rich business here. It’s enough to make a man favour daughters over sons. Almost makes you envious of their ways, doesn’t it?”

  “Just as well you’ll need not worry yourself of the cost.”

  Bilyana glanced sideways nervously. “We are grateful, sister. Beyond measure. Do not think us otherwise. To have come here on our behalf… well… our recompense will be worthy of the kindness. Yours and Hassan’s.”

  “I hope so.”

  Bilyana nodded zealously. “It shall, sister. It shall.”

  Eventually the man emerged from the draped doorway of the hut, squinting. He pouted as he readjusted to the brightness and beckoned Hassan in. Yasmin moved to join him, earning a cocked eyebrow from the man.

  “No.” The man extended his palm gravely. “You must stay.”

  “I will not,” Yasmin said.

  Hassan looked at her.

  “I’ve been three weeks in the bush, mites and mosquitoes and whatever else nibbling me like dog scraps. I won’t be waiting in this ridiculous heat for my trouble.”

  Hassan sighed and looked to the man and nodded. The man eyed him dubiously, then disappeared once more into the hut. He emerged again shortly after and mumbled something in Hassan’s ear, no doubt adding to the price of their audience with whoever waited within. Not that Yasmin cared; the trip was Hassan’s choice, not hers. Why should she be brought all this way only for him to keep hiding things from her?

  They ducked as they were ushered inside.

  Within was blackness, the hut’s dark made denser by the brightness they’d come in from. Eventually their eyes adjusted so they could see the baked mudbrick walls, dingy grey and mottled with stray feathery strands of cobwebbing and grass. The only window was a misshapen hole toward the top on one side. A dusty beam of sunlight knifed diagonally across the room, making it hard to see much of the chamber behind. The floor was tidily swept. The air was spicy, riddled with the sharp niggly scent of a pepperish meal.

  “There is an old story I learned as a boy.” The voice was parched and croaky, its owner shrouded in the shadows. “The tale of the cidlewoods… You will know of cidlewood. Strong wood. Your people covet it, for your palaces and summerhouses.” The man made a smacking sound with his lips, probably finishing a meal.

  “In the story, it is said the cidlewoods were once oak trees, but one day tired of their lot, and so cast off their roots to roam the earth as beasts do and make of themselves a greater name. When the other trees heard it, they bickered with them, telling them to return to their place. But the oaks ignored them. ‘The other trees speak from jealousy,’ they said. Then came a Watcher, commanding them: ‘Return to your place.’ But the trees would not hear him. ‘Our great strength can defy all,’ they said. Then the river heard of it and told the oaks to keep their roots lest her banks flood when the rains come. But the oaks would neither heed her, and grew bold, seeing no creature was able to resist them.

  “Then one day there came a drought. Every creature was weakened, but seeing as they’d kept league with the river, even as she shrank she did not refuse them her water. Yet of these oaks, who’d insulted and defied her, she allowed not a drop. When at last the drought grew so fierce that those mighty oaks starved of water began to wither and die, they came again to the river. ‘River, will you let us drink?’ And so the river told them: ‘When the rains were plenty, you were strong and your roots kept me from flooding, then you left your place and I struggled to keep my banks. When I asked you to consider and return, you scorned me. Now times of plenty turn to times of need and I no longer need your roots as you did not need my waters. Why then should I grant you drink?’ And she would not let them drink.

  “So the oaks turned to their brothers, the other trees: ‘Bid the river let us drink.’ But they too refused, for the oaks had despised their counsel when they were strong. Finally, they turned to the Watcher. ‘We beg, bid the river let us drink, for without we will die.’ And so for mercy’s sake, the Watcher commanded the river to give of herself, and she obeyed and gave them drink. Then the Watcher commanded the oaks: ‘You may drink. Only let it be that you return to the ground that bore you, and dig your roots deeper than before, that you never again seek to leave your place.’ And so the oaks obeyed, and drank, and dug, and in so doing surrendered the freedom they’d claimed. No longer would they roam as beasts do.

  “Over time, as they continued to abide by the Watcher’s command, they changed. Their deep roots made them taller and stronger than every other tree. So tall and strong they could be called oaks no longer. They were greater, and so were given a new name… This is how they became cidlewoods.”

  The voice paused, resting a moment in the silence as the hidden eyes of its owner watched them from the shadows.

  “It was my father’s father who taught me this story,” the voice said. “He told me there is no greater folly in a man than for his heart to be lifted in pride, and there is no greater weakness in him than to depart from the way of his ancestors. He said, if a man forgets his roots, he forgets his very life…” More wet tuts and smacks of the man’s lips.

  “Our people,” he eventually resumed. “We have a root. Ways that keep us, ways we must hold to. It is not this way with all people
, but with us, it is this way… do you see?”

  Hassan nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. That is good.”

  The old man clicked his tongue and gestured through the gloom to the guide at the door. The man stepped outside through the drape and returned a moment later carrying with another the chest of tribute Hassan’s men had brought. They took it through the shaft of light from the window to the chamber’s rear and put it down and left. Hassan and Yasmin listened as the faceless old man callously shuffled the lid aside to view its contents. He made an approving sound in his throat and then clapped the lid shut again.

  “Come closer,” he said finally. “Both of you. We will see one another’s face as we speak.”

  Hassan and Yasmin obeyed and passed through the sunny shaft to find a mat on the other side. They didn’t notice the men until they’d seated themselves. Three elders sat there, squatting side by side on stools in the corner.

  “This boy, he has gone against our ways,” the elder who’d been doing the speaking said. The man was old and slim and sat with his elbows leaning on his knees. A small woollen hat rested on his thin shiny skull. His eyes glimmered like coins in the dark. “It was not his place to speak to the girl without the permission of her father.” He swung his hand limply, gesturing to the elder on the far right. “You offend a man’s house to do this.”

  Hassan looked at the father. The father said nothing. Hassan looked back to the first elder.

  “The boy was not familiar with these ways,” Hassan said. “He meant no offence.”

  “Even so, such a thing cannot be allowed, lest trees learn to roam.”

  “Perhaps the father’s offence might be eased,” Hassan said.

  The elder again looked across to the father.

  The father was slightly younger than the other two, darker skinned, with a thick cap of densely coiled hair. Black wiry hairs sprouted from his forearms and the tops of his broad flabby shoulders. He eyed Hassan and Yasmin boldly, his chunky nostrils flared. “I will take five measures of palm oil,” he said, his voice loud and deep. “And ten goats, and four measures of cornwine.”