Paternus_Rise of Gods

by Dyrk Ashton

  To one side of the rucksack, slipped through a loop, is what looks like a ridiculously large replica of a sword, the blade alone six feet long and twelve inches wide--but this is no replica. Forged by Arges himself, it has had many names, but the one that stuck and by which it is still known today in Russian fables, is Kladenets. Bödvar has hidden and retrieved it many times over the millennia, never lost it to Father’s Deva searchers when they were sent out to gather the great weapons. It is good to sense its weight on his back. He feels like a knight errant once again, a bogatyr of old.

  In his right hand he carries a hammer, equally ridiculous in size. The handle is a smooth hickory fence post, the head a rectangular block of steel, two feet long with a short conical spike on each end. It was crafted by no master metalsmith. There’s nothing special about it. Except it weighs nearly 1,000 pounds. Bödvar hardly notices.

  Bödvar Bjarki, The Bear, is over ten feet tall, built like a man who’s built like a bear, with arms longer and legs shorter than a natural man’s would be. A pink tongue the size of a hand towel extends from a thick-lipped mouth that runs the width of his big round head, laps over his sharp bear’s teeth and fangs, and licks the flaring nostrils of his broad pug nose.

  Bödvar has been told these paths are seldom travelled at night, but if any parvuli do come along, donning his human cloak will do him no good in this day and age. He’s just too big.

  There was a time, not long ago in the greater scheme of things, when the sight of an enormous human warrior inspired awe and respect. Especially an ugly one. Not today, Baphomet, the Master’s second in command, has warned him, so he has to sneak to circumvent campsites and commercial quarries and avoid rural roads. He growls to himself, Who ever thought The Bear would be sneaking! He could cloak as his mother’s kind, but he’s pretty sure the sight of a ten foot bear in today’s England, especially one of a species long extinct, would raise just as much of a ruckus. His only other choice is to press against a cliff and cloak as shadow, or curl up and appear as a rock or fallen hunk of tree. Hiding from parvuli is even worse than sneaking!

  He isn’t built for stealth, obviously, but his hearing and sense of smell are keen and his vision well suited to darkness. He has observed no one so far, but even though Baphomet made it clear he is to avoid confrontation with the parvuli if at all possible, he kind of hopes he will. He could use a snack. He isn’t much better at following orders than he is at sneaking. Never has been.

  Do what you’re told on this job, he reprimands himself. Show them you can follow instructions, for once!

  He suppresses the urge to uproot a tree that stands in his way. Suddenly he’s in a foul mood. Then again, he’s always in a foul mood, and pretty much always has been. Violent, angry and mean, a tortured and terrible beast, he has driven away anyone who has ever been close to him. Unless he got them killed first, or murdered them himself. He blames his father, who is most certainly bipolar (Bödvar learned that term recently through this new science called the “internet”), prone to periods of exuberant glee but also fits of manic, violent behavior, as well as the deepest of depressions. If there’s such a thing as “tri-polar,” Father is it.

  Most Firstborn have found some way to relax, some contented perspective with which to endure the millennia as they passed. Not Bödvar. But today is a good day, he affirms to himself, taking a deep breath. Today I have something to do.

  He was relaxing in the boreal forests of Siberia when the Master and Baphomet found him just three months ago, having recently awakened from what would be considered a very long nap by human standards. They were quite enthusiastic about what the parvuli had achieved in the fields of science and technology while he slept, and proceeded to tell Bödvar all about it. He yawned the entire time.

  “Who do you want me to kill, and when?”, was all he said when they were done prattling on. They told him. He accepted. Gladly.

  In the days before Bödvar boarded the ship to England, Baphomet tortured him with more tedious gibberish. Apparently, the United States (who?) had “satellites” with “hyperspectral imaging” capabilities that they tasked to find underground bunkers where their enemies could be hiding. The Master and Baphomet had “pulled some strings” (these satellites have strings, apparently) utilizing their contacts in the “military-industrial complex,” and believed they had succeeded where all others had failed. They’d found the cave, here in the Mendip Hills, where Myrddin Wyllt, The Madman, had been imprisoned by his lover over 1,500 years ago. Baphomet explained in excruciating detail how they could probably arrange for a “bunker buster missile” strike, but he had convinced the Master that it would draw unwanted attention, they weren’t sure it would work on a Firstborn, and they’d have no proof The Madman was dead even if it did. An Asura Firstborn team would be much cleaner and more effective. In and out, no fuss, no muss, and they’d have confirmation of the kill.

  Bödvar knows about the disappearance of The Madman, of course, and that no one had been able to find him after his imprisonment. Some of the rest of what Baphomet said makes sense now, too. Bödvar spent most of the time waiting for his mission watching “television” and “surfing the net,” absorbing what he felt was important (and wishing he could forget the rest). He can even hold his own with the modern English now. Firstborn learn fast. Much has changed in this world, he has to admit, over an astonishingly short amount of time. One thing hasn’t, he’s glad to see. There are still wars.

  The rucksack hums again, lilting and reedy, oddly amplified by the vessel in which Bödvar’s “partner” on this mission is contained. He can’t place the tune, but whatever it is, it’s extremely annoying.

  “Hush!” he shouts. It doesn’t stop. He raises his hand to rap the top of the pack again but decides against it. He’ll have to let it out soon. He’d rather it not be too angry with him.

  He turns his attention to the bright glowing screen of a device that looks tiny in his enormous paw. Baphomet gave him this little box of “electronics,” which he called a “GPS,” and insisted that Bödvar use it to find the cave. It’s pretty simple, really. Green dot pinpoints where he’s located on the digital map, red dot marks where he wants to go. The two dots are right on top of each other.

  He’s here.

  He eyes two large ash trees that stand against the face of a bare limestone cliff, then checks his surroundings. Fairly secluded. More trees provide cover, and he can’t see the path a hundred yards back down the hill. That won’t help when he starts pounding on rock, though. The sound may be heard for a mile. Once he begins, he’ll need to keep his hearing and sense of smell keen to approaching parvuli.

  But right now there’s another problem. The night is retreating, pursued by the faintest hint of daylight to the east. The sun will soon be revealed in all its glory by the unstoppable spin of the earth. Birds are already chirping.

  Fucking birds!

  Bödvar growls and chucks his hammer to the dirt. Here he stands, right where he needs to be, and he’s forced to find someplace to hide and while away the day, then return when night comes again to complete his task. That was a most adamant command of Baphomet. “Do not open the cave in the light of day, under any circumstances.” All part of the Master’s “master” plan, Bödvar figures. Or maybe it’s for the benefit of his partner in the rucksack. From what he’s heard, it’s not a fan of daylight.

  Well, there’s nothing for it, he’s going to do what he’s told. He groans, picks up his hammer and stomps off to find someplace to wait out the sun. The rucksack sloshes and hums as he shoves through the brush.

  “Hush!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Order of the Bull

  How does she move her tongue so fast?, ponders the little round fellow in the long fur coat. No matter how many times he hears the trilling wail of zaghruta singing, Tanuki is always amazed. The scantily clad performer of the oryantal dansi approaches the fruit stand where Tanuki clutches half a dozen small crates of dates, undulating her body in seemingl
y impossible ways beneath her bedleh costume of shining gold and turquoise.

  An ensemble of musicians huddle against the stone cliff in an empty space between vendors, fervently playing reed flute, drum, fiddle and lute. The shapely mtoto female circles Tanuki, whose ample cheeks could be seen to blush if he didn’t have a dense, close-cropped beard of the same peppered tan as his fur coat and the Russian ushanka-style hat he wears with the ear flaps up.

  The dancer’s braceleted arms move serpentine above her shoulders. She lightly brushes the fur of his hat and his beard with her fingers then backs away, her pelvis gyrating so quickly the belt of sewn coins at her waist is a blur. She smiles at him, lets loose another shrill zaghruta wail. Between her staccato hip movements and vibrating tongue, Tanuki is captivated.

  “Master Tanuki?”

  Tanuki snaps out of his musing as a distinguished looking, elderly mtoto woman approaches. “May I take that for you?” she asks in modern Turkish. She is the High Abbottess of their sect, the Order of The Bull, in charge of day-to-day management of the monastery, as well as an Apis High Priestess.

  “Yes. Thank you,” Tanuki replies in the same language. He hands her the wooden boxes of dates, nodding with regard.

  The Abbottess passes them to a young man, a Cellarer Novice, who looks up at a wagon mounded high with goods, calculating how to make them fit most efficiently for the long trek home.

  Tanuki’s cohort of monks consists of six men and six women, all dressed alike in tagiyah prayer caps, white shirts with billowed sleeves beneath cepkens (a type of Turkish vest), drab baggy pants, and a sash. Each carries a wooden staff with a woven strap attached.

  Tanuki and this group from the monastery camped nearby last evening, then rose well before daybreak and arrived at the bazaar early this morning when many of the merchants were still setting up their booths along the rock walls on both sides of the narrow canyon. They’ve been haggling and packing since. Space is running short. The two wagons they brought with them, each pulled by four small but sturdy Anadolu horses, and the six mules and another dozen individual Anadolu are all laden with wares from the day’s procurement. Each man and woman of the group wears a canvas backpack, all loaded with goods as well. This is the last autumn bazaar in this remote area of Anatolia, in the north-east of Turkey, and they are stocking up for the long winter in the Kaçkar Mountains where their monastery is located.

  They have many hours of travel ahead of them. Tanuki squints at the sun. Just after 7 a.m., time to go if we’re going to make it back by nightfall. He digs into his purse and drops a generous helping of Turkish liras into the porcelain bowl on the ground near the musicians, at which they marvel.

  He smiles at the Abbottess, who nods their readiness. Two young monks hurry to Tanuki, toting a hefty backpack between them. They strain to lift its weight to his shoulders, but he slips his arms through the straps, receiving it with ease. He bows lightly to the young men, placing his palms together in the Buddhist añjali-kamma gesture. The caravan makes its way through the crowd.

  This is a rural market, very unlike the lavish Grand Bazaar of Istanbul. There are no soccer shirts, cowboy boots, or bootleg movies here. They pass tables of oils, spices, nuts, dried beans and durum wheat. Neat piles of fruit and carts mounded with vegetables. They have purchased plenty of all of these but nothing from the many stands of meat and fish, not even the Turkish staples of sardines and anchovies. All of them in the Order are vegetarian by choice--though Tanuki has snuck some etli yaprak sarma today, vine leaves stuffed with flavored meat and rice, while the rest were otherwise engaged.

  They pass vendors dishing out spicy sucuk sausage and kebabs. To drink, there’s tea, Turkish coffee, thick and sweet, and cacik, a thin yoghurt beverage with minced cucumber. Others ply a staggering variety of cheeses, soups, breads and sweet pastries. Tanuki has sampled much of it, far more than he needs, but the savory aromas still taunt him. He expresses a visible sigh of relief when they are past the food stands to the dry goods. Booth after booth of traditional clothing of bright and colorful design, vibrant vases, finger bowls and plates of every imaginable hue, some decorated with intricate Iznik floral designs, others with luxuriant painted grapevines. Tanuki browses past tiers of embroidered kapalicarsi, handmade Turkish shoes. He always wanted a pair, though they’d never fit his fat furry feet. He considered commissioning a custom made pair but was convinced by his Brothers his toe claws would probably shred them in short order.

  Then there are the sellers of the world famous Turkish carpets and rugs. Tanuki brushes his hands lightly across them, feeling the differences in texture and weave. The cheerful merchant doesn’t mind the fingering of his merchandise. Tanuki acquired the finest and most expensive rug at the bazaar from him earlier this morning, a gift for Big Brother Arges.

  They hear the music before they reach the gathering crowd. Besides offering the prospect to buy and sell goods, this bazaar also provides the locals with an opportunity to celebrate the fall harvest. Tanuki grins. And the Turks never shirk their celebrational duties.

  In an open circle where the canyon widens, six men in black caps with vests over white shirts and pants tucked into high black boots are lined up, hands on shoulders, moving deliberately and dramatically to the accompaniment of traditional folk music. The crowd around the circle claps in time as the dancers swing their legs, sway, and stomp in unison.

  Tanuki applauds with delight. He’d dearly love to join the dance or snatch up one of the musician’s shepherd’s pipes, fifes or baglamas and play along with them. He could easily catch up with the monks if he were to send them on ahead but it wouldn’t be good etiquette. He nods to the Abbottess and they continue on their way.

  Abruptly, it seems, they’re passing out of the east mouth of the canyon into the clear autumn air, the stony rolling countryside laid out before them, the sounds and smells of the bazaar fading away behind.

  Tanuki drops back to confirm with the Cellarer Novice that all the dates have been packed securely. He has taken pains to purchase plenty of dates today, his Brothers back home will be happy to see, and would be mightily sore at him if he hadn’t. Asterion The Bull and Arges The Rhinoceros do love their dates.

  * * *

  The cavalcade of monks travel east over the undulating, rocky terrain, the mountains to their left and the Çoruh River valley to their right, the only sounds the muffled clopping of the animal’s hooves and the soft conversation of the monks. Humps of spiny thorn cushion and milk-vetch spread sporadically as far as the eye can see, the multiplicity of tints of summer having given way to the gray and brown of coming winter, soon to be covered in white. The formerly colorful Asteraceae now reduced to swaying thistles, and all that’s left of the glorious flowering mulleins are bare stalks rising from rosettes of velvety leaves lying flat on the ground.

  Eventually they angle north toward the mountains. Not far to the south and east are the trickling waters that form the beginnings of both the Euphrates and Tigris rivers. Some call the Euphrates-Tigris Basin the “cradle of civilization,” others claim the Nile River Valley deserves that designation, still others the Yellow River Valley of China or Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. They are all deserving, and not, Tanuki muses. These areas were all home to early “advances” in mtoto culture, but there are plenty of other places in this world where civilizations have waxed and waned. Not all of them were mtoto, or particularly “civilized.”

  In ages past lions and tigers roamed these steppes, but they’re long gone. Tanuki still hopes to catch a glimpse of a rare Anatolia Leopard, though. He fondly recalls venturing out with Arges in bygone days, surreptitiously destroying pitfall traps the Romans set to capture leopards for gladiatorial spectacles. On one occasion they spied a half dozen Roman centurions approaching so Arges hid in one of the pits. When the centurions peered in to see what they’d caught, he sprang out with a mighty roar. Three of them shit themselves, one fainted. Tanuki has never seen watoto run so fast.

  Chuckling to him
self, Tanuki sees he’s outpaced the group. There’s a pond near the path, so he calls back to ask if they’d like to rest. The monks are extremely fit, but they don’t protest and are happy to tend to the horses and mules.

  Tanuki removes his backpack and wades into the clear shallows of the pond to enjoy the refreshing coolness on his bare feet. He looks down into the mirror surface of the water. To his own eyes, the mtoto cloak he wears outside the monastery is gone.

  Thanks to the unique physicality of their father, all Firstborn have the ability to alter their form to some extent. A combination of an actual reorganization of matter and a psychological projection, in varying degrees. Tanuki usually doesn’t bother with a physical change because he isn’t enormous, very oddly shaped, or four-legged, and he doesn’t have pesky horns or antlers to get in the way. For Tanuki, simply impressing upon the acuity of watoto is enough.

  Mtoto perception is very practical and became more so as they evolved, governed by their sensory-motor schema of stimulus-response, action-reaction and habitual recognition--essentially, the need to immediately make sense of what their senses bring to them and determine its use value or whether it is friend or foe. This also, however, limits them. They have a very hard time seeing what they don’t understand or have never seen before.

  Since the watoto are naturally inclined not to perceive Firstborn as they truly are, with very little effort Tanuki can “project” a familiar appearance, much like a human can project an air of confidence, strength, or sexuality. Without saying a word, even watoto can appear to be confident, strong, or sexual to those around them, even if they are timid, weak, and terrible in bed. Thus, in the presence of watoto, Tanuki can simply consider himself a jolly bearded fellow in fur coat and hat, and voilà, that’s how the watoto perceive him. It doesn’t work on animals, or some small children, but the grown-ups don’t pay much attention to them anyway.