Tiny voices echoed throughout the lodge.
“Another story.”
“Please, tell one more.”
The storyteller frowned but the children only laughed harder. A smile spread across his face and he laughed as well.
“Just one more, for it is nearly time for sleep. I shall tell the story of the ant and the magician. It is an old tale and so must be true, for lies cannot endure the test of time.
“Now, as you all know, a magician is a very powerful man. He is filled with magic that can burn holes though trees or crumble boulders. An ant, of course, is very small. She is unable to harm any other creature. Yet, in the end, she proved to be the stronger and this is how.
“A very long time ago, in a land far away, there lived a powerful magician named Tarat. He dwelt in a great castle at the top of a mountain and ruled the lands all about.
“He had no farmers, for everything was done with magic. He stood at the top of his castle, waved his hands, and the north wind ploughed the land into neat furrows. Next, he commanded the east wind to sow the seeds. Another wave of his hands made the clouds water his plants, while the west wind plucked weeds from his fields. In autumn, the south wind scooped the bounty from the earth and harvested it.
“All this was very fine for the magician. Down on the ground, where the winds and the rain played out their tasks, many of the creatures living in the fields were far from pleased. And so, they called a meeting.
“Under the shadow of an old oak tree the small animals came together. There were grasshoppers and bees and birds and foxes and rabbits and all manner of beast.
“‘I say it’s high time something was done’ said one of the beetles who was always filled with suggestions of what other people should be doing.
“‘Yes,’ said a feather worn jay who was often bounced around by the winds, ‘but what? We can’t just march up to the magician and begin making demands. He’ll blow us off the face of the world.’
“They thought and they thought. Plan after plan was suggested. The fox said the bee should go. The bee said the rabbit should go. The rabbit said the whole thing was ridiculous. The meeting grew noisier and noisier.
“At last, a tiny voice said, ‘I’ll stop the magician.’
“Everyone turned around to find that the voice came from an ant. They all laughed until they were red in the face. ‘You go? What can you do? The fox has teeth. The rabbit has claws. The bee has a stinger. What do you have little ant?’.
“She smiled in reply. ‘I have the best thing of all, my wits. Let me go and you will see.’
“As no one else seemed willing to do anything, they all decided to let the ant try and defeat the mighty magician.
“‘I will need some help,’ said the ant. ‘The bee must give me a drop of honey and the jay must fly me to the castle.’
“The drop of honey was brought and the ant climbed onto the jay’s back. In an instant they were flying to the castle. They landed on the window sill of the magician’s bedroom.
“‘Return tomorrow morning and fly me back to the fields,’ said the ant. ‘Our troubles will be over.’
“The jay shrugged his shoulders, which is a most remarkable thing to see a jay do, and flew off for the fields below.
“Soon, the magician came up the castle stairs to go to bed. The little ant crawled over to the bed post and waited. Tarat put on his nightshirt and got into bed. He was tired after a long day of commanding the winds and he looked forward to a good night’s sleep.
“As he lay his head down, the little ant crawled out across the pillow and up into the magician’s ear. She attached herself inside with the drop of honey the bee had given her.
“Then she began to whisper, ‘My, I am tired. It is such a chore to command all those winds.’
“Now, when something is whispered inside your ear, even by an ant, it can be heard quite clearly. And because it is inside your head, you will be certain, without a doubt, that the little voice is your own thought and you will listen to it as such. The ant continued to whisper ‘How tiring it is.’
“‘Yes,’ said the magician aloud. ‘It is tiring. I think I shall go off to sleep’.
“‘Of course,’ whispered the ant, ‘I have nothing else to do but sleep. It is so lonely up here on this mountain.’
“‘Yes,’ said the magician aloud again. ‘It is terribly lonely. I sometimes wish that there were people about who I could visit.’
“‘Perhaps people from the next valley could invited,’ said the ant.
“‘Yes,’ said the magician aloud once more. ‘I shall write out an invitation right now’, and he got up from bed and went to his desk.
“As he sat down the ant whispered. ‘Of course, the people could just come for dinner, or they could be invited to come and live here. They can work the fields and I won’t need to command the winds. Everyone could share the harvest, there would be friends and I won’t be so tired at the end of the day.’
“Tarat jumped up and danced around the room, almost dislodging the little ant, in spite of the drop of honey. Excitedly the magician sat down and wrote a letter inviting some of the people from over the hill to come and live in the valley. ‘What a smart fellow I am,’ said the magician, ‘to have thought of such a clever thing.’
“As the magician lay down to sleep, the ant crawled out of his ear and back up to the window sill. In the morning, the jay came for her. ‘All is well’, said the little ant.
“And indeed, people from the next valley moved onto the land and farmed it for Tarat and the winds never again bothered the animals.
“So, now you can see how a little ant overcame the mightiest of magicians.”
Shara and Ryckair snuggled beneath fur coverings in their screened space. Ryckair looked at her in the dim light of the banked fires. She was radiant with her smooth skin outlined against the covers.
Shara reached over and brushed his cheek with her hand. He looked into her eyes. They called to him, drew him into her. She leaned forward and they kissed. He smelled her alluring scent and took her passionately into his arms. Each night they lay together. Ryckair worried less and less about his past life. His future was all that mattered, a future with Shara.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Twenty-three chiefs of the Fadella clans assembled in Ichary’s lodge. Some were dressed resplendently in furs as fine as the Dharam. Some wore simple hides. All inspected the mark on Ryckair’s chest. Each chief placed a stone in a sack that was passed around the lodge. When the last chief had voted, the sack was handed to Sintalay.
The Fadella healer held it before her. “In the time of the beginning.”
The rest of the Fadella chanted, “In the beginning.”
Sintalay continued, “The people lived in a land of warmth and bounty.”
“Warmth and bounty.”
“Fat grew the people and still they hungered.”
“Still they hungered.”
“They abandoned the ways of the dragons and the names of Jorondel and Ilidel were forgotten.”
“Forgotten.”
“The people worshiped their riches and gave thought to naught but taking more.”
“They took more.”
“Others they pressed into service by force.”
“Service by force.”
“Yet, the people did not share their bounty with those who brought it forth, calling those who toiled for them base and ill born.”
“Oppressed their lives.”
“To the dragons the oppressed called with cries of suffering and pain.”
“To Jorondel and Ilidel the oppressed called.”
“Swift and mighty came the dragons.”
“The dragons came.”
“The people cowered and wept for their sins.”
“Their sins.”
“Jorondel’s wrath pronounced this doom.”
“Doom.”
“‘Your works and deeds will shatter in the wind. To lands as cold as your hearts ar
e you banished. Naked you will flee and count the brambles and the thorns your companions. Nothing shall you take of the toils of others. Not even the name of this place, for from this day forward that name will be confused in your mind and you will take a new name, Fadella, the Wandering Sorrow.”
“The Wandering Sorrow.”
“‘For years beyond count, you and your descendants will roam, never to know your home again. Your cities will be left to decay.’”
“Our cities were left to decay.”
“And there was a great wail and the people fell to the ground and bit themselves and struck their heads with their hands.”
Struck their heads.”
“Then Ilidel took pity.”
“Took pity.”
“‘Long will be the years of your exile,’ said Ilidel.”
“Long years.”
“Yet, I will send one who carries my sign by which you will know him.”
“Know hin.”
“A prince will come from the south to heal the wounds of two lands and make them whole again.’”
“Whole again.”
“‘The evil will be purged.’”
“The evil will be purged.”
“‘From exile you will return.’”
“From exile we will return.”
Sintalay opened the sack and counted the stones, black for yes and white for no. “It is cast,” she said. “The mark is accepted as the true sign.”
Shara said, “Then you will follow him in battle?”
“Silence, woman of Dharam. We have accepted you into our lodge; but, this is not your council.” Sintalay handed the pouch of stones to Ryckair. “Count them and know the voice of the Fadella. Then, choose your path. To bear the mark but earns the right of the three trials, one for the hunter, one for the bard and one for the warrior. Each can bring death. You must pass all three before the Fadella will call you Parili. You may refuse these tests and live among us for the remainder of your years. None will deny you comradeship. I ask you now, will you have these trials?”
The chiefs sat silently. Ryckair said, “I have suffered many trials to stand here. I will take these last three.”
“Let all now assembled witness that Ryckair Avar has accepted the challenge in the manner of the true Parili. The first trial begins in the morning with the hunt of the chiefs.”
Ryckair sat silently in a snow bank next to the chiefs of the Fadella clans and scanned the clearing before him. They had traveled a day and a half to reach this spot. Ichary crouched beside the prince. The other chiefs waited motionless, bows in hand, quivers of arrows slung across their backs. A brisk wind brought flurries of snow. The breeze subsided and snow settled slowly to the ground.
A herd of large animals entered the clearing. Thick, fur hides protected the creatures from the cold as they moved cautiously through the snow on cloven feet. Ryckair was reminded of draft oxen used by Carandir farmers, though these beasts were half again as large. Their heads towered an arm’s length taller than any of the hunters. Ichary called them matula, a name unknown to Ryckair.
The largest matula bull stopped and raised his head to sniff the air in search of a predator’s scent. He found none. The Fadella were slathered in matula fat to mask their human odor. Ryckair discovered the grease carried the added benefit of keeping the cold at bay.
The chiefs nodded to Ryckair. He lifted his bow, notched an arrow and pulled. Ichary shook his head while making the motion of falling forward just slightly. Ryckair took aim again. This time, he used his body’s weight to lean into the wooden bow and bend it as he pulled the string back. He released the arrow. It arched high across the sky and dropped into the center of the herd.
A matula cow fell to the snow. Panic struck the herd. Matula scattered in every direction, running into one another and eventually blocking all movement. The large bull gave a bellow that cut above the din. The herd stopped and turned toward him. He threw his head back, snorted into the air and led the matula in a charge back along the same route they had arrived by.
Before they could escape, the Fadella chiefs let fly a rain of arrows. Three more of the animals fell. The men whooped cries of victory. They charged into the clearing to the carcasses lying in the snow.
The hunters laughed and joked as they loaded the matula onto sleds. Ryckair discovered that the Fadella wasted nothing from a hunt. The meat fed them; the hides clothed them; the bones were fashioned into tools; the marrow was simmered into soup; the entrails became medicine.
The Matula herds were spread over a wide range. Some hunts brought no game at all and others only a single kill. The chiefs said the dragons had favored them this day so it was decided that Ryckair had passed the first trial.
As the prince helped pull one of the matula onto a sled he shook his head. “I was a hundred paces beyond the range of the best Carandir bow. Yours are amazing.”
Ichary laughed. “Only the Fadella have them. They are made from a very hard wood. That’s why you must use your weight to bend them. They take much practice and strength to use. Such a bow lets us make a kill before the matula can detect us. You are a remarkable man to have mastered it so quickly.”
Ichary pointed to the smallest kill. “This will be for the sacrifice feast.”
By long tradition, it was the privilege of the Fadella women to butcher the kills and distribute the meat and hides from a hunt. Those with husbands and children made certain their families received enough. Unmarried women were free to share their portion as they wished. Thus came the sayings, ‘Hungry as a spurned husband.’ and ‘Beauty fills the eye, a smile the heart, good manners the belly’.
The only time men were allowed to butcher an animal was to take just enough meat for the sacrifice feast. This followed each successful hunt and honored the dragons for the abundance they had sent. Each hunter was required to eat his fill and make a song for the soul of the animal, praising the prey for its cunning and strength.
A fire was lit and the feast ensued. They ate meat and drank large quantities of kan to warm themselves against the cold. Ichary, as host, performed the Ritual of Blood. Four rocks were placed around the fire and meat from the kill was rubbed on each. Then, the meat was burned in the fire as an offering.
“Here is the flesh given to us, that we return to the dragons,” said Ichary. “Smoke and flame, we call on you to speed our offering to their halls.” He took a hide flask from under his furs and squirted a swallow of wine into his mouth. It was fermented from the jora berry that grew wild in the north. The heady wine was drunk only by men and only in ceremonies. Ichary gave the flask to another chief who drank deeply. Hand to hand the wine passed lastly to Ryckair. He almost gagged on its coarse harshness. His first instinct was to spit it out. Instead, he forced himself to swallow, grimacing as the red liquid burned his throat.
One of the older chiefs slapped him on the back. “Our young hunter prefers mother’s milk to wine.” The men laughed.
Ryckair stood and held the wineskin overhead. The laughter stopped. He squeezed a steady stream into his mouth. The men cheered as Ryckair continued to drain the wine. The cheers were joined by the rhythmic slapping of hands. Ryckair squirted the last drop into his mouth and swallowed. The hunters erupted into shouts and cheers, patting Ryckair on the back and kissing his cheeks.
Even as he finished, Ryckair began to feel the alcohol’s effect. His face burned with a flush. The sounds around him became at the same time acute and muffled. He turned his head and it seemed to him the insides took just a moment to catch up with the outsides.
Ichary raised his hands. “Our bravest hunter has drained the wine and so let him give a song to the matula.”
The men fell silent as Ryckair composed himself. “I will give a song to the matula who feed us.” They sat on hide blankets, staring at him. Ryckair fought with his mind to release words. “Here amongst the snow and…” He looked to Ichary.
The young chief said “hills?”
Ryckair raised a fing
er to the horizon. “Here amongst the snow and hills, bravely came the matula. Bravely walked to find their fodder. Bravely sniffed the air so frozen.”
“You said bravely already.”
“Gallantly sniffed the air. Brave matula. Brave and…” He stopped and thought for a moment. “Raising high their mighty heads.” He imitated the matula bull, raising his head and snorting into the air. He began to laugh, stopped, then burst into hysterics. The other men joined him, holding their sides and laughing uncontrollably. Ryckair contained himself. “I am sorry. This is a solemn occasion.” He burst out laughing again.
Another chief got up to deliver his song. He failed to complete it as well. Only four hunters finished their tributes to the souls of the matula before the ceremony decayed into back slapping, imitations of persons not on the hunt whose daily habits warranted ridicule and incoherent babbling that passed as music. The last thing Ryckair remembered was falling face down on a hide blanket.
In the morning, he wondered if someone had stuffed his mouth with matula dung while he slept. Cramps seized his stomach and he barely stumbled out of camp before vomiting the majority of the previous night’s feast. He was certain his eyes were exploding inside his head.
The eldest chief walked over to him. “You gave a good song last night, little hunter, though I must confess I cannot remember it aright.” He patted the prince on the back. “You are a hunter among hunters, Ryckair Avar, and I shall let no one say otherwise. Still, next time you wish to show your hunter’s soul, one swallow of wine will suffice.”
Nothing but kan stayed in Ryckair’s stomach and that required great coaxing. Ichary gave him a root to chew on that took the worst of the pounding from his head. The group now traveled back to the village in silence. It was the tradition of the Fadella not to boast of their good fortune lest arrogance offend the dragons.
Evening fell before they neared the village. All somberness vanished as a second feast was made ready. Dozens of hands unstrapped the carcasses from the sleds. Spring had barely touched this land and so there were still snow banks to store the meat in. For now, they would feast on the carcass the hunters had butchered.
Dragons Unremembered Page 23