Tears of the Dead (2 page)

The inner bell did not answer. The outer gates remained closed.

Norrufi wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled weakly. “Perhaps the Narim are still asleep.” He snatched the rope and yanked with all his considerable bulk. The bell clanged twice, slightly louder this time.

But the inner bell remained silent. The sun shone fully over the mountains. By now the carts should have been in the holding area between the gates.

The Supreme Trader laughed nervously as the warriors began to fidget. The delegates looked at one another, sensing the situation beginning to deteriorate.

No! This can’t be happening.

Bal-eeb marched up to the bell.

“Your Excellency, perhaps you are correct, and the Narim slumber. May I assist you?”

The fat man wiped the sweat from his face. “Well...ah,...”

Bal-eeb didn’t wait for a response. He grasped the rope with both fists and pulled with all his might. The kupar mounts creaked, and the bell rang so loudly everyone on the cliff covered their ears. It echoed for several seconds off the surrounding mountains before silence returned to the cliff.

The Captain of the Wall and the Supreme Royal Trader stood side-by-side, as the brass bell remained mute.

The Narim never fail to answer a call to trade. Never.

The Hur-po would have been less shocked if the sun had failed to rise.

Bal-eeb stepped back and glared up at the Black Gate towering above. The inner bell remained stubbornly mute. A knot formed in his gut as Bal-eeb sensed his plans slipping away.

Singular laughter arose behind the delegation’s pale faces. Everyone turned to look at Shellbaz, who stood with his back to the delegation. He held a bottle of wine in one hand, his penis in the other and pissed over the side of the
cliff, laughing gleefully as his urine rained down over the City of Gold.

The sea comes first.
-
Lo Proverb

The Chronicle of Fu Xi

***

Setenay, Ood-i, and Sarah were dead by only a few hours, but Okta quietly hummed. He meant no disrespect. The water, no matter how cold and black, filled his spirit with hope. He didn’t need the sounds of nature to give his voice, his
halah
, life, as the raft drifted south upon swift water. Home, his beloved Great Sea, awaited him. He yearned for her warm and turquoise glimmer. Sethagasi, the sea goddess, would swallow this Black River, now swollen from horizon to horizon, purify its poison, and make everything right again.

The swirling current swept the tiny raft between grass-covered islands that, only days ago, were prairie hilltops. Okta strained against the rudder, crafted from split driftwood tied around a long, crooked pole. The current toyed with the raft, demanding all Okta’s skill to prevent them from slamming against the crumbling islands.

Alone, Okta focused on the immediate danger while the others grieved. Ghalen sobbed, face buried in hands, as Levidi tried to comfort him. Ezra and the Scythian woman huddled in the raft’s center, staring in shock across the watery expanse. Ba-lok, sullen and detached, slumped cross-legged at the front of the raft. The Uros stood alone, staring ahead.

A voyage of the desolate.

Okta grieved, too, but right now he needed to bring the raft under control, and he couldn’t do it alone.

“Uros,” he called.

Aizarg didn’t respond.

“Uros!” he called again, glancing nervously at the jagged ice chunks drifting by.

We will rip out our bottom on a hidden promontory or be crushed by ice.

Okta cleared his throat and spoke loudly, “If there are still Lo men on this raft who care about the land of the living, I would greatly appreciate some help. Or must I hand the Scythian wench a pole?”

Levidi left Ghalen’s side and took the rudder, as Okta made his way to the front. He gently touched Aizarg’s shoulder. The Uros snapped out of his trance and looked upon Okta with red-rimmed eyes. Aizarg’s desolate expression took Okta aback.

Today, the Uros lost his Isp and a daughter.
Okta suddenly knew his place, his task.

“We are all in pain,” Okta spoke slowly, but firmly. “I built this raft, but you are its master. The sea comes first. Bring us home, Uros.” He emphasized the last word.

Aizarg focused on Okta and then looked around as if seeing everything anew.

“The sea comes first,” Aizarg whispered.

Okta nodded with relief.

“Do we have enough poles?”

“Three. That will be enough to push off when required, though the water is too deep for anything else. We have a sail, but no mast,” Okta replied.

Aizarg examined the raft.

Good, he’s thinking about getting home.

“Place the men on the raft’s corners,” Aizarg commanded. “Do you think the raft will remain sound if we remove two beams for a mast?”

Okta warily eyed the gauntlet of small islands ahead, white water forming around their bases. The raft would shatter if they struck any of them at full speed.

“She’s strong. Two beams from her gut will not weaken her significantly,” Okta lied. He had hastily constructed the raft from two levels of scavenged logs, some barely straight or thick enough for the task, all tied together with strips of shredded deerskin clothing. Removing two logs from the center would significantly weaken it, but without a sail death surely awaited.

“So be it. Fashion a mast. Use one of the poles as a cross piece. Rig...,” Aizarg paused for a moment, “...rig Setenay’s sail upon it. That will give us some control. I pray the current will not be so swift when we reach the Great Sea.”

Aizarg knelt down. “Loosen the bindings and I will slide them out.”

Okta turned to Ghalen. “Get up!” he shouted. “That is what Setenay would say now if she were here. Get up, grab a pole!”

Ghalen wiped his tears and stood. He grabbed a pole off the deck and took his place at the forward port corner.

“Ba-lok, take the starboard corner,” Okta commanded. Ba-lok glared at him for only a moment, and then took his place with the second pole.

“Ezra, time is against us boy, are you ready to begin your education as a Lo man?” Okta instructed the man-boy what needed to be done, impressed how quickly Ezra put his fear and mourning aside.

Okta loosened the straps binding the top-center logs just enough to allow some play. With some effort, Aizarg and Ezra jiggled and slid the middle log out. Water sloshed up and filled the long gap as Okta re-tightened the bindings.

Aizarg held the thick stick vertically and shook his head. “It’s too short by itself. We need another.”

“Levidi, hard left!” Ghalen shouted with pole poised to push off a looming hilltop. Levidi grunted against the rudder.

“Everyone brace!” Okta shouted and shoved Ezra to the deck. The raft shuddered as it gouged a slash in the hillside. Logs shifted uncomfortably under Okta’s feet. Ba-lok leapt over Ezra and joined Ghalen, whose pole bent to the breaking point. Together, they struggled to dislodge the raft from the grassy island. The craft slowly turned, broke loose and once again hurtled downstream.

Okta inspected the raft. The logs were slightly skewed, but intact. He surveyed the waters ahead of them. Tiny islands dotted the surface as far south as he could see. Ba-lok resumed his post just in time to push away another chunk of ice.

We won’t last much longer.

Okta turned to Aizarg. “The southerly wind blows hard. A full sail will do much to slow us down. We must risk another log.”

Aizarg shook his head. “The center of the raft will have too much play. One more strike like that and it will shatter.”

“Raise me a sail, Uros, and I guarantee we won’t hit another island.”

For a few quiet moments Aizarg gazed at the darkening southern sky.

“Do it.”

They quickly pulled another log. Okta tightened the straps the best he could. With each step the deck beams gave slightly under his weight, reminding Okta of their desperate gamble.

They tied the two logs together.

“Use the remaining pole as a crosspiece to mount the sail,” Okta said.

Aizarg lodged the new mast firmly in the gap, which helped tighten the deck logs, and secured it with the last of their leather strips.

Okta nervously watched the perilously close islands and ice floes.

It’s only a matter of time.

Aizarg tied off the last strip of spare deerskin. “We have no more. Nothing remains for rigging or to secure the crosspiece to the mast.”

Okta looked around, thinking of what they could use. His gaze fell on the Scythian woman and her long-sleeve cherkesska and deerskin trousers.

She shot him a distrustful stare and pulled her legs tighter against her chest.

“Ghalen,” Okta said with a wry smile. “Give me your pole. I have a job for you.”

***

Bloody scratches crisscrossed Ghalen’s face and arms. Sana and Ghalen glared out over the water, neither looking at one another.

Okta beamed as the taut, billowed sail greatly diminished their forward speed. Levidi had more time to turn the ungainly craft, and Ghalen and Ba-lok could easily push off from the islands.

Sana knelt on port side, grasping a strap that used to be part of her trousers. It now secured the sail’s bottom corner. She wrapped her free arm around her midriff, trying to shield her almost naked body from sight. Ezra knelt on the starboard side, holding the other strap and occasionally stealing glances at Sana. Together, they responded to Levidi’s simple commands of “Pull left!” or “Pull right!”

Tattered remains of Sana’s once proud cherkesska barely covered her breasts, the rest now sail rigging. Her long trousers reduced to a loin cloth, where she tucked the four small daggers Setenay let her keep. As Setenay predicted, not once did the Scythian woman raise her weapons against them; at least the bladed ones.

The woman is too furious to be afraid anymore
, Okta thought. Ghalen tried to reason with her, but she had none of it and fought Ghalen like a lioness. Okta would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he found it amusing. Even Levidi let out a snicker. Sana only relented when Aizarg threatened to throw her overboard and promised her enough clothing to satisfy minimum a-g’an modesty.

Okta grudgingly acknowledged the Scythian girl’s beauty. A wild mane of black hair framed deep brown eyes full of fire. Flawless olive skin and sculpted limbs, now liberated from dreadful a-g’an garb, were not unpleasing to behold. She reminded Okta somewhat of Ba-lok’s wife, Kus-ge, only taller.

Beautiful, yes, but too wild to make a proper Lo woman.
Why Setenay let her live mystified Okta.

A burst of warm air gusted across the deck, bringing a familiar smell and drawing Okta’s attention. Smiles suddenly lit the men’s faces, as they looked at one another knowingly.

“We approach the sea!” he said, the song in his heart kindled anew.

The hills slowly vanished, replaced by tree tops poking above the water, reduced to bush-like clumps bent in the current. Flotsam and ice chunks collected in tattered branches still clad in autumn colors. Okta’s heart began to sink.

“This is what is left of the marshes,” Aizarg said.

“I cannot see the marsh grass,” Ba-lok said. “The water is too deep.”

“The current is abating. I can feel it in the rudder,” Levidi called from the back.

Okta looked south where the trees ceased in a line running east and west. The Black River swirled and blended with clearer, natural-looking water. Instead of the warm and sparkling Great Sea, an expanding expanse of flat, dark water mirrored the boiling clouds. He fell to his knees and plunged his hand into the water. One moment the current flowed warm against his skin, the next icy cold.

The raft slowed and began to flounder, even reverse in the face of the wind.

“The Black River and Great Sea do battle. We are unable to proceed; unable to go back from whence we came. We are between worlds,” Aizarg said.

“The Black River is winning!” Okta lowered his head into his hands and moaned. “This foulness leaching from the g’an violates our blessed mother. The god of the Narim devours the sea.”

Aizarg put his hand on Okta’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. “I, too, fear this new, strange sea...this Black Sea. But do not lose faith. This new god did not bring us this far to abandon us now. Our people are out there, waiting for us. Wherever they are, that is our home.”

Okta sobbed and grasped Aizarg’s hand, unable to speak thoughts as dark as the Black Sea.

What if we can’t find our home?

“I don’t recognize this place,” Ba-lok said. “We could be anywhere along the coast. Should we turn east or west once we clear the trees?”

Aizarg lifted Okta to his feet. “You know the ways of the sea better than any of us.”

Okta tried to clear his thoughts. He glanced at Ezra, who stared out over the unbroken sea. Okta suddenly remembered his terror when setting out across the g’an only days ago and knew this boy must be every bit as frightened.

I am Lo. He is not. He needs a raft under his feet and under his spirit. I must be his raft.

Okta absently patted his waist pouch even though he knew it contained no more mud weed. He took a cleansing breath and studied the tree tops where a marsh once flourished.

“See how the trees are thick on either side of us? We are in a stream bed. We’ve been tracking southwest since we set sail. My best guess is we’re somewhere east of Ba-lok’s arun-ki.” Okta looked to the young sco-lo-ti for confirmation.

Ba-lok nodded.

“Most of our nation lies west of my arun-ki,” Okta continued. “We should follow the treetops west along the old shoreline until we encounter an arun-ki, Ba-lok’s or another. If we turn east, we run a chance of missing all of them.” He nodded, as if reassuring himself. “Yes, I council west. The current has lessened and the wind is in our favor.”

“Our homes will be underwater,” Ghalen quietly voiced their unspoken fears.

Something about that statement angered Okta. “Our homes are our boats.”

Ghalen nodded. “True, Sco-lo-ti.”

“Aizarg, do you hear that?” Ezra said, lifting his ear toward the thick trees to their immediate west.

Okta craned to listen. “I hear it, too. Voices.”

“Not just voices,” Aizarg said. “Shouting.”