In the Light of a Dying Sun -- Book One

[Chapters 1 through 3]



Chapter 1
The Cradle of Giants

"My father was a story teller. He farmed like every other man on the plain between the mountains eastward and the pampas to the west, but it was not his passion.

"He built for my mother and I a stone hut near the basin where flowed the once mighty Zon. But we were not so isolated as you might think, as our hut stood but a few marks from Endry. It was an unusual hut, for my father felt my mother and I deserved more than the baked bricks the Endry men grew in their fields of clay. Instead, he turned the soil near the basins edge where he unearthed, shattered, and carted the stone timbers that grew there. He said in ages past all of Earth was covered with great timbers that grew from the soil and into the sky, living lives the length of twenty men. He claimed some portions of Earth still grew these mighty timbers, and I believed, though I myself have never seen them.

"The stone timbers, he said, were the remains of those ancient woods grown into stone columns over the long ages they lay beneath the soils of Zon. I thought this but a story as a child, like the many stories that lay within the amber book. But you see, he had traveled as a youth, and so had seen many things, things I cannot help but marvel at even now in the autumn of my life.

"But I have gone a field. I said that my father was a storyteller; that was his passion. His hands were built for laboring upon Earth, as all hands are, but his heart lay in the little amber book from whence he drew the tales I heard as a child, and remember to this day. Stories I've told my own children, and my children’s children.

"Sometimes his stories yielded as much silver and agate as did the grain from our fields. The villagers of Endry would often call upon him to speak from the amber book. They would send for him, as I said, not simply for themselves, but also for the caravans that passed through each year on their way to or from the mountains, and the gold that grew there.

"It was then that he earned the most, and with that polished agate or rare silver lis, he would buy for my mother and me a new shift, or a rare porsene bowl painted with the images of strange fish in bright blues or greens. He would buy things for himself when he needed, but he rarely spent the monies he earned on whimsies, as he called them, but once he did buy a tohn of black ink.

"I remember how pleased he was that he could afford to buy such a precious substance, despite how small the glass that held it. We buried it beneath the soil inside our hut, beneath a cornerstone at the fire pit, and for the next few years it lay there while he waited for the day when the caravans would bring paper, that he might buy such a bundle. He said that though the amber book held all stories known to men, there still were those that he himself would write. He swore that one day he would pay a wordsmith from the cities to teach him the art of written speech... I never thought that odd as a child, but I've often wondered since his passing, how it was he could tell the tales he drew from his book when he could not even read, but I never thought to ask him while he yet lived.

"But again, I’ve gone a field.

"Tomorrow I will go with my sons to his cairn, for tomorrow is his remembrance day. We will lift away the stones and wash his bones in Zon and take unto us those things he took with him. I will take the little amber book and see for myself what lay between its covers, for he never let me look within while he lived. I would take his knife as well, but that is another story altogether. It is the amber book I will speak of tonight.

"As I have said, he loved stories, but there was one that I most especially loved. I remember the events of the day wherein he told me this tale. We both stood at the plains edge looking down into the great basin the ancients had dug. All those great islands of rock rising up into the air like slender spires of dust and stone, and what remained of the great trench that snakes even now along its bottom.

"He said that giants once lived upon Earth, that their masters had lusted for the gold and emeralds that once grew hidden in the forests Zon. Their lust was such that they dug deep into Earth for his gems while others, whom they had hired into service, carted the dross into the west where the pampas now lie.

"The pampas were not always as they are now, he claimed, for the flesh of Zon was carried west to fill the great hole Sun had made in the ages of time past. He said the heart of Sun died for men’s unbelief, and in judgment smote Earth for the sake of those who had profaned her. I do not know if this is true, but that too seemed a fair enough story.

"But the giants of old delved deep into Earth, growing the great basin that Zon slowly filled. The giants dug faster than the waters poured in, and so the ancients, confident in their giant's strength, built for themselves new homes within the basin, close upon the new shores of Zon.

"In time the ancients saw that Zon would one day fill the basin if something were not done, so they commanded the length of Zon herself dredged and trenched. And so it was the valley grew, mark-by-mark, leaving their houses atop the great spires that column across the basin to its southerside, and the length of her trench.

"Yet their folly grew with their wealth, for deeming themselves safe they built for themselves a city within the great basin. And the kingdoms of the world marveled at its beauty. But Zon continued to pour into the valley, and the trench slowly filled.

"So they dug ever westward, always ahead of the rising waters, gathering gold and emeralds as they went, and paying out their gains to them that hauled the dirt, until they struck Ocean. On that day the waves rushed in for all the marks that the great giants had delved, drowning them and their city, and sweeping away the shining palaces atop their spires of stone.

"The balance of that story, as my father told, was that foolishness is less often seen as such by those who perform it. Only a fool digs a hole without first knowing what lies at its end, and rare is the man that sees this in time enough to save himself.

"The first story I would tell you this night is that of Enohtoo, the last of the mighty giants.

~~~~

Long ago, when the great forests were great no more, men built for themselves giants to delve the land, for they thought the belly of Zon to be a fertile field where might grow the metals they sought. With the great timbers gone they searched for other means to maintain their vast wealth, for the great cities of old were dying.

They wielded in that day, a magic called Cyihnc. It's power, its very source, was limited only by the understanding of what was, and what was not, possible. The common thread that ran through every spell they wrought was the idea that anything was indeed possible, provided one understood why such a thing should be, and the how of it's making. But Cyihnc, too, was a dying magic, and few men understood or even taught its precepts.

From this lost art the ancients grew Giants in their fields that these giants might turn the soil and allow their masters to see what lay beneath the skin of Earth. But Earth had long since proven himself barren of the elements they sought, for they desired the virgin metals from which they might grow the great sky-ships and so venture to a new Sun. But in this the giants failed, for these metals had long been stolen from the beds where Earth had laid them.

The giants themselves stood half a mark high, sometimes scraping the clouds from the bowl of the sky. They cared little for what their creators wanted, as they were only machines, and rarely worked in a manner pleasing to their masters. Though they tried, the giants could find nothing of value in the soils they dug, and in time the great giants began to fail.

There was, in that day, one giant among them who loved his masters and longed to show them the true measure of his devotion. Enohtoo, as his masters called him, was well cared for, for Enohtoo was a great mover of earth. Though they knew it not Enohtoo had long dwelt upon and worried over he and his brethrens failure to find the sky-ship metals. Perhaps we search where no such metals can be, he thought.

Years passed and many of Enohtoo's brethren perished as the basin they dug grew long. There came at last a day when, while laboring deep in a canyon, Enohtoo came upon a layer of virgin clay. His great shoveling hands became caked with the clay and he could not continue, and so he strode to the banks of Zon that he might wash the clay from his hands.

Zon was not a very deep river in those days-- it is but a stream today --and his fingers gouged Her bottom as he washed his hands. When at last he pulled them from the waters he saw in his palms the glitter of gold and the brilliance of emeralds. The riches he drew from the belly of Zon with just one sweep of his mighty hands was vast, and his masters at last were pleased. If they could not build the sky-ships they would content themselves with wealth, and they commanded him to gut Zon herself to find all that he could of emeralds, and of gold.

It was not long before Enohtoo hit upon a mighty vein from which issued the gold his masters now lusted for, more than the metals they had first hoped to find, and they commanded him to follow it's course. They soon grew rich by his hands, and so built for themselves palaces of gold and precious stone near to the thread of Zon.

A year swept across the face of Sun, but his masters' greed could not be sated, despite the great wealth they gained from Enohtoo's labor. They pushed Enohtoo and his brothers, commanding them to delve deeper and further, stopping only long enough for their great hearts to cool. But the pressure and strain of their labors soon wore on them, and one by one they perished until there were but a few remaining.

The trench they grew was immense. The ancients-- fools that they were --built their palaces within the basin, then commanded their giants to dig deeper, sparing only their palaces and the earth that supported them. Some soon sat high above the basin floor atop spires that even now stand in the valley of Zon. Others hugged the walls of the basin itself. But the waters of Zon still poured into the basin, and whenever they rose too high Enohtoo's master commanded he and his brothers to dig deeper and further.

In time, the great basin and trench were dug. One hundred marks long and three deep. All but Enohtoo had perished in the great dig; their mighty hearts having burst at last. His great brothers all lay where they had fallen like iron corpses within the trench they had dug. The great valley of Zon was complete and the trench at its bottom filled slowly and soon covered those who had fallen.

On a night that the ancients drank in celebration, Enohtoo wept and mourned for the loss of his brethren. His masters had new palaces within the basin. Enohtoo had the basin and trench he had helped dig, and the ghosts of his brothers. His masters, sated at last, commanded him to rest and so he marched down the basin to where the digging had stopped and laid down near to the edge of the trench.

That night, while Enohtoo slept, cooling himself from his long days of labor, he was awakened by a small voice.

"Enohtoo,” it whispered. "Wake up, Enohtoo."

He opened his eyes but could not see who spoke, and so called out, "Who calls my name? I cannot see you."

"Come to the pools, Enohtoo," came the voice. "There is not enough water elsewhere save the trench, and it is too deep for you."

He moved toward the wall and saw small pools growing out from its base. How has this water come to be here? he asked himself, then asked aloud, "Where are you?"

"Look down into the water, Enohtoo," the voice spoke again. "The moons light will shine upon my face."

He looked down to the black glassy surface of the gathering waters and saw the face of a young woman, mingled both with the moons reflection and his own. It is a beautiful face, he thought, and smiled.

"How is it that you know my name?" He asked. "I am sure I have never seen your likeness before now, though your smile outshines the very stars above."

"I am called Crearachenala," she said, her smile sparkling in the calm swirl of water. "I am Ocean's daughter, and so live within her realm, and I have been watching you for many days."

"I am called Enohtoo," he returned, "and I am my masters."

"Is that so?" she teased, "You are much too tall for that, I think. Indeed, you could almost stand in the deepest part of Ocean with your head above her waves. You are indeed a giant upon Earth, but you are still only yourself," and she laughed a silvery laugh.

"My masters have wrought well," he grinned, "though they do not treat me as they once did. Once, they praised each handful of Earth I raised for them, but now they simply demand I continue digging… until today."

"They have become rich with greed, Enohtoo." Spoke Crearachenala. "Look at them, drunk and sleeping in their ignorance. They have grown complacent and are not worthy of you. That is why I have come. If you continue to dig for them, you will die." And there was sadness in her voice that worried him.

"Die, Crearachenala?" he asked. "Why do you speak so? My masters do indeed neglect me, but they do not wish to see me perish. I am the last of my brethren. For all the others have failed. Only I remain."

The words Crearachenala spoke next rang in his ears like the wailing of winds. "If you stay within this basin you have carved you will die, Enohtoo. You have come too close to Mother. She will swallow you and your masters before they awaken. She has allowed me to warn you only, for you are but a slave, and subject to their will. If you leave this valley now you will not perish with them."

Her smile was gone and worry grew upon her smooth, watery features, and Enohtoo fell in love with her at that moment.

"I cannot bear to leave you, Crearachenala." He cried. "For though I am indeed the last of my brethren, I would rather perish than to never see you again." And she smiled within her heart for his words.

"You need only find still water and call my name," she pleaded, "and I will come to you, Enohtoo, but you must climb to the plains above. Now!"

"Do you promise you will come when I call?" He asked.

"I swear it, Enohtoo," she called out. "Now hurry!"

He stood swiftly and with but a few strides quickly reached the wall of the great basin and began to climb. But Ocean tore down the wall where Crearachenala had spoken and her waters crashed upon Enohtoo with great thunder and force, sweeping him away. They carried him inland, smashing down each palace and spire in his path until at the last he was himself crushed upon the end wall from which Zon fell into the basin.

And thus Enohtoo died. In their greed, his masters allowed he and his brethren to grow their trench too near to where the sands between Earth and sea grow soft at Ocean's edge. The ancients, their houses, their emeralds and their gold were all swept away by the force of Ocean moving in to fill the great basin and trench Enohtoo and his brethren had carved.

When the waters finally settled and its surface grew calm, Crearachenala searched beneath the waves for Enohtoo's body. When she found him she cradled his mighty head upon her lap and wept.

For all the many years that Ocean's waters filled the basin that is Zon, Crearachenala returned, when the waters lay calm, to where he lay and brought with her the soft rains to sweeten the waters where he slept.

But that was many, many years ago, the waters of Ocean have long since receded and Earth has grown colder and the light of Sun grown dim. The rains no longer fall and the basin of Zon is now empty; its trench all but filled, save for Zon herself running slowly to Mother.

--

"I hope to learn from the memory of Enohtoo. That is both the message of the story and the storyteller. By the ancient words I call this tale done, and ask your leave."






Chapter 2
The Wind and the Rain

Rising slowly, she shook the dust from her skirts. The fire had grown dim, and the many faces around the pit were lost almost entirely in shadow. The ruins about them shone weakly in the failing light and looked like the bones of some ancient creature left to wear beneath Sun and time.

She turned to her sons. "Bring me water," she asked, and one man rose and left the circle.

A man, old and drawn into himself, creaked upward from where he sat across the fire and spoke to the listeners assembled for the Rite of Memory's Passage. Lifting his staff of dried leather and bone he spoke, "And thus it is remembered, the tale given, and Passage granted."

"May his memory live forever," echoed those gathered about the fire.

"Please Ambriasa," came a voice form the shadows, "tell us more."

She turned to see who had spoken but saw only faces, many of whom she did not know, seated about the fire.

"Please, Ambriasa," spoke the Elder, "it has been long since we have heard a tale from such as you. You are indeed your fathers child, there is no doubt, but please tell us more."

Ambriasa smiled and seated herself again at the fire.

"Mother," spoke her eldest son and gave her a bowl filled with water. "Do not stay too long," he said as she drank, "we must rise before Sun." He was tall and solid, though not as thick as his father had been. He worried for her.

"Go to the tents and settle everyone, my heart, your brother will stay with me and see that I do not tire too greatly from telling stories," she said, and smiling set the bowl on the ground beside her.

Ambriasa looked off after her eldest, then turned and spoke to those gathered.

"What would you like to hear?" she asked. "I do not know as many tales as did my father, but I will do my best."

"Tell us of the O'chelot." Piped a small child upon her mothers lap. "My father saw an O'chelot on the plain."

"An O'chelot!" exclaimed Ambriasa. "O'chelot have not been seen for many generations, for thousands of summers." She swept her gaze across the faces of the listeners about her. "Many hold that the O'chelot perished ages ago, but perhaps they have yet survived and have at last come out of hiding. Do you know why the O'chelot disappeared, little one?" The child shook her head.

"To hide himself from the Wind and the Rain." She answered. "In ages past rain fell from the sky in great curtains. Not at all like today. The world was once covered in green from sunwaken to sunsleep. It was the rains that fed Earth, and it was the wind that blew life into all that grew upon his face... "

~~~~


Long ages have passed since the last of the great rains fell upon Earth, for he has slowed and succumbed beneath the failing light of Sun. For many ages he struggled to hold his magnificence, but in our ignorance we sought to shape him to our will and many things perished from his face. O’chelot were few in that day, and in the ages that have passed since the last rain they have become little more than a memory, as we ourselves have weakened and grown few in number.

Today we look into the sky and see only white threads of cloud, but in ages past they crowded the heavens, and in their wombs grew the rains of old, rain that fell from the sky and cooled the face of Earth. But the rains no longer fall, and Earth has grown dry and barren. It is said there are still places that see these rains of old, where green burns the eye for its brilliance. But for us, the children of men, such green is but a myth. For the world is swiftly dying.

The Sun priests were unknown in the day of the last rain, their wickedness unheard of. Long before the light of Sun began to fail there was another god that men worshipped, and so it was that with the last rains came he also to Earth to enjoy what remained of his creation.

The rains had fallen long-- for millennia. But when at last they began to die, men noted one storm that remained, one storm that persisted in the midst of the earthen desert. Lightnings grew about it in a boma of spears, encircling the last rain. For many years those that came near reported seeing the image of a man dancing in it's midst, but none dared go near enough to see its face, for it was believed that the old god himself danced.

For the span of a generation the rain fell within its boma, never moving nor quenching the deserts thirst, and throughout the long years the strange figure within danced. But there came at last one man who, believing himself worthy enough to gaze upon and speak to the old god, made a journey into the desert that he might ask the god his name, and why it was he danced.

His wife thought him a fool. 'If the lightnings do not kill thee, surely this god will,' said she.

'Be still, woman,' said he. 'Surely this god is but waiting for someone to acknowledge him and his endeavors. Perhaps he will even reward such a one.' He mused.

She but laughed and called him fool, and so he forsook her and his home, and made his way into the desert to speak with the god who danced in the rains.

Now, the O’chelot were indeed few in that day, and rarely seen, for they hid themselves from men. But as this man moved deeper into the deserts heart, the oldest of O`chelot appeared out of the wilderness and began to walk with him.

They watched each other for a time, both wary of the other, but neither leaving the path until finally the O`chelot spoke to man.

"Do you go to see the Wind and the Rain?"

"I go to see who dances in their midst," replied the man. "What do you here, O`chelot?"

"The kittens are few and prey fewer still," spoke the old cat. "I have come to ask the Wind and the Rain if the world we once knew will return, for the world has slowed. The days and nights grow longer, the air, thin and cold. Soon, all life will leave Earth."

O'chelot and man walked deeper into the desert and closer to where the rains fell and lightnings rose. For hours they walked together without getting nearer, and after a time O'chelot said, "Perhaps the Wind and the Rain will allow but one at a time to come near. What is it you wish to ask of the Wind and the Rain?"

The man looked down to O'chelot and said, "Friend O'chelot, that is mine alone, I will not share it with you."

"Will not?" asked the O'chelot. "Perhaps you do not yet know what it is you wish to ask of the Wind and the Rain."

"Why do you call him such?" asked the man.

"His breath is the wind that breathes life into all things, his tears fill the streams from which we drink," replied the O'chelot. "By what name do you call the Wind and the Rain?"

"I call him, god." Said the man.

"God? What kind of name is that? It says nothing! What does it mean?"

The man thought for a moment and realized he had no answer, but being clever he used a child’s game to answer the O'chelot. "It means, 'God, Our Deity.' " He said feeling proud of himself.

" 'God our deity?' " Laughed the cat, "it describes nothing! It doesn't say anything about who or what he is to you."

"Come now, man,” the cat continued, smiling. "Tell me what it is you wish to ask of the Wind and the Rain and I will ask it for you."

"You!" snorted the man, who was now beginning to feel insulted by the O'chelot’s words. "I will ask myself."

But the old cat thought to reason with the man. "The question is at least as important as the answer one hopes to receive," he said. 'If your question is displeasing to the Wind and the Rain he may choose not to answer another, however worthy."

But the man grew sullen and chose not to speak.

"Come now,” O’chelot demanded. "Tell me your question!"

"I would ask why he has forgotten his children and left us to die upon a dying world," said the man, relenting at last.

"Your question is filled with bitterness, with anger," replied O'chelot. "Perhaps I should ask my question first."

"How so, O'chelot? I wish to know what you do. Our questions are the same."

"Not so, Man. Your question stinks of accusation, while mine own is but a simple, requiring a simpler yes or no. I will ask first."

"Hold now, O'chelot." Said the man, fast becoming angry. "I am representative of his greatest creation, and so should ask first."

"That remains to be seen." O'chelot sneered, not at all convinced. "Your kind has not demonstrated greatness. Even in your ascendancy you destroyed more than you built. Earth is now as your kind has made Him. My kittens die because of you! But you do not remember this," O'chelot said with scorn, then sighed, "for you have no memory to speak of."

"My kind have built great cities..."

"They lie in ruin." Countered the cat.

"We have built great machines..."

"They lie in rust. Forgotten."

"We have gone to the stars..."

"And yet you are here,” the O’chelot sighed. “Having done all these great and mighty things, you have returned to what you were when the world was very, very young. You have forgotten much. Indeed, it would seem you have forgotten everything. What of Solumbraia; the son-god, or Di Vinci? What of Mudhamman or Ossenheier? You do not know for you have forgotten it all! Man."

The scorn in O’chelot’s voice was great that his small body, padding silently next to the man, trembled. His once proud markings rippled like shadows upon his fur.

The man grew strident. "True, our memories are not as long as yours, O'chelot, but we remain ascendant."

"Not so, Man," laughed O'chelot. "You are but one of many, and like us all, but dying embers upon the hearth where the Wind and the Rain warms his feet." And there was sadness in his voice.

The man then stopped and smiled at O'chelot, thinking to trick him.

"I have an idea, Oh, great and wise O'chelot," he mocked and bowed himself to the sinewy cat. "Shall we play at agates for the right to see who will present his question first?"

"Very well," said O'chelot, who, understanding the man's intent, sat back on his thin haunches. "You throw first."

"Good!" laughed the man, thinking himself clever. "I have five agates at my belt."

He pulled from his bag five polished stones, cubed and marked by sinuous lines on each of their sides. Smiling at the cat he shook them in his cupped hands and tossed them to the ground. They clattered and finally settled upon the parched earth between them. His face fell when he read the lines, and the cat laughed.

"Six? Five agates and you throw a six? Your luck is as poor as your memory."

The man, saddened by his toss gestured to the agates, "Do better if you can O'chelot."

With one small paw the O'chelot pulled the agates together then scattered them with a flick of its thin wrist, and both man and cat watched as they tumbled across the ground and stopped.

They walked over and counted the lines.

"Eleven!" spoke O'chelot in triumph. "You have lost, Man. I shall ask my question first." And with that, he padded out toward the Wind and the Rain.

The man sat back and watched as the O'chelot trotted out to the edge of the boma and sat. The figure inside the column of rain danced near to where the cat waited, but the man could not hear what, if anything, was said, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for his turn to come round.

But it was not a long wait, for shortly a spear of lightning rose up beside the cat, and he bolted in surprise and dashed away.

"Abandon your question, foolish man," he called out as he rushed past dripping from the mists that soaked his fur. "The Wind and the Rain will not give answers to your liking." And the O'chelot ran out of the desert, back to his home, his wives and his kittens, and was not seen again by men for many generations.

The man looked back to where the rains fell and to the figure that danced within. He thought his wife perhaps had been right; He was a fool, but after a time, he went himself to the edge of the rains, and a fine cool mist covered him like a cloak.

"Please ser," he trembled, "forgive me, but I have come to ask of you a question."

The figure whirled nearer, and he saw that it was but a youth who danced.

"Only one?" The youth asked and smiled.

"Who are you young man? And why do you dance about in this rain?"

"I am god. Was that your question?"

"God! My… No!” The man sputtered, then laughed. “Why, you do not look old enough to be God. You have no beard. You are no more than a child. Where is your mother that I might fetch her? Perhaps she can set cure to such impertinence." He was beginning to feel very foolish for leaving all he knew to listen to a mere child.

But the child laughed and continued his wild dance.

"If I am not who I say I am, should not the rains have ceased long ago?"

"Yes," answered the man, "they should, but I cannot say why they have not."

"I sustain them,” voiced the young man.

"You?" asked the man disbelieving. "You are not God. God would not lower himself in such a manner, to caper about in the rain."

"Has God lowered himself by enjoying what he has created?" The child asked while ceasing not his dance. "Why must god be anything other than who he is? Why must I be made into the image you hold of me in your mind? Would you be more in awe of me if I wore the stars upon my brow in a crown of gold?"

The man thought on this a moment then agreed. "It is true I expected something far different. I certainly didn't expect you."

"It would seem Man has changed little," the young man laughed and whirled, then asked, "Why did you come when you heard I was here? Did you think to see something new? Did you hope to learn something new? There is nothing new under the sun. What has been will be again, and while I will certainly see these things come to pass, you will not."

"The world will be new again?"

"Of course it will! Have I not said it?"

"Earth will be young again?"

"Not this earth, no."

"I don't understand, ser."

"No, you do not! It has always been so with man. You have never understood, and yet you have always sought me out, and I have always told you the truth. What has been will be again. Now leave this place. Go back to your wife, e'Urom, you are not a fool, but you are certainly foolish. I have told you all you need know. It is for you to believe. Or not. That choice has always been yours."

And so e'Urom left and made his way back to the deserts edge, following the road that brought him out, back to his lands and his own home. He slowed as he neared the streets of his clanat, and trying to make sense of what the Ancient of ancients had told him, realized he could not remember the face of god. But he remembered every word.

His mind now quieted, and with a smile in his heart, he entered his house. A fire was laid on the hearth and his wife sat tending it. Feeling relieved she had not left him he sat at the table, thankful in his heart. He smiled at his wife as she spooned him a bowl of broth and set it before him.

"And what have you learned, my husband?" She asked.

"I have learned to be content," he smiled, and kissed her rough hand...


--

"I hope to learn from the memory of e’Urom. That is both the message of the story and the storyteller. By the ancient words I call this tale done and ask your leave."

"Thus it is remembered, the story given and Passage granted. May his memory live forever," intoned the elder.

"May his memory live forever," returned the gathered.






Chapter 3
Agates and Gold

"It is good that a daughter remember those who bore and rose her," spoke an oldster rising from the many who sat about the fire. He looked gaunt in the firelight, almost frightening, the way the shadows played upon the planes of his face.

"The honor you do your father this night gladdens my heart," he went on, "for I know this new generation, and indeed my own son, have not abandoned entirely the lessons we have grown in them. For they are the same lessons that were grown within us when we ourselves were children, as our elders too had hope in us for their remembrance days.

"You do Ombrial proud, Ambriasa,” he said, and many heads gleaming in the fire’s light nodded their agreement. "I remember many of the stories he drew from his amber book. And it has occurred to me from time to time since his crossing, that the tales he drew were tales of history. That there must be some truth to the tales he spoke."

"I remember one story especial." He said. "It was the tale of Severance and how she drove the Sun priests from her village playing the game of Fifths."

Ambriasa smiled, "Yes," she said, "I too remember that one, and I believe you right in saying many of the tales in the amber book are indeed tales from history. Severance Otek," she called out. "How is it you have your position in council as well as your ser at a time when the priesthood is no more?"

"That is not known, Ambriasa." Spoke a thin figure with a face like leather stretched over bone. "It was told to my father by his greatfather that the memory of our ser began to fade with the dying light of Sun. Not until Ombrial told the tale of Severence did we even understand why our blade and ser are called by the same name. Indeed, though our ser has been passed from father to son for an age or more, it gladdens me to think that Severence's blood may flow through my veins, though the tale makes no mention of husband or child."

"A sad truth, yes," she replied, "but what harm can come from believing?" And these words pleased Severence Otek.

"Tell us this tale." Spoke the Eldest. "For little enough is remembered of the Sun priests and much of that is not good. They had queer beliefs."

"Yes," Ambriasa nodded, "every child knows that Sun is mother to all life, just as Ocean is mother to all that sustains us. The priests were indeed queer."

"Very well," she said. "I will tell you of Severance... "

~

"She reached into the basket and from it pulled a fish which she laid upon the board. She raised the severance and struck off its head. With it's sharp point she opened the soft white belly, and with nimble fingers long accustomed to their work, tore out the offal; for this is what she was… A cleaner of fish.

The people of Jefexnes thought her name odd. For severance was both knife and place, and while it was not uncommon for a man to take the name of his labor, it was unnatural to name oneself after a place or thing. But her name did not disturb the village as much as did the newcomers.

New ideas came with new men from ancient lands with newer names. The world had changed while Jefexnes slept. Many travelers over the years had whispered of these newcomers who had abandoned the Ancient of ancients for the sun in the sky; the same dying sun that daily dimmed, or so the old stories told, but none in Jefexnes had yet seen these new priests. Their temples had sprung up in every city and village of size, pressing new beliefs upon people who had no use for them, until at last they were come to Jefexnes.

Jefexnes was a quiet village high in the mountains to the east. The men all either fished the great inland sea or raised iylas for their wool and meat. Every full turn or so caravans made their way to the village, but it was the Jefexnese who journeyed to Ohmican to sell their labor. So it was in this way that the village earned silver and gold.

But it was not silver or gold that the people of Jefexnes valued, for it was too scarce for coin. They used instead polished agates engraved with the mark of their labor. Should a man chose to purchase fish he must give in exchange a number of agates with his labor marked upon them. Because of this, the price of a fish sold was measured against the value the seller put on the buyers labor. If the fisherman did not need new shoes the cobbler paid more of his own agates. The fisherman might then trade these for agates he could use.

To the Jefexnese this was not strange, but to the Sun priests it was nonsense. But seeing in this a way they might cheat the Jefexnese, and so build their temple without cost, the priests polished for themselves agates and engraved upon their sides the image of Sun. But the people of Jefexnes found no value in them.

"I have no use for sun," one villager would say. "She gives to me her light freely each day, sunwaken to sunsleep. How shameful to sell what you do not labor. I will not sell to you."

"I have cut stone for you all this day," another would say, "and you give me these in return? I will not work for you tomorrow."

This angered the priests, for they knew the Jefexnese to have gold and silver. Every woman and man wore them as ornaments, and so the priests began to plot among themselves ways in which they might take it from them.

It was custom then that a man who caught a fish, himself to eat, could himself clean, but should he wish to sell his fish to another, it must be cleaned by another. There were a score of such cleaners in Jefexnes but Severance was the best. Her fingers were quick and agile and all who watched her swore the Ancient of ancients sharpened her severance himself, and so it was that most fishermen asked her to clean their catch. When the catch was plentiful her living grew. Indeed, everyone’s living grew, for many benefited from the catch of even one mans nets.

In the cycle that followed the priests coming, the Jefexnes fishers grew rich with their growing catches and the Sun temple saw in this a way to take that wealth for themselves.

They imposed a law upon the Jefexnese, for by this time the villagers had grown accustomed to asking the priests blessings on things they never had before. This law declared that a fifth of what each laborer earned was to be given in tithe to the Sun priests. In addition to this tithe the laborers who hauled the nets must also give a fifth of what they earned after the sale. The tithe continued on to include any who profitted from one fisher’s daily catch.

The talk at last became heated as the fishers grew angrier each day and saw their profits slow. The priest thought to take away all their agates and so force the village to begin giving their silver and gold.

"Tiva, the netmender has raised his fee to cover what he must pay to the priests!" cried one.

"That will make our own portion less than what it already is!" another called.

"I overheard Ontebbe and the boatwright arguing over the cost of repairs to his vessel," said another.

"Even the offal-boys are charged the fifth for the gall they sell to the optecary." Said yet another.

Severence heard all this and agreed. The tithe was unfair. Like most of Jefexnes, she was poor. Paying a fifth of what was earned, in addition to a fifth more for anything bought had sent many to their beds with only hunger to fill their bellies.

To most minds the Sun priests were no better than thieves, but where priests and common thieves differed, it was said, mice could grow fat. While common thieves contented themselves with stealing the crumbs that fell from a mans plate unnoticed, the priests entered into a mans home to steal away the plate, lecturing him the while for not giving more to them who gave prayers to Sun. Common thieves dirtied their own hands, but the priests waged men to their work. Thieves paid to thieve.

The tithe was unfair, Severance knew, but she knew also that the priests, thieves that they were, exacted a payment for prayers the Jefexnese never had need of before.

After weeks of listening to the fishers’ arguments it came to her that the priests were using the chouta, a childs game, to rob the people, though she doubted the priests knew this. Were it not for the exchange of agates, no fifth could be exacted by the priests, and so she spoke aloud as she worked.

"Were it not for the agates there would be no way to measure the fifth," said she. "Without a means of measure the priests can take no fifth."

This struck the men dumb. They turned and looked one to the other in wonder.

One then frowned and asked, "how would we then make our living with no agates to buy what we need?"

Another said, "no agates? It is impossible!"

"The priests would only find other ways to tax us." Spoke another.

But one fisher stepped up.

"Tell us why you say this Severence?" he asked. "Surely you are not serious."

Severence thought a moment and answered. "It is a game they play with us. Chouta!"

"Chouta?" said one, "That is a child’s game."

"But one they have not heard of or played before." She said. "If the priests wish to play a child’s game with us, perhaps we should see in this an opportunity to rid ourselves of them, and their useless temple."

"They do not value our agates, that much is clear. They want what silver and gold we possess. We could just give these things to them but this would only entice them to stay and lust for other things. We must not allow this, instead, perhaps we can take from them what they covet of us."

"We are not thieves, like they," protested one.

"We will not steal it," she smiled, "we will win it. We will win it then return it back to Earth or sink it in the lake. But to do this we must in like manner cast away our agates. Children do not use agates playing at chouta, they use epods, a stone without value to anyone save a child. The priests look at us in this same light. Therefore we must do away with agates. Everyone must agree to trade labor for labor. That is all our agates are; a tangible expression of ones labor. We simply choose another expression, one the priests do not value."

The men gathered around the severancy were shocked at her simple solution, but not at all convinced, and they began to argue once more.

"How can a mans labor be measured without agates?"

"How then will wealth be measured? By air?"

"It is preposterous!"

"No more preposterous than giving all you earn in abeyance to the game these priests play." Severance countered. "A mans labor puts food in the bellies of all in his charge. A mans labor is given in exchange for the goods his wife asks of him, even those things a man himself desires. You must think. All that is ever bought or sold is a man labor. Find another means of expressing this, one the priests do not value, and they can take nothing from you. Why not air?"

Their speech grew heated about the severancy, and over the days that followed it was at last agreed that Severances solution might indeed work. They would play the game of fifths with the Sun temple.

In order to win, they would play the game as children do.

"For those who do not know the game of Chouta," Ambriasa said, pausing a moment. "Each player begins with seventeen epods. As ones epod moves about the stone it soon comes to land where anothers epod lays. A fifth of that players epods must then be given to the firsts epod. All epods progress about the stone, one per turn until one player in time possesses them all. That is what the priests hoped to win from from the Jefexnese. For while children indeed played with epods, the adults would play with gold.

So the Jefexnese take all of their gold and pooled it together, and hid it in the high tundras. For when the priests should come to search ther homes, as they surely did, they found nothing, not even the seventeen the Jefexnese would use to win against the Sun priests.

"But when priests come to buy bread how then shall we sell?" asked a baker.

"Sell them nothing," she said. "If they wish to eat or drink they must play the game of fifths for true with our best player, one who knows all the subtleties of the game. Tell them if they win they can have everything they want except the souls of our people, those belong to the true Sun, may Her light shine forever."

In the days that followed the priests grew hungry, and with hunger their anger increased, for no one would sell to them. They thought the Jefexnes great fools to trade everything the priests wanted for the winning of a game. A game no priest knew and no adult played.

All that the priests wanted was to take what gold and silver these poorest of people possessed. Not only for their prayers to Sun, which required exacting rituals, that in turn required monies, but because these people thought of their wealth as no more than colorful stones. They chose to use simple agates as coin.

The priests had tried to coin their own agates but the simple peasants of Jefexnes saw no value in buying what, to their own minds, was to be had freely each day. And now these foolish children wished to play a game with them!

The temple Occlusion, who, as custom dictated, was the very presence of Sun on Earth, called the priests to confer together and perhaps find a solution.

"My brothers," he called to them, "It would seem the people of Jefexnes believe we wish to steal their gold and silver. And yet, if they do not place any value upon what they possess, why then do they not just give it to us, who appreciate its value and pray for blessings to the Sun Father? I believe they do value their gold and silver. They know it has value beyond the high tundra, and so hoard it for use when the caravans come."

"Now they wish to play a child’s game with us. With gold in place of the epods their children use. Seventeen pieces of gold! Who thought Jefexnes held so much gold! There must be more where that came from. Perhaps they use agates to hide their gold from outsiders. If no great measure of gold were ever seen by traders, what outsider would wish to stay long? I believe they hide more than they show."

One priest stood before his brothers and spoke, "Great Occlusion, the game they propose is more than a mere child’s game, it possesses subtleties that require years of play to fully fathom."

"These are unlearned people!" returned the Occlusion. "They are ignorant of the world and possess no real wisdom despite their cunning game. We will take their gold. Send word to their headman and ask that food be given us, and a choutastone that we may study the game in preparation. Who here knows the play of this game?" he asked at last.

But none spoke up.

"Has no one among us ever played this game with the villagers?" he asked.

"No one, great Occlusion," one priest said. "It is a child’s game. Grown men do not play at chouta."

"Then," smiled the Occlusion, "it stands to reason their best player will be a child. He spread his arms wide to the assembled priests, "Surely we can prevail against a child. But to insure this we should find someone to teach us the play of this game."

Another priest stepped forward. "Would it not be simpler to just take their gold? We have men hired who could do this for us."

"They have hidden it, brother." Said another.

"Then we should beat them until they tell us where." The first replied.

"We cannot beat the entire village," interrupted the Occlusion. "Not and bring them to the light of the Sun. No. We must play their game and win, or we may as well leave. For they will not give us anything if we abuse them further."

And so word was sent to the headman and arrangements were made to provide what the asked. The headman called all the men of Jefexnes to plan a strategy, and they called for Severance to take part.

"Who is our best player?" Asked the baker.

"Meris was accounted a good player." Said one.

"No," someone replied, "he hasn't played in ten full turns. Xama only just entered our company three full turns ago, he would be a better choice."

"Xama!" Said another, "My own son beat him just before he joined us."

"Perhaps we should choose a child." Suggested yet another.

"Perhaps you should." Severance spoke and stood to face the men.

"No man here plays the game better than his children." She said. "Find the best chouta players among our children and let them win this game for us; how much more humiliating for the priests if we send children to play the game?"

They looked at her and saw her smile and knew then she was right.

The headman spoke up, "Severance, you have given us again and again the gift of your true sight and wisdom. Your true talents are surely wasted in the severancy. I ask that you now set aside your duties and turn your skills toward leading us in this game against these strange priests."

"But you are headman," she said with surprise.

"Yes, but it is you who have given us the means by which to rid ourselves of these men."

"Very well," she said at last. "But I will only lead in this matter. I am not headman of Jefexnes."

And so it was agreed, and they set the time for the morning of the third day.

On the morning of the great game, as the Jefexnese came to call it, every soul within three hands of marks gathered themselves in the village plaza. All come to see the priests suffer humiliation, though it was agreed that some would cheer on the priests who would play, to lull them. Every man, woman and child wore their best clothes as though it were a feast day.

A secret competition among every child in the village had yielded the three best choutans: one to play and two to advise, which followed the rule of asymmetry that ruled the game itself. One die, three players, five pieces represented by one. Eighty-five total, and every facet, prime.

For the temple the great Occlusion chose himself to play, and chose among his advisors his two wisest. The children who instructed the Occlusion in the subtleties of chouta advised against this, but the Occlusion thought their advice was given to trick him and so chose not to listen.

A table was set and a chouta board set upon it. The priests made a procession from their temple with the Occlusion at its head. Upon his own head he wore an outlandish hat, high and pointed with the shape of Sun cut through its front and back. Upon his white robes another sun was painted over his breast. The priests that marched behind him also wore suns painted over the breasts of their robes. Though the sight of their procession was meant to over awe the Jefexnese, but the villagers only thought them foolish.

When the Occlusion sat and placed his gold upon the table the villagers brought forward the children they had chosen and sat them down across the table.

The Occlusion smiled.

"What?" he asked loudly. "Do you send children to play against me?" And the two priests to either side smiled as though to mock the children who sat across from them.

Severance stepped forward and addressed the Occlusion.

"Great Occlusion, no adult plays this game. So we choose among our best children. It was you who began this game with us, imposing your tithe and searching our homes. Stealing food from the mouths of these," she said at last, gesturing to the children who sat before them.

"Yes, well, you do not value the gold, why should you not give it to us?"

"Because it is ours." severance answered. "If we choose to keep what is ours, is that not our own affair? If you wish us to give it to you, you must earn it."

The Occlusion was angry at her words. How dare she speak to the voice of Sun in such a way? "Let us get on with it then," he said at last.

"Very well," Severance said, "The rules have been explained to you, but I shall state them once more. Each gold piece represents five..."

"Five!" Exclaimed the Occlusion.

"Yes, five, Occlusion. Was this not explained to you? This is why it is called the game of 'fifths'. "

"Could this village possibly possess such wealth?"

"It is just rock," she said with a shrug, "shinier than most, not as pretty as some, but a rock nonetheless."

"Just a rock!" Shouted the Occlusion. "Then just give it to us!"

"Listen, Occlusion." she called, lifting her voice. "You may move forward or back at any time you choose but only the number of squares allotted by the epod-die and only if that square is occupied by one or less pieces, but you must move, be the move good or ill; you cannot chose not to move. If circumstance gives you no move, you are forfeit one fifth- one gold piece -of your choosing. If a player rolls the same number as his opponents last roll, he may roll the epod-die a second time after moving his piece the number first rolled. Each square lost pays one gold piece to its possessor. First one to complete the circuit wins, and the game is then repeated until one players possesses all the pieces."

"Agreed," the Occlusion hissed. "I will roll first."

The epod-die rattled across the stone, the sinuous lines upon its faces danced and settled at last with a single line showing. The Occlusion drew his brows together and moved his first coin one place.

"There," he hissed and gestured to the child who would play. "It is your turn."

"I am called Pina, Occlusion," said the girl who sat across from him. "It is a long game yet. The odds will show you an equal number of highs and lows throughout." One of the children at her side rolled the epod-die and they all watched as it settled upon a three.

"See? Not much better." The third child spoke, then leaned and whispered into the Pina's ear.

"What’s this?" Demanded the Occlusion. "Secret whispers and plots? What goes on here?"

Severance stepped forward. "Chouta is a game of strategy, Occlusion." Severance explained. "Your own counselors are here to advise you, but you may of course choose to speak your deliberations aloud."

"I see," the Occlusion said, but he did not. He thought the villagers worked to cheat against him.

Pina moved her first coin forward three places.

And the game progressed, the Occlusion scowling and the children whispering all the while. Advantage moved back and forth between them and the first game ended with the Occlusion winning four of the children’s coin.

The priests clustered behind the Occlusion smiled and clapped each other and cheered the Occlusion for his skill. The children waited quietly and whispered among themselves until the Occlusion spoke out.

"I have won four from you simple folk. I shall soon have it all!" And he laughed.

"I shall roll first this game," Pina said and one of her companions rolled the epod-die. It landed with a five and after a short counsel moved her first coin five spaces.

The Occlusion rolled the epod-die himself and, counseling not with his first and second, moved his coin the spaces numbered upon the die. This game too progressed and saw the Occlusion with six more coins added to his own.

"This is too easy," he complained. "Could you not just give me the coin? It would save us all time."

Severance stepped forward and cautioned the Occlusion, "Pina has told you of the odds. What never changes in chouta is the equal number of highs and lows throughout. Chouta is game of strategy, Occlusion. The epod-die will not win it for you."

But the Occlusion only snorted and bent back to the game and rolled the die.

The game progressed throughout the day with coins changing hands back and forth. Twenty and seven games were played. The Occlusion had long since grew bored but when the coins began to move steadily into the children’s hand, he awoke and became angry and cursed his first and second who had given up trying to counsel him.

In time the last game drew to a close and the last coin fell to the children. The priests stood about in stunned silence, and the Occlusion himself called curses down from the sun upon the children.

"May his light burn your eyes from your heads!" He shouted at last and grasping the chouta board smashed it down upon the stones of the plaza. The children gathered the coin quickly and moved back into the crowd where the coins were quickly taken away and hid.

"You have lost, Occlusion." Severance spoke.

"Do you mock me?" the Occlusion whirled about with a shout, "using children to beat us at a child’s game? Do you think yourselves clever? Who now will offer prayers for you to the Sun Father? Do you think we will now stay here in this tiny village of yours?"

"It matters not to us, though we would prefer you to leave," she answered. "As to your prayers, we do not need them. In all the time you dwelt among us you never once thought to discover our thoughts on Sun, for had you asked, you would have been told that Sun in our Mother. She gives us life, and light in which to enjoy it. She warms our skin in summer and holds back, as best she may, the freezing death of winter. And she does all this without our spending coin to placate her. She does all this because we are her children and she loves us as such."

"Your people are sadly deluded, woman." the Occlusion said. "It is the Father that strengthens us and gives us the courage to last the night."

"No, Occlusion. A man wars and destroys. He builds to glorify his name. He tells himself he deserves a thing, then goes out to take it. There is a lot of good in a man, but life has never found birth in a man’s womb. Woman gives life. She nurtures, but does not coddle. She gives us what we need and asks only that we love her in return. It is a mothers love she holds for us in her breast. Man cannot do these things."

The priests gathered their possessions that very day and made haste to leave Jefexnes. It was decided among them that retaliation would not return their gold and so chose to leave without incident.

When their train of beasts and wagons were marks across the tundra the headman came upon them riding a great wooly iyla and called to their leader. "Oh, great Occlusion," he called. "Please accept a gift from our village. We would not have you enter new lands without our hospitality fresh in your hearts."

The Occlusion, humbled by the manner of his defeat, came to the headman and took from him a bundled cloth and marveled at its weight. Setting it upon the grasses he opened it and saw within all the gold he had lost and more. Much more.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Why, it is gold, Occlusion,” replied the headman, now confused. "Do you not want it?"

"Of course I want it," the Occlusion said, "but why now?"

"We have no real need of it. We have kept enough to trade with the caravans when they come again, but the rest we give you."

"Did you wish us gone so badly? Could you not have asked us to leave instead of playing us for fools?"

The headman slowly shook his head. "We did what we felt we had to, and beside that, would you really have left had we asked?"

To that the Occlusion could only nod and with no word of thanks gathered the gold and left.

--

"I hope to learn from the memory of Severance. That is both the message of the story and the storyteller. By the ancient words I call this tale done and ask your leave."

"And thus it is remembered," spoke the elder, "the story is given, and Passage is granted. May his memory live forever."

"May his memory live forever."





ELAshley
122903.025826.1
Revised on:
022305.025524.6
And finally on:
101106.110250.6

There will be further revisions, but
for now, it is what it is...



..::A Note on Pronunciation::..
For those who appreciate such things

Note: Capitalized Syllables are stressed. Vowels at the beginning of words that do NOT precede a hyphen ( ' ) are always soft ( "a" as in "cat"; "I" as in "it"; etc.), except "O" when followed by a consonant, which is always long.


Ambriasa = ahm-bree-AH-sa
~Daughter of Ombrial, keeper of the Amber Book

Ombrial = ohm-BREE-al
~Mysterious Father to Ambriasa

c'Cluseon = see-CLUE-zhun
~The last High Priest to the Temple of the Sun

o'Cluseon = oh-CLUE-zhun
~The stolen son of the Ohmican Citidan. Raised in the Sun Temple

Solumbraiah = sol-oom-BRY-ah
~The son of Sun

e'Urom = E-yoor-ahm
~The man whose tale was the impetus for the creation of the Religion of the Sun

O'Chelot = Oh-shell-Oh
~The last feline species. Descendant of the Ocelot of South America

Enohtoo = en-OH-too
~The last "Giant" believed to be responsible for the Vale of Zon

Crearachenala = cree-ARRA-shen-ALLA (Rolling the R's)
~Ocean’s daughter, who has control over all still waters.

E'tal = E-tall
~The remnant of Italy

Anastarii(s) = ahn-nah-STAR-ee(z)
~Eaters of the dead. Those who offer human sacrifices

Citidan = SIT-i-DAN
~Literally, "Emperor"

Citidanat = SIT-i-DAN-at
~Literally, "Empress"

Ohmica = OH-mi-kah
~What was once Brazil

Ohmican = OH-mi-kahn
~Any citizen of Ohmica

Omicar = OH-mi-kahr
~The title given to the Ohmican Heir-apparent

Cyihnc = Science
~The logic of science reduced to magic

Apoth = a’-pawth
~An herbalist

Cormorii(s) = kore-more-EE(Z)
~A bird, descended from Cormorants

Shallowrii(s) = shall-lore-EE(Z)
~A small, tended plot of marsh, for the keeping of cormorii’s