[https://i.imgur.com/xbNRlzL.jpg]* - /aˈnjaːnɛ/
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And so, with my new companion, we went north and reached another strip of marshlands – Bumvanur as I assumed. ‘The Rotten Waters’ was how Pamala-Rashe called it, ‘the land where life and death meet in a perverted union’.
“We do not want to go there,” he added.
We certainly didn’t, but I was eager to learn more about this land, and so I asked my companion lots of questions: what was it like there? Who was the patron spirit of that land? Were there any interesting stories associated with it? Any marvelous creatures living there? Pamala-Rashe listened to all my questions passionlessly. He turned his twisted face to me (was it twisted from disgust or from the bright sun I couldn’t tell) and said,
“It’s bad there.”
With that, he went away, and I had no choice but to follow.
We headed westbound, along the cliffs, crossing a rocky plateau covered with bushes. Pamala-Rashe walked ahead, and I followed at a distance. At some point, I noticed that he was crouching. I squatted near a bush and watched him crawl to a fallen trunk with his spear up and ready. He moved very slowly, hiding in the tall grass, not making a single sound. His prey was not visible to me. I wondered what it might be when suddenly a red-headed pheasant burst up from behind the trunk with a loud “Kok-kok-kok”. Promptly, Pamala-Rashe launched his spear – it pierced the bird in the flight and fell into the bush. “Hara!” he shouted and jumped forward. When I reached the scene of the hunt, Pamala-Rashe was holding the dead bird in his hand.
“A fat one!” he announced with a wide smile. A dexterous one, I thought to myself, for the speed and precision with which this man conducted his hunt was truly impressive.
We went on and soon met a party of people. It was some kind of a trade meeting, where tribesmen exchanged goods with each other. Three sticks were planted surrounding a leveled, grassless place. On the ground there lay a wide skin, and on it were pieces of flintstone and obsidian, and several finished stone blades.
One group was clearly Surian, with characteristic kilts on their hips and feathers in their long hair. The other one seemed to be from the plains. All of them spoke in a language similar to the one my guides had been speaking before.
There was a heated debate when we approached the site. The Surians wanted skins and bones for their stones and tools. Their counterparts said they'd share all that with them later and would like to take the stones and tools with them now. The Surians argued that this was not how these kinds of deals are made. They complained that the locals could not grasp the concept of ‘exchange’. The locals agreed that they indeed did not understand this, as the old customs used to work just fine before – why complicate things with some new vague terms? The Surians said they needed stuff now; they needed exchange. Locals paired that they did not have the stuff now – they needed to go on a long hunting trip to get all that.
One of the Surians was especially talkative. He talked to everybody who was near him, and everybody tried to avoid him because of that. I, being new to the place, did not avoid him, and so soon I became his ultimate target. He told me about the perils of the changing climate, the weirdness of the new coming folks from the west, and the overall disorder of local territories; I ardently nodded to all that.
“They just don't understand what exchange is! he was saying, and I was nodding. “We give to you, you give to us – that’s exchange. In place, not later, not ‘we gave you before’. We give to you and go away – that’s sharing. He's with you? he pointed behind me. I turned around and saw that Pamala-Rashe was standing quite far from us.
“Yes. Come here, Pamala-Rashe, why are you standing there? Say, why not just wait until they share those bones with you? I asked the Surian.
“They won't share later! he said with a grin. “Nothing to wait for. They say they will, but they won't, because they don't want to. They want us to share with them – that they want all right, but sharing with us – no way. You’re not from around here, are you? ˮ
“No, we come from the south,” I said to him.
“Huh,” he muttered shortly, studying us.
“To hell with it then,” one of the Surians loudly said and addressed the man I was talking to, “Rahiede*, let’s get out of here.”
“That’s right, coming along, brother!”
The Surians rolled up their goods, picked up the sticks, and were preparing to walk away. The locals wandered off too, grouching about why call up venues like that at all.
“Why don't you get those skins yourself? I asked Rahiede.
“They don't allow us to hunt here! The big animals are all for them, and we're stuck with the small game: pheasants, mongooses… ˮ
“Rahiede, are you coming? one of the Surians asked as they were going away.
“Coming along, brother, I’ll catch up!” Rahiede cried to him. “Speaking of pheasants,ˮ he added with a wink, pointing at the fowl hanging on the Pamala-Rashe’s belt. “That’s a good fat one, eh?” Pamala-Rashe agreed with a slight smile.
When his tribesmen went far enough, Rahiede offered that we have a small feast – “away from other eyesˮ. I agreed, and so we made a stay, laid fire, cut up the pheasant, and had our dinner.
The name Rahiede meant 'Talking One', and that showed fully. He talked and talked, and talked (and I nodded, nodded, and nodded) while we were cooking the meat. He told us again of the recent weather, of scarce game, of his hate for vegetables which they had to eat regularly because of the scarcity of the game; he told of his brothers who were no good, of his wife who was good but lazy, of his children who were very good, but too rowdy. He told us of his tribe, which was from Suru but had to go away into the plains because other Suru tribes did not approve of their lifestyle.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Anyaane is what they call us. You know the word, right? he asked me, seeing that I spoke Surian. “Splitters. Separates. As if it was us who fell for the fallacy. ˮ
He then went on to slander the Hus** – that was how they called all people from the plains.
“Little jerks. Everything is theirs, everything is for them. The animals are all theirs. The grasses are all theirs. Are the stones theirs, too? And the dirt? What does it even mean – ‘theirs’, ‘yours’, ‘ours’? How we say it in our language: when something is ‘yours’, it means you have it and you can’t lose it. You have your hand. You have your leg. You can’t have an axe, because you can drop it. We say: you keep the axe, the axe is in your hands. You can’t have animals that graze there, you can’t have the lands. None of that is part of you anyhow. So what in the guts of a bull are they talking about? They haven’t even lived here before, they’ve come recently! Oi, you’re not from the Hus, are you?” Rahiede pointed at my companion. Pamala-Rashe lowered his brows and spat out a bone.
“No, he is not,” I interjected. “Tell me about that ‘anyaane’ thing. How exactly are you anyaaneˮ? I asked. Rahiede finished a fowl’s leg and threw away the bone.
“Because we know the truth! You see, there was a time when the truth was one. Then some folks from around the Three-Heads came up with some fairytales and said that they are now the truth. You know, all that stuff about weidefias, about Niqh, about fraud. It’s all false.”
“What is your truth, then?” I asked and Rahiede told us the truth of his tribe.
***
The Holy Antelope struck a flintstone with its hoof and caused the fire which burned for sixty-four days. When the fire died, gembil covered the ashes. Each morning, drops of dew appeared on its tiny leaves. Those drops would slide down into ash, and from them, different plants would appear: grasses, and shrubs, bushes, and trees. After plants – animals, birds, and insects, and all other creatures came from the dew. All those creatures started eating the plants, and soon the entire land was devastated.
The Antelope struck its hoof again and caused another fire. After sixty-four days it stopped, and the process repeated: gembil grew out of ashes, morning dew collected on its leaves; plants and animals came from the dew. This time the animals ate not only the plants, but each other, without an order, and soon, the land got devastated again.
Once again the Antelope struck with its hoof, and it struck so hard this time that the Earth split, and from the cracks, the Underground Fire came. For sixty-four days, this fire burned, until the cracks closed, and the fire died out. Remnants of that fire remain in the Earth to this day – they are called ragewa***.
Once again the process repeated, and once again all plants and creatures came from the morning dew gathered on the gembil. This time, however, the Holy Antelope strode across the earth and plowed gembil with its horns, making it so that in different places different plants and creatures grew. Thus, in one place grasses grew; in another, shrubs. In a different one – bushes, and in the fourth one – trees. In one place, animals appeared and started eating the plants. In another place, predators appeared and started eating the herbivores. Finally, in one of the places, humans appeared and started gathering plants and hunting animals.
The first humans were foolish. They quickly ran out of all plants and killed all the animals, devastating the world. For the fourth time, the Holy Antelope struck its hoof, and for sixty-four days more the world was on fire. For the fourth time the process repeated, and this time, when all the plants and creatures were brought into the world, the Antelope went up the highest peak of the Three-Heads and announced, that everything should share with everything to keep the balance and uphold the order. Then it descended back and dug some of the ragewa. The Antelope pierced itself with its own horn and sprinkled the ragewas with its blood. Many spirits came to life from those ragewas, and those spirits went out into the world to watch over the lands and uphold the world order.
And ever since then, the order remains, and the rule has been unchallenged. Plants share themselves with animals, animals share themselves with other animals, all animals and plants share themselves with humans, and humans share everything with spirits. Mostly that sharing involves foods and stones, and handicrafts, but there are times when we have to – yes – share ourselves to uphold the balance. Because otherwise the order may get compromised, and for the fifth time the Antelope will have to strike its hoof and repeat everything anew.
***
“Would you want that to happen? Rahiede asked us, finishing the story. “Would you want to live through another terrible fire that engulfs the whole of the savanna and kills everything alive? ˮ
I said that I definitely didn’t.
“Do you often share yourselves with the Antelope? I asked out of curiosity.
“No, not often. Not anymore, at least. Rahiede answered a little irritated. “We share ourselves only when it's necessary. Other times it's usual stuff: food, crafts, all that. ˮ
He put out the fire and dispersed the smoking embers.
“Things’ve been good recently. You know, save for some things, but mostly it's good. Rains are coming regularly, greenery grows, animals multiply. If not for the Hus… You’re not from the Hus, are you?”
He was glancing at Pamala-Rashe again. I insisted that he was not from that folk. Rahiede poured some sand over the campfire and stood up; so did we.
“Well, anyway, doesn’t really matter, does it? Why care about fools who've lost their ways, eh? We shouldn't. How about all three of us go to my settlement? I will introduce you to my clan. We have a lot of preserves and a lot of stories for you to hear, and you can tell us some of yours! ˮ
Pamala-Rashe and I hesitated.
“Come on, pals. The day is almost over anyway. Why would you remain in the wild open, on a dark night, when we have beautiful sheds with fires? Come. Wallawa-ma!ˮ
I froze in my place and felt my muscles tense up. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Pamala-Rashe and saw that he was on alert too – he knew the meaning of the word.
“What is it?” Rahiede asked, bewildered, and looked back, thinking that we had seen something behind him. At that moment, without saying anything, we grabbed our things and sprinted away.
“What? What is it? What's the rush? Rahiede cried to us as we rushed across the plain at full speed. I stumbled upon a rock and fell down into the coarse sand, hurting my knee and my chin. I tried to get up and saw the man run after us, his face in seemingly genuine confusion.
“What is it? Why the rush? Why do you run? ˮ
Pamala-Rashe ran a little ahead of me but then noticed that I was on the ground and returned. He stooped in a warrior pose beside me, and threatened the man with his spear. “Hara! “Hara!ˮ he shouted.
“Why do you run? Rahiede kept pleading, his hands put up. I hastily got up with the help of my companion. Together we ran off.
“What in the guts of a bull is wrong with these people?!” was the last thing that we heard Rahiede shout.
We made a long run and only stopped when the Surian disappeared from our sight completely. We both fell under a dead leafless tree and sat there trying to catch our breath. Then we laughed out loud – I'm not sure why.
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Footnotesː
* - /raˈhiedɛ/
** - /hu/, pl. /hus/; not to be confused with The Hu - a chad band from Mongolia.
*** - /ˈragɛwa/