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And so, after the encounter with the Surian, Pamala-Rashe and I reached the right bank of the Last of the Rivers. Muddy shallow channels streamed across the plain from west to east, surrounded by marshland and covered with flocks of light-pink flamingos. Past the water were the dry sands of the Yellow Desert, and behind that was the Land of Dead.

Gehilia's Uncle stood in the backwater, not far from a cliff. It was a tall and narrow rock that, when looking from the southeast, resembled a stooping figure of a human. Halfway up its side, there was a protruding flat ledge that looked like a feather.

Pamala-Rashe refused to go near. “No one is allowed near the water except for the River People!” he said. I reminded him that, strictly speaking, it was a different river that had nothing to do with the story of Shi, but he still refused. So, I went alone.

I stood at the rock base knee-deep in the water, looking up and thinking about the fate of this man. I walked around, touching it carefully. It felt like a stone – warm on the sunny side, cold on the shadowy side. On its western side, there was a drawing of two feathers. A heap of sand rose above the water right under it, and several tracks of footprints ran in the sand to and fro.

What is it like to be a rock? I wondered. What is it like to be treated like a boulder?

The birds in the main channel rose up in a light-pink cloud. I waded my way back to the shore, where Pamala-Rashe was still standing.

“What do your people say about this rock?ˮ I asked him

“Nothing much.”

I wiped my feet with leaves and grass and stood for some time studying the rock. Its quiescent look inspired a strange feeling of calmness and confidence.

What is it like to be in the Land of Dead?

“I wonder. What is it like to know that your fellow ones are fine there?” I asked thoughtfully. Pamala-Rashe turned and went up the cliff, and I got a feeling that he was angry. I threw one last glance at the rock, picked up my things, and followed.

We went upstream. Not far away from the rock, I noticed from the cliff a small shed with a thatched roof standing in the marshes. Behind, the main channel of the River was glittering light-pink from flocks of flamingos.

“What do your people say about flamingos? ˮ I asked Pamala-Rashe.

“They're children of the sun,ˮ was his answer. I asked him more, but he did not elaborate.

We walked through a ravine and went up another cliff.

“What do they say about the Yellow Desert?ˮ I asked.

“It's a bad place to be,ˮ he said tersely.

Getting anything out of this man had been impossible. Many times, I tried to get him to open up, but he always remained reserved and resistant. I didn't know who he really was. I didn't know where he was from. I didn't know what I was supposed to expect of him.

I appreciated his help during our escape from the follower of the Fiery Antelope, but that was not quite enough for him to earn my trust. What if he was exiled from his tribe for committing a crime? What if he was persecuted by some other tribe? Klenvi back in our valleys had a principle: ‘friend of my enemy is my enemy’. Whenever somebody helped a person who was wanted by the Klenvi, that somebody became their enemy just as well. Our tribes had a lot of problems because of that; I myself had the ‘pleasure’ to be chased by them once. Even though I had a special orb with that special black spirit now, I didn’t feel like dealing with any of those troubles again. My distrust towards Pamala-Rashe was growing quickly, and his strange restraint did not help.

Later in the day, we reached a settlement on the shore. To the north of it was a cliff that ran down to the river, and on it lay a dozen reed boats with sticks near them. To the west there was a grove, and near it stood several reed houses. The southern and eastern sides were marked by three sticks with red and green bands on them, and in the center, there were three fireplaces.

I made a trip into the field to make my ritual with the green orb and returned with a hefty basket of fruits and roots. Pamala-Rashe did not say anything this time. We entered the settlement with our hands open and gave the gifts to the people who sat at the fires.

The people accepted the gifts with joy and let us near their fireplaces. We sat there for some time, and I started to notice that the place looked unusual. There were no stacks of supplies getting prepared, no poles with drying meat or fish; nobody could be seen at work near the reed houses, and the houses themselves were empty. There were no women, few dogs running around, and only one little boy playing in the vicinity.

This was the first time Pamala-Rashe shared a piece of useful knowledge.

“You know,” I said to him, “this place does not look like a proper settlement.”

“Because ‘tisn’t,” he answered with a bit of a frown. “It’s a raawu*. People come here to share.”

“Raawu? Interesting.”

Just as a confirmation of his words, another group of people went up the cliff and entered the area. A young boy went around the fireplaces with a wide smile, giving away bundles of shells. Pamala-Rashe and I received a bundle as well. It was nice, though I honestly had no idea what to do with them.

“But aren’t we near the water here?” I asked Pamala-Rashe.

“Raawus are an exception. They are special places.”

“So, you can be here?”

Pamala-Rashe moved his head in agreement.

“And how long can we stay in this place?”

He shrugged his left shoulder and moved his head. “As long as you want.”

So, we spent four days in that raawu, conversing with people and listening to their stories. Most of them were the River People. Their look wasn’t much different from those of the plains: short, sturdy, with short curly hair and scarce garments.

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The language was a different story. The general means of communication was the language of Hu – Hurian, as they called it. However, I counted at least five different groups that were at the raawu, and all of those groups used between themselves their own dialects. It was fascinating to realize how many peoples of diverse origins were crammed together in this space.

People were coming and leaving, bringing in goods and food and carrying away whatever they were looking for. The goods were of all sorts: stones, woods, skins, bones, honeycombs, dried fruits, baskets of different sizes, dried red berries which the River People called cherries. Once, I received from a man a bundle of very good antelope hide. Another time a pair of fishers gave me a bunch of shells which I had no idea what to do with. One day, a woman gave me a wooden figure. It was a boy or a young man who held a bow, and carved and filled with chalk, while another one was only slightly marked.

“Do you know who this is?” I asked the boy who lingered beside me.

“Tuna-Shidda!” he announced.

“And who’s Tuna-Shidda?”

“Tuna-Shidda will reverse the movement and make everybody happy.”

“Interesting! Can you tell me that story? How will it happen?”

The boy meddled with his earlobe and then said,

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to!”

The little rogue ran away, leaving me alone with my intrigued spirit.

I kept the hide for myself and passed the rest of the things over to Pamala-Rashe for keeping–to his displeasure–while I focused on gathering stories.

Once we were sitting at the fire past sunset, drinking a beverage called rozhopataki** that the River People brewed from the cherry berries. I told the story of Gehilia and her Uncle, and rather unexpectedly, it sparked a debate in our little group. One half defended it, while the other one argued that stories like this one should be avoided. Of the latter, a sturdy middle-aged man with a beard and a scar on his neck was the most prominent speaker.

“Ah, Shii-Molla*** is at it again,” a young, rather tall man beside me commented. “Shii-Molla doesn’t like everything Surian, you see.”

“As my cousin says, you want to keep something from Shii-Molla–stick a goose feather into it,” said another spare man.

“Well, when did your cousin get this clever I don’t know,” Shii-Molla retorted, “but that is not what I’m talking about. You,” he pointed at me, “took this story for granted, and that is what I have a problem with. What makes you think that this story is true? That rock was stuck into there by Raven. Raven and Lark carry parts of souls to the south and to the north. That place is the closest spot to both, so the Raven made a sign. We call it the Last Rock. Now, the Surians may think up whatever they want–”

“Shii-Molla, stop complicating things!” a third guy said from afar. “Do you know how many stories are there in the Lower Clans about that rock? How do you know that the one you tell is true and the other ones are not?”

“I will tell you how! You younglings are spoiled with indifference. Does any one of you remember the days when Surians went along the River and killed snakes? Sure you don’t, but I do. Snakes are children of Hoeyi**** and should be respected. They did not care and killed them because for them they are descendants of a serpent, or what they call it, I don’t know. The result? We got another drought on the River. That is the power of a false story, bolstered by indifference to the details.”

Men from his side nodded in agreement, while the tall young man said,

“Alright, we get it. How do you say what’s the true story and what’s not?”

“By trust is how it’s done. I say those who are trustworthy may be listened to, and their stories are to be trusted. Ask any shaman, and he will tell you the one story I just told you–Raven and Lark marked that place with the rock. Ask any Surian, though, and they’ll make up stuff on the go as if nothing matters.

“For example. There is this thing they’ve come up with recently, they call it exchange. We–the good folks–share things, and we do it sincerely. We do it in order to uphold our dignity. This is the moral norm, to give away what you have a lot of, and we stick to this norm. Surians don’t share. They do exchange, and they do it selfishly, for their gain. Here’s a story for you!” he suddenly turned to me.

“A very close friend of mine from Clan Soddowaji***** once tried to engage in that exchange thing with a bunch of Surians. They offered him some fine shellfish from the Eastern Sea in exchange for a handful of northern obsidian. My friend took the offer, and he took it seriously. ‘We’ll meet near the Last Rock,’ he told the Surians. ‘I promise to be there on time.’ Okay.

“He took a mattock and strode off into the northern desert. And wouldn’t you know it? He soon realized that he forgot the special bag for stones. Never a good sign! He returned; his wife said: “stay today, go tomorrow.” Didn’t listen. He took the bag, the mattock, and strode off again. He reached the first spring that he knew–no water. Well, he thought, that’s unusual. He trod on and reached another spring that he knew–again, no water. Well, he thought, this is not good. But, he thought, I made the promise, and I shall deliver. So, with the little water he had in his flask, he went on and had been going for thirty days. Thirty days in the northern drylands, imagine that! But wouldn’t you know it? He couldn’t find any deposits.

“Now, who was that spirit on whom he stepped and who drenched his day of all luck–nobody knows, but he kept going, desperate, hungry, and thirsty. He went to the very end of northern lands, where the Yellow Desert begins. There, he fell down, and only then a patron spirit took pity and showed him a large deposit and strong spring with fresh water.

“Happy, my dear friend collected the stones, replenished his water, and ran back. And wouldn’t you know it? Right when he was approaching the Last Rock, he fell into a pit! Now, who dug that pit up, nobody knows, but he was now there with a broken leg and the torn flask. For three days, he sat there until his clanmates found him and pulled him out of the pit. They were ready to carry him over to the shaman for healing, but my dear friend objected. ‘I made the promise,’ he said. ‘I must be there. Take me there, or you are not my clanmates anymore.’ Okay.

“The clanmates brought him to the Last Rock. The Surians were already there. The exchange happened; my friend gave them the obsidian, and the Surians gave them the bag with shellfish. With that bag, the clanmates brought my friend home to the shaman. Then they opened the bag and wouldn’t you know it? There were no shellfish in there! There were pebbles and wooden cuttings and nothing else. Okay.

“My friend’s clanmates went to the Surians to get an explanation. And what do you think the Surians told them? ‘Well, your friend was away for so long, the shells must have gotten bored and run back to the sea.’”

Our little party burst out laughing. Even Pamala-Rashe produced a restrained smile, and I realized that I had not seen him smile yet.

“Now, you younglings may laugh all you want,” Shii-Molla continued, “but there is a lesson here. As my father used to tell me, ‘Son, there are three things that a good man must uphold at all times: health, trust, and dignity. You should always take care of your body to uphold health; you should always take care of the promises you make to uphold trust; and you must always stick to the moral norms to uphold your dignity.’ My friend did everything he could. He saved his dignity, and he remained trusted. He failed his health, as his leg is still healing, but, as my father told me: ‘Should it be that you face a choice, son, you make it in the order–health, trust, and then dignity.’ Yes, our ancestors are the witnesses–my friend did everything right.

“Now, what did these Surian folks do? They may think that they gained something, but that is not true. Through this deceit, they breached their own trustworthiness, broke the moral norms, and hurt their health. Yes, like that, because my dear friend is a good River man, and good River men never let anybody do ill and walk off without a good curse. My friend cursed them so well, they will pray that the snakes they fear so much wrap around them and eat them, instead of living with that curse. Trust me, fellas, you will yet hear the end of this story!”

***

Shii-Molla went upstream with a group of fishers the next day. Pamala-Rashe and I stayed for a couple more days after that night. I used that time to the fullest, as those remaining in the raawu had a lot more to tell.

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Footnotesː

* - /raːˈwu/

** - /ˌroʒopaˈtaki/

*** - /ˌʃiː-ˈmola/

**** - /ˈhoi/

***** - /soˌdowaˈdʒi/