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Zewe-Zdywe strode on and talked ceaselessly; I followed and listened unquestioningly. He was to me like a spirit patron of storytelling. He was my guide to the local wisdom, who told me countless stories in detail, sometimes even in different variants; “That’s how the folks over there tell it, but here’s how the folks over here tell it…” he used to say. He knew everything, and everything he knew, he told me.

From the River Iz, the plains stretched all the way up to the western mountains, and apparently, this whole vast land was inhabited by the Hu clans. Their world came to be in the same manner I had heard previously—with the help of the Holy Antelope. Like everywhere else, she struck a stone with her hoof and caused a huge fire. Like everywhere else, the fire killed the old world and the new one rose from the ashes.

There were two birds in the old world: Old Raven and Old Heron. Old Heron had four chicks. None of them could fly; they watched in terror as the fire crawled up to their nest.

At that very moment, Old Raven happened to pass above them. Old Heron took the chicks and said,

“Hark, little ones! I shall throw you high, and you shall flap your wings as hard as you can, and when you see in front of you a feather—cling onto it, hold it tight. Do you understand me?” The little nestlings chirped affirmatively, and Old Heron threw them up, right at the passing raven. The nestlings flew high and flapped their little wings with all their strength, and when each of them saw feathers, they clung to them with their little beaks.

“Ayah!” Old Raven cried, feeling the four pinches. He looked down and saw four unbidden creatures clamber up his feathers. “Down with you, intruders!” he exclaimed and dove, but the four nestlings shed tears and wailed. The cry of childish helplessness melted the raven’s heart—he flew back up, above the smoke. He kept against the wind and thus escaped the fire, saving the four little birds and himself. Later on, the four chicks grew into four birds: Young-Heron, Quick-Falcon, Bright-Lark, and Proud-Waratota.

Old Heron stayed amidst the fire. She couldn’t fly–so she ran. The whole world was ablaze–there was no way to escape. She ran downwind, over the mountains and valleys, through the smoldering bushes and thick old grass. Old Heron climbed a hilltop and fell down, exhausted. There, she saw a nest of an unknown creature with five eggs. With nowhere to run, Old Heron covered the eggs with herself. The fire climbed the hill, burned the grass, burned the bushes, burned the earth itself. It killed Old Heron but didn’t reach the eggs—they remained unscathed under the heron’s corpse.

***

The fire ceased. Ashes of the old world were covered in gembil, filled with bushes, then trees. Thick greenery of the new world grew everywhere. Yet, the Antelope continued to run around the new world, a ball of fire caught in between her horns. Old Raven, angry at the reckless creature and wary of any new fire, chased the Antelope from land, onto the sky plane where there was nothing, and drew the horizon around the land so that she couldn’t return. The Antelope ran around the sky plane in circles, the fire between her horns still burning, shedding light onto the land. Later on, the first people called that fire the sun.

In the north, the burned corpse of Old Heron lay on the hilltop. Five little creatures hatched from those eggs and crawled out from under the bird: One-Finger, Two-Finger, Three-Finger, Four-Finger, and Five-Finger. The new world bloomed around them. The little creatures were hungry; they began to devour grasses, bushes, trees, everything they saw—everything they could chew and swallow. The more they ate, the bigger they grew and the worse their hunger was—so they ate even more. Soon, nothing was left in the north, where they hatched, so they moved further to the south, where there still was greenery.

Old Raven watched the five hungry kids devour the new world. They became so big they bumped their heads into the sky, and yet kept eating. “Ayah, no good,” Old Raven said and gathered the giant children around him: four on each of the four sides, and one in the center, right in front of him.

“Listen here, kids,” he began. “When you think you’re hungry, you should not follow this notion immediately. You should listen to your stomach, listen if it makes any sounds. If it doesn’t, then you’re not hungry. If it does, then you are.”

The brothers listened to Old Raven, munching on trees. Raven continued.

“Even if you hear the stomach rumbling and know that you’re hungry and see some food in front of ‘ya, you should not follow your first instinct immediately. You should look around you, think if this food may be necessary for someone else. Maybe this tree is necessary for a bird to nest in; maybe this grass is needed for an animal to graze on. Only when you see that none of this is true can you eat the food.”

They listened to Old Raven, finishing the roots. Raven continued.

“And even if you hear your stomach rumble and see that the food can be eaten, you still should not follow your first instinct. Think about your peers, think about your neighbors, your relatives and allies. Share with them if they need to be shared, and only after can you eat the food. Did you understand me, children?”

The brothers gawked at him, eating bushes, grass, and even earth.

“Ayah. They don’t understand the language!” Old Raven exclaimed.

Something new had to be devised. There was a hill on the edge of the world, Old Raven remembered, with a white top and dark slopes. On that hill, there were hidden twelve magical Stones of the Past that, when swallowed, could affect anyone the way a magician wished. Old Raven flew to that hill, but he only found four stones up there.

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“Kora!” he growled. “Not a day has passed since the beginning of the new world, and already there are thieves in it!”

There was no time to look for the thieves, though. Old Raven enchanted the remaining stones and flew back to the giant children. The children crawled each in his direction, scavenging the earth. Old Raven sneakily placed an enchanted stone in the way of each of them and returned to Five-Finger who still sat in the center. He began teaching him language.

“Repeat after me,” he said. “Hai.”

“Ha-i,” Five-Finger muttered.

“That means ‘mother’. Now say, ‘Tata‘.”

“Ta-ta,” Five-Finger whispered.

“That means ‘father’. Now say, ‘We‘*.”

“We-e,” Five-Finger repeated.

“This means ‘brother’.”

As Five-Finger learned, the four other brothers devoured the greenery. One-Finger felt something tough in his teeth. He studied the Stone of the Past he found in his food and had a childish idea. Grinning, he put the stones into the greenery that lay beside Five-Finger. So did Two-Finger when he found a stone in his food, and Three-Finger and Four-Finger did the same as well. All four stones ended up in Five-Finger’s food.

Old Raven left Five-Finger to teach the first three words to the other brothers. Five-Finger ate his food and lo!—he began shrinking. He had no more hunger, but he lost his strength and he kept shrinking.

Old Raven watched this, puzzled, “Ayah, something ain’t right.”

The four giants sat still for a while but then burst out laughing. Old Raven figured out what had happened. He lost his temper: “Kora, Dirty children!” He grabbed the first stick that he found and began spanking the giant kids. “Don’t eat!” he yelled. “And don’t misbehave! Listen to me! Stop eating! Dirty hooligans!”

The giants scattered. One-Finger ran back to the place of their nest, but stumbled and fell and turned into sand. The side he fell on became North. Two-Finger sat down and cried while the raven spanked him. He shed an entire sea of tears—this became East. Three-Finger ran to the edge of the world and burrowed into the ground. He did it poorly, leaving above him a huge ridge of earth. This became West. Finally, Four-Finger hid in a forest. He was sweating and crying, which made the forest wet and hot—this became South.

Only Five-Finger remained in the center of the world. Old Raven dropped his stick and perched on a branch of a single acacia that was left nearby. He looked around and said with a sigh: “Ayah, what a failure.”

***

Five-Finger was now smaller than his brothers but still a giant. He craved to return to his size, but did not know how—his stomach could take only so much. Besides, the four stones that he swallowed were stuck inside him and caused him pain. He prowled around the savanna, groaning, and Old Raven followed him at the heels. He didn’t know how to help either—everything was new, everything was different in this new world.

“Back in the day, pain was treated with pain. Let me try,” Old Raven said and pecked Five-Finger in the four places where the stones were stuck. He made Five-Finger even more miserable with this.

Young-Heron heard Five-Finger’s groaning and flew up to them.

“Though I’m young,” she said, “I have some ideas. Let me try!”

Young-Heron reached into Five-Finger’s body with her beak, fixed the insides, adjusted the intestines, put the stones in the right positions, and bound them with the right veins. One stone became his heart, another one became his gallbladder, and two other ones—testicles. Pain left Five-Finger. He rose, happy and healthy, and hugged Young-Heron. Old Raven was jealous.

“Kora, filthy bird! Didn’t I save you from the fire? This is how you thank me—by undermining my elder honor?” Young-Heron tried to object, but Old Raven gave her several painful bites and she escaped.

Five-Finger said nothing—not that he could, anyway. He prowled on, traveling all over the world, Old Raven beside him, until the two met Lady Doe.

She rested near a creek, a tiny dot compared to the giant that Five-Finger was. Five-Finger almost stepped on her, but noticed her at the very last moment, put the foot away, stumbled, and fell over. Lying on his stomach, he rubbed his cheek scratched in the fall. Lady Doe went closer and licked the scratch, which made it heal instantly.

“Thank you for noticing me, big one,” Lady Doe said. Five-Finger muttered unintelligibly. Lady Doe said, “Ah, you don’t know the language!”

She began teaching him right there. While he was lying, he learned “to lie”, “to get up”. As he was rising, he learned “to rise”, “to stand still”. As he was lifting himself up, he learned “up”, “down”, “left”, “right”, “forward”, “back”, “sit down”. As he stood up, he could say, “Thank you!” When he sat back down, he could pronounce, “Teach me more!” So, she taught him, and by the end of the day, Five-Finger knew the language.

Old Raven watched it from the side. He wasn’t just jealous—he was livid!

“Korrra! Filthy animal!” he screamed.

“Be well, creature from the past,” Lady Doe answered calmly. “Much is your wisdom, but you are mistaken now, for I am neither kora nor filthy. Don’t call me those things.”

“I know better what to call things!” Old Raven yelled. “I’ve seen stuff in the Old World. Besides, you’ve taught him the wrong language, dirty scum!”

“Well, you haven’t taught him anything at all, save for those three words, have you? Once again I say: much is your wisdom, but I’m a better teacher here, and—Ah!”

She couldn’t finish. Old Raven bit Lady Doe in all the most vulnerable places. Lady Doe escaped, and Old Raven, satisfied, sat down to say: “Now, we shall teach you the right language.” But Five-Finger grabbed the bird in the fist and shouted,

“You evil! You beat my brothers; you bit Young-Heron for helping; you bit Lady Doe for teaching me. You take away from me everything that’s good. I reject you. Scram!”

He threw Old Raven in the air; the poor bird flew whirling and twirling, unable to take control of its wings, until it splashed in the Eastern Sea. Old Raven went ashore, dried himself, perched himself on a rock, and, with a tear rolling out his eye, said,

“What a failure.”

***

Five-Finger ran after the doe and found her near the confluence of the River and the Semse**. They married and had eight children: four sons and four daughters. Thus, with the happy marriage of the two, humankind began.

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* - /ˈhai/; /taˈta/; /wɛ/

** - /sɛmˈsɛ/