The
sun’s hot rays beat down with an almost physical force. Sweat poured down
Samka’s face as he encircled another huge water jar with his arms and heaved it
against his chest. His arms and thighs burned as he carried it from the storage
hut across the parched and cracked ground, and over to the well. His steps were
unsteady, his grip unsure, but he dared not drop it. That much lost water would
guarantee death for an entire family.
His
mouth agape, the dry air rasping in his throat, Samka only just managed to lift
the jar to the lip of the well. He tipped it upwards, and the welcome dribble
of water joining water filled the air. It might be the last time any of them
ever heard it.
Still
breathing heavily, he turned to Bael, the eldest of the shamen, and sighed.
“That’s the last of it. We have no reserves left.”
“Unless
someone is hiding a few jars, beneath their floor or hollowed into their
walls,” Bael smirked. “Who among us would do such a thing?” Addressing the
onlookers, he asked in a loud voice, “Who knows someone who is hiding their own
personal water, while the rest of us wither?”
The
old man had always been suspicious of everyone and everything, but now, with
the drought upon them, suspicion had edged into paranoia. He constantly
suspected anyone and everyone of acting upon some secret and nefarious plan
behind his back, and did his utmost to convince the other shamen to share his
suspicions. It did no one any good.
“There
is no private water, Bael,” said Yol, emerging from the storage hut. “We have
checked every house, every granary, every hunter’s roost. There is none, save
what sits in this well.”
Samka
nodded to his friend. “We have been patient. We have waited for the gods to
favor us, for the skies to open and for the land to become green again. The
gods have abandoned this place. The animals are gone. It is time we—”
“We
will NOT leave!” Bael screeched, leveling one weathered finger at Samka’s face.
“This is our home! The gods are testing us, as they have many times before. We
must show them our resolve; we must believe, and beseech, and hope!” Murmurs of
agreement rose from the crowd. For all of Bael’s distrust of others that in
turn inspired distrust of him, few could resist his powers of persuasion when
his passion rose.
Yol
rolled his eyes at the shaman’s outburst, but said nothing. Samka looked at the
villagers, their eyes rapt upon the empty sky, their lips moving soundlessly as
they prayed. There would be no convincing anyone, not today. “We will discuss
this again later,” he said to Bael. The old man dismissed him with a wave of
his hand, and went on to chant the opening verses of a ritual rain song.
Samka
felt like punching him, but instead motioned Yol to accompany him as he walked
away. The once-fertile dirt crumbled into dust beneath their feet.
“I
can’t tell if that old man is crazy or a mere fool,” Yol remarked.
“Perhaps
neither,” replied Samka. “He knows his power, his magic, is tied to this place.
Were we to leave he would become just another stubborn old man – if he survived
the journey.”
“So
he would have all of us die like fish stranded on a beach to satisfy his
vanity?!” Yol snarled. He kicked a pebble into the riverbed, now long dry and
strewn with bones.
“You
expect anything less of a shaman?” Samka asked with irony. They shared a bitter
laugh, then stopped to stare at the birdman paintings covering the rocky face
of Tipuluka. At the foot of the vast cliff, women wept, wailed, and beseeched,
crying, “Why have you abandoned us, birdmen? Why have you not brought the
rainclouds back to this land?” In the rising heat, the dark paintings looked
even more sinister than usual, as the red-orange rock shimmered and danced
beneath them. As mesmerizing as the sight was, Samka and Yol both looked away
from the paintings quickly, for they knew that gazing too long at the birdmen
could easily drive a man mad.
“Even
if we can’t save the village, we can at least save our...” Yol’s voice trailed
away as he saw Samka grimace in pain at his words. “Oh. I’m sorry, Samka.”
Samka
shook his head. “No one can save them now, Yol,” he said, sadly. “I’ll speak to
the shamen again tonight. You should start preparing what you can, and
encourage all who will listen to do the same; gods or no gods, we must leave
this cursed place, and soon.”
“And
if the shamen say no?”
“We
don’t need their permission.”
“Why
do you disturb us now, Samka of Llag?” thundered Bael. “Can you not see we are
in the middle of the raincalling?”
“I
see it,” Samka said, “But we must talk, now.” He squinted through the cloud of
pungent smoke filling the hut, and wondered where the shamen had found so much yagrati
plant to burn. That plant needed much water to grow, and he hadn’t seen one
growing anywhere for at least three moons. It was no great loss; except to the
shamen, who always claimed that the smoke of the plant cleared one’s mind and
opened the path to the gods. Samka just found it nauseating.
The
elder shaman sighed, stood from the altar, and shuffled over to Samka. His eyes
were bloodshot, his voice high and dry. “If you still wish to wish to convince
me to move the village, Samka—”
“I
do,” Samka cut him off, “Because there is no other choice. Can you not see?
Cannot all of you see?” he shouted, addressing the other shamen kneeled around
the altar. Deep in trance, they paid him no mind. “The rains are gone,” he
continued. “The rivers and lakes are dry. We cannot even lick the dew of dawn
from unfurled leaves, because there is none. The gods are dead, absent,
or have simply forgotten this land. There is nothing to do but leave.”
Samka
expected the old man to chastise him for these words, but instead Bael merely
studied him with squinted eyes through the smoke. “You are certain there is no
other choice,” he said quietly.
“I
am.”
“And
what if all of us perish on the journey?”
“It
would be no worse than perishing here.”
Bael
turned away for a moment, his brow furrowed with thought. Samka felt the first
flickers of hope that the old man might finally understand the situation. But
then he turned to Samka and asked, “And what of the birdmen?”
“The
BIRDMEN?!” Samka exploded. His voice rose as his hopes vanished. “The birdmen?
Our people shrivel in an endless desert, and you ask of those accursed
pictures?”
“You
know what they are, and what they signify,” Bael said, with a slight smirk on
his face.
“I
know what they are supposed to be, and what some madmen say about them!
By the flames of the sun, Bael I thought none of the shamen held any faith in
the birdmen anymore – nor should they! What good do they ever do, those black
and dead pictures?”
“Perhaps
none,” Bael said quietly. “But the birdmen themselves – well, they may be able
to save us. A last resort, when all else had failed, and it seems the very
ground we walk upon wishes to swallow us up.”
“Even
if a word of that were true,” Samka seethed, “What would we do? How would we
even speak to them? Birdmen are not gods – they hear no prayers, answer no
calls. They wander as they please above the clouds, and pay no heed to the
troubles of the earth. We could no more speak to them than a worm could speak
to a rainbow serpent.”
Bael
waved a cloud of smoke from his face and smiled. “You misunderstand, Samka. I
do not ask anyone to speak to them. I only ask one man to join them.”
Samka
turned pale, and coughed. “You cannot mean this.”
“I
do.”
“For
what purpose?! Even if you believe that old wives’ tale, what good would it do
us to send one more man to live above the clouds, to ignore us at his leisure?”
“If
we sent one now,” Bael said, smiling with a superior air, “He would know of our
plight. He would know how to help this land, and he would bear rainclouds on
wings that stretched from horizon to horizon. It would take only one man.”
“One
life, you mean,” Samka corrected him angrily. “One fool, willing to take the
plunge...”
“Why
do you assume the birdmen are dead, Samka?” Bael waved his thin arms in
exasperation. “The dead leave behind their earthly flesh – even a hunter caught
in a grassfire leaves charred bones and ash! Have you ever heard of a birdman
leaving anything but a shadow on a cliffside?”
“The
last birdman was sent in the time of my great-great-grandfather,” Samka said,
folding his arms. “No one living knows what they leave, or what even
happens to them after they are sent.”
“I
do, Samka,” Bael purred, his voice suddenly soothing. “We do. The shamen know,
as they always have and ever will. Trust in us, even if you trust nothing
else.”
Samka
said nothing for a few moments as he stared into Bael’s eyes. They shone
brightly even through the smoke. Did he honestly believe this was going to
work, or was he simply stalling for time – or for some hidden plan? In the many
years Samka had known him, Bael had never revealed the whole truth about
anything unless he saw some advantage in doing so.
And
yet – the old man’s eyes betrayed no duplicity, no malice. He truly believed
that they could send a birdman, and that this simple act would save them all.
And it was but one life, of which they had already lost so many, against the
survival of their entire village.
“I
will bargain with you, elder shaman Bael,” Samka said, extending his hand. “I
will agree to send a birdman – on the condition that, if rain does not follow
in three days’ time, the village will leave immediately.”
Bael
blinked with momentary surprise, then smiled. “I accept your bargain, Samka of
Llag.” He grasped Samka’s hand with a strength belying his many years. “We will
begin preparations to send a birdman, and you may tell your friend Yol to
continue his preparations to move the village.”
For
all that he lived his life in smoke and myth, the old man never missed a thing
that happened in his village. “Very well. And who will be the birdman?” asked
Samka.
“You
are headman, are you not? It is your responsibility to choose.”
“The
headman is supposed to have a family,” Samka said, his voice ringing hollow in
his ears. “I have no family now.”
“Nonsense.
You are still headman, and you will choose who is to be sent,” Bael said,
placing his hand against Samka’s back and pushing him to the door. “Be quick –
we must begin the ritual at sunset tomorrow. And choose well!” he added, as he
shoved Samka out of the smoky hut into the blissfully clean air.
Twilight
was falling, and the blank sky faded to violet as the sun sank beneath the
cliffs to the west. Samka took no notice, as he pondered whether he had just
made a grave mistake. Regardless of what Bael said, he believed that the
birdmen died when they were sent. And it was such a terrible way to go; leaving
behind no body to mourn over, just a faded picture of a misshapen shadow on a
rock wall. Whoever was chosen must be strong and brave enough to climb to the
rim of Tipuluka, the highest of cliffs, at night, with no one but themselves
and their personal demons for company. There were few men left in the village
up to the task – perhaps none.
Samka
gazed up at the cliffs as he walked. In the gathering darkness, they were
forbidding and menacing, looking as though they intended to cast their pointed
spires and giant rocks down onto the puny beings below. As far as Samka knew,
no one had climbed to the top of Tipuluka for at least four generations. His
great-great-grandfather had been involved with the sending of the last birdman.
Perhaps he had even been the birdman; the identity of the man who was sent
depended upon who told the tale. What would he do in my place, Samka
wondered. Would he send a birdman, or would he walk a different path? There
was no point in asking; his grave, if he had ever had one, was long lost and
forgotten.
A
welcoming yellow light poured from the windows of Yol’s hut as Samka
approached. The sight, the smell of cooked food and burning oil, and the soft
murmurs of a family at rest washed over his mind, conjuring up memories; once
cherished, now acutely painful. He cast them aside as he strode to the door and
knocked once.
Yol’s
beautiful wife Celelé answered the door. “Samka!” she beamed, smiling broadly.
“Come in, come in!” She took Samka’s hand and led him in. The hut, once
ornately furnished, now looked bare; Yol had wasted no time packing things away
in preparation. The couple’s two small daughters sat in a corner, playing with
dried wood and chunks of charcoal. Their faces were thin and sallow, but at
least they still had the energy to play; the same could not be said for most of
the village’s surviving children. Yol himself dropped the strip of dry meat he
was eating onto the table as he stood. “Samka, my friend! How did it go? Has
that old shaman finally turned his eyes away from myths and spirits and seen
reality? We are to leave, aren’t we?”
Samka
wearily sat at the table and beckoned Yol and Celelé to do the same. He
explained what had transpired at the meeting, and how he must now chose a man
to be sent.
Celelé
turned pale and raised her hand to her mouth. “This is madness,” she whispered.
“To place our faith in this . . . this sorcery, and to banish one of our men to
such a horrible fate – what did that old schemer threaten to do, Samka? He must
have said he would call down the ynreach to incinerate us all, for you
to agree to this.”
“No,
Celelé,” Samka said, tracing his fingers over the grains in the table’s wood.
“Bael asked for one last chance to save our village where it stands, before we
uproot from our ancestral lands and undertake a long, dangerous, possibly
fruitless journey. And I agreed, because there is little to lose; even if the
sending fails, or if the birdman will not help us, we will only lose one man.”
“Will
you say that to this ‘one man’s’ family?!” Celelé stood from the table, her
cheeks flushed with fury. “Life has been so hard for so long, and now you would
ask us—”
“I’ll
go!” Yol interjected.
Celelé
and Samka stared at him in mute shock.
“I
volunteer,” Yol repeated, setting down an empty cup. The sweet scent of oleta
wine caressed Samka’s nose, and he realized that Yol had been drinking it for some
time; he must have been saving water for his daughters. “I can be the birdman –
I can climb Tipuluka, and I know as well as anyone what we need. When I’m the
birdman,” he announced, staggering to his feet and spreading his arms wide, “I
will bring you such a deluge—”
Celelé
slapped him across the face, hard. Her daughters froze and stared at their
parents in abrupt silence. Without a word, Celelé sat, placed her face in her
hands, and softly wept. Yol stared at the floor, for once at a loss for anything
to say.
“No,
Yol,” Samka said slowly. “Your family needs you. The village needs you. I
suspect it will need you much, much more in the coming days.”
Yol
looked at him curiously. So did Celelé, her eyes red with tears. “Samka…” she
began.
“I
will go,” Samka said in a calm voice. “I will be sent to the sky, to bring the
clouds and end our suffering. I will be the birdman.” He stood, expecting his
hands to shake as they pressed against the table. They did not.
“Samka
. . . my gods!” cried Yol, suddenly sober. “No!”
Celelé’s
tears burst forth again. “Please,” she moaned, “There must be another way...”
Their daughters rushed forward and grabbed Samka’s legs, their small, sallow
faces twisted with uncomprehending anguish as they looked up at him.
“Someone
must go,” Samka said, striving to keep his voice steady. He reached down and
gently pried the girls from his legs. “I can make the climb, and I have no
family to look after. I am the only choice.”
“You
are our leader!” Yol shouted, lurching forward and almost collapsing across the
table. “My friend, you cannot leave us like this—”
“I
am no leader,” Samka said bitterly. “Look what has happened while I ‘led’; the
rains fled, the land cracked and burned, too many died, hearts grew heavy with
despair. I will be a better birdman than headman.”
Now
Yol’s eyes too were wet with tears. “Samka...” he began, but there was nothing
else to say.
“I
am sorry, Yol. I am sorry, Celelé; I did not wish to ruin your dinner. Please
excuse me; I have preparations to make.” Samka turned and walked out into the
darkness, closing the door behind him.
Knowing
Yol and Celelé, the entire village would be in an uproar by mid-morning. Samka
left his hut at dawn, taking only a little food, a small bottle of water, and
the necklace hanging from his door. He didn’t look back as he left; there was
nothing to see there anymore.
For
some time, he wandered aimlessly, across yellow-brown fields, over once-green
hills, down gullies that had once roared with torrents of water. There was little
life to see now; just buzzing flies, an occasional snake or lizard, and the
great schar birds, cruising tirelessly in the sky in their endless
search for the dead and the dying. “I will join you soon, my brothers,” Samka
called to them as they circled overhead. “But not just yet.”
As
the day’s shadows shortened, his mind still refused to choose a destination;
but his heart, and his feet, knew where they wanted to go. Samka felt a lump in
his throat and a pain in his chest as he crested a familiar hill and looked
down at the dark, peaceful alcoves cut into an enormous, freestanding white
rock. His knees wobbled, then gave way; and he crawled down the hill like a
baby, to look up at the coffins holding his wife and son.
Intricately
carved and decorated, suspended above head height by thick ropes, they swung
gently in the breeze. Bracing himself against the rock, Samka reached out and
brushed his fingertips against the smaller of the two. He remembered small
hands, clutching his; always insistent, always in motion, ever ready to grab
and poke and explore and create. Until the day when he lifted them from the
ground, cradled them in his own, and folded them across a thin, emaciated
little chest, never to rise again.
Samka’s
vision blurred, and he stumbled across loose pebbles as he walked to the alcove
holding the larger coffin. It seemed to sway towards him as he approached, as
though drawn to his presence. “You always wanted one more embrace,” he
whispered, as he placed his palm against the carefully carved wood. Yes, one
more caress, one more kiss; she never wanted to say goodbye, not even for a
single day. “I’ll return home before the sun falls,” he always told her. And he
always did, and she was always there, longing for him. He could never imagine a
day when she wouldn’t be there; and then, one day, she wasn’t. She had
collapsed under the hot sun while trying to dig tubers from the dry ground. She
died under the open sky, while he was far, far away, foolishly doing something
he thought more important. And now this was as close as he could ever come.
The
pain was unbearable. He felt as though the air was dying and turning to dust in
his throat. He turned away from the coffins and retreated back to the hill
overlooking the rock, and breathed a little more easily. “You’ll never see them
again,” he said aloud. “They dwell now in Sileruia, the great sea beneath the
earth. The birdmen dwell in the sky, and are forbidden to return to earth –
much less burrow beneath it.” I know that, he told himself silently, but
I will watch over them, from high above the clouds that I will bring.
The
sky to the west was now tinged with red, and Samka silently followed the sun,
back to the foot of Tipuluka.
As
he approached, Samka saw a number of people already gathered below the cliff.
Bael and his fellow shamen were busy lighting torches, burning yagrati
plants, and chanting. The others from the village milled about hesitantly, as
if unsure why they were there or what they should do. Most of the village’s
healthy men had gathered, but only a few women; Celelé was not among them.
Spotting
Samka, Yol rushed up to him with a feverish look on his face. “Samka,” he
gasped, “This is our last chance to stop this madness. Let us have a gathering
– we will call everyone together and talk, all night if need be, until we find
some other way.”
Samka
laid his hand on Yol’s shoulder and shook his head. “We have had gatherings,
Yol. We have talked and talked under empty skies, and done nothing and gone
nowhere. That was our mistake – my mistake. It is time someone took
responsibility; time someone stopped begging the gods to do their job, and went
up there to do their job for them.” He lowered his hand and smiled at Yol’s
confused, ashen face. “There is no other way, my friend. You know this, as do
I. Let us stop denying what we already know.”
Yol
began to reply, but Samka silenced him with an upraised hand. He looked around
at the others who had gathered. Men he had grown up with, and known all his
life; friends, rivals, fellow workers, hunters, builders, sufferers. His
men; but not anymore. It was time to leave them, yet he could think of little
to say. “I expect all of you to aid Yol and Bael when I am gone,” he said,
trying to instill his voice with more confidence than his spirit felt. “Do not
make the same mistakes I did; don’t lose the future by clinging to the past. I
will be watching you,” he added, stabbing one finger towards the darkening sky.
“When the rains come again, I wish to see our village, our people, regain its
former glory – and more. That is all I ask.”
He
turned towards Bael, who had quietly approached behind him. The old shaman
looked conflicted with sadness and the dire necessity of duty. “You speak well,
Samka,” he said. “The sun has set, goodbyes have been said; are you ready to
begin?”
Samka
stared at the ground for a moment, and swallowed. “Yes.”
“Then
we will begin,” Bael said, though his tone implied an end, not a beginning. He
beckoned Samka to follow him to the long-disused trail up Tipuluka. “You must
reach the top by dawn,” he said, motioning towards the black cliff face looming
over them. “Take this flask; you will find no water along the trail. There is a
round moon tonight; you have good light, and should not lose the trail. When
the winds begin to howl without rest, you will know that you are coming close.
When you reach the top, and look across the world, you will see us far below.
When the rising sun breaks the horizon, you will know that it is time to be
sent. With the names of the gods on your lips and the birdman in your heart,
you must leap from Tipuluka, as high and far as you can.”
Samka
swallowed again and willed his pounding heart to quiet. Bael took no notice.
“You will fall for some time, while the spirit of the birdman searches for you.
You must not fear, you must not despair. You must believe, or all of this will
be for nothing,” he said, glaring hard at Samka.
Samka
nodded, and Bael continued. “Sometime before you reach the ground, the sun will
crest the horizon, and you will be blinded by a bright flash. That is the
spirit of the birdman. It will cast your shadow upon Tipuluka, to join those
who have preceded you,” he said, gesturing towards the dark pictures upon the
cliffside, now almost invisible in the moonlight. “Your body will vanish; after
the flash, we on the ground will see you no more, and only feel the wind of the
birdman’s wings – your mighty wings –as you ascend to the heavens.” Bael
stopped speaking, looking drained and weary. He turned to Samka. “Do you
understand this?”
“Yes,”
Samka said, gazing at the moon. It was exceptionally bright tonight.
“Even
we shamen do not know all there is to know about the birdmen, and why they do
what they do,” Bael admitted. “We only know that they can bring the clouds –
and you must bring the clouds, Samka,” he said, solemnly extending his hand.
“We wish you well . . . birdman.”
Samka
took the extended hand, gripped it for a few moments, then released it. Bael
walked back to the assembled crowd, now lit from above by the moon and from all
sides by the fires and torches the shamen had lit. “The climb has begun!” he
shouted. “All who are not shamen must leave now; this place must be purified
and untrammeled for the birdman to take flight.”
Reluctantly,
the people of the village turned away – all but one. “Samka!” Yol yelled.
“After the rains have come, we will build a great fire, and send smoke to the
heavens, so that you will know you have saved us! Look for it, Samka!” he
cried, now openly weeping.
“I
will look for it, Yol,” Samka said softly, as two of the shamen took Yol’s arms
and dragged him away. Samka turned back to the moonlit trail, set his mind, and
walked, one foot in front of the other. It would be a long climb.
The
beginning of the climb was very hard; boulders and sharp rocks littered the old
trail, bruising and cutting his arms and legs as he clambered over them. But
after a time the trail left the cluttered rocks and turned onto a gentle, open
slope, slowly twisting upwards towards the cliffs. Samka now had much time to
think, and his mind wandered as he walked. The fear that he had felt at the
foot of Tipuluka had been left behind; now his mind turned to curiosity. What
would he see as he looked from the cliff, he wondered. Bael had said he would
be able see the shamen below him – or their torches, at least – but how could
the old man know that? Had he, or anyone, ever been so high above the ground
before? And how would life in the sky feel, as the birdman? Surely the air
would be very hot, so close to the sun – but would it cool at night? And if he
flew among the stars at night, what would he see there – the gods? His
ancestors? Perhaps even the great beasts and monsters they had always seen in
the night sky – would he have to fight them, for the right to stay up there?
The
shamen left so many questions unanswered, he mused. He may have failed as
headman, but they had failed as guides. The thought was oddly cheering. But
then, they didn’t know the answers; no one alive knew them. Perhaps his
great-great-grandfather did, if he had really been the last birdman. Samka wondered
what it would be like to meet him – would he even remember his life as a man on
earth? Would Samka remember his? The possibility of losing it all chilled him
to the bone. The pleasant days spent with his wife and son might seem but
faded, half-remembered dreams in the eternal morning above the clouds. He would
have to forcefully remind himself, over and over again, who he had been, where
he had come from, and why he was there – even as a birdman. “I am Samka of
Llag,” he said aloud to the silver-lighted sands and moon-dappled rocks. “I am
Samka of Llag,” he said to whatever beings were watching him from the stars. “I
am Samka of Llag,” he said to himself, “And I must not forget it.”
The
trail grew steeper and harder, the rocks around it sharper and more menacing.
His throat was dry, and he raised the flask Bael had given him to his mouth. It
contained only a double mouthful of bitter-tasting water, with a tinge of some
unknown herb, but even that was welcome. He tossed the empty flask aside, and
the winds began to howl around him as he climbed. It was often said that the
words of the dead floated on the wind; were his wife and son speaking to him
now? As he listened, Samka heard two different tones on the wind: one shrill,
excited, and expressive, the other quiet, heavy, and mournful. The dueling
winds spoke to him— not in words, for there were no words, but in feelings,
sensations, memories.
“Why
do you speak to me now,” Samka whispered. “When I sought guidance down below,
when it seemed all hope was gone and all I wanted was to dig myself into the
earth and never see the sun again, why were you silent? Why wouldn’t you help
me then?”
There
was no answer, but Samka felt the winds push at his back, shoving him onward
and upward. “I’m walking,” he growled, with humor in his voice. “You don’t have
to push me along.”
The
trail rolled to a stop below a huge, flat rock, more than three times Samka’s
height. Beyond it, Samka knew, was the rim of the cliff – and beyond that, his
destiny. This rock must be climbed. He walked along until he found cracks
breaking its smooth face, just large enough to serve as handholds and
footholds.
It
was slow going, but he managed to climb until he hung just below the lip of the
rock. As he reached for it, his left foot slipped, and his body slammed against
the rock, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He gasped, holding on only with
his fingertips – and then laughed uproariously. Was this anything to fear, next
to what he had climbed up here to do? He found his footing again, and with a
last effort, heaved himself up and onto the flat top of the rock.
He
lay there, breathing heavily and staring into the sky. It seemed a shade
lighter now – perhaps the sun was on its way to break up the circular dance of
the stars. The moon hung low, its pale face still lighting his way. It was time
to look out across the world.
Samka
picked himself up and strode forward across the rock. The air, never heavy
during the drought, now hung so lightly that a stiff breeze might blow it away.
The wind no longer spoke to him; it merely howled endlessly like a man dying in
agony. Carefully picking his way across the sand-carved stones and dried
shrubs, Samka walked to the edge of the silvered cliff. He took a deep breath,
and looked over the rim.
The
sight took his breath away. Even in the dim light, he could see just how dry
and ravaged the land was. Once-lush forests were now skeletal, their bare
branches unsoftened by leaves and entangled like so many thorn bushes. Fields
where great herds had grazed not so long ago were now empty, choked expanses of
dead grass and sand. The dry beds of streams and rivers crisscrossed the
landscape, empty veins that carried no lifeblood for anyone. Samka saw no glint
of water anywhere, in any direction – not even in the far west, where a legend
told of a vast blue lake that never dried and succored all who found its
shores. That legend had comforted many during the hard days of late. It would
not comfort him, not anymore.
Overcome,
he slumped to the ground and wept. Why did the gods torment them like this?
They had always done their best to keep faith with what little they had. Even
if the gods just want to watch us suffer, Samka mused, there must be
other ways of doing that – anything but stealing the rains and leaving the
earth to crumble into dust.
“You
see why this is necessary,” a voice spoke behind him.
Startled,
Samka leapt to his feet and whirled around. “Who’s there?! Bael?”
“I
am no shaman,” the voice rumbled. It was deep, and cold. Samka could see only a
shadow against the rocks – a huge shadow. It looked something like a man, but
it wasn’t; the way it stood, and swayed in the wind, suggested a bird.
“Are
you a birdman?” Samka called excitedly. And then the thought struck him— “Are
you my great-great-grandfather?! I have climbed Tipuluka, just as you did – I
will join you—”
“There
are greater things in the world than men,” the voice cut him off. “The world
was not created to shelter men and nurture their problems. The world will not
end because men have grown weary of it. You journeyed to this place to become
something more . . . than a man.”
“I
journeyed here to help my people,” Samka said, angry at the tone of the
shadow’s voice.
“Then
why do you hesitate?” the voice asked. “Look – the torches are lit. The chant
begins. The sun rises.”
Samka
looked to the east, and saw that a sliver of fiery red had appeared above the
horizon. He turned back to the shadow, but it now looked shrunken, as though
about to collapse on itself.
“I
did not come to fling you from Tipuluka, Samka of Llag,” it said, its voice
barely audible over the wind. “You can become a birdman, or leave this place
and return to your people, only of your own choice.” A sudden gust of wind
drove a cloud of sand across the cliff, stinging Samka’s skin and veiling the
shadow. “You can choose to believe . . . or not,” it whispered – and then it
was gone.
Samka
looked hard as the spot where the shadow had stood, but saw nothing more. He
leaned over, peering down at the torches lit by the shamen far below, as dim to
his eyes as the most distant stars. And he looked to the sky, where the
fast-fading night was losing its battle with the merciless sun.
“Why
not believe?” he asked, and he took a running leap.
Winds
lashed his body from every direction, but Samka heard nothing. There was no
more weight, no weary head to raise every morning, no tired arms and legs to
force along to some indeterminate end. He felt a peace that had deserted him
since his wife left his arms for the last time, even as the world spun
incomprehensibly around him.
A
sudden blast of wind stopped his spinning, and Samka found himself staring into
the sun, hanging below the dark horizon. “Please, shine on me,” he said to it.
“Make me a birdman, ye gods – flash this flailing body into a shadow, and grant
me the wings to watch over this dying world.”
“I
believe.”
“I
will bring the rains.”
“I
will look over it all, and smile.”
“I
am Samka of Llag...”
The
sun flashed. White, beautiful and soft and pure, filled his eyes, his mind, his
heart. He felt his new wings, and laughed and wept.
“Thank
you...”
Samka’s
flailing body hit the earth with a dull thud. Just as expected.
Bael
leapt towards it, giddy with relief, yet weary and afraid that all their work
might yet be undone. “You are certain no one saw?” he demanded of his
apprentice.
“No
one,” the younger man affirmed, “Except us.” He looked uneasy. “But, master,
when the sun flashed like that—”
“How
many sunrises have you seen, child?” Bael scolded him. “I have seen many. The
sun may flash as it pleases; we have a job to do. Quickly, now.”
Bael
had seen many dead men in his long life, but even he was shocked by the grisly
sight before him now. Samka had hit the ground headfirst; his skull was
shattered, his brains scattered like pinkish-red mud across the desiccated
rocks. His spine had twisted horribly, his ribs entangled with each other like
maddened snakes, his dislocated legs were bent and jagged. Most of his innards
had disintegrated into a thick, foul-smelling liquid that now quenched the
thirsty ground. Oddly, his arms were still intact, as if he had held them away
from his body as he fell.
Several
of the other shamen were audibly sick when they saw what remained of Samka.
There was no time for that. “Clean this up!” Bael hissed at them. “There must
be nothing left of the body by morning.”
As
they reluctantly moved to do his bidding, Bael and his apprentice walked away,
to the cliff face where the birdmen were painted. Bael held out his hand; his
apprentice handed him an age-weathered brush, its bristles wetted with a
special mix of charcoal, ash, and a caustic liquid distilled from the yagrati
plant. Though his fingers were stiff, Bael painted with a free and confident
hand. There would be a new birdman silhouetted on Tipuluka by morning, as fresh
and dark as if it had been burned into the rock by a flash of the rising sun.
Bael’s
apprentice looked distinctly unhappy as he held the paint jar for his master,
and not just because of the stench. “Is it so important,” he asked, “That they
believe he became a birdman?”
Bael’s
brush hovered above the rock as he turned to his apprentice with an amused
expression on his face. “Are you sure enough to tell them that he didn’t?”
His
apprentice made an unpleasant face, but remained silent. Bael smiled as he
returned to his work. Far overhead, the earliest of the schar birds
roused from their roosts, to soar on silent wings in a cloudless sky.
This story is published with a Creative Commons BY-NC-SA 4.0 license.
