The Totem-Maker (part one hundred seventeen)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Eleven

Lore and Lessons

(part one hundred seventeen)

He had nothing constant in the stars of his birth. His patch was a duty begrudged, as Samatho was one place from the heir. Which is to say the eldest son lived, two middle sons had died, and a younger, still a child, counted for little—being sickly, and the mother sickly, a bounty bride. The craggy hillside overlooked the lush encampments of the Kale Kale, who endured the vagaries of floods, keeping their wealth aloft in stilted houses. This camp was a sight, a bafflement; a source of jealousy, this tribe who traded with the traders…

Yes, those same of the land beyond the Citadel, wending westwards for leagues uncounted, and eastwards again to their never-seen empire.

A place of peace and plenty, it was said.

Restless of foot, Samatho climbed down to the plain, his eyes on a ring of drummers and dancers, a parade of women in costumes fine and bright. The Kale Kale always had fringed the skirt of his father’s kingdom; they were dark with love of the sun, and their hair was dark, and long.

The barking of dogs stopped the dance. His had run ahead while he wavered disguised by the bole of a tree…whose roots clung to rock as might honey from a winter jug, lightly warmed by fire, poured to bead and ooze. He wanted to hide from the eyes of women.

The fathers of the tribe sat busy at their talk, careless hands tossing scraps from the feast. Samantho’s dog joined the fray, and was indulged, patted on the head, spoken to.

“Out from there, fellow,” a Kale elder raised his voice. He pushed onto his staff, picked up a striding pace.

Unclean, ungracious in manners…which awareness of his fault could not correct, Samatho stumbled forth. The steep slope and its pine straw brought him to a sudden seat, mortified. And there he kept, from pride, until the elders were circled over him.

“Call your dog, will you?”

The language was his own. The Kale elders must know many, trading as they did. Samatho heard laughter…and if much had not been female, he might have drawn his knife in challenge.

He stood, offering nothing in courtesy. “Ia! Ia!”

“Samatho, is that your name? Son of our protector, the King Dars Gesvar.”

[A pale-haired man, come to his land a stranger, as the name translates from the northern speech to this.]

“My father has not given me your name.”

“A solitary youth, who does not fit himself for company, who walks the forest playing upon a bone flute, wishing to entice the birds to his snares. But birds have wisdom, and Samatho has not.”

“Ia!” he shouted. “Ia!”

121

Lore and Lessons

The Totem-Maker (part one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)